Proteus

by Morris West

  ‘I would accept that.’ Spada chewed on the thought for a moment. ‘In a way, I have to make such consequential decisions every day. There’s no Bible, no Talmud, no Koran, that codifies the moralities of the modern world. The things I make have constructive uses as well as lethal ones. I make deals with bad men that benefit good people. I can’t sit still and wait for a heavenly judgment. I have to act in what your friend Koenig calls “the concrete circumstance” . . . Another drink?’

  ‘Wait for the wine,’ said Anna firmly. ‘We’re ready to sit down to dinner, and seeing I cooked it. I won’t have it spoiled!’

  ‘That’s the concrete circumstance!’ Spada laughed, and led the way to the dinner table. ‘Nothing must spoil my wife’s chicken cacciatore!’

  ‘Exactly like Fraulein Helga!’ Meister Hugo beamed happily at Anna. ‘She says good food and philosophy don’t mix. Tell me, dear lady, how is your beautiful daughter?’

  Spada smiled and addressed himself to the pasta, while Anna launched into her own lyrical discourse on being a prospective grandmother. As a philosopher, Hugo Von Kalbach might have his problems. As a dinner-table diplomat he was better than Talleyrand.

  The management conference of Spada Consolidated Holdings opened, traditionally, with a formal dinner at the Waldorf, where John Spada and his colleagues hosted overseas delegates, diplomats from the countries in which the corporation operated, the US Secretary of State and the financial editors of major dailies and magazines.

  It was a day for political courtesies; and the protocols which Spada laid down were simple and rigid. No wives were invited. The only women present were those who held diplomatic appointments or offices within the company. Security precautions were massive; a fleet of limousines delivered the guests and collected them after the function. There was no display of company emblems or products. The only symbols were the flags of the countries in which Spada corporations functioned.

  All guests were announced by name and title. Spada and his senior officers received them. There was a carefully brief prelude for cocktails and introductions, then dinner was served. Spada himself gave the address of welcome and introduced the keynote speaker. The responses were made by two delegates from abroad. Afterwards, over the coffee and liqueurs, there was an interval for informal discussion between the speaker and the guests. The whole affair was timed to finish at eleven-thirty, since the delegates were expected to begin work in the operations room, in the glass tower, by ten the next morning.

  There were those in the corporation who questioned the value of so stiff and élitist an occasion; but Spada’s reasoning was always the same:

  ‘It says what it is meant to say. We are a world-wide organisation, operating in, and to the benefit of, many countries. We observe their laws and submit to their fiscal rulings. We offer their representatives a diplomatic hospitality in the United States. We offer them the best food and the best wine in the land and the opportunity to hear an address by a speaker of note. After that, finish! We are about our own business.’

  Spada’s speech of welcome carried the same message, in terms less formal and more cordial. Normally he added a few remarks on the theme of the keynote address; but tonight the subject was so sensitive that he decided to let Hugo Von Kalbach carry the full weight of the argument and the debate that would follow.

  The old man made a patriarchal figure as he stood to the lectern, adjusted his pince-nez and began to speak. He opened quietly; but the mounting passion in his voice stirred them all.

  ‘… Violence, we are told, is an irrational act, an animal response. This is true only in the most limited context, in the crime of passion for instance, the affray in a beer-hall, the brawl at a football match . . .

  ‘I invite you, my friends, to consider a much more sinister proposition: that violence, cruelty and murder are completely rational acts, devised as deliberately as a theatre piece, to further the aims – political, financial or personal – of those who perpetrate them . . .

  ‘The hijack of a train or an aeroplane, the murder of a bus-load of children, the bomb exploded in a hotel foyer – these are events in a political campaign. They are designed to bring about other events, some immediate, like the release of prisoners, others more distant, like the overthrow of a régime or the destruction of confidence in legitimate governments . . .

  ‘But guerrillas and terrorists have no monopoly of this brutal game. Governments play it too – and on a much grander scale. The concentration camps, the detention centres, the torture rooms, are all contrived, rationally and scientifically, as an apparatus of oppression, to stifle dissent and strike fear into the mass of the people who have no recourse against the tyranny . . .

