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 dilligent."
"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
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 dilligent."
"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
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