I wondered if perhaps, after all this time,
Harriman was interested in my son in more than a purely nostalgic
way.
Quinton had dated one beautiful woman after
another, and he’d just broken up with another of them. I knew he’d
been with Armand Bauchet when he was fifteen, and less than a
handful of other young men in the two years before he returned to
the States for his master’s, but if he’d had affairs with men since
then, he’d been very discreet and I’d never learned of them.
Just then, Gregor wheeled in the tea
trolley. I poured tea for us and handed the men their cups.
Harriman took his Earl Grey without milk or sweetener, which was a
little unusual, but there was no accounting for tastes. I knew
Grandmother Blackburn had taken hers like that.
I took the platter of cucumber sandwiches.
“Have one, Harriman.”
* * * *
“I’ll just clear this off while you get back
to the interview,” Gregor said as he gathered up the decimated
plate of sandwiches and our empty tea cups.
“I’m done.” Harriman’s tea cup was still
half-filled, but I didn’t say a word. He was my guest, and I
wouldn’t embarrass him by drawing attention to the fact that he
apparently hadn’t enjoyed the tea. “When was this photo taken?”
“October of ’62.” Those thirteen days in
October when we’d been uncertain whether we faced a nuclear war in
our own backyard.
“So that isn’t Quinn?”
“No, it’s his father.” I’d stopped by
Langley to take him to lunch and had snapped it myself. Nigel was
in shirt sleeves, the sleeves rolled up, and his vest unbuttoned.
His hair was in disarray, and he looked exhausted.
“May I?” He held up his camera.
“Certainly.”
“Was this during the Cuban Missile
Crisis?”
“Yes.” I was impressed that a civilian who
hadn’t been born at the time would connect the two. “I can’t
imagine how this picture wound up in this album.” The shadows of
secrets lurked behind Nigel’s hazel eyes.
Harriman snapped a photo of it, and then
observed, “Quinn looks a lot like his father.”
“He does.” Down to those same shadows in his
eyes. “Now, what else can I tell you?”
Harriman pushed back the cuff of his jacket
and studied his watch. “It’s getting late. I wasn’t just talking
about the tea, Mrs. Mann. I am done. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to
come across as curt. You’ve given me all the information I could
use.”
“You haven’t taken any notes.”
“Photographic memory.” He tapped his
forehead and grinned. “Anyway, I’ve taken up too much of your time.
Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind.”
“You’re welcome. Will you let us know when
the issue will be out?”
“Hmm?” He glanced from the photo of Nigel to
the portrait of both of us above the fireplace, and took a picture
of that as well. “Oh, yes.” He put his camera back in his pocket
and took my hand. “Thank you again.”
After he left, I crossed to the mantel and
looked up at the portrait. The man who had painted it had been an
artistic genius. The light seemed to reflect off Nigel’s eyes, and
if you stared at it long enough, you’d wonder if he was about to
blink.
“Would it be so terrible, Nigel, if our boy
fell in love with another man?” I had told him of that one day I’d
spent with Folana Fournaise, without mentioning her name, of
course, and he’d been intrigued but nonjudgmental. He’d also
divulged that he’d had a same-sex encounter when he’d been a young
officer in Seoul. Our love-making afterward had been some of the
most erotic in which we’d engaged.
Now I could hear him as if he stood at my
shoulder, murmuring in my ear. “If he finds happiness, darling, and
as long as it doesn’t cost him his life, Quinton can love whomever
he chooses.”
* * * *
Quinton phoned the following week to inform
me he’d returned home from his assignment and would be able to keep
our riding date.
“Shall I pick you up, Mother?”
“That’s quite all right, but Gregor will
drive me.”
“Very good. I’ll meet you there.”
Ken McIlvoy, who was still the head groom,
led out Pyrrhic Victory. I gathered up the reins and mounted, and
walked her in figure eights until Quinton was on Testament, the
gray gelding he’d purchased a few years earlier.
We set the horses to one of the trails,
trotting in companionable silence for a while. Finally, I couldn’t
help asking, “Why didn’t you ever bring Harriman home for a visit,
sweetheart?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your friend, Harriman Patterson.”
