Chapter Seven

Thorn's speech to the businessmen was at the Mayfair Hotel; by seven o'clock the convention room was filled to capacity. He had told his aides he wanted press coverage, so they had planted an item in the afternoon papers, and now people were being turned away at the door. There were not only the expected attendees, but plenty of reporters as well, even a group of street people who were allowed to stand at the back. The Communist party had taken a keen interest in Thorn, twice sending representatives to heckle and interrupt when he had spoken outdoors, and he hoped they would not be there tonight.

As he strode to the lectern, Thorn noticed, crouched among a small group of photographers, the one whose camera he had broken in front of the Embassy. The photographer smiled at him, holding up a new camera, and Thorn returned the smile, appreciative of the peace-making gesture. Then he waited for the hall to fall silent, and launched into his speech. He spoke of the world economic structure and the importance of the Common Market. In any society, he said, even prehistoric, the marketplace was the common ground, the equalizer of wealth, the melding place of disparate cultures. When one needs to buy, and the other needs to sell, we have the basic components of peace. When one needs to buy and the other refuses to sell, we have taken the first step toward war. He spoke of the community of mankind, the need to recognize that we are brethren, sharing an earth whose resources were meant for all.

"We are caught together," he said, quoting Henry Beston, "in the net of life and time. We are fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth."

It was an inspiring speech, and the audience hung on every word. The discourse turned toward political turmoil and its relationship to economy, Thorn singling out the faces of the Arabs in the audience and speaking directly to them.

"We can well understand the relationship of turmoil to poverty," he said, "but we must also be mindful that civilizations have been toppled by grievances born of too much luxury!"

Thorn was in high gear now, and from a position at his feet, Jennings the photographer focused tight on his face and began snapping photos.

"It is a sad and ironic truth," continued Thorn, "dating as far back as King Solomon's time in Egypt, that those born to wealth and position …"

"You should know something about that!" shouted a voice from the back. And Thorn paused, squinting into the darkness of the auditorium. The voice did not come again and Thorn continued.

"… dating as far back as the Pharaohs' time in Egypt, we find that those born to wealth and position …"

"Tell us about it!" called the heckler again, and this time there was an angry stir in the audience; Thorn strained to see. It was a student. He was bearded, in blue jeans, probably from the Communist faction. "What do you know about poverty, Thorn?" he taunted. "You'll never have to work a day in your life!"

The audience hissed their resentment at the heckler, some shouting at him, but Thorn raised his hands for calm.

"The young man has something to say. Let's hear him out."

The youth stepped forward and Thorn waited for him to continue. He would let him rant until he was ranted out.

"If you're so concerned about sharing the wealth, why don't you share some of yours?" shouted the boy. "How many millions do you have? Do you know how many people are starving? Do you know what the change you're carrying in your pocket could do? With what you pay your chauffeur you could feed a family in India for a month! The grass on your forty-acre-front lawn could feed half the population of Bangladesh! The money you throw away on parties for your child could found a clinic right here in the south end of London! If you're going to urge people to give away their wealth, let's see an example! Don't stand there in your four-hundred-dollar suit and tell us what poverty is about!"

The assault was impassioned. The boy clearly scored. From the audience came a smattering of light applause and it was Thorn's turn to reply.

"Are you through?" asked Thorn.

"What are you worth, Thorn?" shouted the youth. "As much as Rockefeller?"

"Nowhere near."

"When Rockefeller was appointed Vice-President, the papers listed his income as slightly over three hundred million! You know what the slightly over was? Thirty-three million! Not even worth counting! That was his spare change, while half the population of the world died of starvation! Isn't there something obscene here? Does anyone need as much money as that?"

"I am not Mr. Rockefeller …"

"The hell you aren't!"

"Will you let me answer, please?"

"One child! One starving child! Do something for just one starving child! Then we'll believe you! Just reach out with your own hand, not your mouth, with your hand, and extend it to one starving child!"

"Perhaps I've done that," replied Thorn quietly.

"Where is he, then?" demanded the boy. "Who's the child? Who've you saved, Thorn? Who are you trying to save?"

"Certain of us have responsibilities that extend beyond one starving child."

"You can't save the world, Thorn, until you reach out for that first starving child."

The audience was with the heckler now. He was responded to with a firm and sudden applause.

"You have me at a disadvantage," said Thorn evenly. "You stand in the dark and hurl invective …"

"Then turn on the lights, I'll hurl it louder!"

The audience laughed and the houselights began to flicker on, the reporters and photographers suddenly rising, turning their attention to the back of the room. Jennings, the photographer, cursed himself for not having a long lens, and he focused on several heads, the angry youth centered among them.

On the stage, Thorn remained calm, but as the lights came up full, his manner suddenly changed. His eyes were not on the boy, but on another figure, hidden in the shadows some distance behind him. It was the figure of a priest, small in stature, a hat clutched tensely in his hand. It was Tassone. Even though Thorn could not see his features, he knew it was he, and it rendered him immobile.

"What's the matter, Thorn?" taunted the youth. "Nothing to say?"

Thorn's energy was suddenly gone, a wave of fear sweeping over him as he stood mute, gazing into the shadows. From a position beneath him, Jennings swung his camera in the direction of Thorn's fearful gaze, snapping off a series of shots.

"Come on, Thorn!" demanded the heckler. "You can see me now, what do you have to say?"

"I think …" said Thorn, faltering, "… your points are well taken. We should all share our wealth. I'll try to do more."

The boy was taken off guard, and so was the audience. Someone called for the lights to be switched out, and Thorn returned to his lectern. He struggled to find his place and then gazed up again into the darkness. And in a distant shaft of light, he could see the robes of the one who stalked him.

Jennings had returned late that night and put his films into the developer. The Ambassador had, as usual, impressed and intrigued him. He could spot fear as surely as a rat could smell cheese, and it was fear that he had seen through the viewfinder of his camera. It was not nameless fear, for it was evident that Thorn had seen something, or someone, in the darkness of the auditorium. The light had been poor and the camera angle wide, but Jennings had shot in the direction of the Ambassador's gaze and hoped he would find something when the film was developed. As he waited, he became aware that he was hungry and tore open a sack of groceries he'd bought on his way back from the hotel. He'd purchased a small barbecued chicken and a large bottle of root beer, and he set them out before him for a feast. The chicken was whole save for head and feet, and Jennings stuck it on the end of the root beer bottle so it sat upright, staring headlessly at him across the table. It was a mistake, for he could not eat it now, and instead reached over and flapped its little barbecued wings, and squawked a little as though it were talking. Then he opened a can of sardines and ate in silence with his mute dinner companion.

The timer went off and Jennings moved into the darkroom, using tongs to lift his proof sheets from the acid baths. What he saw brought jubilation, and he howled with joy. Turning on a bright light and slipping the sheet under a magnifying stand, he scrutinized the photos, shaking his head with delight. It was the series of shots taken of the back of the hall. Though not a single face or body could be made out in the darkness, there bung the javelin-like appendage, standing out like a puff of gray smoke.

"Fuck!" muttered Jennings as his eye came upon something else. It was a fat man smoking a cigar. The appendage might indeed be smoke. Racking up his negatives, he singled out the three in question and put them in the enlarger, waiting an agonizing fifteen minutes until they were ready and could be viewed. No. It was not smoke. The color and texture were different, and so was the relative distance to the camera. If it were cigar smoke, the fat man would have had to blow a great quantity of it to create such a cloud. It would have disturbed the people around him, and they were instead completely oblivious of the smoking man, gazing ahead, unperturbed. The ghostlike appendage seemed to be hanging far back in the auditorium, perhaps against the far wall. Jennings slipped the enlargement under his magnifying stand and studied it in great detail. Beneath it he saw the hem of priestly robes. He raised his arms and let out a war cry. It was the little priest again, and he was somehow involved with Thorn.

"Holy shit!" cried Jennings. "Hot holy shit!"

And in celebration he returned to the dinner table, ripping off the wings of his silent companion, devouring them to the bones.

"I'm gonna find that sucker!" he laughed. "I'm gonna go hunt him down!"

The following morning he cropped a shot of the priest, one he had taken with the Marine on the Embassy stairs. He took it around to several churches, then finally to the regional offices of the London Parish. But no one recognized the photo, assuring Jennings that if the priest were employed in the area, they would have known him. He was from outside the city somewhere. The job would be harder. On a hunch, Jennings went to Scotland Yard and got access to their mug books, but it turned up nothing, and he knew there was only one thing left to do. He had first seen the priest coming out of the Embassy; probably someone in there would know.

It was difficult to gain entrance to the Embassy. Security guards checked credentials and appointments, and they wouldn't let Jennings past the front desk.

"I'd like to see the Ambassador," Jennings explained. "He said he'd reimburse me for a camera."

They called upstairs, and to Jennings' surprise they told him to go to a lobby phone where the Ambassador's office would call him. Jennings did as he was instructed, and in a moment was speaking to Thorn's secretary who wanted to know the sum involved and where a check should be mailed.

"I'd like to explain it to him personally," said Jennings. "I'd like to show him what he's getting for his money."

She replied that that would be impossible as the Ambassador was in a meeting, and Jennings decided to go for broke.

"To tell you the truth, I thought he could help me with a personal problem. Maybe you could help me instead. I'm looking for a priest. He's a relative. He's had some business at the Embassy, and I thought maybe someone here had seen him and could help me."

It was an odd request and the secretary was reluctant to respond.

"He's a very short fella," added Jennings.

"Is he Italian?" she asked.

"I think he spent some time in Italy," replied Jennings, faking it to see what it was worth.

"Would his name be Tassone?" asked the secretary.

"Well, actually, I'm not sure. See, what I'm doing is trying to trace a lost relative. My mother's brother was separated from her as a child and changed his last name. My mother is dying now and she wants to find him. We don't know his last name, we only have a vague description. We know he's small like my mother, and we know he became a priest, and a friend of mine saw a priest leaving the Embassy a week or so ago, and this friend said the priest looked exactly like my mother."

"There was a priest here," said the secretary. "He said he was from Rome, and I believe his name was Tassone."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"No."

"He had business with the Ambassador?"

"... I believe so."

"Maybe the Ambassador knows where he lives."

"I wouldn't know. I don't think so."

"Would it be possible to ask him?"

"I guess I could."

"When could you do that?"

"Well, not until later."

"My mother's very sick. She's in the hospital now and I'm afraid the time is growing short."

In Thorn's office, the intercom buzzed; a secretary's voice inquired whether he knew how to contact the priest who had been to see him two weeks before. Thorn paused in his work, suddenly going cold.

"Who's asking?"

"A man who says you broke his camera. The priest is a relative of his. Or he thinks he is."

After a momentary pause, Thorn replied. "Would you ask him to come up, please."

Jennings found his way to Thorn's office with no trouble. Modernistic, it was plainly the office of the man in charge. It was at the end of a long hall adorned with portraits of all the American ambassadors to London. As Jennings moved by them, he was interested to find that John Quincy Adams and James Monroe had held the post before becoming President. Maybe it was a good stepping-stone at that. Perhaps old Thorn was destined for greatness.

"Come in," smiled Thorn. "Have a seat."

"Sorry to bust in ..."

"Not at all."

The Ambassador gestured Jennings forward, and he entered, finding a chair. In all of his years of stalking, this was the first time he'd ever made personal contact with his prey. It was easy to talk his way in, but now he was shaken, his heart racing, his knees unsteady. He'd remembered feeling this way the first time he developed a photo. The excitement was so great it was almost sexual in nature.

"I've been wanting to apologize about that camera," said Thorn.

"It was an old one anyway."

"I want to reimburse you."

"No, no ..."

"I'd like to. I'd like to make it up to you."

Jennings shrugged and nodded his okay.

"Why don't you just tell me what the best kind of camera is, and I'll have someone get it for you."

"Well, that's very generous ..."

