Proteus

by Morris West

  ‘I’m glad, Max; because I need you to trust me. No questions, no explanations.’

  ‘So I trust you. Now tell me.’

  ‘Mike Santos has to go.’

  ‘So! . . ‘ Max nodded his head up and down like a porcelain Buddha. ‘I agree and I don’t ask why. I’ve always thought he was too big for his shoes. But what does Mike Santos have to say about it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. He will, before I leave. How soon can you move in Conan Eisler?’

  ‘Two months, three at the outside. His old contract’s expired. There’s a new one under negotiation. He’d be free to come to us fairly quickly . . . More important, how soon can you get Santos out? He’s got a five-year contract.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll invoke it.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘No questions, Max. Believe me, it’s better. When it happens, you can swear you know nothing.’

  ‘Meantime, what do I tell Conan Eisler?’

  ‘The job’s falling vacant; but he’ll blow it if he opens his mouth.’

  ‘He’ll get the point! But tell me, are we going to have a scandal on our hands?’

  ‘There is a scandal, Max, bigger than you can imagine; but I believe I can keep the lid on it.’

  ‘Does Maury know what it is?’

  ‘Yes. He agrees that you should stay well clear of the whole situation.’

  ‘I hear Kitty Cowan resigned today.’

  ‘I suggested it, Max. I didn’t want her around, either, when Santos gets the news.’

  ‘Does she know about the scandal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I like Kitty,’ said Max Liebowitz judicially. ‘She’s a lot of woman – and she’s always carried a big torch for you.’

  ‘We’ve been friends a long time, Max.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, John. But you know what they say: after a good marriage, it’s doubly hard to be alone.’

  ‘Turning matchmaker, Max?’

  ‘Better I should stick my head in a gas oven! But a man could marry a lot worse than Kitty Cowan.’

  ‘She can do a lot better for herself – and I may not be around too long.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘They still want me dead, Max. They also want to make my dying as painful as possible.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘That’s my secret, Max.’

  ‘But you can’t just sit around waiting for a bullet!’

  ‘That’s why I’m going away.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Max Liebowitz wearily, ‘sometimes I wonder if the animals aren’t taking over the zoo . . . What else do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing but silence,’ said John Spada. ‘You’ve heard nothing You know nothing.’

  ‘All these secrets! They give me nightmares. But, sure, I’m blind and dumb!’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘I wish you good tomorrows, John!’

  The following morning, Mike Santos received a handwritten note from John Spada.

  My dear Mike,

  I have decided to travel for a while, and try to put the pieces of my life together again. I don’t know how long I shall be gone, nor indeed where I shall go. I guess the simplest thing to do is stick a pin in a map and then head for the hole!

  Raymond Laboratories is now in good running order, and I shall send you all my notes and recommendations before I leave.

  On Wednesday evening next week I am having a small, informal gathering at the apartment to say goodbye to very special friends and colleagues. The time is eight o’clock, the dress informal. There will be drinks and a buffet supper. I do hope you’ll come. It may be a long time before I pass this way again.

  Just give me a call to confirm. If I’m out, Carlos will take the message.

  Until we meet,

  John.

  Mike Santos was a very methodical man. He called Spada’s apartment and spoke with Carlos. He noted the date in his diary, then scribbled on the corner of the note: ‘Rec’d 10.15 a.m. Accepted by telephone, 10.20 a.m.’ and tossed the paper into his “out” tray. Immediately afterwards, on his private line, he spoke with the sixty-year-old lady who had endowed him with his first two million. The tape of their conversation was delivered into John Spada’s hands at midday.

  Now that he had no family, Sunday in New York was the worst of all days. The apartment was empty. Carlos and his wife and the housemaid were all away. There was no Anna to walk him down to the Church of Faith Hope and Charity, put the Mass book in his hands and urge him fiercely through the liturgy and the sermon. Whatever God resided there was silent now and faceless, abashed by the botch of His own creation. The streets were empty until midday. Those who slept together, slept late. Those who slept alone went jogging or read the Sunday funnies or padded through the morning until the bars and the stores opened.

  Still, he had no ground of complaint. He could be a welcome guest anywhere across the continent. He could host a dozen luncheons. He could summon a harem of women, fly to Haiti or Honolulu or Honduras at the flash of a credit card. He could also call Kitty Cowan, who, more than once, had sworn blue murder at him over the telephone:

  ‘For Chrissake, John! One of us is nuts – and it isn’t me! You can’t waste your life away like this. Go to a theatre! Go to a cat-house! Take off for Vegas! Buy a baseball team! Anything . . .! I can’t bear to think of you in that great empty apartment! Come round here and I’ll make you lunch; or, if you don’t like my cooking, take me out. I’ll even buy the wine if you’re strapped for dough . . .’

  Always he had refused. The ennui of grief pressed on him like a leaden cope. Fight he would. Plot he could – ah yes, the plot was even better than the fight, an intricate inverted joy, half pleasure and half pain. But today was different. He woke early, to a new and poignant solitude. He was plagued by a sudden desire for a woman, someone who could at least prove to him that he was still a man in a wilderness of apes. He took in the newspapers, made himself toast and coffee, showered, shaved and dressed himself in his best sports clothes, gazed out the window at the emptiness of Park Avenue and then, after much hesitation, dialled Kitty Cowan’s number.

