“Can you remember them?”
“Reasonably, I suppose.”
“Did anything strike you as unusual during the end of that week?”
“Nothing that comes to mind, no, sir.”
“The American team for those sessions—and I’m mainly concerned with Thursday and Friday-consisted of the ambassador, the senior State Department official Arthur Pierce, yourself and a man named Carpenter, is that right?”
“I’d reverse the last two. I was low man on the totem pole then.”
“Were all four of you there every day?”
“Well … I think so. It’s hard to recall every day four months ago. The attendance rolls would tell you.”
“Thursday was New Year’s Day, does that help you?”
There was a pause before the attaché answered. When he did so, Bradford closed his eyes. “Yes,” the aide said. “I do remember. I may have been listed at the desk, but I wasn’t there. The White Flash had-Excuse me, I’m sorry, sir.”
“I know who you mean. What did Undersecretary Pierce do?”
“He had me fly down to Washington to compile an analysis of the entire Middle East position. I spent damn near the whole weekend on it Then, wouldn’t you know, he didn’t use it. Never has, to this day.”
“I have a last question,” Bradford said quietly, trying to control his voice. “When a team member’s recommendations are given to the ambassador by someone else at the desk, what exactly does it signify?”
“That’s easy. The senior members try to anticipate adversary proposals and write up strategies or counterproposals to block them. In the event he’s out of the council room when a controversial proposal is brought up, his advice is there for the ambassador.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Couldn’t someone simply write up something under an official title and hand it to a member?”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way. You don’t wing it in those deliveries. You’ve got to be on the premises, that’s a must Suppose the ambassador likes an argument, uses it, and gets hit with a counter he can’t handle. He wants the man responsible back in session to get him away from the fan.”
“Undersecretary Pierce gave a number of deliveries, as you call them, during the Thursday and Friday meetings.”
“That’s standard. He’s out of that room as much as he’s in it He’s terrific in the Diplomats’ Lounge, I’ve got to say it He’s there a lot, buttonholing God knows who, but it works. I think he’s as effective as anyone up here; I mean he’s really impressive. Even the Soviets like him.”
Yes, they do, Mr. Attaché. So much so that controversial proposals could be avoided by prearrangement, Bradford said to himself.
“I know. I said a last question; may I have one more?”
“I’m not going to argue, sir.”
“What happened to Carpenter?”
“I wish to hell I knew. I wish I could find him. I guess he just fell apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess you didn’t know. His wife and kids were killed in an automobile accident a couple of days before Christmas. How’d you like to have three coffins in front of a Christmas tree with the presents unopened?”
“I’m sorry.”
“He showed a lot of guts coming back as soon as he did. Of course, we all agreed it’d be the best thing for him. To be with people who cared, not alone.”
“I imagine that Undersecretary Pierce concurred.”
“Yes, sir. He was the one who persuaded him to come back.”
“I see.”
“Then one morning he just didn’t show up. The next day a telegram arrived; it was his resignation, effective immediately.”
“That was unusual, wasn’t it? Actually improper, I believe.”
“After what he’d been through, I don’t think anyone wanted to pursue formalities.”
“And again the undersecretary concurred.”
“Yes, sir. It was Pierce’s idea, Carpenter just disappeared. I hope he’s all right.”
He’s dead, Mr. Attaché. The puppet is dead.
Bradford had continued until the sun was up, until his eyes ached from the strain. The next items he had examined were the time sheets for the night the Ambiguity code had been taken over, the “beyond salvage” sent to Rome. He saw what he expected to see: Arthur Pierce had been not in New York but in Washington, at his office on the fifth floor-and, naturally, he had checked out shortly after five o’clock in the evening, the time corresponding to a half-dozen others’. How simple it must have been to walk out in a crowd, sign the security sheet and go right back inside. He could have stayed there all night, signed in in the morning and no one would have known the difference. Just as he, Undersecretary Emory Bradford, could do the same thing this morning.
