Proteus

by Morris West

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘Then ask yourself what mandate you have for the editorials you write, the stories you publish . . . You certainly don’t get it from a government or a party.’

  ‘No, it’s a matter of conscience for me.”

  ‘And you seek to form the same conscience in your readers?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So do we,’ said Uncle Andrea. ‘Why should our motives be more suspect than yours?’

  Castagna gave a small, dry chuckle, and then added a faintly mocking comment.

  ‘I found myself in the same dilemma, my friend. It’s hard to believe that capital has a social conscience.’

  ‘Or the Church a distaste for tyranny,’ said Bishop Frantisek. ‘We all carry the guilts of history on our backs.’

  ‘And the shame of the present,’ said Von Kalbach. ‘The anarchists who threaten me have a very simple premise: there is no remedy for the evils of our system except total destruction and a new beginning. We have to bear witness to the possibility of protest and reform.’

  ‘I have one more question for my father-in-law.’

  ‘Ask it,’ said John Spada.

  ‘In this – this work – have you ever killed a man?’

  ‘I have, I would again.’

  ‘And you, Bishop Frantisek, what do you say to that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Bishop. ‘I have never been faced with the exigence of the moment. I cannot say what I would do. John Spada has never opened his conscience to me. I have neither the means nor the right to judge him.’

  ‘But you are still prepared to work with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Rodolfo Vallenilla. ‘I’m sorry, John. I cannot keep company with assassins.’

  ‘I respect your decision,’ said Spada. ‘I trust you will respect the pledge you have given to this meeting.’

  ‘Need you ask?’

  ‘Yes.’ Spada’s tone was harsh. ‘My life, our lives, are on the line too!’

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ said Rodolfo Vallenilla. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen!’

  He stood up, gave them a small, stiff bow and walked out of the room. The door closed behind him with a hard, dry snap. There was a long silence, then Uncle Andrea asked gently:

  ‘Was that necessary, Giovanni?’

  ‘It was necessary,’ said Spada gravely. ‘Now, Professor Von Kalbach, where do you stand?’

  ‘If I can help, I will.’ The old scholar consented calmly.

  ‘I do not have much time left. I cannot spend it like a child on a see-saw.’

  ‘You, Castagna?’

  ‘I’ve given the best years of my life to the Party. I’m no longer sure it has all the answers. So, I’m reserving a little of myself, for myself. Yes . . . count me in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said John Spada. ‘Now, let me play a little game with you.’ He drew a crude sketch in his notebook, tore out the page and held it up for inspection. ‘This is the symbol of our organisation. Can you decipher its meaning?’

  The sketch was an incomplete square, enclosing a fish, thus:

  Castagna and Von Kalbach studied it for a long moment and then confessed themselves beaten. Spada explained with unfamiliar eloquence:

  ‘The rectangular shape is one of the oldest forms of the letter “P”. The fish is just a fish. The whole device stands for Proteus, the sea-god, shepherd and guardian of all the creatures who live in the deep: the seals, the dolphins, the tunny and the shoaling minnows. Poseidon endowed him with knowledge of all things, past, present and future, and with the power to change himself, at will, into a multitude of shapes: a flame of fire, a lion, a flower, a snake or a snuffling boar . . .’ He broke off, smiled a little self-consciously at his own rhetoric and then explained . . . ‘You see the relevance of the symbol to what we do. We are guardians of those who live in an alien element, cut off from human concern. We have at our disposal knowledge, intelligence, from all over the world. We can assume many identities, many functions . . . When we are threatened, we can retreat into the sea-caves and emerge in a different shape. If one fish is taken, there are always others to take its place. For the present I am Proteus, because I have the means to move and act more freely than most of our collaborators. But, if anything happens to John Spada, then a new man will assume my title and function . . . All our codes are based on the names of sea-creatures. We recognise each other by this device, which a child can draw.’

  ‘It’s an amusing conceit,’ said Luigi Castagna.

  ‘I find it rather touching,’ said Hugo Von Kalbach. ‘I liked your phrase about those who are cut off from human concern. How many members do we have altogether?’

  ‘We don’t ask,’ said Uncle Andrea. ‘When we have need of collaborators in other countries we confer with Giovanni in New York. He provides appropriate contact. It’s a safety measure – based on normal intelligence procedures.’

  ‘But someone must have the full list?’

  ‘There is such a list,’ said John Spada carefully. ‘I am the only person who knows its whereabouts and contents. In the event of my death or incapacity, it will pass to one of two people deputed to carry on the work.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Luigi Castagna drily. ‘To free the captives, we set up a dictatorship.’

  ‘There is another point of view,’ said Fonseca the banker. ‘John Spada was the first to set his hand to the lonely plough. So far, he has cut a straight furrow on very stony ground. We have learned to trust him.’

  ‘I’m a slow learner,’ said Luigi Castagna. ‘I hope you will be patient with me.’

  ‘In a dog’s world it pays to be cautious.’ Spada held out his hand to seal the pact. ‘Now, let’s get down to business. First, Professor, I wonder if you would consider an invitation to come to New York and . . .’

  As they drove back to Rome, in the long fall of the evening, Rodolfo Vallenilla was silent and withdrawn. After a while Teresa demanded, in her forthright fashion:

  ‘Something happened between you and Papa today. What was it?’

  ‘A private matter,’ said John Spada curtly. ‘None of your business.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it at the hotel.’ Anna made a furtive gesture towards the chauffeur. ‘This is not the time or the place.’

  ‘Rodo and I are leaving tomorrow.’ Teresa was not to be put off. ‘We don’t want to take family problems with us.’

  ‘There are no problems.’ Vallenilla was firm. ‘Your father made me a proposal. I declined it, as I had a perfect right to do. The matter is closed.’

  Spada shut his eyes and leaned back against the cushions.

  ‘One of the hardest things in marriage is to let your partner be private. So lay off, Teresa mia! Rodo and I understand each other.’

  ‘He understands.’ Vallenilla made a gallant effort to appear amused. ‘I’m still trying to spell the words! But he’s right. Lay off, dear wife!’

  ‘That’s what I hate about Italy. All you have to do is ask the time of day and you’ve got a conspiracy on your hands!’

  ‘Ask it in Manhattan,’ said Anna, ‘and people think it’s a stick-up. I like it when small things are important . . . When they get big and complicated I pull the sheets over my head and go to sleep.’

  ‘I surrender.’ Teresa sighed wearily. ‘I’ll be a nice, dutiful, boring Latin wife and let the wonderful men get on with their great affairs.’

  ‘Great!’ Spada gave a theatrical display of relief. ‘At last, Anna my love, we can relax. Our little daughter has become a woman!’

  ‘Go to hell, Papa!’

  ‘With pleasure, bambina! That’s where you find all the pretty girls!’

  So, the first bad moment passed; but there was one more to endure before the day’s end. It was ten in the evening. Anna and Spada had finished supper and were just preparing to go to bed when Vallenilla called from his room and suggested a stroll before retiring. Spada was tired as a miller’s mule, but he agreed. The
y met in the foyer and walked slowly up the Via Bissolati towards the Veneto. Vallenilla told him baldly:

  ‘You offended me very much today, John.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d given you my word to keep your secret. Between gentlemen, that should have been enough.’

  ‘You called me an assassin. Wasn’t that an ugly judgment?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I apologise.’

  ‘I intended no offence when I asked you to affirm your pledge. I’m sorry if I hurt you; but I wanted you to remember that moment very dearly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you ever thought what may happen when you go back to Buenos Aires and continue writing against the government?’

  ‘Very often. I could disappear like so many others.’

  ‘Which would mean what?’

  ‘I’d be killed – which wouldn’t be so bad; or imprisoned and tortured – which would be infinitely worse.’

  ‘And in the end you would tell what you know.’

  ‘Inevitably.’

  ‘So, whatever would help you to hold out one day, one hour longer would be a gift and not an insult? Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to do today: give you a moment to remember.’

  ‘I didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘Just as you never thought of what Frantisek called “the exigence of the moment” – the moment when you might have to choose to kill a man.’

  ‘I’ve set my face against all killing, all violence. There has to be an end to the social vendetta.’

  ‘That’s easy. Raise the white flag. Surrender. Hang up your harp by the Waters of Babylon and weep.’

  ‘You know that’s not the answer.’

  ‘Then spell me yours, Rodo! Tell me what I do when Teresa calls and tells me you’ve disappeared?’

  ‘You come down and take her home.’

  ‘And what do I answer when she refuses to go, and begs me to intervene on your behalf? How far shall I go? At what point do I, too, stand and surrender?’

  ‘You’ve got eighty million dollars of investment in Buenos Aires and five hundred employees – all hostages to the régime. You cannot endanger them . . . Besides, it may never happen.’

  ‘But if it does?’

  ‘I don’t know. I truly don’t know.’

  ‘Then you’d damn well better make up your mind!’ Spada was angry and brutal. ‘When you sit at your desk and write an editorial, you’re not some white-haired scholar penning wisdom for posterity. You’re making time-bombs, like any bloody terrorist in a back-room in Munich. Just like him, you’ve got a cost to count, an effect to measure, a responsibility to wear! . . . I don’t say you should give up and walk away – far from it! But don’t kid yourself, sonny! You’re in a duel with deadly weapons. So don’t be surprised when you see blood on the floor . . .’

  ‘That’s quite a speech,’ said Vallenilla. ‘I’d like to print it.’

  ‘Print it on the palm of your hand. Read it every day. Read it to your wife in bed.’

  ‘She’s heard it before, I think.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Spada’s anger went out, suddenly as a quenched fire. ‘Let’s not quarrel. I love Teresa more than my own life – almost as much as my Anna. I think she’s got herself a good man. But be careful, eh? And if ever someone comes and gives you the word Proteus, or shows you a drawing of a fish in a box, heed him, eh?’

  ‘Proteus and a fish in a box. I’ll remember . . . And thank, you for trusting me so far.’

  ‘I’ve broken the rules,’ said Spada. ‘But you have to know that I trust you, otherwise we shall end hating each other.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. It helps more than you know . . . There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Today I saw another man in John Spada. At first I disliked him because I am always affronted by the use of naked power. Now, I realise that, sometimes, I am jealous of it and, therefore, I could misuse the little I have.’

  ‘The power game is like golf,’ said John Spada mildly. ‘It takes practice. You make a lot of mistakes. I’ve learned to live with mine; I don’t want to see you die for yours.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that. Let’s have a brandy before we go back.’

  They linked arms, Latin style, and walked briskly towards the bright booths on the Veneto. It was the closest they had ever come to each other, and, for all his misgivings, for all he knew and feared, John Spada was prepared to admit that it had not been a bad Easter Day.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The bad days began as soon as he hit New York. They started, as always, with a series of minor annoyances.

  Anna was tired and irritable, fretting about her daughter who must live so far away and the grandchildren, not even in prospect yet, who would be taken over by ‘some horsy family in the middle of nowhere’. They were stacked up for an hour over Kennedy because of a press of delayed traffic. An officious customs man insisted on opening every one of Anna’s bags and held them for another twenty minutes while he laboriously totted up a bill for thirty dollars excise duties. When they emerged from customs, they stood about fuming for half an hour, because the Spada limousine had had a blow-out on the expressway. At home, finally, they found Carlos, the houseman, in bed with influenza and his wife in a panic because the maid was late back with the shopping.

  Spada threw up his hands in despair, left Anna to cope with the domestic crisis, took a hurried shower and retired to the comparative peace of his study. He was not left private for long. A few minutes before five-thirty Kitty Cowan called. Her greeting was a shade more cheerful than the occasion seemed to demand.

  ‘Welcome home, chief! And how is the last tycoon?’

  ‘Bitched and bewildered.’

  ‘Sorry about the airport foul-up.’

  ‘That was only part of it! Today, I’m the forgotten of God! How are things at the store?’

  ‘Well now! . . .’ He could almost see her tensing herself for the explosion. ‘How would you like it, Mr Spada, sir? Straight up or on the rocks?’

  ‘Straight up, honey child.’

  ‘Maury Feldman’s here. I’d better let him tell you. I’ll sweep up the mess afterwards.’

  They had always made jokes, these three. Kitty Cowan was the leggy red-head, who had typed the very first invoices for the first Spada company and was now captain of the guard at the top of the glass tower on Central Park West. Maury Feldman, the puckish, urbane attorney who played piano like a minor master and collected Cinquecento painters, had graduated from a shoe-box office on Mott Street to one of the biggest corporate practices in Manhattan. Maury came on the line with a world-weary sigh.

  ‘The money’s good but the hours are terrible – and the news is worse.’

  ‘I’ve heard the overture, Maury. Now sing me the opera.’

  ‘Brace yourself,’ said Feldman happily. ‘Remember the reactor we built for Central and Western?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘There’s a crack in the shielding of number two pile. It could develop into a major hazard. We’ve rushed Peters and Dubrowski down from Detroit to co-operate with the local team and send us their report. Kitty’s called for copies of the specifications and the acceptance certificates. Best estimate says minor hazard, local protest and nasty publicity. Worst is major damage, major risk and a big negligence suit.’

  ‘Do you want me to go down?’

  ‘No way!’ Maury Feldman was adamant. ‘You stay far away. Spada Nucleonics is the contracting company. Their management carries the can. The parent company stands at arm’s length. That’s the first item . . .’

  ‘Christ! Don’t tell me there’s more!’

  ‘There’s more. Waxman called in from the bank in San Diego. There’s a short-fall of half a million in their accounts.’

  ‘That’s a nice round figure. Where’s it gone?’

  ‘The junior accountant was playing computer games – and playing the tables at Las V
egas. As of now, he’s crying his eyes out in Waxman’s office. What do you want to do about it?’

  ‘Throw the book at him.’ Spada was curt.

  ‘Waxman says he’s got an invalid wife and a handicapped child.’

  ‘So now we get violin music and the quality of mercy speech!… What’s the chance of recovering the loot?’

  ‘Zero. Zilch!’

  ‘Have Waxman call me here when we’ve finished talking. I need time to cool off. Is that the lot?’

  ‘Two more little goodies. You told me you’d settled the strike at the Oxford plant in England.’

  ‘I did. The agreements were being drawn when I left.’

  ‘Now they’re back to square one. The government says the agreements breach the guidelines for pay settlements.’

  ‘We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t!’ Spada exploded. ‘Meantime, we’re bleeding all over the floor!’

  ‘Buckets of blood, lover! Can you bear any more?’

  ‘I feel like Prometheus with the vultures pecking at his liver.’

  ‘Carl Channing died while you were away.’

  ‘I heard that. We cabled condolences.’

  ‘What you didn’t hear was the terms of the will. His wife gets half the estate absolutely. The other half – specifically including the Spada stock – is placed in trust for the son and daughter.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the trustees are Hoffman, Liebowitz.’

  ‘God Almighty! And I thought Channing was a friend of mine!’

  ‘You could never see it, lover,’ said Feldman quietly. ‘But Carl Channing was a very envious man. He was always jealous of you.’

  ‘This means Hoffman, Liebowitz can vote the stock.’

  ‘They will vote it, Johnny boy! And they don’t love you either because you once called Max Liebowitz a short-sighted bigot. Which leaves you, as of now, two per cent short of a majority vote, with a proxy fight looming up on the horizon.’

  Spada was silent for a long moment. Feldman prompted him.

  ‘Are you still there, John?’

  ‘I’m thinking. How long have we got before the stockholders’ meeting?’

  ‘Three months. It’s not long.’

  ‘I know. Let’s meet tomorrow to discuss strategy. Meantime, we’ll put in buying orders for every piece of scrip that comes on the market.’