Proteus

by Morris West

  Anatoly Kolchak raised his glass in a silent toast.

  ‘That’s a good opening line, Mr Spada. Did you rehearse it?’

  ‘I always rehearse, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘Tell me about the body. Whose is it?’

  ‘Lev Lermontov’s.’

  ‘Ah! That’s difficult!’ The Ambassador drank and put down his glass. He smiled and took Spada’s arm to lead him to the luncheon table. ‘Lermontov is the usual cause célèbre. His case is a complicated topic, and sensitive for my government.’

  ‘Human rights are a sensitive topic for any government,’ said John Spada quietly, ‘including our own. Let me state, therefore, that my interest is personal and my proposal, private. I seek neither advertisement nor gain. I present a business proposition, in which you and your government may see certain advantages.’

  For the first time Anatoly Kolchak permitted himself an expression of surprise. He said, in a tone of profoundest puzzlement:

  ‘I confess that your motives escape me, Mr Spada.’

  ‘I should have thought they were very clear.’

  ‘On the surface, yes. But let me put it this way: your bargain presents itself as a stupidity – and you are not a stupid man. First you want to buy the most perishable and least valuable commodity of all – a sick, human body. In return for that you offer a large and continuing asset in the form of patent rights.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How do you justify to yourself this one-sided and economically unsound bargain?’

  ‘Do I have to justify it, Mr Ambassador – provided I am in a position to make it, which I am?’

  ‘No, but if I understood your motives and your reasoning, it might help me to present the proposal to my government.’

  ‘Let’s approach it from another angle, Mr Ambassador. You have problems too. You have a huge country, controlling a fusion of minority groups, all jealous of their local identities. You have satellite states, restless under the yoke of Russia. You have China, hostile on your Eastern frontier. You have schisms and dissensions in the Party abroad, whose members reject the domination of Moscow. You have dissent among your scholars and intellectuals and a very unpopular KGB, whose repressive measures do you no credit abroad . . . You’d like to show a more human face. You cannot appear to do it at the behest of foreign powers, or under pressure of treaty clauses which you read one way and they another . . . So, I offer you a means of making a large liberal gesture, without appearing to submit to outside influence. For my part, I am old enough and rich enough to permit myself the luxury of a moral stance in a world where morality is unfashionable. When I die, I’d like to have a better epitaph than a dollar sign . . . There you have it, Mr Ambassador; and – my compliments! – you do have a very good cook!’

  Anatoly Kolchak put down his knife and fork and surveyed his visitor with grave and curious eyes. After a moment he said quietly:

  ‘I wish I too could afford the same luxuries, my friend. Unlike you, I can only mediate a position. I cannot sign a contract.’

  ‘But you would be willing to mediate?’

  ‘With the KGB? No. The best I can do is present your proposal and your reasonings to Moscow.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘May I ask you again, off the record, the real reason for this request?’

  ‘We live on a very fragile planet, Mr Ambassador. Martyrs can be more dangerous to it than fanatics. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Kolchak gave him a sidelong smile of approval.

  ‘No comment, Mr Spada; but let me try the line on my colleagues in Moscow. There are one or two who may read good sense in it.’

  ‘You might also remind them they’ll be very grateful for Spada body scanners when they fall sick.’

  Anatoly Kolchak chuckled and raised his glass in salute.

  ‘That would hardly be wise, Mr Spada. Have you ever known a politician who did not believe himself immortal? . . . Now, let’s talk of other things. You’ve been travelling recently. What were your impressions of . . .?’

  And that was the other part of the bargain. In diplomacy as in business, there was no such thing as a free lunch, and only a fool would expect it. John Spada paid his score with good grace: a comment on the economic situation in Japan, the excesses of the army in Indonesia, the problem of nuclear waste disposal. When he took his leave, Kolchak was cordial and, he felt, faintly encouraging. Of course, all such things took time and there were many gambits to be played before the game was over. No matter. Proteus was a patient god and Lev Lermontov was only one fish in a very wide sea.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Teresa’s first letter from Buenos Aires was brought by the company courier who made the weekly journey to and from New York, carrying confidential correspondence and documents too sensitive to commit to the Argentine mails. It was a long, chatty recital about the new apartment, her meetings with the Vallenilla clan, her first impressions of the bustling life of the capital. The big news she reserved for the last page.

