by Greg Wilson
She paused a moment to examine the streaks of mascara and shadow on the cotton wool and gave a little grimace of self-disgust. She wasn’t really a vain person, or at least she didn’t think she was. In fact all through school and college she had avoided using make-up entirely, right up until she met David and that was when she’d started, caught up in the pressure to hold her own in the privileged and glamorous crowd with which he so comfortably mixed. Well at least she had avoided most of their other habits, hadn’t ended up hooked on cocaine or alcohol or sex as so many of them had. Drugs had never interested her, alcohol was something she could take or leave, and as for sex…
Well, as for sex, tonight had been the first time in two months and on reflection she wondered why she hadn’t just stayed home, watched cable and ordered a pizza, but doing just that had become so much of a habit lately she had been determined to break the cycle. And besides, to be honest, she was getting to the point where she needed the sex. So much so that where it came from was beginning to seem of only passing consequence. Not that she wasn’t selective. The last eight weeks of abstinence was pretty fair testimony to that, and tonight’s guy had been nice enough at face value.
Some kind of financier or broker or something, the typical well-groomed, good-looking, over-confident young Wall Street type she knew she would find in one of the new generation of bars that had sprung up around the perimeter of Ground Zero, the site from which the twin towers of the World Trade Centre had once risen to touch the sky as testimony to American greatness.
She’d tried three of them before she’d found what she was looking for at the fourth. He thought he’d picked her up but it was actually the other way around. Still, male egos and all, why spoil it for him?
It was a hip place. They all were around there. A big, comfortable, expensive space for people who liked to think they had style. Art gallery modern with slick furniture, backlit glass and stainless steel and colors so clever that no ordinary mortal would have ever dreamed of using them together. Slick staff too: attractive, self-assured young men and women who moved easily through the crowd. Not just slick, but smart as well, their own natural élan carefully contained to just the right degree to acknowledge the superiority of their customers. Not that they really believed their customers were superior, just that they understood it was important to acknowledge they were: the bigger and better you made someone feel, the bigger and better the drop. Truth known, come the end of the week when they counted up their gratuities, half the wait staff were probably trading ahead of half the patrons.
But what the hell, it was all fun. A masquerade played out in a cool, sophisticated setting with just the right level of dark to shield inhibitions and make you feel as though you really looked great, even if you didn’t. Not that that was something Kelly Hartman really needed to worry about.
That wasn’t vanity. She was a pragmatist, that was all. It came with the Hartman genes and the education: top schools at home and abroad followed up with a double degree from Columbia, wrapping up with the Masters in Political Science that had opened the door to the prestigious Cassell Foundation, the institutionally funded Upper Eastside think tank where she had worked for four years, rising through the ranks to her current position as a senior analyst specializing in domestic political affairs.
So, getting back to the looks and the vanity thing… it was just a fact.
Five six. A trim figure she had never really had to work on, with breasts a little larger than average. Just enough – particularly where men were concerned – to always give the edge of attention. Clear fair skin and shoulder-length dark brown hair that gleamed when it was brushed and looked good up or down, and a well-balanced, well- structured face that had evolved from being just pretty when she was a teenager, to now being quite striking, in an Audrey Hepburn sort of way – all the more when she wore make-up designed to throw the spotlight on her standout feature.
Her eyes.
Eyes that, given the rest of her coloring, seemed as though they might almost have belonged to someone else. Cool gray and fathomless, the exact image of her father’s.
It was the eyes that had snared her target tonight. She’d seen him first when she’d come in. He was standing at the bar, on the fringe of a conversation with half a dozen others from the same mold. Co-workers rather than close friends, she guessed, given the comfortable but slightly disconnected manner in which the discussion was flowing. She’d edged past them and taken a seat further along. Ordered a glass of Pinot, sipped it, checked her watch, sipped some more, looked around a little, then taken her cell phone out of her purse. When he glanced her way she was playing with the buttons, looking just that little bit exasperated, as if she might have been trying to reach someone who was supposed to have shown up but hadn’t. Zoe, her assistant at the Foundation, had taught her that one. It was perfect. Never failed. Said it all without saying a thing…
Here I am, all alone when I wasn’t expecting to be. Now what am I going to do with myself?
And it had the perfect built-in exit strategy as well. If some guy took the bait and you decided you weren’t really interested, then all you had to do was try the call again and pretend you’d gotten through this time. Your own home number was best, according to Zoe. That way you could have a quick conversation with your own message machine, pretend you’d sorted out the confusion, then offer a quick smile of apology, grab your coat and take off, without even hurting his feelings.
So tonight, when the guy looked her way, she made sure their eyes touched for just an instant and that hooked him. She knew it had because after that first glance he had difficulty concentrating on his friends’ conversation. After a few minutes he had quit trying and begun edging away little by little until finally he’d wrestled his insecurity aside, turned to her and asked if he could buy her a drink.
