by Morris West
‘What’s the reaction?’
‘Among the delegates? They’re sobered – and impressed.’
‘The press?’
‘They say they’ve got the speech of the century.’
‘Which means what?’
‘What it always means, Johnny boy! The man’s great; now let’s cut his tripes out and see what’s written inside his gut… How do you feel?’
‘Empty.’
‘You’d have made a great advocate.’
‘From you, that’s high praise . . . What will they do now?’
‘What they always do: confer, confabulate, in the end, dilute.’
‘Can they?’
‘Sure they can. All they have to do is put a “but” at the end of every sentence: “A noble plea, but… A splendid piece of rhetoric, but… An impressive summary of evidence but . . . ”’
‘But what, Maury?’
‘But they can’t let you get away with it – no way, no how!’
‘What can they say? It’s all in the record. What can they do?’
‘Wear you down. There’s fourteen days before the amnesty has to begin. That’s a long time. They’ll make you sweat every hour of it.’
‘Stay around! Please, Maury!’
‘Sure; but sometimes I have to sleep, go to the can, make phone calls. That’s when they’ll come at you. Can you take it?’
‘I have to take it. Did you call Kitty?’
‘Yes. She’s coming to see you.’
‘How does she feel?’
‘Proud. Disturbed about some things, but proud, yes.’
‘I’d love a drink.’
‘I’ll try to find you a bottle. I mistrust the bar service.’
‘Do you think they’d try to poison me?’
‘No; but I’d like to break the seals myself.’
‘Thanks, Maury.’
‘Thank you. You almost restored my faith in human nature; but I still wouldn’t gamble too much on it. Let me go find that bottle.’
His next visitor was the Secretary-General, polite as always, but, this time, much more cordial.
‘My compliments, Mr Spada. I have heard many fine speeches in my time; yours was the most moving.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now, can you tell me what it has achieved?’
‘Too early for that, Mr Spada. It’s not the reaction in the chamber that counts, but the delayed one, when the delegates write their cables and respond to their inquisitors at home . . . I will tell you something though: I hope with all my heart your bluff works.’
Again Spada felt the cold fingers tightening round his heart. He waited until the spasm had passed and then said:
‘It was not, is not, a bluff.’
‘I had hoped it was. You did much tonight, Mr Spada; more than we have been able to do in ten years on this issue. We could hold the good you have won for us. I should hate to see it lost by – by untimely action.’
‘Not untimely; timed to the second, in fact. Don’t deceive yourself. Don’t let your colleagues betray you into illusion.’
‘I see.’ The Secretary-General was immediately formal. ‘Well, rest easy, Mr Spada. We shall do what we can. Mr Feldman tells me Ms Kitty Cowan would like to visit you. I’ve arranged for her immediate admission.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One other matter. Ambassador Kolchak from Washington would like to see you. May I send him in?’
‘Do you know what he wants?’
‘I have not asked him.’
‘Send him in then.’
Anatoly Kolchak and Maury Feldman arrived at the same moment. Spada made the introductions. Maury Feldman poured the drinks. Kolchak opened the play in his studious style.
‘You were very impressive tonight, Mr Spada.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘But tell me something, Mr Ambassador: was Mr Spada’s address televised in Moscow?’
‘Most of it, yes.’
‘What do you mean, most of it?’
Anatoly Kolchak had his answer ready.
‘The schedule of crimes and victims was edited out, as it was, I believe, in other places. Instead, there was what we call a “dialectical analysis of the occasion”. I didn’t see it, obviously; so I can’t tell you how good it was. However, the rest of the transmission was intact.’
‘How many people saw it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anatoly Kolchak. ‘I would guess everyone who has a television set. Of course, we must not forget the vast radio audience. The excised portions were made available to a more select group: the Praesidium, the KGB, our monitors in Moscow. I’ll probably have their assessments tomorrow.’
John Spada lay back on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘I hope they get their sums right.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ said Anatoly Kolchak evenly. ‘The mathematics are not complicated. We have a population of between two hundred and fifty and two hundred and eighty million people. An estimate has been made that in a city of half a million, contaminated by Botulinus, we might expect a ten per cent casualty rate before control measures become effective. That makes point nothing nothing three or point nothing nothing four per cent of the population. Multiply it by ten, twenty, it is still a minimal figure, Mr Spada. Compared with our wartime losses, our predicted losses in the event of a new war, it is – how do you say it? – peanuts!’
‘And if your wife, or your son, were one of the peanuts?’
‘It would break my heart,’ said Anatoly Kolchak. ‘But states have no heart, only people. I tell you this, not to mock you, simply to show you the odds against which you gamble. I happen to believe you are right; so I am doing my best… I fear it may not be enough.’
‘Then tell your people this, Mr Ambassador. In Russia, six cities will be hit in sequence! Moscow will be one of them!’
‘I believe you. In Moscow they may not. But thank you for telling me.’
He finished his drink at a gulp and walked out. Maury Feldman said drily:
‘There goes an honest man.’
So are they all, all honourable men!’
‘Not all, johnny boy! There are some right royal bastards, and you’re going to meet some of them very soon.’
That night, although he was brutally tired, he slept shallowly, his dreams haunted by debates and arguments of which the thread always eluded him. In the morning he rose early, forced himself to do fifteen minutes of floor exercises, then bathed, shaved and dressed, he knocked on Maury Feldman’s door. Maury was pouring coffee for two very formal fellows who looked like lawyers practising to be judges. Maury presented them casually.
‘Mr Adams, Mr Jewison . . . My client, John Spada. These gentlemen are attached to the US delegation here. They wanted to talk to you. Wisely they decided to see me first.’
‘Mind if I have some coffee?’
‘Help yourself. I’ll call for some more.’
Spada settled himself in a corner of the settee and asked:
‘Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
‘We’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Forget the questions,’ said Feldman. ‘I’d have to advise him not to answer them. We’ll probably get further if you tell Mr Spada what you’ve just been telling me.’
‘Any way you want it.’ Mr Adams was surprisingly relaxed. ‘You’re probably aware, Mr Spada, that the UN is jealous of its independence and its immunities. There would be much resentment if US agencies began intruding on its premises or its business. We’re accredited here; so we’re functioning as – shall we say – intermediaries. We’d like to discuss your offer to surrender yourself at the end of these proceedings.’
‘Yes?’
‘You realise what that surrender entails?’
‘Of course. I’ll be arrested.’
‘You are probably also aware that, pending your trial on criminal charges, you would be held in custody without
bail.’
‘That’s probable, but not certain,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘Since we cannot pre-empt legal decisions.’
‘We also cannot pre-empt certain risks to Mr Spada while he is in custody. The word is already around that quite a lot of people want him dead, and prisons are notoriously unsafe places for unpopular people. So . . . we’d suggest there is the basis of a deal.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘The kind that’s been made before, with co-operative subjects: an arranged escape, a new identity, the chance to begin a new life elsewhere.’
‘Amnesty, in fact,’ said Feldman drily.
‘Yes, you could call it that.’
‘And what kind of co-operation would be expected of me?’
‘Names and places. Where the toxins are made, who’s handling them . . . that sort of thing.’
‘In short, a sell-out,’ said John Spada. ‘Let me ask you a question, Mr Adams. Why would you amnesty a self-confessed criminal rather than hundreds and thousands of innocent people who are, at present, in confinement?’
‘Because,’ said Mr Adams, ‘there are hundreds of thousands of other innocent people whom you threaten with a painful and miserable death, if your demands are not met.’
‘So, meet the demands and the threat is removed. Amnesty can be given at the stroke of a pen. Why wait for the avenging angel to write it in blood ?’
Adams gave him a long, searching look and asked:
‘Is that how you see yourself, Mr Spada – as an avenging angel?’
‘No, Mr Adams. I’ve simply changed the balance of power a little. I’ve introduced enough authority to make possible a negotiation which no one would have considered before.’
‘So you would negotiate?’ Mr Adams was a fraction too eager. Before Spada had a chance to answer, Maury Feldman cut in:
‘What the hell do you think this is all about? Spada’s not peddling chestnuts. He’s not trying to make himself King or Pope. He’s demanding a human right for those who have been deprived of it. He says simply, if you don’t give back the right, he’ll try to force you to do it and he has the means at hand. Now that’s one side of the negotiating table. There has to be a response from the other: yes, no or maybe!’
‘Fair enough, Counsellor. It gives me a small something to go back with; but I need more. Where are the supplies of toxin made and located, Mr Spada?’
‘No dice!’ Spada shook his head. ‘I stand where I stood at the beginning. You give me live bodies, I’ll give you the toxin.’
‘Before we finish,’ said Mr Adams quietly, ‘understand this! We’re the only people who can offer you half a chance of staying alive. You think about that, Mr Spada.’
‘I have thought about it, Mr Adams. I wish I could say it was important to me. It isn’t. Besides,’ he added a final wry comment, ‘you forget the Proteus story: You have to hold the god and bind him before he disgorges his secrets. Just when you think you have him, he changes shape…’
Mr Adams opened his mouth to reply but Maury Feldman silenced him with a gesture.
‘It seems to me, Mr Adams, that you’re on the wrong track. You object – and rightly – to the fact that my client is holding a threat over the nations. But you yourself are holding a similar threat over him. Isn’t that precisely what has brought us to this pass? There cannot be one law for the State and another for the individual citizen.’
Mr Adams had the grace to concede the point. He shrugged resignedly.
‘That’s the name of the game, isn’t it? It always has been. It always will be.’
‘If you believe that,’ said John Spada, ‘why should you care how many people die? The planet’s over-populated anyway.’
‘I guess it’s a question of scale.’ For the first time Mr Jewison found voice. ‘It’s in the Bible, isn’t it? It is expedient that one man should die for the people.’
‘I’ve already volunteered,’ said John Spada. ‘All you have to do is pick up the contract.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the afternoon, the Secretary-General came to see them. He looked strained and tired. He explained himself with care and gravity.
‘… Mr Spada, we are now at a critical moment. We need your co-operation to get us through it . . . The General Assembly has appointed a Special Committee to deal with this situation. The Committee consists of delegates from the United States, the Soviet Union, France, Italy, Brazil, Japan, China, Sweden and Saudi Arabia. At its first meeting this morning, the Committee raised three principal issues . . First: If a bargain is struck, both parties must be able to guarantee performance. There is considerable doubt as to whether you can offer an adequate guarantee. Second: How can the Member Nations be sure that your public communications to your members mean what they say? Third: Your offer to surrender your own person is deemed inadequate, without the surrender of other key personnel in your organisation . . . In sum, your letter indicated a contrived threat. How can we be sure that the threat will not be repeated on another occasion, in respect of other issues like arms limitation or a Middle East peace treaty?’
There was a moment’s silence before Maury Feldman said quietly:
‘It’s a proper question, John. I think you should try to answer it. After all, recent terrorist history is not encouraging. One successful blackmail has always led to other attempts.’
‘I’m aware of that.’ Spada nodded a sober agreement. ‘I have been from the beginning. So, in selecting members of the Proteus organisation to carry out this operation, I was careful to choose only those who would hold rigidly to the orders laid down.’
‘And what were those orders, Mr Spada?’ The Secretary-General was intent as a judge in court.
‘The first and most important was that they would accept as authentic only a personal appearance by me on television – not a press message, not a recorded message but solely a visual appearance, where they could see my face, my gestures, and hear my voice issuing from my own lips. The second was that the words I spoke would bear exactly the meaning which they carried in a dictionary – no more, no less. For those who do not understand English a prearranged gesture will carry the meaning. The third was that, in the event of a bargain being made, they would deposit all supplies of cultures and toxins in an appropriate place and inform the local police by an anonymous telephone call where they could be found. Finally, if an agreement was not reached, or if I failed to appear and say the appropriate words, they would disseminate the toxins in agreed areas on a series of fixed dates . . . I trust I have made myself clear?’
‘Very clear, Mr Spada. But since the cultures are easy to reproduce, there is no guarantee against a repetition.’
‘There can’t be,’ said Spada flatly. ‘The bacillus is of common occurrence. You can dig it up in garden soil and start the whole process again. Anyone with the necessary skills can do that.’
‘Are you prepared to nominate the first targets?’
‘No.’
‘Are any others of your personnel prepared to surrender themselves?’
‘No.’
‘Are they aware of the danger to themselves if you are submitted to protracted interrogation?’
‘That possibility has been fully considered and appropriate provisions have been made . . . You must be very clear on this; you must convey it accurately to the Committee. Everything depends upon my final appearance in the General Assembly and its authentic transmission on television. It could happen, you see, that if one country decides to censor the programme, that country would be struck while others were relieved of the threat.’
‘Suppose for any reason – illness or accident or even a breakdown of communications – you failed to appear?’
‘Then the operation would proceed automatically. That’s another thing you must impress on your colleagues. They must keep me alive and sane.’
‘Do you really believe they would do otherwise, Mr Spada?’
‘I have good reason to know that they would.’ Spada’s ton
e was cold as a winter wind. ‘This is the age of the assassins; and I am its perfect product – man reduced to zero in the ledgers of the State . . . Is there anything else?’
‘One matter only. Are you prepared to have Mr Feldman negotiate on your behalf? I fear you may be too harsh an advocate in your own cause.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘I hope we can agree before we all hit zero.’
‘I have a request to make,’ said John Spada. ‘You are allowing Ms Cowan to visit me. I appreciate the kindness. I should also like a visit from my confessor.’
‘Your confessor?’ The Secretary-General stared at him in surprise. Spada shrugged and smiled.
‘Is it so surprising? I am – or I was – a professing Christian. I am also very close to the end. I should like to dispose myself accordingly.’
‘It seems a reasonable request.’
‘It might help us all,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘I’ll get in touch with him and bring him here – with your permission, of course, Mr Secretary-General.’
‘I’ll write an admission card for you.’ The Secretary-General stood up. ‘Our security precautions are very strict now. May I have his name, please?’
‘Father Pavel . . . The Reverend Father Pavel. He’s letired from parish duties and is now living privately . . . But I’d like him spared any embarrassment.’
‘There will be no embarrassment,’ said the Secretary-General firmly. ‘We could use a little godliness in this place. I take it you’ll hold yourself at our disposal, Mr Feldman? There’s a great deal of work to be done.’
‘And little time to do it,’ said Maury Feldman.
‘Blame your client for that,’ said the Secretary-General and walked out without another word. When the door closed behind him, Maury Feldman exploded into low-toned anger.
‘For God’s sake, John! What game are you playing now? The Scarecrow Man, here! It’s idiocy!’
‘It’s a private matter,’ said John Spada flatly. ‘I want him to collect a debt.’
‘If I were Lunarcharsky, I’d be a thousand miles away from here.’
‘But you’re not,’ said Spada wearily. ‘He’s got ice-water in his veins and a stone where his heart should be. He’ll feel quite at home here.’