  ‘Kitty? John. What are you doing right now?’

  ‘I’m dripping water all over the carpet. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Brunch at the Plaza?’

  ‘With all those palm trees? No way!’

  ‘Let’s get out into the country. It’s a beautiful day.’ ‘And by noon we’ll be bumper to bumper on the turnpike. Tell you what. Why don’t you come round about eleven-thirty? We’ll have some drinks and I’ll cook you a meal. If we feel like it later, we can go window-shopping down Fifth Avenue.’

  ‘Sounds great. Want me to bring anything?’

  ‘Two bottles of your best burgundy. I’ve got steaks in the freezer.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting. Now get off the line. The carpet’s soaked already.’

  It was the first meal he could remember tasting in weeks, the first talk that had no taint of money or of malice in it. They recalled old times sweetly. They laughed at old comedies, forgotten for too long. While Kitty washed the dishes, he stretched himself on the divan, kicked off his shoes and talked drowsily until sleep carried him away. When he woke, the room was dark, and Kitty was sitting on the floor beside him, smoothing his rumpled hair. He blinked at her and murmured:

  ‘Hullo, young Kitty.’

  ‘Hullo, big John. That was a long sleep.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘You looked so peaceful, I didn’t dare to wake you.’

  ‘Thanks. For the first time in weeks I feel rested.’

  ‘You don’t have to move. Stay there.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to go window-shopping.’

  ‘Who needs it? I can buy what I want in Paris.’

  ‘Paris? Oh yes, I forgot. You’re going to Paris.’

 
‘That’s where you recommended I should go first.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I leave tomorrow.’

  ‘I forgot that, too. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m almost packed.’

  ‘Kitty girl…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going away myself.’

  ‘I know. You told me.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know where or why?’

  ‘I know why. You’ve got to find the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty and put them all together again. I guess the place doesn’t matter very much.’

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t think of coming with me?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You’d have to go on ahead. I’d pick you up somewhere along the way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Otherwise it could be dangerous for you. They’re still gunning for me. You know that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t such a good idea. I told you to quit your job so you wouldn’t be in danger.’

  ‘I don’t care about danger. I care about you.’

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. She drew away, sat back on her heels and challenged him.

  ‘So where do we go from here, Mr Spada?’

  ‘A long way, Miz Cowan. Tokyo, Bangkok, Delhi, Moscow . . . You name it, I’ll be touching down there sometime. It could be quite a picnic – for a while.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I leave you,’ said John Spada brusquely. ‘That’s the catch. I leave you. I have an appointment in Samarra – and I keep it alone.’

  ‘Where’s Samarra?’

  ‘It’s a different place for every man.’

  ‘And that’s the deal you’re offering me – a picnic and a parting?’

  ‘It’s not a deal, Kitty love. It’s a crazy dream. Forget it! . . . By the way, there’s something you’d better know. I’ve made a new will. As the legal boys say: you’re a substantial legatee. I’ve arranged things so that you won’t have to give too much to the tax-man. You can buy a lot of bagels with the rest.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that! I don’t want a nickel from you. I want you alive and smiling again, John Spada.’

  ‘Ay-ay-ay! Why do I always say the wrong words?’

  ‘Keep your legacy! You offered me a picnic. I’ll take it.’

  ‘And a parting?’

  ‘I’ll take that too.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. But I haven’t had a picnic in a long time. You’d better tell me how we spread the rugs. I mean . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean, Kitty love . . . Here’s what we do. You fly out to Paris tomorrow. Do your shopping, see the sights, just the way you planned. Then go down to Rome. There’ll be a booking in your name at the Grand Hotel. Wait till I come. We’ll take it together from there.’

  ‘Promise me there’ll be no ghosts in the bedroom?’

  ‘There are no ghosts, girl – just memories.’

  ‘I’m scared now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not a young girl any more, John, and I’ve lived alone a long time.’

  ‘I’m not a boy, either – and I don’t like the man who lives in my skin.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Kitty Cowan.

  ‘So am I,’ said John Spada. ‘Let’s keep each other warm.’

  As he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, the still, small voice inside him added the cautionary cadenza: . . . ‘As long as we can, as long as we may.’

  They were sitting in Maclean’s office at Poseidon Press, drinking coffee and working through a final check-list. Spada announced:

  ‘Immediately after the party on Wednesday evening, I leave on a night flight to Europe. I’ll be gone a long time; because I want to make contact with all the Proteus groups and start the flow of information back here to you . . .’

  Maclean asked:

  ‘How long are we funded for, John?’

  ‘Indefinitely. There’s a trust fund that will turn you in an income of two million a year. The articles specify Poseidon as a non-profit organisation and permit the raising of extra funds by way of donation and grant. Any questions in that area, Maury Feldman can answer for you.’

  ‘Priorities next.’ Lajos Forman flipped through his notes. ‘Already it’s clear that the information will be heavily loaded with records of political prisoners. All the organisations we’ve contacted have responded with lists and histories of detainees. The other information – on institutions and persons engaged in gross and inhuman acts of oppression – is, for obvious reasons, much more sparse and requires most careful checking before we publish.’