He was dark and well dressed and polite. Not tall but slim, with tight, almost black curly hair and frameless designer glasses. Not die-for handsome but good-looking in a New York Jewish way. Good enough, anyway. So, she had studied her cell phone a moment, pretending to weigh the balance then, to his delight, she’d flicked it off, slipped it back into her purse and accepted his offer.
After the first round his friends were history.
She’d said something about it being noisy at the bar and he’d taken the hint, predictably suggesting they move to a booth. By the time he’d had four drinks to her two his eyes were shining and his hand was pushing under her skirt and starting to roam around her thighs beneath the table. She smiled at him and let it run. Even opened her legs just a little to encourage him since she knew what a turn-on that was. After that it was all just a matter of course.
Last drink left unfinished. A hundred left on a seventy dollar check and a big smile from the waitress as they got up to leave. A quick cab ride back to his loft in TriBeCa and then the door closed behind them and clothes falling aside, his hands going everywhere at once, like a kid given free run in a candy store, wanting it all and not knowing where to start.
The problem was he was too enthusiastic. Just couldn’t wait. The first time he took her on her hands and knees, right there on the rug, just inside the door. It was all so fast she hardly even knew it had happened, but in a matter of seconds he was ready again so, still clinging to hope, she let him lead her to the bedroom, spread her out on her back and have her that way, and that turned out to be just as disappointing.
Twice in ten minutes and she hadn’t even started to warm up. At least at that point he’d had the sensitivity to realize that it had become a one-person party, but by then his primary resource had clocked out and wasn’t showing any sign of imminent recovery so in desperation he had moved to Plan B, his backup strategy, which consisted of him feverishly deploying just about every alternative technique known to mankind, one after the other, for the next twenty minutes, with a relentless and mechanical determination that completely missed the point. Eventually she had looked at her watch and decided to call it quits. Smile
d at him and stroked his face, told him not to worry – it was hard for her sometimes – gathered up her clothes, spent five minutes in his bathroom, let herself out and caught a cab home.
So much for the sex. Truth told, it was hard for her. And not just sometimes, most times.
That particular problem had started almost six years ago, three years into her life as Mrs. David Rengard, when her husband – man about town and real estate deal-maker extraordinaire – had come to the conclusion that their marriage vows placed an unrealistic restriction on his need for variety.
She had known about the first two affairs… at least at the time she presumed they were the first two, although now she had her doubts. Had put them down to her own shortcomings and tried to compensate with an increased attentiveness to her husband’s needs. But when it came to the third – conducted with the wife of a friend, in more or less open view during a summer vacation the two couples had shared on Rhode Island – Kelly had drawn the line and made her stand.
David’s reaction had confused her completely. Instead of being contrite, as she had expected, he had just grinned at her and told her that she needed to loosen up. This was what living was all about. Rather than complaining she should join in and see what she was missing.
He was so definite about it that it made her think. Perhaps she was naive. She was only twenty-eight, so that was entirely possible. Before David she’d only known two other men. Boys really. Since then her life had revolved almost entirely around her study and her work, so perhaps she did need to loosen up. Maybe he was right.
She lay awake a lot, thinking about that. Did she still love David? She thought she did. Did she want their marriage to last? No question. She was committed to that. So if he needed more excitement, what was the answer?
When she told him, he was over the moon and their love-making that night had been nothing short of spectacular, with David taking her to plateaus of pleasure she had never even dreamt existed, making her all the more certain she had made the right decision. There was no hurry, he reassured her as she lay in his arms afterwards. They’d take it slowly, step by step. Just wait until the right time came along to get started and then when it did it would be a joint decision.
It wasn’t. It was his decision.
She got the call at seven one evening, two weeks later, when she was at home studying for her finals.
Hi honey. I’m with some people from the coast. Special people. I want you to meet them. You’re going to really like them, trust me.
He didn’t have to explain. From the tone of his voice she knew immediately what he meant.
They’re staying at the Plaza. We’re going to meet there for dinner at eight. I want you to join us, okay?
What else could she say. She had promised him.
Okay. See you then. And sweetheart… dress sexy.
The next hour passed in a haze of confusion. At the end of it the five minute cab ride downtown was a total blur.
When the driver pulled into the forecourt, she had fumbled the fare, then dropped her purse, scattering its contents across the seat and the rubber floor mats and had to scrabble around gathering everything up while the uniformed doorman waited patiently, pretending to look the other way. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the flush in her cheeks as she walked through the huge glass doors then, to her relief, she saw David coming towards her across the lobby… his brilliant smile, his arms outstretched… then closing around her as he hugged her and whispered in her ear, telling her how much he loved her and how stunning she looked and how excited it made him and, stupidly, everything suddenly seemed all right. Better than all right. Almost perfect.