  ‘Where will it end? I am an old man now. I have lived through the monstrous years of the Third Reich, the years of the holocausts. I tell you they will return unless there is an end – and soon! – to this vicious social vendetta.’

  He broke off for a moment to polish his glasses and turn the page of his script. His audience was deathly silent, wondering where he would lead them next.

  ‘It may surprise you to know that I, who stand before you now, have been marked for death by assassination, because I, who belong to no party, who have spent my whole life in the pursuit of truth, am deemed to be a tool of the reactionaries. I hear you say to yourselves: “This is a madness”. It is not. It is a piece of black theatre devised by those who believe that anarchy is the first necessary step on the road to a new order.

  ‘The terrible thing is they may be right. Anarchy will inevitably produce tyranny. Tyranny is the seed-bed of revolution. And the whole bloody cycle will complete itself, unless we can find a remedy for the lunacy that afflicts us

  ‘It is a lunacy, my friends! Should you wonder at the desperation of guerrillas when torturers are paid from the public purse, and governments, like gangsters, hire assassins? Should you wonder at the brutality of police when, as in my country recently, masked youths paraded in mockery at the grave of a terrorist victim? . . .

  ‘Have we rejected reason and humanity altogether? Are we so accustomed to living under the mushroom cloud that we no longer believe that a just and peaceful society is possible or even desirable? If we have come to that, we have committed the sin against the Holy Spirit, and we are damned irrevocably to a hell on our own planet!’

  He gathered up his papers and sat down. There was a moment of dead silence and then the whole assembly stood up and applauded. They were still clapping when a bell-boy hurried in with a message for John Spada. The message read: ‘Please come to telex room, urgent.’ Spada hesitated a moment, then tapped Mike Santos on the shoulder and whispered:

  ‘I have to leave for a few minutes. Cover for me.’

  As he moved away, Santos was already on his feet and announcing:

  ‘… Our friend from Iran, Riza Baraheni, who will move the vote of thanks to the speaker.’

  In the telex room the operator pointed to the first dialogue on the print-out:

  WALDORF HOTEL?

  THIS IS WALDORF.

  BEWLEY . . . US AMBASSADOR TO ARGENTINA. UNDERSTAND

  MR JOHN SPADA IS PRESENTLY AT COMPANY BANQUET YOUR

  HOTEL. PLEASE GET HIM. MOST URGENT.

  WILL DO. PLEASE WAIT.

  Spada stood beside the operator and began the dialogue.

  SPADA HERE. GO AHEAD.

  THIS IS BEWLEY. CALLED YOUR HOUSE. YOUR WIFE TOLD ME WHERE TO FIND YOU. BAD NEWS. YOUR SON-IN-LAW TELEPHONED AT 21.00 HOURS. INFORMED ME YOUR DAUGHTER TERESA ARRESTED BY SECURITY POLICE AT 18.00 HOURS WHILE WORKING AT CLINIC IN OLD TOWN. HE IS UNABLE ASCERTAIN PRESENT WHEREABOUTS BUT IS USING ALL EFFORTS AND CONTACTS. HIS HOME AND BUSINESS LINES TAPPED, THEREFORE HE MAY NOT BE ABLE MAKE PERSONAL CONTACT FOR SOME TIME. PROBABLY SPADA LINES ALSO.

  WHY TERESA ARRESTED?

  WAS CALLED BY NUNS LAST NIGHT TO PERFORM EMERGENCY OPERATION ON GUNSHOT CASE. VICTIM IMMEDIATELY REMOVED FROM CLINIC BY FRIENDS. TERESA RETURNED HOME. POLICE APPARENTLY STATE HE WAS REV
OLUTIONARY TERRORIST. YOUR SON-IN-LAW BELIEVES POLICE ACT DESIGNED FRIGHTEN HIM. WHAT ACTION ARE YOU TAKING?

  PROTEST AND PRESSURE FOR IMMEDIATE CONSULAR CONTACT WITH TERESA. AM PERSONALLY SEEKING AUDIENCE WITH MINISTER INTERIOR AND PRESIDENT BUT HE IS ABSENT ON UP-COUNTRY TOUR ANY PRESSURE YOU CAN BRING FROM STATE OR WHITE HOUSE WILL BE GREAT ASSIST.

  SECRETARY HENDRICK IS OUR GUEST TONIGHT. WILL CONFER IMMEDIATELY. MOST IMPORTANT YOU AND POLICE KNOW TERESA IS PREGNANT. NOTED JOHN.

  WHAT IS SITUATION RODOLFO VALLENILLA?

  SO FAR AT LIBERTY BUT UNDER CONSTANT THREAT. HAVE OFFERED ASSISTANCE IF REQUIRED. HE FEELS DUTY KEEP PRESS LINES OPEN. FOREIGN CORRESPONDENTS ALL FILING DESPATCHES TONIGHT.

  I WILL COME DOWN EARLIEST. MY THANKS YOUR EFFORTS.

  PLEASE KEEP TELEX LINES OPEN, IN CASE HENDRICK WANTS CALL BACK.

  WILL DO.

  DID YOU TELL MY WIFE ANYTHING?

  NO. JUST THAT I WANTED YOU.

  THANKS AGAIN. SPADA OFF.

  He tore the print-out from the machine and read it again, trembling with impotent rage. Then he folded it carefully, concentrating on each movement as if it were an affirmation that he was still in a real world. He walked slowly back into the banquet room, where Toshi Hatanaka was seconding the vote of thanks. Secretary of State, Hendrick, was seated in the place of honour at the right of Spada’s chair. Spada passed him the telex. He read it slowly, refolded it and passed it back. He whispered:

  ‘I’ll go talk to Bewley now. We’ll do everything we can. Where will you be afterwards?’

  ‘At my apartment. You’ve got the number.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘I think I’m going to announce this.’

  The Secretary reflected a moment and then nodded.

  ‘Why the hell not? But let me get out first. I’ll take the Argentine Ambassador with me. No point in submitting him to embarrassment. He’s a decent enough guy and he could be helpful.’

  The two men left the room just as the Japanese finished his speech. John Spada rose and stilled the applause with a gesture. He paused for a moment, composing himself, and then announced quietly:

  ‘At this time, there is a period for free discussion between our guests and the speaker. First, I beg your indulgence to make a personal statement. I have just received some news which, perhaps, will confirm everything that Meister Hugo Von Kalbach has said to you. My daughter, Teresa, was recently married to Rodolfo Vallenilla, whom some of you will know as one of the most liberal and outspoken editors in South America. Since her return to Buenos Aires, she has been working as a physician in a clinic run by the Missionary Sisters of the Poor. Yesterday, she was called to do an emergency operation on a man suffering from gunshot wounds. Tonight, she was arrested by the security police and is being held in an undisclosed location. Her husband is still at liberty, but, according to official information, is under constant threat. I leave you to draw your own conclusions . . . Please excuse me now. Mr Mike Santos will take the chair for the rest of the proceedings . . .’

  Mike Santos moved swiftly to the microphone, put a protective hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the table towards the door. Kitty Cowan and Maury Feldman, seated half-way down the room, made a move to join him, but he motioned them to stay. He tried to hold himself straight and firm; but he felt as though something had broken inside him.

  The trials of the evening were not yet over. He was five minutes back in his apartment, holding a sobbing Anna in his arms, when the telephone rang and a Spanish-speaking operator came on the line.

  ‘Mr John Spada?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One moment please. I have a call for you from Montevideo.’

  For a second he was nonplussed. He knew no one in that city. Then he remembered that Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, was only a short plane-ride across the gulf from Buenos Aires. He waited through an interminable series of bleeps and clicks and then Lunarcharsky came on the line. His report was delivered in terse, crackling Italian.

  ‘I presume you’ve heard the news?’

  ‘Yes. Where the hell were you?’

  ‘I arrived in Rio this morning. I checked in at the Palace Hotel. In the afternoon I went round the locations : the residence, the newspaper office, the clinic. I went back to the hotel and called Mackerel. By then it was too late. I hopped a late plane over here to report to you. I’m going back in the morning.’

  ‘What does Mackerel say?’

  ‘About the lady? It’s bad and it’s good. The arrest is public and official. Therefore they have to respond to diplomatic enquiries; though they’ll stall as long as they can. If they move against the man, it won’t be official and that could be very bad. I’ll mount surveillance; but I’ve also got to assemble some help; so he won’t be fully covered for a while.’

  ‘I understand. Do your best. I’ll get Henson down as soon as I can.’

  ‘That would help.’

  ‘I’m coming myself in the next forty-eight hours.’

  ‘You’re going to need some high-handed diplomacy.’

  ‘It’s in train.’

  ‘Good. If I’m not at the hotel when you arrive, leave a fish message. Hasta la vista.’

  He had just set down the telephone when there was another call, this time from Secretary Hendrick.

  ‘John? . . . Hendrick. Things are in motion. I’ve called the White House. The Man is sympathetic and will make representations, once I can assure him that there is nothing in the case that can compromise him.’

  ‘That’s fair. I’ll drop him a note of thanks. What next?’

  ‘Bewley has instructions to work vigorously at the Ministerial level. The Ambassador here is shocked and sympathetic and he’ll get a strong note from us in the morning. However, you’d better understand the situation. The boys down there will hang tough as long as they can. They’ll stick to the rules: no consular contact before three days, which they can stretch to seven. They’ll try to get some kind of deposition from your daughter, that will justify the arrest and then make the release look like an act of clemency.’

  ‘There’s no doubt she will be released?’

  ‘There’s every probability.’

  ‘I see. Will they let me see her?’

  ‘I doubt it. Not until they’ve got their depositions.’

  ‘If that means what I think it does . . .’

  ‘We’re taking a very strong line for that reason.’

  ‘Christ! . . .’

  ‘One more thing, John. If you go down…’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Then stay very quiet and don’t make a single move without Ambassador Bewley. If you put a foot wrong, you’ll blow everything we’re trying to do.’

  ‘I understand. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘Sit tight and pray. Goodnight.’

  He set down the receiver and turned to face Anna. She was dry-eyed now but pale and shocked. He told her:

  ‘That was Secretary Hendrick. Good news. The President will intervene if necessary. All the machinery at State is working for us.’

  ‘What was the first call?’

  ‘The Scarecrow Man. He’s down in Argentina starting private enquiries. You know how good he is. Contacts everywhere.’

  He crossed to the bar, poured two stiff drinks and handed one to Anna. She gagged on the first mouthful. He wiped her lips and hands and then held the glass to her mouth until she got down a big swallow. Then he made her sit down, while he tried to reassure her.

  ‘We knew something like this could happen. Now that it’s come, we have to be very calm and very wise. Everyone, from the President down, wants to help – and that’s a lot of power, Anna, a real steam-roller! We’ll have Teresa out in no time!’

  ‘But she can’t stay down there! The next time it will be Rodo. They’ll never have any peace!’

  ‘That’s why I’m going down. I want to have a long talk with Rodo.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

 
‘No way, my love! No way in the world! You sit tight. I’ll be in touch by phone or telex every day. I’ll have Kitty Cowan come and stay with you.’

  ‘I don’t want Kitty!’ Her tone was high and angry. ‘I don’t want anyone!’

  ‘Fine! Fine!’ He stroked her forehead and her hair. ‘Whatever you say. But if you get lonely or depressed . . .’

  Her head came up proudly and she gave him a pale, tremulous smile.

  ‘I’m Anna Spada. If my daughter can endure a prison cell, I can surely sit in the comfort of my own home and wait for her!’

  ‘That’s my girl! I’m John Spada and if I can’t raise enough hell to…’

  The doorbell rang. Carlos, the houseman, went to answer it. A moment later Maury Feldman, Kitty Cowan and Mike Santos came in. When the flurry of greetings had subsided and they all sat with drinks in their hands, Maury Feldman said:

  ‘We stopped off at my apartment. I called the attorney we use in Buenos Aires. He’ll move in as Teresa’s legal representative first thing in the morning.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  Feldman gave him a small warning lift of the eyebrow.

  ‘He never says much. He’s a good man with high connections. He’ll give the best service.’

  ‘Thanks, Maury. What happened after I left the dinner?’

  Mike Santos answered for them all.

  ‘Question time was a wash-out. Nobody could top your announcement. The press boys rushed for the phones. The others hung around chatting in little groups until I ordered the bar closed. Everybody was shocked. The chancelleries will be buzzing in the morning. Some of our people were asking whether economic reprisals were contemplated. I chopped that one off very fast.’