  … I have decided to begin work with the Missionary Sisters of the Poor, who run a number of clinics in the depressed areas of the city. They need people with experience in gynaecology and paediatrics to consult in the clinics and train their young nurses. It’s challenging work and Rodo is happy to have me do it. He calls it a “witness in work” and he feels that it helps him in his own “witness of words”. He’s working very hard, and is under constant pressure to moderate the tone of his editorial comments.

  Things are bad here. More than fifteen thousand people are listed as desaparecidos – disappeared. The police disclaim all knowledge of their whereabouts or their fate; and this official silence is even more sinister than the brutalities which we know are practised on victims of the régime. In addition to his editorial work Rodo is preparing a document of protest and indictment, which he proposes to publish in the form of an open letter to the government. It is a bold and dangerous move; but I believe, as he does, that it must be done. I am very proud of him. I love him more than I could ever have dreamed possible; and, busy as our life is, we are happy as children together.

  Which brings me, dear ones, to my last big news. I’m going to have a baby – probably in late November. We’re both thrilled about it. We know you will be too. I’m hoping for a boy. Rodo is absolutely sure of the sex. He says we’ll call him Rodolfo Giovanni Spada Vallenilla. Perhaps, nearer the time, you’ll both be able to come down and spend some time with us – and I’d like Mama to be here when the baby is born.

  Much, much love from us both. Write soon.

  Teresa

  Anna wept happy tears over the news and immediately began planning her role as grandmother. John Spada indulged her amiably, passed the news proudly to his friends, and kept the worst of his anxieties to himself, until the day when the Scarecrow Man arrived in New York.

  His given name was Pavel Lunarcharsky. His documents – true or false – showed that he was born in Shanghai to Russian émigré parents in the year of the Lord 1930. In 1946 he showed up in England as the adopted child of an elderly British couple with whom he had spent the war years in a Japanese prison camp in Hong Kong. When they died, they left a legacy to educate him, and he had emerged from Oxford with a Doctorate in Literature, an extraordinary skill as a linguist and a valuable reputation as an eccentric, vagabond scholar.

  He was an odd-looking fellow, skinny as a rake, with a curious spastic gait, a shock of straw-coloured hair and a face in which every feature seemed a trifle askew. His gestures were jerky and awkward, like those of a puppet; while his manner was that of a tipsy and slightly mischievous pedant. Spada had met him first in Bangkok where he was engaged in some vague freelance assignment for the British Embassy. Their first talk, sitting by the pool at the Erewan, had an off-beat, surreal quality. Spada had asked:

  ‘What kind of business are you in, Doctor?’

  ‘Personal service, Mr Spada. I am first of all a linguist, almost, but not quite, as good as the great Mezzofanti. I
speak and write twenty-three languages. In spite of my odd appearance, I have a talent for impersonation and for identification with various national backgrounds. I possess a number of passports, in a variety of names: Dr Pavel, Boris von Paulus, Henry Salmon. I have no family ties and I am an excellent organiser of, shall we say, exotic projects. I have worked all over the world. My fees are high; but I have generally succeeded in satisfying my clients. Did you have something in mind for me, Mr Spada?’

  ‘Possibly. I run a large multinational business, which needs accurate local intelligence. Tell me, what are your politics?’

  ‘I have none.’ Lunarcharsky gave him a lopsided, sardonic grin. ‘Political systems are as imperfect and corrupt as the men who devise them. Quite simply, I am a mercenary, for sale to the highest bidder; but, once I accept a bid, I hold to the bargain – not for any moral reasons, but because it is the best guarantee of survival and continuous revenue.’

  ‘Have you ever killed a man?’

