by Morris West
Maury Feldman began another sketch, this time of a rampant satyr pursuing an overweight wood-nymph. He asked quietly:
‘Does that mean you’re worried about Teresa? And her husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not find Rodolfo a job with Spada Consolidated and get him out of the country.’
‘He wouldn’t take it. He’s an old-fashioned patriot. He says his mission as an editor is to bear witness in difficult times.’
‘Good for him,’ said Kitty Cowan stoutly.
‘Bad for both of them.’ Spada’s tone was sombre. ‘If the bloody general decides to drop the axe.’
‘Bad for everybody,’ said Maury Feldman, ‘if it happens in the middle of a proxy fight. You’ve got a heavy investment down there and a lot of potential hostages.’
‘That’s why I want the Scarecrow Man to keep an eye on the situation.’
‘And Henson?’
‘His Spanish is weak, but he’s the best guerrilla tactician I know. If things get rough I’ll move him in next to the Scarecrow Man.’
Maury Feldman frowned and looked at his watch.
‘Proteus time you get for free. The rest costs you money. Now, can we get down to Spada business?’
Spada threw back his head and laughed.
‘I can read you like a book, Maury. You’ve seen the picture. You’re half convinced it’s an Andrea del Sarto and you can’t wait to get a second opinion.’
‘Wrong!’ Feldman gave him a sidelong sardonic grin. ‘The Sarto’s a fake; but the vendor’s strapped for dough and he’s willing to sell me a pectoral cross that I’ll swear I’ve seen on a Farnese portrait. I’ve made an appointment to start bargaining at midday.’
‘The reactor crisis . . .’ said Kitty Cowan. ‘Dubrowski says they can seal the crack in the shielding and add extra cladding at the weak spot. But the pile has to be shut down.’
‘For how long?’
‘No estimate yet.’
‘Cost?’
‘Expensive, is all he’ll say.’
‘Hazards?’
‘Not too high, given an immediate shut-down, which is now in progress. He recommends we avoid any disputes on costs and responsibilities until he can make a full report. Also, he’d like a good public relations effort in co-operation with the client company.’
‘Tell him he’s got it. I’ll talk to Fitch when we’ve finished here.’
‘Once again,’ Maury Feldman embellished the sexual attributes of the faun and added more fright to the face of the wood-nymph, ‘keep the parent company clear. Let Spada Nucleonics supply the services. The clients will be sweet as sugar until the crisis is over – then they’ll turn sour. It always happens . . . Now, this contract to buy Raymond Serum Laboratories . . .’
And so it went on; the private briefing in the glass tower which was the prelude to his meetings with department heads, the daily schedule of international telephone calls, the six o’clock session in the operations room where the world-wide situation was reviewed. It was a long, punishing day, an exercise in empery, which once he had found exhilarating as a tennis game, but now, suddenly, was fraught with irritation and unease.
The threat to his personal authority was a minor problem compared with the other menaces which he saw building up around the globe: the military tyrannies in the South Americas, the bloody turmoil in the African continent, the build-up of arms in Iran, the wild consumption of energy in the United States, the jealousies of trading nations battling for markets in a contracting world, the disillusion of Europe with its politicians and its pundits, the smouldering enmity between the Chinese and the Russians. The satellites which his companies had helped to build scanned a globe that was spinning out of control towards a zone of cosmic disasters. Man’s confidence in his society was being eroded to a point at which, many believed, the brutalities of the tyrant would seem a necessary and saving surgery.
It was against this moment that he had begun to build the Proteus organisation, as between the wars, Sir William Stephenson had constructed the group called British Security Co-ordination, to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with Hitler’s Reich. Now he had come to the point where Spada Consolidated was a vast and profitable cover for a personal crusade. If the cover was broken, if a new management took over, then the Proteus organisation could be damaged beyond repair. It’s intelligence system would break down. Its potency as a negotiator between diverse interests would be destroyed. In the secret world of international diplomacy, it was not only money that talked, it was the ability to deploy it, to harness resources, provide work, initiate large-scale projects, forge links of interest between rivals and one-time enemies. John Spada, the private man, could live rich and happy to the end of his days; but, without Spada Consolidated, he would be like Samson shorn of his hair. He was not ready for that. He could not stomach the thought that the testament of a dead man might turn him into a eunuch, an impotent spectator of the power game.
As she was packing his brief-case at the end of the day, Kitty Cowan faced him with the blunt question.
‘You’re really worried, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, girl. I’m worried.’
‘I’ve never asked you before, chief. I’m asking now. Suppose you were faced with an early retirement, would you be prepared for it?’
‘No.’ His answer was flat and definite.
‘It will come one day. You’re as mortal as the rest of us.’
‘I’ve always said I’d die with my boots on.’
‘You may not be given that choice.’
‘If you think I’m going to let Liebowitz . . .’
She reached out and laid a cool hand on his cheek.
‘I’m not talking about Liebowitz.’
‘What then?’
‘You. Big John Spada. How long can you drive yourself the way you’re doing now? What happens if you get sick?’
‘I’m as strong as an ox – and you know it.’
‘And as dumb sometimes. Oi Veh! What am I going to do with you, chief?’
‘You could pour us both a drink.’
As she set out glasses and ice and poured the liquor she said, over her shoulder:
‘Now that Teresa’s gone, Anna’s going to need more of your time and attention.’
‘So far she hasn’t complained.’
‘And she won’t. But she’ll still need you closer than you are now.’
She handed him the bourbon. They touched glasses and drank a silent toast. Spada gave her a crooked grin of approval.
‘You’re a good one, Kitty.’
‘I know. Old shoe Kitty! I’m well worn; but I’ve worn well. But don’t change the subject. You’ve got to start shedding some of the work-load. If you don’t want Liebowitz, you’d better start grooming your successor. I still say Mike Santos is the best man you’ve got. Maury agrees with me.’
‘I’m still not sure of Mike. He’s competent, ambitious and very good at his job, but…’
‘He’s better than good. He’s the only one with enough brains for you to respect and enough balls to face you down in an argument. I happen to know he’s turned down two big offers this month, because he believes he owes you a personal loyalty.’
‘I’ve been thinking about him.’
‘Too long,’ said Kitty Cowan. ‘It’s time to move him next door and let him work with you.’
‘On Proteus too?’
‘Not yet. One step at a time. Let’s see how he shapes with the reins in his hands.’ Suddenly she was very near to tears. She turned away, groped for her handkerchief and blew her nose violently. ‘Oh hell! Why should I care so much. It’s your life, your goddam business!’
Spada reached out and spun her round to face him. He kissed her gently and then held her against his breast, soothing her with strange gentleness.
‘Come on, girl! That’s not my Kitty. You’re family – always have been, always will be. So, I’m an old bull and I’m jealous of the young ones in the pastures. OK!
If it makes you any happier, I’ll give Mike Santos a trial. Now dry your eyes and pour us another drink.’
‘Go home.’ Kitty Cowan’s voice was muffled against his jacket. ‘Go home to Anna, before I forget where I belong!’
That night, after dinner, he told Anna of his decision. He was surprised at the ardour of her response. She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him and said, with passionate conviction:
‘I’m so glad . . . so very glad! This is the best thing you’ve done for a long time.’
‘Hey now! Wait a minute!’ He held her like a doll at arm’s length. ‘Why all the emotion? First Kitty, now you. So I’m grooming a successor. What’s the big deal?’
‘I love you,’ said Anna simply. ‘I’ve been worried for a long time.’
‘About what?’
‘This is the time in a man’s life when he needs a son at his side. I was never able to breed you a boy. I’ve always felt bad about that.’
‘Anna mia!’ Instantly he was tender and solicitous. ‘You have nothing to regret. Nothing ever! You’ve made me the happiest man in the world!’