He had gone back to the military transcripts—a nonpareil army record—to the State Department dossier—an inventory of achievement-to an early life that read like an officially documented tribute to Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy. Where in God’s name was the connection to Moscow?
By eight o’clock it had become impossible to concentrate, so he leaned back in his chair and slept. At eight-thirty-five he had been stirred awake by the hum of life beyond his office door. The day had begun for the Department of State. Coffee was made and poured, appointments checked, schedules set up as secretaries awaited the arrival of their crisp, starched superiors. There was an unwritten but understood dress code at State these days; frizzled hair, loud ties and unkempt beards were out He had gotten up, walked outside and greeted his own middle-aged secretary, startling her by his appearance. At that moment he realized what an impression he must have made-tieless, in shirt sleeves, dark circles under his eyes, his hair rumpled and the black stubble of a beard on his face.
He had asked for coffee and headed for the men’s room to relieve himself, wash, and straighten up as best he could. And as he walked through the large office, past desks and secretaries and arriving executives, he felt the stares leveled at him. If they only knew, he had thought to himself.
By ten o’clock, remembering Havelock’s admonition, he had gone out to a public booth and made arrangements for the tapes and the photographs to be flown down from New York. He had been tempted to call the President. He did not; he spoke to no one.
Now he glanced at his watch. It was twenty-two minutes past twelve, three minutes later than it was when he last checked. The shuttle flights were every hour out of New York; which one was the shipment on?
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet rapping on his door and a corresponding acceleration in his heartbeat. “Come in!”
It was his secretary, and she looked at him the way she had looked at him early in the morning, concern in her deep-set eyes. “I’m off to lunch, okay?” “Sure, Liz.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks.”
The woman stood awkwardly in the doorframe, pausing before she continued. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Bradford?” she asked. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Stop worrying about me and go to lunch,” he said, attempting a smile; it was not successful.
“See you later, then.”
If she only knew, he thought.
His telephone rang. It was lobby security; the unmarked delivery from New York had arrived. “Sign for it and send it up with a guard, please.”
Seven minutes later the tape was inserted into the video recorder and an interior view of the Security Council of the United Nations appeared on the screen. On the bottom of the picture a date was flashed on: Tues. December 30: 2:56 P. The occasion was an address by the Saudi Arabian ambassador. A few minutes into the speech there was a reaction pan shot—first the Israeli delegation, then the Egyptian, followed by the American team. Bradford stopped the tape with the remote control and studied the picture. The four men were in place; the ambassador and his senior aide, Arthur Pierce, in front, two men seated behind. There was no p
oint listening or watching further for Tuesday the thirtieth; Bradford resumed the movement, pulling the remote mechanism up in front of him to locate the forward button. He pressed it, and a rushing blur appeared on the screen. He released the button; the Saudi was still there. He was about to resume the forward motion when a quick-cut shot revealed the American delegation again. Arthur Pierce was not there.
Bradford pressed the reverse several times until he found the action that he was looking for, that he knew would be there. An official from State did not walk out on a friendly speech without at least some explanation. There it was. Pierce was looking at his watch as he rose, leaning first toward the ambassador and whispering, then to the man behind him, presumably the lower-level attaché, who nodded. A female announcer’s voice came from the speaker: “We understand that a telephone call has been received by the United States delegation, quite possibly from the Secretary of State, who might care to have his comments registered for Ibn Kashani’s most laudatory comments.”
Bradford pressed the forward button again, and again, and once again. The address was over; many delegations rose in an ovation. Arthur Pierce had not returned to his chair.
Thurs. Jan. 1 10:43 A. The welcoming of the new year by the president of the Security Council. Pierce was not at the American desk. In his place was the man—presumably, Franklyn Carpenter-who had been seated behind the ambassador; he was beside him now, a sheaf of papers in his hands.
Fri. Jan. 2 4:10 P. A provocative speech by the P.R.C. delegate, necessitating the use of translation earphones. Pierce was not at the American desk.