  ‘Several. Their deaths were necessary in the circumstances; but they were not premeditated. I am not an assassin. That is a trade for psychopaths; and I am a normal, if somewhat sterile, human being. My only real passion is linguistics; so I have no vices to compromise me or my employers.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘They do not find me attractive. For the most part I am indifferent to them. I use them when I need to do so and leave them without regret.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘I earn well and save enough.’

  ‘Personal enemies?’

  Lunarcharsky smiled and spread his hands in deprecation.

  ‘I would guess that I have fewer than you, Mr Spada. I am a tool which people pick up and set down again at will. They may not like me, but they have no cause to envy or to hate me. For my part, I have neither love nor malice . . . Anything else?’

  ‘What do you charge?’

  ‘Five thousand dollars a week, paid one month in advance, transportation and expenses extra, with an initial down payment of four thousand dollars. I render accurate accounts at the end of each assignment.’

  ‘How do I get in touch with you?’

  ‘Through the Travellers’ Club in London.’

  ‘Fine. You’ll be hearing from me.’

  Since that first meeting, Spada had used him many times – in Prague, Beirut, Leningrad, Paris and Iran. Now he was on a permanent retainer to Proteus – a strange, shadowy figure, glimpsed one moment, gone the next, with no trace left of his scarecrow presence. An hour after he arrived in New York, he was closeted with John Spada at the top of the glass tower. Spada’s brief was curt and precise:

  ‘… Rodolfo Vallenilla is a thorn in the hand of the régime. Sooner or later they will try to silence him. I want to pre-empt that situation, if I can. Your job is to protect Vallenilla and my daughter at all costs. Can you establish a feasible identity for yourself?’

  ‘The best of all.’ Lunarcharsky flapped his big hands. ‘A real one. I’m a student of languages. I’m interested in dialectal variables in local Spanish – Lunfardo, for example, which is the patois of Buenos Aires. Cultural attaches love that sort of thing. They’re only too happy to encourage scholarly visits. It makes the régime look respectable . . .’

  ‘How soon can you leave?’

  ‘Within a week. The visa I can get immediately. It may take a few days to get the right letters of introduction – but it will be worth the trouble . . . How far are you prepared to go?’

  ‘To protect my family? Need you ask?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Lunarcharsky placidly. ‘Will they know I am coming?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘Then, better they don’t.’

  ‘The company facilities are at your disposal.’

  ‘I won’t need them – except, maybe, the telex in an emergency.’

  ‘In that case, call Herman Vigo at our office in Buenos Aires. He will respond to the fish-name “Mackerel”, and will put you in touch with local members of the Proteus organisation if you need to use them. If you want me, I’ll come instantly.’

  ‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘But it’s a wild world down there. Anything is possible.’

  ‘If you have to go into action, I’ll send Henson down to help you.’

  ‘He’s a good man. We work well together. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘My daughter is pregnant,’ said Spada flatly.

  ‘A complication. I shall take account of it.’

  ‘She admires her husband and is desperately in love with him.’

  ‘How do you feel about him?’

  ‘I prize him.’

  ‘Does he belong to Proteus?’

  ‘No. He declined to join; but he knows the symbol and will respond to it.’

  ‘That’s all then.’ Lunarcharsky stood up to leave. ‘Unless you want to hear about Azudi in Teheran. The man’s a beast. For him the SAVAK torture room is a playground. Personally, I’d like to eliminate him.’

  ‘No yet. I’ll deal with him when I’m ready.’

  ‘Then I’ll call you before I leave for Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Go with God,’ said John Spada.

  ‘I’d like to do that,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘If only I knew who He was or where to find Him.’

  He left without a backward glance, bumping against the desk, shambling through the doorway, an oddity of nature, a survivor from the age of Lilith before the Almighty had complicated man with a soul.

  The arrival of Meister Hugo Von Kalbach, philosopher, theologian, Nobel Laureate, was a more cheerful event. Spada and Anna met him at the airport and drove him down to the Bay House so that he could rest for the weekend before the management conference opened on the Monday.

  In spite of his age and the fatigue of the journey, the old scholar was as exuberant as a child. He kissed Anna on both cheeks, clasped Spada in a bear-hug embrace and talked volubly all through the journey.

