by Morris West
I further request and require that this demand be made known at the first meeting of the United Nations General Assembly and that the Assembly invite me, on the next day, to plead it before the members.
If and when the prisoners are released, I undertake that all supplies of the cultures and the toxin in the hands of the Proteus organisation will be destroyed forthwith. I shall immediately afterwards, give myself into the custody of that country of which I am a citizen and accept, without contest, all the penalties of its law. If the demand is not met, the serial disaster will begin; and you must be in no doubt of its magnitude and its continuity.
Let me now make a disclosure. I belong to no party, either of the left or the right. I have no affiliation to national causes, only to the cause of those who cannot speak because they are deprived of the right to do so. I have no personal ambition. Once I am in custody I shall have no human future; but this I am happy to accept in order to accomplish what I have set out to do. Immediately after the first session of the General Assembly, I shall telephone your office to hear the decision. If the decision is affirmative, the Assembly must guarantee my immunity from arrest within the confines of the UN building. If the decision is negative, then there is nothing more to be said. Action will follow as certainly as night follows day.
I am, my dear Secretary-General,
With profound respect,
Yours sincerely,
Proteus.
The Secretary-General put down the letter and looked round the circle of his senior colleagues. They were silent and grim. He addressed himself to the Chief of Security.
‘Colonel Malin? Can you sum up for us please?’
‘First, the simple facts. You will remember that this is a preliminary investigation, carried out by UN security staff. The Secretary-General desired that we should not involve outside agencies unless and until it was deemed necessary to do so.’ Colonel Malin was a Fleming, dour and direct. ‘The package was posted in New York. The letter is written on hand-made Japanese paper, and the symbol is a woodblock print. The schedule of persons in detention is typed on an IBM golf-ball machine. The typestyle is called “letter gothic”. The paper is a standard bond, available anywhere in the United States. The phials contain exactly what is described in the letter – live Botulinus culture and crystalline Botulinus toxin . . . I submitted the culture and the toxin to the Chief Bacteriologist at Bellevue Hospital. He confirms substantially what is contained in the letter. The culture is Botulinus Type A. The toxin is lethal. The threat is real. The letter itself is written in an old-fashioned calligraphy, such as was practised by engrossers of legal documents. Certain of the embellishments are characteristic of Japanese calligraphers writing in Roman cursive. It could have been done by a Japanese, in Japan; or it may have been designed to lead us to that conclusion. The information on political prisoners is accurate and more detailed than that possessed by either Amnesty or the Red Cross. We have not had time to cover all organisations dealing with this sort of information. The tone of the letter is carefully a-political. The style is that of a highly literate man . . . I think we must take the threat very seriously indeed . . . If I may be permitted one more observation . . . It is clear that this Proteus is aware of how the United Nations Organisation functions. He writes formally to the Secretary-General who is obliged to bring the matter to the attention of the General Assembly, which alone can consent to his appearance in this place – as it did to the appearance of Yasser Arafat. . .’
‘So, gentlemen.’ The Secretary-General faced the small, silent assembly. ‘A letter of demand from a literate and intelligent man, representing an organisation of unknown dimension and backed by an authentic threat of serial disaster… How do we respond?’
‘They will respond,’ said the Scarecrow Man, ‘by strict adherence to protocol. The Secretary-General will refer the matter to the heads of delegations to the General Assembly. They will advise their respective governments and seek instruction. The Chief of Security will confer with the New York Police Department who have jurisdiction in criminal matters over the UN area. They, in turn, will most probably refer to the FBI, who will seek information from the CIA and other US intelligence agencies.’
‘And then,’ said John Spada, ‘the trail will lead to me. And every police agency in the world will be wanting to have a little chat.’
‘That’s the way you arranged it.’ The Scarecrow Man shrugged. ‘This game of terror is more than half theatre.’