  ‘We were prepared for that, I think,’ said Andrew Maclean.

  John Spada nodded agreement.

  ‘The prisoners should come first anyway. It’s the right order of things – compassion before indictment; Rodo told me that and he was right . . . Now, something very important. No later than the last week in August, I must have in my hands comprehensive lists of all political detainees, country by country. Where lists are not possible, you will supply the most authoritative figures and quote the sources. You will specify the known places of detention and indicate the transport facilities by which they are linked to major cities. I’ll need a master copy, typed on white paper with no identifying marks at all. At the same time, I’ll require a thousand copies, printed, bound and held ready for distribution. You will be instructed later where to send them – if not by me, then someone with a fish-name. Clear?’

  ‘What’s the significance of the date?’ asked Lajos Forman.

  ‘The General Assembly of United Nations goes into session on the third Tuesday in September.’

  ‘We’ll be ready.’ Maclean was confident. ‘It’s a basic document, with a lot of uses. I’d suggest a first print run of twenty thousand . . .’

  ‘That’s your decision,’ said John Spada. ‘I’m concerned only with the first thousand . . . What I have to tell you next is vitally important. From the moment I step out that door, I have no further legal connection with Poseidon. It’s an autonomous organisation and you two will run it as such. Whatever happens to me, whatever is said or written about me, touches you not at all. The funds are out of my control. The future policy you will determine, in the light of world events. I’ve helped to forge a weapon. Now it’s in your hands . . .’

  ‘That sounds very final.’ Lajos Forman sounded dubious.

  ‘Final as dying,’ said John Spada.

  Maclean looked at him with grave, troubled eyes.

  ‘I thought you wanted this to be your new life-work?’

  ‘I did, Mac. I do. But, after what’s happened, I am, in a sense, incompetent. I’m marked, tainted if you like. I am no longer a help but a danger. So . . . it’s all yours, gentlemen! I wish you a long and honourable service.’

  ‘We wish you well too, John,’ said Andrew Maclean. ‘Keep in touch, when you can.’

  ‘If you don’t hear from me,’ said John Spada, ‘you’ll hear from Proteus.’

  ‘Safe journey,’ said Lajos Forman. ‘And peace at the end of it.’

  The hardest session he had to face was that with Maury Feldman. They had been friends so long, their relationship was so simple and yet so complex, it was brutal to have to end with half-truths and evasions. And yet, this was the ground-rule to which they had played all their lives. Maury Feldman had formulated it a millennium ago in the shoe-box on Mott Street.

  ‘Two things don’t change with me. I’m a son of the law and a servant of the law . . . All the rest is pretty much negotiable. So, if I’m to be your attorney, there are two conditions: never tell me a lie; but never give me a truth I can’t handle . . . If you’re in doubt, read me a parable and I’ll interpret it as Joseph did with Pharaoh’s dream. But never tell me you’ve committed murder one or uttered a document with intent to defraud. So far as I’m concerned, you’re innocent until a jury of your peers pronounces you
guilty . . . Clear?’

  It was clear then. It was clearer than ever now. So, when he came to Maury’s apartment, he brought a gift: a bezel ring, seventeenth-century, of impeccable provenance, which had once belonged to a Grand Duke of Tuscany. The stone was a cabochon emerald, engraved with a figure of Eros. Maury Feldman examined it with reverence and said quietly:

  ‘It’s beautiful. But what have I done to deserve it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Spada with a grin. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it more, knowing you hadn’t earned it. Call it a going-away gift.’

  ‘What can I say? You were born a prince, John. I’m touched. Don’t stay away too long. I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Let’s not kid each other, Maury. Come Wednesday midnight, I’m over the hills and gone. When I come back, if I come back, stand well away from me . . . I’ll be a dangerous man to know.’

  ‘John, whatever you’re planning, drop it. I say that because you’re my friend and I love you. I don’t want to see you outlaw yourself. It doesn’t take much, you know. It’s a very few steps from the village to the jungle.’

  ‘My whole family is dead, Maury! There has to be an accounting for that!’

  ‘ “Vengeance is mine”, saith the Lord . . .’

  ‘You think I’m looking for vengeance? Hell no! You’re a million miles off the mark! I always thought vendetta was a wasteful cult anyway. But I want an accounting for my dead! And, by the living God. I’m going to get it! And it isn’t only with the hired killers, it’s with every goddam group and system that make such horrors possible! . . . I’m a civilised man for Christ’s sake, and in half a year they’ve stripped me naked, back to barbarism. Now they’ll contend with the beast they’ve made! . . .’

  ‘What are you going to do, John?’

  Spada shook his head.

  ‘I remember our deal, Maury. No lies between us – and no truth you can’t handle. You’d never be able to handle this one.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Maury Feldman shrugged helplessly. ‘Whatever happens, I’m your friend. Whenever you want me, I’m still your attorney.’

  ‘This case I plead alone, Maury; and win or lose, I promise you the world will never forget my day in court.’

  ‘I could use a drink,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘Brandy?’