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Authors: Buck Sanders
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lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones,” he said instead.
“Indeed I was,” Slayton replied, “before I found peace and contentment rummaging through bank balances of sheiks and assorted
pals of David Rockefeller temporarily between
coups d’état.”
“We have an image to maintain here, son, and that means a clean-cut image,” Winship thundered.
“Don’t sweat the chickenshit, sir, with all due respect. I have on my desk at this moment the certified thievery of one Mohammed
Reza Pahlevi, better known as the Shah of Iran, and I can’t help but notice that the major banks of the good old U.S. of A.
are only too happy to handle his extortion accounts. Now, this outfit I work for has two ways to handle something that’s sure
to come to a nasty head: refuse to be the Shah’s accomplice in the looting of Iran, or make a big fuss about the length of
my hair.”
Winship’s jowls trembled and quaked. Young Slayton regarded him with an expression that betrayed not a whit of emotion. Slayton
had no way of knowing that Winship agreed with him, and Winship, at that time, had no way of knowing the destiny of their
relationship. Besides, Winship had a role to play.
“Cut your hair,” Winship said. “That’s an order. And that’s all.” He turned on his heel and walked away, red-faced.
The next day, he received a memorandum from Ben Slayton which read, “Hair has been duly trimmed. However, I stand by my remarks.”
Winship did not reply to the brash young agent. But he quietly admired him.
Now he was in receipt of another Slayton memorandum, which he read for the fourth time. For the fourth time, he was struck
by the last line:
“… I don’t mind losing it all for Georgie, or even Ronnie, for that matter; but I would greatly appreciate in the future knowing
when I am to be a decoy.”
Winship permitted himself a small laugh.
Earlier in the memo, Slayton had suggested a confidential meeting. It was this request that had occupied Winship’s thoughts
today, this request that had prompted his historical remembrances, this request that had revived his terrible, unshakeable
belief that certain ugly events had a grim connection.
Benjamin Justin Slayton, whose life was spread before Winship on paper, had stepped into the shadows of a nightmare. Did Slayton
know where he was treading?
Winship knew only that there was no time to waste in finding out about this Slayton fellow. He telephoned his wife.
“Edith,” he said to her, “I want you to arrange a party. Purely a social thing. Mix it up. You know, some serious types and
some frivolous. Maybe a bit of the press as well.
“I should like to watch a certain young man.”
Nine
MOUNT VERNON, Virginia, St. Valentine’s Day, 1981
“I don’t suppose you’re able to break it?”
The woman’s words came in short gasps, plaintively. She rolled out of Ben Slayton’s arms to the edge of her side of the bed
and pouted. Slayton moved to her.
“Ben? Oh why?”
“Sorry, love. Command appearance.”
He put an arm around her, found her soft and yielding, turned her toward him. He kissed her, gently and properly, and she
responded with an involuntary shudder that began in her shoulders and worked itself down to her loins.
Slayton drew her tightly to his body. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest. Their hips swayed together, in a slow, undulating
rhythm as they continued their embrace.
Her face was flushed and warm, expectant. He kissed her eyes and her chin. She brushed her long fingers over his taut skin.
A fire was building.
“Let me ride you,” she said, leaning over his face now, kissing him languorously on the chest and forehead, on his shoulders.
“Let me try to keep you to myself.”
She straddled his hips as he lay fiat on his back, lowering herself to meet his manhood. He moaned, with a touch of helplessness
in his voice that pleased her. She bent her head and kissed his lips.
He dug his fingers into
“Indeed I was,” Slayton replied, “before I found peace and contentment rummaging through bank balances of sheiks and assorted
pals of David Rockefeller temporarily between
coups d’état.”
“We have an image to maintain here, son, and that means a clean-cut image,” Winship thundered.
“Don’t sweat the chickenshit, sir, with all due respect. I have on my desk at this moment the certified thievery of one Mohammed
Reza Pahlevi, better known as the Shah of Iran, and I can’t help but notice that the major banks of the good old U.S. of A.
are only too happy to handle his extortion accounts. Now, this outfit I work for has two ways to handle something that’s sure
to come to a nasty head: refuse to be the Shah’s accomplice in the looting of Iran, or make a big fuss about the length of
my hair.”
Winship’s jowls trembled and quaked. Young Slayton regarded him with an expression that betrayed not a whit of emotion. Slayton
had no way of knowing that Winship agreed with him, and Winship, at that time, had no way of knowing the destiny of their
relationship. Besides, Winship had a role to play.
“Cut your hair,” Winship said. “That’s an order. And that’s all.” He turned on his heel and walked away, red-faced.
The next day, he received a memorandum from Ben Slayton which read, “Hair has been duly trimmed. However, I stand by my remarks.”
Winship did not reply to the brash young agent. But he quietly admired him.
Now he was in receipt of another Slayton memorandum, which he read for the fourth time. For the fourth time, he was struck
by the last line:
“… I don’t mind losing it all for Georgie, or even Ronnie, for that matter; but I would greatly appreciate in the future knowing
when I am to be a decoy.”
Winship permitted himself a small laugh.
Earlier in the memo, Slayton had suggested a confidential meeting. It was this request that had occupied Winship’s thoughts
today, this request that had prompted his historical remembrances, this request that had revived his terrible, unshakeable
belief that certain ugly events had a grim connection.
Benjamin Justin Slayton, whose life was spread before Winship on paper, had stepped into the shadows of a nightmare. Did Slayton
know where he was treading?
Winship knew only that there was no time to waste in finding out about this Slayton fellow. He telephoned his wife.
“Edith,” he said to her, “I want you to arrange a party. Purely a social thing. Mix it up. You know, some serious types and
some frivolous. Maybe a bit of the press as well.
“I should like to watch a certain young man.”
Nine
MOUNT VERNON, Virginia, St. Valentine’s Day, 1981
“I don’t suppose you’re able to break it?”
The woman’s words came in short gasps, plaintively. She rolled out of Ben Slayton’s arms to the edge of her side of the bed
and pouted. Slayton moved to her.
“Ben? Oh why?”
“Sorry, love. Command appearance.”
He put an arm around her, found her soft and yielding, turned her toward him. He kissed her, gently and properly, and she
responded with an involuntary shudder that began in her shoulders and worked itself down to her loins.
Slayton drew her tightly to his body. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest. Their hips swayed together, in a slow, undulating
rhythm as they continued their embrace.
Her face was flushed and warm, expectant. He kissed her eyes and her chin. She brushed her long fingers over his taut skin.
A fire was building.
“Let me ride you,” she said, leaning over his face now, kissing him languorously on the chest and forehead, on his shoulders.
“Let me try to keep you to myself.”
She straddled his hips as he lay fiat on his back, lowering herself to meet his manhood. He moaned, with a touch of helplessness
in his voice that pleased her. She bent her head and kissed his lips.
He dug his fingers into
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