by Morris West
‘Any problems?’
‘Not really. Our security systems check out pretty well. They’ve got minor complaints on the custody of fissionable material; but their principal interest seemed to be in you.’
‘Oh?’ Spada was alert and cautious. ‘What sort of questions were they asking?’
‘Recent activities abroad – which I told them were none of my business. Possible future services for the company – I told them you had agreed to be on call for counsel and advice at any time. They asked in what areas. I told them right across the board – but, specifically and as of now, I needed your help on the re-organisation of Raymond Serum Laboratories. Which, by the way, I do.’
‘What was their reaction?’
‘They hummed and ha’ed and asked whether we still wanted Top Secret clearance for you. I told them yes, most definitely, and we wanted it current at all times.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
‘De nadal . . . And while we’re talking, would you make time to talk about the Raymond Laboratories? I’ve been screening candidates to take over when old man Raymond moves out; but mostly they’re second-rate material.’
‘If you like, I’ll move in for a while and re-organise the place for you.’
‘I’d be grateful – but it’s a hell of a lot to ask of an ex-president.’
‘Not at all. It’s a new field for me.’ Spada laughed. ‘And you can make a little sermon on it at the next executive conference. All for one, one for all, that sort of thing. Besides, I bought the outfit; the least I can do is hand it to you in good shape . . . What about lunch next Monday?’
‘Can do.’
‘Any other problems?’
‘None that won’t keep. Thanks, John. See you Monday.’
As he put down the phone, Spada was frowning. He had no illusions about the activities of America’s Hounds of God, and their sidelong sniffing through the undergrowth of business and politics. As Maury Feldman had once put it; they raised a lot of false scents, but they also found a lot of truffles. Once they had established his connection with a revolutionary group, his file would be upgraded to active. He would be subject to constant surveillance; and the Proteus network might very easily be compromised.
He poured himself a drink and waited, with growing impatience, until it was time to call Secretary Hendrick. It was nearly eight before he was able to make the connection. The Secretary was agreeable but a shade more formal than usual.
‘What can I do for you, John?’
‘I hear there’s some flak flying around. I’d like to come down and talk to you about it.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend that, at least not at this time. You’ve put me in a rather embarrassing situation.’
‘Can you specify, Mr Secretary?’
‘Yes. The Argentines are pressing for your extradition to stand trial on charges of conspiracy to commit armed violence, to effect a gaolbreak and complicity in the murder of an Army officer. We asked them to submit evidence. Fortunately for you, it’s circumstantial and some of it was exacted under duress. We’ve advised them that it would not stand up. under American legal process. However, they filed a lot of information with the local bureau of the CIA, most of which ended up on my desk and was passed, as a matter of routine, to the FBI. It doesn’t show you in a very good light, John.’
‘Can I ask you what you would have done in my place?’
‘Fortunately, I haven’t had to answer that question, but I’m sure you understand I can’t let personal feelings confuse my political judgment.’
‘Naturally. May I ask another question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘This one is very personal. It touches me and my family. Am I being set up?’
‘By this department, no. By your own company, possibly. By the boys in Buenos Aires, very probably.’
‘And I couldn’t count on any official intervention?’
‘None at all – unless you could demonstrate a clear threat, or were prepared to offer, shall we say, a great deal of viable intelligence material.’
‘I doubt that would be possible.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘But I’ll give you a personal assurance: I am not engaged in subversive activity against the United-States.’
‘I never believed you were.’ There was a faint note of humour in the Secretary’s tone. ‘But that doesn’t help either of us very much, does it?’
‘I guess not. Anyway, I’m grateful – very grateful – for your frankness.’
‘Just so you don’t ask for a repeat performance. I’ve got more hot potatoes than I can handle. Take care, eh?’
‘I’ll take care,’ said John Spada flatly. ‘Thanks, Mr Secretary.’
It was a cold and comfortless farewell to an old friend; but he had no time to brood on it, because he wanted to call Anna at the Bay House, and there would scarcely be time to shave and change before Kitty Cowan arrived for dinner.
‘It smells, chief! It smells like rotten fish!’ Kitty Cowan was perched on the bar-stool, flipping olive stones at his best Matisse. ‘The Argentines hate your guts, that’s natural; but someone inside the company, that makes me want to puke!’
‘Hendrick wouldn’t have said it without a reason. Remember, he’s seen the documents.’
‘But what can anybody inside the company say? The only people who really know your private affairs are Maury Feldman and myself. Even Mike Santos doesn’t know as much as we do.’
‘They don’t have to know, Kitty. All they need to do is suggest that there may be grounds for a security investigation. The FBI and the Defence Investigative Service does the rest. They’re not mounting a court case, remember. They’re just compiling information – at this stage anyway.’
‘But what’s the point, if they can’t use the information?’
‘Oh, they can use it all right!’ Spada busied himself with another batch of drinks. ‘It’s the oldest technique in the book; and it’s still the most effective. First you isolate the victim, then you pull the switches on him, cut off his power supply, spread reports that he’s under investigation. Then it’s as if he’s got the plague or the pox-Nobody wants to know him any more.’