They were sitting in the sunshine in Washington Square, two nondescript fellows, dressed in slacks and sweatshirts, playing checkers. Spada’s hair was cropped en brosse. He wore a three-day growth of stubble, a pair of sunglasses, and a surgical shoe which threw his walk out of kilter and forced him to use a cane. His lodging was two blocks away, in a sleazy, transients’ hotel, where he was registered as Erwin Hengst. To be lodged so badly was, as the Scarecrow Man pointed out, an unnecessary act of masochism; but Spada’s reasoning was simple. No one would expect him to step so far out of character. He could move freely and sleep soundly; and, besides, there was a certain satisfaction in the exercise: a lone wolf learning the lessons of survival in an environment of total indifference. The Scarecrow Man jumped two of his pieces and crowned a black checker. He said placidly:
‘Suppose the General Assembly agrees to your demand, and offers you immunity inside the UN. How will you get there? Outside, remember, you will be arrested on sight.’
‘It seems to me,’ said John Spada, ‘they won’t dare to publicise the affair, before the General Assembly either debates it or reaches a consensus without debate. They’ll do everything possible to avoid a panic. If they consent to receive me under immunity, I’ll land by helicopter, within the precincts of the United Nations area.’
‘And from that moment, you’re in a trap. As soon as you try to leave the area you’ll be arrested.’
‘But you and all our other people will still be free. That’s the core of the situation. I shall no longer be necessary.’
‘You expect to be killed?’
‘They have to get rid of me,’ said John Spada. ‘My own people or someone else. If they bring me to trial, the whole affair becomes public again.’
‘Have you thought,’ asked the Scarecrow Man, ‘that they may prefer to keep you alive and put you under interrogation? You’ve got a lot to tell them – and, in the end, you’ll tell it all.’
‘I’ve thought of that too.’ Spada closed a box trap around the Scarecrow Man’s crowned piece. ‘I remember what they did to Rodo and Teresa. So, I’ve taken precautions. I carry a cyanide capsule always.’
‘It was necessary to be sure.’ The Scarecrow Man nodded approval. ‘I have no intention of joining you in the roll-call of martyrs.’
‘I didn’t expect it.’ Spada grinned.
‘Have you also thought,’ asked the Scarecrow Man, ‘that they will never believe that you can or will withdraw the threat?’
‘Why not?’
‘Once you open Pandora’s box, all the plagues fly out. No one can ever put them back again. This is the kind of threat that can be repeated indefinitely. The name of Proteus can be put to all manner of massacres . . . For myself, I don’t care. I believe man is a self-doomed species. I am simply interested to know how far you have thought through the proposition.’
‘According to the legend,’ said Spada quietly, ‘the one thing left in Pandora’s box was Hope. It’s my hope that once the horror is visible, men will recoil from it . . . If not, then, of course, you’re right. We’re a self-doomed species.’
‘You contradict yourself, my friend.’ The Scarecrow Man gave him a wintry smile. ‘You accept your own execution as inevitable. You carry a death-pill to protect yourself against the torturers. What kind of hope is that?’
‘Not much, I agree. It’s Hobson’s choice: a clean exit or a long slavery.’
‘Like all zealots, my dear Spada, you miss the point. You make a choice too trenchant for normal folk. When
Moses led the Israelites out of servitude, were they grateful? Never! They cried for the onions and the flesh-pots of Egypt. Freedom was a luxury they could neither understand nor afford.’
‘So why are you sitting here with me now?’
‘You pay very well,’ said the Scarecrow Man, ‘and besides, it’s like watching a big game at the casino. I know you can’t beat the bank; but I’m fascinated to see how close you’ll get to it.’
The machinery of power began to turn, slowly at first, faster and faster as the hours ticked away. The President of the United States called the Premier of the USSR on the hot-line, to establish, first and foremost, that each nation was as vulnerable as the other and that this was not a trick to cover some military démarche. Each promised to keep the other informed by a daily personal call. There were similar conversations with other heads of state in Europe, in the Middle East and the Orient. It was the British Prime Minister who first uttered the definition which became the keynote of all their later discussions: ‘This Proteus, whoever he is, wants us to play Russian Roulette.’ The President of the United States embroidered the definition in the first discussions at the White House where a briefing had to be framed for the US Ambassador to the United Nations.
‘… We are exposed, gentlemen, to an intolerable gamble. We have to face, not a single catastrophe, like the loss of an aircraft full of people, but an almost unending cycle of biological invasions. We all know the scenario. Proteus knows that we know it. So he puts the pistol on the table and invites us to fire it at our own heads or his own. He is, in an absolute sense, invulnerable; because he has no fear of what we may do to him; while what he can do to us is horrible to contemplate . . . First question. Have we any idea who Proteus is and what is the size and nature of his organisation?’
‘About the size and nature of the organisation, we know nothing.’ It was the Director of the FBI who answered. ‘Proteus claims that it exists in many places and in many disguises. I’d accept that he’s telling the truth. About the man himself. Well . . .’ He laid a pair of photostats on the table. ‘This is the symbol which appears on Proteus’s letterhead. This other is a copy of a card found in the wallet of a German terrorist, Gebhardt Semmler, who allegedly committed suicide in Amsterdam.’
‘So, on the face of it, we’re dealing with an existing terrorist organisation?’
‘On the face of it, Mr President, possibly. However, look at the photostats again. How would you describe the symbol in words?’
‘Well. . . it’s a fish, inside an upturned box.’
‘Exactly! A fish in a box.’
‘But it isn’t a box,’ Secretary Hendrick objected. ‘The incomplete square is an antique form of the letter “P”. The initial encloses the fish. Proteus is the protector of sea-creatures. It’s very ingenious.’
‘And irrelevant.’ The Director was tart. ‘Come back to-the President’s description: a-fish-in-a-box.’
‘And where does that take us?’
‘Back to a gaolbreak in Argentina. A man called Rodolfo Vallenilla was sprung. We know that Spada organised the operation. A code message was passed to Vallenilla before the break-out. The text was: “a fish in a box”.’
‘My God! That means . . .’
‘Please!’ The Director cut him off with a peremptory gesture. He held up a copy of the schedule of prisoners and detention areas. ‘This list was prepared by a publishing house, recently founded in New York, to call attention to the plight of prisoners of conscience and the activities of repressive régimes. They collate information from existing organisations like Amnesty and Red Cross and supplement it from their own sources – which, judging by the document, must be very accurate. The publishing house is called Poseidon Press
‘So make your point, please!’ The President was becoming testy.
‘Three points, Mr President.’ The Director was urbane as ever. ‘One: Rodolfo Vallenilla was the son-in-law of John Spada. Two: Gebhardt Semmler murdered Hugo von Kalbach, the German philosopher. John Spada was an eye-witness of the murder and was in Amsterdam at the time of Semmler’s alleged suicide. Three: The Poseidon Press was founded by John Spada. Poseidon was the sea-god who endowed Proteus with his powers. The fish in the box connects all these facts . . . Think of what happened to Spada’s family – and to his successor in the business. They were all murdered. What have you got now?’
‘Motive,’ said Secretary Hendrick. ‘A rich and powerful man driven to desperation.’
‘And a mess of circumstantial evidence which you’ll never sustain in court,’ said the President drily. ‘But stay with it. The idea makes sense. Where is Spada now?’
‘We don’t know, Mr President. We have a date on which he arrived in England and filed an immigration card. After that, no trace.’
‘What about Interpol?’
‘A problem, Mr President. It could be embarrassing for the Administration if we suggest that a US citizen is holding the world to ransom.’
‘It could be a goddam disaster.’ The President was emphatic. ‘For God’s sake play this one close to your chest…’
‘There’s one way to close the whole investigation.’ Secretary Hendrick was equally emphatic.
‘Let’s hear it,’ said the President.
‘Proteus wants to reveal himself, wants to speak, wants to surrender. Why not let him do just that?’