"Just tell me the best there is."

"It's a German make. Pentaflex. Three Hundred."

"Done. Just let my secretary know where we can find you."

Jennings nodded again, and the men eyed each other in silence. Thorn was studying him, sizing him up, taking in everything from the unmatched socks to the threads hanging off the collar of his jacket. Jennings liked this kind of scrutiny. He knew his appearance put people off. In a perverse way, it gave him an edge.

"I've seen you around," said Thorn.

"That's where I try to be."

"You're very diligent."

"Thank you."

Thorn stepped from behind his desk, moving to a cabinet where he uncorked a bottle of brandy. Jennings watched him pour, accepting a glass.

"Thought you handled that boy very well the other night," said Jennings.

"Did you?"

"I did."

"I'm not sure."

They were killing time, both sensing it, each waiting for the other to get to the point.

"I sided with him," added Thorn. "Pretty soon the press will be calling me a Communist."

"Oh, you know the press."

"Yes."

"Got to make a living."

"Right."

They sipped their brandy, and Thorn moved to the windows, gazing out.

"You're looking for a relative?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's a priest named Tassone?"

"He's a priest, but I'm not sure of his name. My mother's brother. Separated when they were children."

Thorn glanced at Jennings, and Jennings sensed his disappointment.

"So you don't actually know him," said the Ambassador.

"No, sir. I'm trying to find him."

Thorn frowned and sat heavily in his chair.

"If I might inquire ..." asked Jennings. "Maybe if I knew what his business was with you ..."

"It was business about a hospital. He wanted ... a donation."

"What hospital?"

"Oh, in Rome. I'm not sure."

"Did he leave you his address?"

"No. As a matter of fact I'm a little upset about that. I promised I'd send a check and I don't know where to send it."

Jennings nodded. "Guess we're in the same boat, then."

"I guess we are," responded Thorn.

"He just came and went, is that it?"

"Yes."

"And you never saw him again?"

Thorn's jaw tightened, and Jennings caught it, seeing clearly that the Ambassador was hiding something.

"Never again."

"Thought maybe ... he might have attended one of your speeches."

Their eyes caught and held, Thorn sensing he was being played with.

"What's your name?" asked Thorn.

"Jennings. Haber Jennings."

"Mr. Jennings ..."

"Haber."

"Haber."

Thorn studied the man's face, then averted his eyes, again looking out the window.

"Sir?"

"... I have a great interest in finding this man. The priest who was here. I'm afraid I was abrupt with him and I'd like to make amends."

"Abrupt in what way?"

"I dismissed him rather rudely. I didn't really hear what he had to say."

"I'm sure he's used to it. When you hit people up for donations ..."

"I'd like to find him. It's important to me."

From the look on Thorn's face, it plainly was. Jennings knew he'd stumbled into something, but he didn't know what. All he could do was play it straight

"If I locate him, I'll let you know," he said.

"Would you please?"

"Of course."

Thorn nodded with finality, and Jennings rose, and walking over to Thorn, shook his hand.

"You look very worried, Mr. Ambassador. I hope the world's not about to explode."

"Oh, no," responded Thorn with a smile.

"I'm an admirer of yours. That's why I follow you around."

"Thank you."

Jennings headed for the door, but Thorn stopped him.

"Mr. Jennings?"

"Sir?"

"Let me understand ... you've never actually seen this priest yourself?"

"No."

"You made that remark about his being at one of my speeches. I thought perhaps ..."

"No."

"Well. No matter."

There was an uncomfortable pause, then Jennings again moved to the door.

"Any chance I could take some pictures of you? I mean at home? With your family?"

"It's not a good time right now."

"Maybe I'll call in a few weeks."

"Do that."

"You'll hear from me."

He left and Thorn gazed after him. The man clearly knew something that he wasn't divulging. But what could he possibly know about the priest? Was it mere coincidence that a man he'd had random contact with was seeking the priest who followed and haunted him? Thorn tried hard but could make no sense of it. Like so many other recent events in his life, it seemed like mere coincidence but was somehow something more.