Mon. Jan. 5 11:43 A. Arthur Pierce was absent.
Mon. Jan. 5 2:16 P. Arthur Pierce was absent.
Mon. Jan. 5 4:45 P. Arthur Pierce was in his chair, shaking his head in response to comments by the ambassador from Yemen.
Bradford turned off the videotape and looked at the manila envelope containing photographs of the New Year’s Eve reception. He did not really need them; he knew the undersecretary of the American delegation would appear in none.
He had been at the Costa Brava.
There was a final check, and with computer scanners it would take less than a minute. Bradford reached for his phone; he asked for transport backlog information, made his request and waited, rubbing his eyes, aware that a tremble had developed in his breathing. Forty-seven seconds later the reply came: “On Tuesday, December thirtieth, there were five flights out of New York to Madrid. Ten o’clock, twelve, one-fifteen, two-thirty and five-ten.… On Monday, January fifth, Spanish time, there were four flights from Barcelona routed through Madrid, starting at seven-thirty, A.M., arrival Kennedy Airport, E.S.T., twelve-twenty-one; nine-fifteen, A.M., arrival Kennedy, E.S.T., three o’clock—”
“Thank you,” said Bradford, interrupting. “I have what I need.”
He did. Pierce had taken the 5:10 Tuesday flight to Madrid, and had returned on the 9:15 Monday flight from Barcelona, permitting him to appear at the United Nations by 4:45, Eastern Standard Time. Somewhere in the manifests there would be a passenger whose name on a passport would in no way correspond to that of the undersecretary of the delegation.
Bradford pivoted in his chair, breathing deeply, staring out the large window at the tree-lined streets of Washington below. It was time to go out into one of those streets and find another telephone booth. Havelock had to know. He got up and walked around his desk toward his jacket and overcoat, both draped carelessly over a straight-backed chair against the wall.
The door opened without a knock, and the undersecretary of State froze, his every muscle paralyzed. Standing there, closing the door and leaning against the frame, was another undersecretary of State, a shock of white streaking through his dark hair. It was Pierce. He stood erect, his eyes level, cold, somehow weary, his voice flat as he said, “You look exhausted, Emory. You’re also inexperienced. Exhaustion and inexperience are a bad combination; together they cause lapses. When you ask questions of subordinates, you should remember to demand confidentiality. That young man, the one who took Carpenter’s place, was really quite excited this morning.”
“You killed Carpenter,” whispered Bradford, finding a part of his voice, “He didn’t resign, you killed him.”
“He was in great emotional pain.”
“Oh, Christ … His wife and children, you did that, too!”
“You have to plan, create circumstances, foster need—dependence. You can accept that, can’t you? Good Lord, in the old days you never gave it a thought. And how many did you kill? Before your celebrated conversion, that is. I was out there, Emory. I saw what you did.”
“But you were there—”
“Hating every minute of it. Sickened by the waste, the body counts—on both sides—and the lies. Always the lies, out of Saigon and Washington. It was the slaughter of children, yours and theirs.”
“Why you? There’s nothing anywhere to explain! Why you?”
“Because it’s what I was meant to do. We’re on different sides, Emory, and I believe in mine far more than you believe in yours. That’s understandable; you’ve seen what it’s like here, and you can’t do anything about it. I can and I will. There’s a better way for this world than yours. We’ll bring it about.”
“How? By blowing it up? By plunging us all into a nuclear war that was never meant to be!”
Pierce stood motionless, his eyes boring into Bradford’s. “It’s true, then,” he said quietly. “They did it.”
“You didn’t know … Oh, my God!”
“Don’t blame yourself, we were close. We were told—I was told—that he was going mad, that he was creating a strategy so intolerable the world would be revolted, the United States would never be trusted again. When it was completed, and the documents were in our hands, we would have the ammunition to dictate or destroy, the option would be ours—in either case your system would be finished, wiped from the face of the earth you’ve raped.”