The couple from the coast were clients, in town to close a deal on an Upper West Side penthouse. Rich clients, Kelly assumed from their clothes and their style, but then David only dealt with rich clients.
They were something to do with entertainment. She couldn’t remember their names now, but it wasn’t as if they were well known. And she had been so nervous that she hadn’t picked up on all that much of the conversation. But it had seemed to flow easily, almost as though they had all been good friends for years. He was tanned and good-looking, with a touch of gray. Mid- to late-forties, she guessed… not that much younger than her father, she remembered thinking. At first glance his wife looked quite a lot younger, although that could have been just an illusion shaped by expensive surgery. In any event she was really quite beautiful and she used her hands in a friendly, unaffected way, placing them lightly on Kelly’s from time to time, to emphasize a point. They seemed nice enough people. Friendly and happy and even funny in a self-deprecating way. If it hadn’t been for what Kelly knew was supposed to happen later, it could almost have been an enjoyable dinner.
The couple from the coast had a suite of course. High up in the tower, along a wide corridor carpeted in rich plush pile and lined with antique furniture and ormolu-framed mirrors set against walls painted ecru and dusted with the warm, sparkling light of chandeliers.
They strolled down the corridor as a group, taking their time, like four old friends returning together from an evening at the theatre, stringing it out, making it last. But by that time, beneath her outward composure, Kelly could feel the panic beginning to take hold. She had drunk too much and now she was dizzy. Dizzy and confused as to why she seemed to have become the center of attention, the focal point of the silent smiles exchanged around her. She remembered glancing at David then at the man and then the woman and seeing the same excitement in each of their eyes. The excitement of anticipation.
Well, whatever they had been anticipating, one thing was certain, they had all been pretty disappointed, because what followed had been a complete disaster.
She had tried. Gone along with it all until, like tonight, after half an hour she had realized that this wasn’t her. Not only wasn’t it her, her head just couldn’t deal with it, and she needed to get out of it right then and there. That minute.
The courage to do it came suddenly, surprising her as much as it had the others. She had just broken free and pushed them all away. Silently gathered up her clothes with what little dignity she could still manage, carried them to the bathroom, dressed, tidied her hair and make-up – as best she could through vision blurred by alcohol and tears – and left… the suite, the hotel, the couple from the coast and – specifically – David.
It had taken three years to complete the formalities but that was the actual moment at which the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. David Rengard had come to an end.
When she turned up on the doorstep of her father’s house at Tarrytown the next day, clutching a suitcase in either hand, he had been bemused but unashamedly delighted. Her dad never had liked David, she knew that. Perhaps that was because he’d always had a special ability to read people like no one else Kelly had ever known. To see right through skin and flesh to a person’s core.
He’d been back in the States for almost three years then and just getting into the stride of his new career. His first book had hit the stores and the media and the establishment were still poring over it, digesting it – the former with relish; the latter with a kind of awkward discomfort. In fact, the first review had shown up in the New York Times just a few days before and Kelly remembered how thrilled and proud she had been as she read it.
Organized crime meets big business and shady politics.
Ho-hum … heard it all before, right?
Well, sorry to disturb you but you’re wrong. Very wrong, according to former long-term CIA officer, Jack Hartman… And if he’s telling even part of the truth about what he knows then we’d all better sit up and start taking notice.
In his just-released book, “Situation Critical”, Hartman examines the history of Russian organized crime and blows the lid on what he considers to have been the orchestrated cover-up of this latest threat to American society. Forget about the mob and the triads and the yakuza! According to Hartman, they’re just amateurs compared with the Russians. If we believe
this veteran of the shadow world, these guys are smarter and meaner than all the rest put together… Sophisticated, efficiently ruthless, masters of the arts of compromise and corruption. Most disturbing, according to the author, their operations now pose a clear and present danger to our society, one that has the ability to touch us all. A danger our government has long been aware of, Hartman contends, but has assiduously avoided doing anything about.
… So, how come?
That’s just one of the questions raised in this compelling new work and what’s more, the author has the guts to offer a chilling answer that is unlikely to endear him to the folks in Washington.
An absolute must read.
That was in the fall of ‘98. Before the other reviews and the articles in Newsweek and Time and the Larry King interview and the other talk shows that had ended up making Jack Hartman just about famous.
It was Kelly who had pushed him to take the Russian posting when it had come up three years before, so she had played a part in reshaping her father’s career without even being aware of what she was doing. Strange, she reflected, how random events could connect to form a chain of energy capable of instantly and completely redefining someone’s future. She’d seen it at work in her role at the Foundation… the political unknowns who let loose some off-the-cuff comment that suddenly propelled them from obscurity into the national spot-light. Of course it was what happened after that determined greatness. Maybe she was a little one-eyed, but she had always believed her father was great.