‘Please, my love! Please listen to me! A long time ago I knew I had married a great man. I knew that, in his world, I could not compete – and I didn’t want to. I promised myself I would make him a home to which, always, he would be happy to come back. I knew I was not his whole life and I never could be; but he was enough, more than enough, for me. I didn’t want to pull him this way and that. I wanted him always to be free, to be himself.’
‘You think I didn’t know that – wasn’t grateful for it?’
‘Yes, you knew; and yes, you held me safe as any woman could be. But you were not safe, my love! Never for one moment in that big, brutal world, were you ever quite calm. Once I spoke to Aunt Lisa about it. She told me you had “l’occhio dello spadaccino”, the swordsman’s eye, always alert, always measuring the danger, always ready to engage an adversary. She said something else too – very much Aunt Lisa! She told me: “Don’t distract him when the duel is on; because a single mistake means death to the swordsman. When he wants to relax, let him do it in his own way, because the vigils he must keep are long and lonely . . .” That wasn’t easy for me, because I have always been jealous of your love and attention. But I tried . . . Now, please God, I shan’t have to try so hard. Mike Santos is a good man. The more you lean on him, the stronger you will find him.’
‘Strong is not enough, Anna mia. He has to learn to smell the wind like a jungle animal.’
‘You can teach him that.’
‘I can teach him to interpret the scent. I can’t give him the nose if he wasn’t born with it.’
‘But you must know by now.’
‘I think I know; but I can be deceived too. I trusted Carl Channing; and all the time, until he died, he was preparing to betray me.’
‘And now you mistrust yourself.’
‘That’s what scares me, Anna. Always, until now, I knew where I was going and why. Now, I cannot trust the foundations on which I built. The information that comes to me contradicts itself.’
‘You’re tired, my love. You’ve been travelling for weeks and you walk back into a series of disasters . . . Come to bed and see what a little loving can do.’
‘You’re the best of all women, Anna mia!’
‘I have to be,’ said Anna with a smile. ‘There are lots of others waiting to pick up big John Spada.’
Next morning, at nine, he was closeted with Mike Santos, the dark, youthful-looking Californian, who had climbed steadily and quietly up the monkey-puzzle tree of a giant corporation, until he sat, cool and patient, one step below the topmost branch, waiting to be invited upward. Spada’s invitation was given over the coffee-cups. It was couched in the simplest of words.
‘The office next door is vacant, Mike. How would you like to move in?’
‘I’d like it very much, if you think I’m ready for it.’ ‘Suppose you tell me how you rate yourself.’ Santos considered the question for a long moment and then answered with a series of careful definitions.
‘Item one: I’m a good administrator, probably the best you’ve got. I know how this outfit works. I can keep it running smoothly. Item two: I’ve travelled all the territories. I know the local controllers and their problems. I believe they trust me. Item three: I understand money. I’ve kept us cushioned against the bad times we’re having now. Item four: I know how to pick men and manage their talents. Item five: I don’t scare easily . . . That’s the credit side. The debits are equally clear. I know my way round Washington, but I’m weak on foreign politics. I have only English and Spanish; and that’s a handicap. Also, I can’t match you on international law; so I’m more dependent than you on legal advice and less critical of the opinions we get. All I can say is I’m willing to learn, if you’re prepared to give me the time.’
‘How do you feel about me?’
Santos grinned and spread his hands in a Latin shrug.
‘What can I say? We’ve had some big fights. So far, I’ve managed to stay in the ring. And you’ve always given me a fair deal and an open hearing.’
‘Do you want my job?’
‘When you’re ready to step down, yes.’
‘How badly do you want it?’
‘Let me put it this way,’ said Santos evenly. ‘It’s lonely at the top. The only company you’ve got is yourself. You have to be able to live with the guy who stares back from the mirror.’
‘And you can do that?’
‘So far, yes.’