The Director stared at him in disbelief.
‘And let a terrorist dictate ransom terms on the floor of United Nations?’
‘It’s been done before. Yasser Arafat stood there with a gun on his hip and addressed the General Assembly. Proteus is obviously aware of the precedent.’
‘He also poses a greater threat than Arafat.’ The President got up and began pacing restlessly. ‘You see, I’m in sympathy with Proteus. He is pleading a cause that I’ve been urging ever since I came to office. In that, he’s a friend and not an enemy. However, I cannot even appear to approve the criminal means he has adopted. So, here’s the bottom line. How do we vote on the question in the UN? How do we lobby our friends to vote?’
‘I think the question is premature, Mr President.’ The Director challenged him boldly. ‘Today’s Wednesday. We’ve still got a week before the General Assembly convenes. At least give us time to . . .’
‘To do what? Arrest a man you can’t find? Question a suspect who’ll be out on a writ of habeas corpus before you can blink? Force him to make good his threat? You, Mr Secretary! What’s your answer?’
‘Suppose, Mr President – just suppose – this demand for an open hearing were not made under duress, would you be disposed to vote in favour of it?’
‘I just might.’
‘Would the Russians, the Chinese, the Brazilians, the Argentines, the Chileans, the South Africans?’
‘Hell no!’ The President leaned forward, covering his face with his cupped hands, and sat for a few moments, silent and absorbed. Then he faced them again. ‘Every country in the world is faced with a challenge to its sovereignty and security. However . . .’ He pieced out the words slowly and carefully. ‘These are relative words. Not all sovereignties are wholly legitimate, as we have good cause to know because we’ve had a hand in some ramshackle arrangements. Not in all States does the security include the security of the subject. So, balance these relatives against the absolute: that if we refuse Proteus’s demand hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, may die in a serial catastrophe. How do I decide?’
‘How do you decide, Mr President, if one successful blackmail leads to others copying this first episode?’
The Director of the FBI sat back and waited while the President digested his challenge. The reply, when it came, was mild but curiously final, like the last stroke of midnight chimed by a mantel clock.
‘I have to decide, gentlemen, on the basis of that which is, not that which may be. Proteus has pre-empted us. I say we vote for him to speak. We lobby our friends in the Assembly to vote with us.’
‘And if the vote
fails?’
‘Then there is nothing to prevent this – this Black Death.’
Out of the silence that followed, Hendrick asked shakily:
‘Something else has to be faced, Mr President. What about the press?’
‘That’s a decision for the United Nations. For my part, I am in favour of disclosure. The people have the right to know. Maybe they’ll have more to tell us than we have to tell them.’
On the Friday evening, Maury Feldman received a telephone call at his apartment. The caller identified himself as Mr Mullet and requested an urgent meeting to discuss a contract. At ten o’clock, Maury Feldman sat with John Spada in a grimy cellar bar on Bleeker Street. His opening remark was an expression of disgust.
‘My God! You look like a bum!’
Spada chuckled.
‘I’m learning how the other half lives. Did you get the package I sent you from Tokyo?’
‘Yes. It’s in my safe.’
‘How’s Kitty?’
‘Fine. Except she’s had visitors, as I have. The New York Police and the FBI are very interested in your whereabouts.’
‘Did they say why?’
‘No. Care to tell me?’
‘That’s why I got you down here.’
Maury Feldman heard him out in silence. Then he sat a long moment staring into the dregs of his liquor. Finally, he shook his head, as if to clear away the last cobwebs of a nightmare. He said sombrely:
‘You’re a dead man, John.’
‘The certificate isn’t signed yet, Maury. The General Assembly doesn’t meet till Tuesday. The patient is still alive and living in hope.’
‘What hope?’
‘That the water will part and God’s people will march dry-shod into the Promised Land.’
‘As I remember, Moses never got there.’
‘But he still delivered the law – graven on the tablets.’