“Skip? I know I must have mentioned him,
Mother, but it’s been so long. Why would you bring him up?”
“He called and requested to interview
me.”
“That’s odd. He’s a good person, but I
haven’t heard from him in years. Why did he want to interview
you?”
“He said he wanted some information about
your formative years, what you were like as a boy.” I smiled at
him. “I’m afraid I must have bored him. You were the perfect
child.”
“Now, Mother.” Quinton blushed, and I
couldn’t help smiling more broadly.
“I know all mothers think their children are
perfect, but you actually were. Are. You make me so proud, and I
know your father would be as well.”
“Thank you. “ He cleared his throat gruffly.
“I wish we’d had him with us longer.”
As did I. Even after all these years, I
missed him terribly.
“But why did Skip call you?”
“The Exeter alumni magazine is putting out a
commemorative issue for the class of ’83.”
“I know there’s to be a twentieth reunion;
I’ve held off RSVP-ing, since I’m not sure if I’ll be in the
country next summer, but I don’t remember hearing anything about a
commemorative issue of the magazine. It’s a nice idea, though. I’ll
give him a call and see what the story is about that.”
“A charming young man.” I said nothing about
my impression that Harriman Patterson had a personal interest in
him.
“May I see the surveillance tape, please,
Mother? As I said, it’s been some years, and I’m curious as to what
he looks like after all this time.”
“Of course. And just to reassure you, both
Gregor and I ran background checks on him, Quinton. He checked
clean.”
“I’m sure he did. Skip always wanted to walk
on the wild side, but he never got any further than—” He began
coughing. “Excuse me, I swallowed wrong.”
Had he been thinking of the skinny-dipping
episode? I swallowed a smile.
He turned the conversation to his breakup
with Susan Burkhart. “She’s telling everyone she broke up with me
because I’m the Ice Man.”
It made sense that the offspring of Mr.
Freeze and his ice queen would be the Ice Man, and while that
worked to his advantage in his career, it saddened me that it had
spilled over into his private life.
“I don’t mind.” He sighed. “Well, not very
much. I am the Ice Man. She had her expectations, and I’m just not
the man to fulfill them.”
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” I wanted to find
the little witch and tear her bleached blonde hair out by its
brunette roots.
“That’s life, Mother.”
“Yes, and
doo be doo be doo
.”
He burst into laughter, which hadn’t exactly
been my intention, but I was pleased it lightened his mood. “If you
have no objection, shall we start back now?”
“Certainly.”
* * * *
Gregor was waiting at the clubhouse, reading
the Sunday
Post
, a half-empty glass of grapefruit juice
beside him.
Our waiter approached, smiling. “Your
regular, Mrs. Mann? Mr. Mann?”
“Would you mind if we left now, Mother?”
“Of course not. Thank you, Alex, but nothing
today.”
He nodded and went off to another table.
“We’ll meet you at the house,
sweetheart.”
He kissed my cheek and squeezed Gregor’s
arm. “Drive carefully.”
“I’ve got that GPS, y’ know, but sure thing,
Quinn. You too.” He folded the newspaper, and we walked out to the
parking lot. It was only when we were in the Town Car that he
asked, “What was that about?”
“He’s concerned about the interview I gave
Harriman Patterson. He wants to examine the surveillance
tapes.”
“Oh, fu-shi-
dammit
! He was
clean
, Portia!” he said. I would have been amused by his
attempt to shield my ears from any crudity, but he was clearly
distressed.
“I agree, but as I said, Quinton’s
concerned. Possibly something is going on at work.” I sighed. “I
miss having Bryan at the Company.” I wondered if I could get any
information from DB.
Quinton was waiting for us when we arrived
at the house.
“I’ll garage the car later. I don’t want to
miss anything,” Gregor said. He got out of the car and opened the
passenger door for me. He’d informed me, when he’d come to work for
me, that I was to sit in the back seat when he drove me anywhere,
and that he’d address me as Mrs. Mann when we were in public.
I’d bitten back a smile and murmured, “Yes,
Novotny.”
