A Season in Hell

‘A hell of a night, Charles.’

Her chauffeur, a tough-looking young man in a smart black suit, his cap on the seat beside him, grinned. ‘You want to get out and walk, Mrs Talbot?’

‘No thanks. My shoes are by Manolo Blahnik. I got them in London on my last trip and he definitely wouldn’t like me to go out in the rain in them.’

She was a month away from her fortieth birthday and looked thirty, even on a bad morning. Her dark hair was held back by a simple velvet bow leaving the face clear, grey-green eyes sparkling above rather prominent cheekbones. It was not that she was beautiful in any conventional sense, but people always looked twice. Just now, she was particularly elegant in a black velvet suit by Dior. She was on her way to her favourite restaurant, The Four Seasons, on 52nd Street, to dine alone, strictly from choice. A personal celebration, for that afternoon she’d pulled off the deal of her career, the takeover of a chain of department stores in the Midwest, and against tough male opposition. Oh, yes, my girl, she thought, Daddy would have been proud of you tonight. Which didn’t give her any particular satisfaction.

She said, ‘I need a vacation, Charles.’

‘That sounds fair, Mrs Talbot. The Virgins are nice this time of the year. We could open the house, get the boat out.’

‘You’d be down there every other week if I let you, you rogue,’ she said. ‘No, I was thinking I might fly over to England. Visit Eric at Cambridge.’

‘That’s nice. How’s he doing over there?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’ She hesitated. ‘To be honest, I haven’t heard much from him lately.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that at all. He’s a young guy and you know what students are like. Girls on their mind all the time.’

He swore softly, swinging the wheel as the car in front braked, and Sarah sat back, thinking of Eric. It had been two months since she’d had a letter and when she’d tried to get him on the phone he’d simply not been available. Still, as Charles said, students were students.

The chauffeur passed a newspaper over. ‘Good story in there you maybe missed. That big Mafia trial, the members of that Frasconi mob. The judge handed them down two hundred and ten years between them.’

‘So?’ Sarah said as she took the paper.

‘Look who they got a picture of coming out of court. The guy who was responsible for putting them all away.’

The man in the photo on the courtroom steps was at least seventy, heavily built, with the fleshy, arrogant face of an ancient emperor. An overcoat was draped over his shoulders and he leaned on a cane. The caption read: Ex-Mafia boss Rafael Barbera outside the court.

‘He’s smiling,’ Sarah commented.

‘He should be. He owed those guys from way back. The Frasconis killed his brother in the Mafia wars twenty years ago.’

‘Twenty years seems a long time to wait.’

‘Not for those guys. They believe in paying you off if it takes a lifetime.’

She read the rest of the report. ‘It says here he’s retired.’

Charles laughed. ‘That’s good. Listen, Mrs Talbot, I’m from Tenth Street. That’s Gambino territory. Let me tell you about Don Rafael. His parents brought him over from Sicily when he was ten. He was Mafia by family tradition. Went through the ranks so fast he was Don at thirty and the smartest of them all. Never served a day of his life in prison. Not one.’

‘A lucky man.’

‘No, not lucky, smart. He retired back to the old country a few years ago, but the word is he’s number one man over there. Capo Mafia in all Sicily.’

At that moment, a hand appeared at her partially open window and she turned to see Henry Kissinger reaching across from the car next to hers. She opened the window completely and leaned out. ‘Henry, how are you? It’s been ages.’

He kissed her hand. ‘Get back in, Sarah, you’ll get wet. Where are you going?’

‘The Four Seasons.’

‘So am I. I’ll catch up with you later.’

His car moved away and she sat back and closed the window. ‘Jesus, Mrs Talbot, is there anyone you don’t know?’ Charles asked.

‘Don’t exaggerate, Charles.’ She laughed. ‘Just concentrate on getting us there.’

She sat back and looked at the photo of Don Rafael Barbera and suddenly realized, with a certain surprise, that she rather liked the look of him.

The Four Seasons was very definitely her favourite restaurant and not only because of the superb food, but the decor. The whole place had such style, from the shimmering gold curtains and dark wood to the quiet elegance of the waiters and captains.

She was seated instantly, as a favoured customer, at her usual table in the Pool Room, from where she could survey the room. The place was crowded and she could see Tom Gayitfai and Paul Kori, the owners, hovering in the background, looking even more anxious than usual, which was hardly surprising in view of the guests. Henry Kissinger was sitting at a table to her right and the Vice-President himself was at a table at the far end of the pool, which explained the large young men in dark suits she’d noticed in the vestibule on the way in, their air of efficient, quiet violence filling her with distaste.

Her waiter appeared. ‘The usual, Mrs Talbot?’

‘Yes, Martin.’

He snapped his fingers and the Dom Perignon 1980 was at her table in an instant.

‘Looks like a fun evening,’ she commented.

‘Actually the Vice-President is getting ready to leave, but they’ve all been waiting to see whether he or Kissinger would be the first to go and say hello to the other,’ he told her. ‘Can I take your order now?’

He offered the menu, but she shook her head. ‘I know what I want, Martin. Crisped shrimp with mustard fruit, then the roast duckling with cherries, and since it’s a big evening, I’ll finish with …’

‘The bitter chocolate sherbet.’ They both laughed and he started to turn away, then paused. ‘Hey, he’s on the move.’

‘It seems Kissinger wins on points,’ Sarah said.

‘Like hell it does.’ Martin was in a panic. ‘He’s coming right this way, Mrs Talbot.’

He moved to one side fast and the Vice-President arrived plus his inimitable smile. ‘Sarah, you’re looking as remarkable as usual. No, don’t get up. I can’t stop. Due at the UN.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Talking about you at the White House last night.’

‘Good things, I hope?’ she said.

‘Always good where you’re concerned, Sarah,’ and he was gone.

People were staring at her curiously and Henry Kissinger gave her a little nod, a slight smile on his face. Martin refilled her glass and he was smiling too. She savoured the Dom Perignon, thinking about it. They’d be talking about this at the bar of ‘21’ within an hour; the gossip columns would have it in the early editions.

‘Woman of the Year next, Sarah,’ she said softly and raised her glass. ‘To the woman who has everything.’ She paused. ‘Or nothing.’ She frowned. ‘Now why in the hell did I say that?’

And then Martin was there, leaning over the table. ‘Your chauffeur’s in the vestibule, Mrs Talbot. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Really?’ She got up at once, no unease in her at all, bewildered, if anything.

Charles’s face should have told her, the hunted look, the way he glanced to one side as he talked. ‘I’ve got Mr Morgan in the car, Mrs Talbot.’

‘Dan?’ she said. ‘Here?’ Dan Morgan was president of the brokerage firm of which she was now a senior partner.