“You’re so wrong … so misguided.” Bradford’s voice was a whisper. “Great mistakes, yes! Massive errors of judgment, yes! … But we face them. At the end we always face them!”
“Only when you’re caught. Because you haven’t the courage to fail, and without that you can’t win.”
“You think suppression’s the answer?” roared Bradford. “You think because you silence people they won’t be heard?”
“Not where it matters; that’s the practical answer. You’ve never understood us, anyway, You read our books but you don’t grasp their meaning; you even choose to overlook specifics. Marx said it, Lenin reconfirmed it; but you didn’t listen. Our system is in constant transition, phases to be passed through until change isn’t needed any longer. One day our freedoms will be complete, not like yours. Not hollow.”
“You’re spoon-fed! No change? People have to change. Every day! According to the weather, to birth, to death … to needs! You can’t turn them into automatons; they won’t stand for it! That’s what you can’t understand. You’re the ones who are afraid of failure. You won’t let anybody argue with you!”
“Not those who would undo more than sixty years of hope, of progress. Our great scientists, the doctors, the engineers … the vast majority of their parents weren’t able to read.” “So you taught the children and banned the books!”
“I thought you were better than that” Pierce took several steps forward, away from the door. “You can’t find him, can you? He delivered his nuclear blueprints, then went underground. You don’t know whom he’s shown them to, or sold them to. You’re in panic.”
“You can’t find him, either. You lost him.”
“But we know who he is. We’ve studied his habits, his needs, his talents. Like all men with outstanding minds, he’s complicated but predictable. We’ll find him. We know what to look for, you don’t.”
“He defected from you, didn’t he?”
“A temporary condition. His quarrel was with the bureaucracy, with unimaginative superiors, not the objectives of th
e state. When he came to me, I could have taken him, but I chose not to; he offered me too high a price. You see, he believes in us, not you—certainly not you, never you. His grandfather was a tenant serf on the lands of Prince Voroshin. He was hanged by that grand nobleman for stealing a wild boar in winter to feed his family. He won’t turn on us.”
“Who’s ‘us’? Moscow doesn’t acknowledge you, we’ve learned that much through Costa Brava. The KGB had nothing to do with Costa Brava; it was never sanctioned.”
“Not by anyone you deal with. They’re old and tired; they accommodate. They’ve lost sight of our promise—our destiny, if you like. We haven’t.” Pierce looked at the television set and the video recorder beneath it, then at the box on Bradford’s desk. “A network film library—or is it archives? Images recorded, so they can be studied to settle disputes, or Investigate death. Very good, Emory.” The mole glanced up. “Or we could add a third d. Disappearance. Yes, those would tell you; that feeble excuse for a diplomat we call an ambassador certainly couldn’t He’d check his records, find that I’d given him the best arguments for those sessions, and swear I was there. It might amuse you to know that I frequently talk with my true associates in the lounge and tell them to go easy on him, let him win a few. He was heaven-sent for me.” “It doesn’t amuse me.”
Pierce approached Bradford, standing directly in front of him. “Havlíček’s come back, hasn’t he?”
“Who?”
“We prefer his real name. Mikhail Havlíček, son of Václav, an enemy of the state, and named for a grandfather from Rovno, across the Carpathians. Mikhail is a Russian name, you know. Not Czech. On the other hand, you probably don’t know that; you put such little emphasis on heritage. Under different circumstances, he might be standing where I am at this moment. He’s a talented man; I’m sorry he was so misguided. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Emory. That outrageous newspaper story, that very opaque whitewash done so very badly out of State in response to the killing on Morningside Heights. That old Jew knew something, didn’t he? And the pathological Havlíček shot his head off finding out what it was. Then you covered for him because he’d found you out, and no doubt found the girl as well. You need him now; he could blow you apart You made your accommodation with him. You told him the truth, you had to. It all goes back to the Costa Brava, doesn’t it?”
The Parsifal Mosaic Page 55