‘Does anyone have liens on you – man or woman?’
‘My wife, my children – and you.’
‘Could you be blackmailed?’
‘I doubt it. My father was a poor man but a great human being. I loved him. I’d like to be able to face him again and see him smile.’
‘Tell me what the corporation needs now.’
‘You may not like it.’
‘That’s my affair. Tell me.’
‘Spada Consolidated is an empire, and you’re the man who runs it. Empires are an anachronism. They can’t last. Sooner or later they will have to fragment, humanise themselves, give place and opportunity to the tribes who made their wealth for them in the first place. That can’t be done overnight; but the structures have to be modified to accomplish it in the end . . .’
‘And you think they can be?’
‘They must be.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve prepared a paper I’d like you to study. That is if you still want to consider my appointment at all after this.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘That monument down there – the sword in the stone. It affronts me every time I look at it.’
‘It’s cost millions in advertising to establish that symbol round the globe.’
‘I know – and it spells your name.’
‘What else would you have it spell?’
‘Peace,’ said Mike Santos flatly. ‘Prosperity shared – not war and weaponry and the gutting of the good earth with nothing put back.’
‘But you’ve helped to implement the policy we have now.’
‘Because that was my contract with you: service to what existed. Now you’re offering me a new one, to step into your shoes. You’ve got a right to know my terms and the policies I would try to set.’
‘And if they’re not acceptable?’
‘Then you say so. I offer you my resignation and hope we can still be friends.’
‘I’d hate to lose you.’
‘I’d hate to go. I’ve had fifteen years here – good years; but times are changing and I’d like to plant a tree or two for the future.’
‘Then stick around.’ Spada smiled and held out his hand. ‘Before you plant the trees you have to prepare the ground. That’s a larger job than it looks; and it needs a very patient gardener.’
Santos took the proffered hand uncertainly. He seemed torn between relief and incredulity. Finally he asked:
; ‘Are you saying you agree with what I’ve said?’
‘It was a very broad statement,’ said Spada with a grin. ‘Too broad to debate. I’d rather read the policy document and see how workable it is. You’ve got some things to learn about me too, Mike Santos. My family’s been in business since the time of Lorenzo the Magnificent. You might say we’ve learned something about the art of the possible.’
‘My ancestors were peons in the Mission estates. They tasted the earth with their tongues to prove whether it was sweet or sour. That’s another kind of lesson that lasts. Thanks for trusting me, John. When do you want me to move up?’
‘Now!’ said John Spada. ‘We’ve got the management conference to prepare for and a proxy fight coming up. I want you to set down a strategy for both events.’
Three days after the installation of his deputy, Spada flew down to Washington for a private luncheon with Anatoly Kolchak, the Soviet Ambassador. It was an agreeable occasion for both men. Kolchak had charm, wit, intelligence and the talent of a great navigator for reading the weather of global politics. He was also sharp and durable as blade-steel; and woe betide any ambitious party man who presumed to teach him his business or comment on his manner of transacting it. He knew Washington like the palm of his hand and Wall Street better than the Narodny Bank. His despatches were meticulously framed, his opinions temperate, his eye for a pretty woman, or a vulnerable opponent, unrivalled in the trade.
Spada, for his part, was relaxed and eager for the meeting. He had digested all the details of the Lermontov affair, and every clause in the correspondence with the Trade Mission over the patent rights of the body scanners. It was characteristic of both men that, by the time the pre-lunch cocktail was served, they were through the banalities and engaged with the subject in hand. As Spada put it good-humouredly:
‘Let’s take it for granted, Mr Ambassador, that we’ve both done our homework. Let’s presume that neither of us wants to turn a good lunch into a fencing match.’
‘Excellent idea, Mr Spada. It took me a long time to find a good cook. I hate to see his efforts wasted. What did you want to discuss with me?’
‘Trade,’ said Spada. ‘One body for a favourable manufacturing contract.’