With the weather turning nippy, we hurried
inside. Gregor took our coats and hung them in the hall closet, and
we climbed the stairs to the room tucked away in the attic that
contained the best equipment Quinton could provide for my safety
and security.
I was interested in seeing how my son
reacted to the sight of his friend after all this time.
* * * *
As it turned, it was a non-starter—there was
no reaction, because there was nothing on those tapes. They had
been wiped clean.
Gregor’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I’ve
still got connections. I’ll have Steward run the tapes through some
programs, see if he can find something we missed.”
“Thank you, Gregor,” Quinton said, “but I
think the Company might have something that will get the job done
just a bit more expeditiously. And I’ll take the recorder with me,
in case there’s a glitch in the system.”
“All right, but I want to know as soon as
you know. How the
fuck
…” he muttered.
“Gregor, why don’t you put together
something for lunch?”
“Huh? Oh yeah. I think we could all do with
some food.” He left the room, grousing about doing whoever had
toyed with our security system a grievous hurt.
Quinton smiled, but became serious as he
disconnected the recorder and wrapped up its cables and power
cord.
“You don’t think it was a glitch in the
system.”
“I won’t lie to you, Mother. The odds of
that happening are extremely remote. I don’t want you to worry
until I’m able to look into it further.” He was so much like his
father.
We went downstairs, had lunch in the
informal dining room, and both Gregor and I gave him every detail
of the afternoon with “Harriman Patterson.”
* * * *
It was later that week when I received a
terse phone call from my son. “I was able to get your VCR repaired.
I’ll be home in a short while to hook it up for you.”
“Very well, sweetheart.” Normally I would
have smiled. Even after all the years he’d had his townhouse, he
still referred to this house as home.
I knew my son, though, and I could tell from
his tone of voice that he wasn’t pleased with what he’d
learned.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? I’ll have
Gregor make something Italian.” But I was disturbed. Who was the
man who’d had tea with me, and why had he felt the need to feign
interest in my son?
Quinton must have been calling from his
Lexus, because not more than ten minutes later he arrived on my
doorstep. Gregor ushered him into the back parlor, then stood
beside the door with his arms folded, a grim expression on his
face.
“I didn’t want to discuss this over an
unsecured line, Mother.” Quinton crossed the room and greeted me
with a kiss to my cheek. He sat beside me on the loveseat and took
my hands. “I had John Callahan run a battery of tests on that
machine and on the tape. I don’t think you’ve met him—he’s the
second assistant to the Chief of Internal Security. Callahan found
nothing, not even the ghost of an image, but I
did
learn
something. It wasn’t Skip. I spoke to him, and he told me he’d love
to do an article about me, but the editors had nothing in the
works. It was Mark Vincent.”
“
What
?” Gregor’s face turned an
alarming shade of puce.
“Your blood pressure,” I reminded him.
“Never mind my blood pressure!
Vincent
?”
Quinton nodded. “Senior Special Agent Mark
Vincent.”
The man who
hadn’t
shot my son, but
who’d been there when someone else had.
Harriman Patterson—Mark Vincent—had taken
tea with me. He’d had the Earl Grey without milk or anything to
sweeten it. His face had become blank, and he’d placed the cup down
on its saucer with a carefully restrained movement.
It was mean-spirited, but I was pleased now
that I hadn’t suggested he try milk with his tea.
“He didn’t ask about any current
assignments, did he?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have discussed
them with him in any event. He did touch on Harvard a bit, and
seemed intrigued by the B+ you earned in English Literature your
last year there, but mostly he seemed to want to know about the
years before Exeter. Why would a WBIS agent want such dated
information about you, Quinton? I could understand an interest in
your more recent activities, but really, why should he care that
you would have ridden Jack Be Nimble if we had gone to the Summer
Olympics in 1980?”
I could hear Gregor’s teeth grinding from
across the room. “Does anyone know why Vincent does what he does?
He’s a dangerous man, Portia. There’s very little accessible
information about him. What is on record is because a second party
or possibly a third party fu-pardon me—made an error.”
“Major Drum has come up against him a time
or two and swears Vincent is a sociopath.” Quinton rose and paced
the room. “He’s competent, and he has nerves of steel. And he
prefers to work alone.”