  He had given much thought to the address he was to deliver. He had written it in German. Fraulein Helga, his secretary, had made the first translation into English, which had then been polished by a member of the British Consular Staff in Munich. After that, he had rehearsed it with a very pretty English soprano at the Munich opera – a good preparation, eh? But then the audience would be critical . . . There would be discussion, no? Good! He had come to participate, not to make sermons. It was important to hear the voices in response . . . Lermontov? It was good news that a beginning had been made. Always with the Russians one had to be patient; but this Kolchak sounded like a good man . . . Himself? God be thanked, his health was still good. Fraulein Helga bullied him to take care, not to eat too much, wrap himself warmly, drink English whisky instead of German beer. Ach! He might just as well be married! . . . The threats against him? Well . . .! The police still guarded his house at Tegernsee. They insisted he take an escort whenever he went into Munich. There were times when he felt like a museum piece, always dusted and guarded. Still, he supposed a philosopher had to be more valuable than a politician . . .

  He was scarcely installed in the Bay House when he demanded to be taken for a walk in the garden, then along the beach. He was so obviously happy, so innocently greedy for every small joy, that it was impossible to entertain a mournful thought in his presence. However, when Spada mentioned the subject of his new book, and the possibility of an English translation, the old man seemed uneasy.

  ‘… I know you read German, so I brought a copy of the manuscript with me. I shall give it to you tonight. I need a second opinion on the last chapter; and you, with your large experience of practical life, may be the right man to give it to me. I seem to have written myself into a corner. Worse! If my fears are justified then, as a philosopher, I am bankrupt.’

  Spada, thinking to soothe him, said firmly: ‘I don’t believe, for one moment, that is possible.’

  ‘My dear friend!’ Von Kalbach was emphatic. ‘Life is so full of surprises, anything is possibl
e. But at seventy-five, to write oneself into absolute negation . . . there is a real horror in the thought! It has bothered me so much, I went up to Tübingen last week to talk to my old friend Hans Koenig . . . Now, there is a man you should meet! His new book is going like an avalanche. Think of it! A document on Modern Christology, and it is selling like a pornographic novel! The Vatican summoned him to Rome last April; kept him there for two months, grilling him as if he were an old-fashioned heretic. However, he subdued even the inquisitors of the Borgo Santo Spirito. Now, he’s back again, still smiling, still teaching and preaching . . . But, my dear John, even he is stubbing his toes on the same big stone as I am . . .’

  ‘And what is the stumbling stone, Meister?’

  ‘It is the problem we talked about in your uncle’s house: our personal response to the violence enacted around us and upon us . . . It is no new question – God knows!’ The old man threw out his arms in a gesture of defeat. ‘Even the most rigid moralists have been forced to compromise their answers. We may kill in a just war – whatever that is! We may kill to defend our lives or our properties. We may terminate foetal lives, stop fleeing thieves with a bullet. Kill, kill, kill! For a soldier it is a mandate; for you and me a permissible exercise, provided we can prove a major threat . . . Is that the end of it? Is that the sole fruit of all our accumulated wisdom, our spiritual experience, our sacred revelations?’

  The old man was shaken by his own vehemence. Spada led him inside and poured a pair of drinks. Still Von Kalbach would not let the subject drop. More calmly he went on:

  ‘Forgive me! I am full of this terror. I have to talk about it to your people, answer their questions . . .’

  Spada prompted him gently.

  ‘You said you went to see Koenig. What did he have to say?’

  ‘He takes an even darker view than I do. He is prepared – however unwillingly – to contemplate a theology in which violence may not only be tolerable, but justifiable and even obligatory for a religious man. It makes a kind of dark sense. It is possible to read the Crucifixion as an act of self-immolation, deliberately courted by the victim. Christ purged the temple with whips – an undeniably violent act. Dietrich Bonhoeffer could seriously contemplate the assassination of Hitler as a Christian duty . . . Koenig sums it up in a strange way. He says there are certain situations from which God seems to absent himself, concrete circumstances of violent action and response, from which there is no retreat, and in which man is left alone and in darkness to make his own life or death decision . . .’