‘But why? How can anyone hurt you? You’ve stepped out of the presidency. With your fortune, you can buy and sell half the people in this country.’
‘It’s not money, Kitty. It’s power, influence, the ability to create and direct situations – and that’s a question of personal credit and credibility. Try this for size. I stepped down in favour of Mike Santos. But I still hold enough stock – almost enough – to fight my way back if I wanted to do it . . When I brought Rodo out from Argentina, the press, who are Rodo’s colleagues, made me into a folk-hero, a kind of Scarlet Pimpernel. It wasn’t a role I wanted, but the media created it for me. So, in business I was alive again. In politics too, if I wanted to throw my hat in the ring. It was Wild West stuff, the Old Frontier. There was a new hero in town . . . and a lot of people got scared or jealous or both.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like Max Liebowitz perhaps?’
‘Oh brother! Do you think he’d stoop to this? It’s a kind of murder, isn’t it?’
‘It could be real murder, girl. This isn’t duck-shooting. You don’t have to put up posters to say it’s open season . . . Besides, there’s this new publishing thing. There are a lot of people who don’t want it to happen.’
‘Do you have to go ahead with it?’
‘Anna asked me the same question. The answer’s yes.’
‘Why?’ She looked at him with grave, troubled eyes. ‘Why does it have to be you?’
‘Because, if I don’t do it, I’ll be ashamed every day of my life. Simple as that.’
‘Simple for you. What about the people who love you – and that includes me, John Spada?’
‘Teresa answered that one; though she’s probably forgotten what she said: “This is the horror they make. Even love is a weapon in their hands.” Don’t you s
ee, girl . . .?’ He reached across the bar and laid a gentle hand on her cheek. ‘That’s an intolerable brutality! I’d rather die than submit to it. You’re a good Jewish girl. You, of all people, ought to understand.’
She put his hand to her lips and kissed it.
‘You’re a very rough man, John Spada . . . And don’t kid yourself about Jewish girls. We scare just as easily as the goyim.’
‘Dinner is served, sir,’ said Carlos from the door.
For the rest of the week he was busy, day and night, with the affairs of Poseidon Press, which he had installed on two floors of a new office development on Third Avenue. As director, he had appointed a Canadian-Scot, Andrew Maclean, who had had twenty years of experience in the publication of trade directories, biographical indexes, almanacs and encyclopedias. He was a long-time member of Proteus, and had established the first cells of the organisation in Ottawa and Montreal. The second key person was a Hungarian, Lajos Forman, whom he had lured away from IBM to install the computer hardware and design the programming operation. Forman also had the responsibility for screening and training the operators while Maclean would organise the gathering and sifting of intelligence, and the hiring of translators and editorial staff.
Even in its embryo stage, it was a costly operation and the variety of planning details was daunting. Maclean, however, was a stubborn and meticulous general, who knew exactly what he wanted.
‘… Let’s get it right from day one, John; because, afterwards, there’ll be very little margin for error. First there’s the source material, journals, bulletins, magazines, newspapers in all languages. There’ll be reports from organisations like Amnesty, Red Cross, Religious Aid groups. That means a big staff. Then there’s the material from our Proteus people – secret and highly sensitive. They’ll have to get it out of their own countries and then here to us in New York. How do you propose to cope with that?’
‘Let’s express it by example,’ said John Spada. ‘Take a risky area like Russia, where there’s heavy surveillance, strict censorship and high risk to our members. At this moment we’ve got about a hundred Proteus people scattered through the Soviet Union. We’ve got one man in the Politburo. About a dozen of the others are diplomats and three or four are connected with foreign construction projects. These people are our exit channels. They receive information from their local groups and pass it to their nearest outside contact. From Leningrad, for example, the stuff goes to Tallinn and then, by tourist ferry, to Helsinki. From Helsinki it comes to the US – but not to New York. Helsinki’s correspondent is in Boston.’
‘It’s a long way round,’ said Maclean dubiously.
‘It’s a safe way,’ said John Spada. ‘Remember, we’re not running a newspaper. We’re building records. Time is far less important than accuracy.’
‘Let’s accept that for the moment. The information arrives in the US – Florida, Boston, San Francisco, wherever. Now it has to come to New York. Where is it delivered? I hate the idea of all that explosive data landing in one place in a post-bag.’
‘It doesn’t. There’s a courier service. It comes in by hand.’
‘Christ! You’ll be spending a mint of money.’
‘I’ve got enough for three lifetimes, Mac. I can’t take it with me.’
‘Aye.’ Maclean sighed unhappily. ‘But let’s see if we can put it to better use, eh? Now, who’s holding all the contacts together?’
‘Heads of local groups, who report to an area chief, who ultimately reports to me.’
‘And how do you know it’s he reporting, and not some police agent?’
‘There’s a built-in recognition sign.’
‘What happens if – God forbid! – you drop dead in the street?’
‘My deputy takes over.’
‘And how will we know him?’
Spada undid the buttons of his shirt and showed him a gold chain hung around his neck. Suspended from the chain was a religious medallion and a gold plated key. On the thumb-grip was engraved the symbol of the fish in the box.
‘He’ll show you the mate of this,’ said John Spada. ‘It’s the key to the safe-deposit where the Proteus records are kept.’
‘That’s a lot of trust you’re giving me,’ said Maclean gravely.
‘In this job you’ll earn it,’ said Spada. ‘Once we start to publish, your life will be on the line every day . . . Now, let’s talk some more about security. Who’s going to screen your staff?’
‘Denman Calder. They’re expensive but reliable. They also have pretty good relations with Government agencies.’
‘Which is more than we have; and, as a private intelligence group, we’re not going to get any more popular.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Maclean was more optimistic than he had expected. ‘Once they find that our stuff is accurate, they’ll be very happy to have it… Oh, you realise we’re going to need microfilm as well as computer storage? I never like relying on a single system . . . and I’d also recommend we keep a vault somewhere with duplicate records.’
‘I’ve already rented one from Union and Chemical.’
‘With our own locking system, I hope?’
‘That too, Mac’
‘It’s a pleasure to work with a thorough man . . . This is a specimen of the record cards we’ll keep on each subject. This is how Lajos will programme it for the computer. You’ll note that all the information is graded for reliability, and the sources are coded for internal reference only. Now, here’s a mock-up of three publications: a monthly bulletin, a quarterly summary, classified by countries, and two yearly black books, one on prisoners of conscience, the other on known practitioners of terror and institutional brutality. This is our initial circulation list…’
It was all first-rate work and he was immensely heartened by it; but there was still something missing. There was a flaw in the grand design that he knew existed but still could not identify, until, during his weekend sojourn at the Bay House, Rodolfo Vallenilla pointed it out to him.
It was the tag-end of a bright, warm day and he was sitting in the pavilion with Rodo, while Anna and Teresa picked lavender and rose-blooms for the pomanders which Anna made as presents for her friends. Rodo was brighter now, though he still looked pitifully pale and shrunken. He had written four or five pages and seemed pleased with what he had done. He said:
‘You know, John, I believe I have discovered the key to open my mind again. All this time I have been trying to write an indictment . . . a bill of terrible particulars on what is going on in my country and around the world. Today, I set it aside. I was too weary to continue the argument. Instead, I tried to remember the good things that had happened in prison. It was strange how many there were: old Pascarelli with his cigarettes and his vitamin pills, Chavez with his strong arms supporting me back to the cell, that strange boy in the infirmary who fed me soup that he made himself . . . My comrades in the prison yard defying the guns to protect me . . . It was a relief to think about them. I could write without feeling tired. Then a new thought came to me. Evil is so monotonous and charity is such a sweet surprise .. ’
‘I know what you mean,’ said John Spada.
‘I wonder if you do, John.’ The challenge took Spada by surprise. ‘I was very like you in some ways. For me the typewriter was always a weapon – a sword against the ungodly. Now, I am not sure whether I flourished it bravely or brazenly . . . Oh, I gave good witness, I know that, necessary witness too, just as you are trying to do now with your new press. But I asked myself today if, perhaps, even good people are so hardened to obscenity that it does not touch them any more, and whether the only thing that will open their minds is innocence: the smile of a sleeping child, an old grandmother dozing in the sun. You are publishing documents of indictment. Should you not publish the good things too, light small candles in the dark . . . ?’
‘Why don’t you write them for me, Rodo?’
Vallenilla shook his head sadly.
‘You know, and I k
now, John, that whatever I do now will be very small. But there are others, many others. Let it be known that you are looking for them. They will come to you . . . How did you attract your Proteus people in the first place? You told them you wanted to build bridges of benevolence. Those are your words, John, not mine.’
‘If you’ll point the way, Rodo; I’ll walk it, as far as I can. But don’t forget, the evil is still there.’
‘I know – and part of what I say is an excuse for my own weakness; but not all of it. Believe that, John! Believe it!’
He wanted to believe. Rodo’s sober admonition had touched him almost to tears. It was a testament from two loved ones who had been to hell and back. He did not want to gainsay it. He would try to put it into practice; but there was in him now a hard core of scepticism. In the walled garden of the Bay House a man could see visions and dream dreams; but outside, in the big, wide, wonderful world of ordinary folk, there were snipers on the roof-tops and butchers in the rooms of the Fun Palace.
On Monday he lunched with Mike Santos and afterwards drove to Wilton to take a first look at the headquarters of Raymond Serum Laboratories – a sprawl of outdated buildings grouped round a central administration block which looked more like an army barracks than a modern serological institute.
The history of the corporation was a common one; a steady expansion from a narrow base of family-held capital, a good production record, but an old-fashioned and wasteful administration, an ageing founder with a son who was a brilliant researcher, an executive body hamstrung by years of regimentation. It was the kind of situation which Spada liked. He could buy in cheaply, inject liquid capital, reform the management, raise the stock value and then either sell out or stay in at will.
This time, however, there were added attractions. He was eager for activity. The field of serum research and production was new to him. He had the chance to set out a copy-book operation, without the burdens and distractions of high corporate responsibility. Besides, with a good research staff, there was always the possibility of a break-through that would make medical history.
