by Anna Porter
“We have not harmed you,” MacMurty said with a sigh, “I made sure of that. We are not violent men, not killers. That’s the point, Mrs. Hayes. We are men of peace.” He sounded tired.
“The question is,” said Marsha, waving aside his protestations, “not who wrote the manuscript, but whether the information it contains is accurate, and, if it is, whether it should be published. And I believe the only effective way to fight you and your friends is the one The Dealer has chosen: publication. People have the right to know they have been manipulated. They have the right to choose.”
“Even if they choose their own destruction?”
“Even then.”
“And you are fool enough to believe that the political-military complex would actually allow them a choice? Has there ever been a plebiscite to determine whether people consider personal liberty to be worth the risk of extinction? Were we asked our opinion before our leaders wired our planet for destruction? That one brutal, absurd fact is ample justification for what we are doing. We are righting the balance, don’t you see? Giving the world another chance. For a few hundred thousand dollars in profit you want to sacrifice our work for universal peace?”
“The price of your peace is too high,” Marsha said very softly. “And I am not infallible enough to want to join you in playing God.”
“That’s your last word?” MacMurty asked.
MacMurty rose slowly. He walked to the center of the room, turned and looked at Marsha.
“Yes,” she said.
“There are several ways of playing God, Miss Hillier. The United States might have avoided the role and sat out the last war. Roosevelt might have struck the Japanese before they struck Pearl Harbor. Or we might have bombed the Khmer Rouge before they committed genocide. Each act of intervention has its own consequences, as does each act of acquiescence. We are responsible for what we don’t do as much as for what we do. Please remember that.”
Without a backward glance, his shoulders bent, eyes fixed on the floor ahead, MacMurty strode from the room.
“Well,” Larry said gruffly. “I think I have been excessively patient. Now perhaps you’ll reward me with an explanation?”
Marsha took the manuscript from her bag.
“It’s all in the top ten pages. A summary,” she said wearily. Two nights without sleep were starting to take their toll.
“Fantastic,” Larry said after a while. “Our legal department will have a bird.”
“Call them in—and production, warehouse, marketing. Let’s set the machine in motion, though I doubt we’ll ever get far enough to need them. Is the contract ready?”
“Sure.” Larry was still reading. “What do you mean you doubt…”
“The check?”
“Uhhum. It’s incredible they would…”
“Do you still have that school pal at the CIA? The one who promised you his memoirs?”
“Yes.”
“Call him. Tell him to come right over. Bring some of his colleagues. Whatever they do when something big comes up.”
“My god, the details. Marsha, you do have the documents?”
“I know where they are. Larry, will you call?”
“Shit, Marsha, we’ll have it on the street by Wednesday next. It will make The Pentagon Papers look like a Literary Guild Alternate. Millions of copies. Serial rights. International…”
“I know,” Marsha said. “But we won’t live till next Wednesday if you don’t call the CIA and get them over here. That’s the mistake the others made: thinking they were indestructible.”
Larry picked up the phone and dialed.
“It used to be such a genteel business,” he said.
Marsha grinned.
“You don’t know the half of it.” She perched on the edge of Larry’s desk and looked over the contract. Judith went back to reading the manuscript.
Larry was still on the phone explaining, when Jane knocked.
“An envelope for Miss Hillier,” she said, advancing on Marsha. “A man brought it to reception. He was insistent you would want to see it right away. He is waiting downstairs.”
Marsha tore open the yellow envelope. There was a piece of yellow lined notepaper inside.
“Damn,” Marsha yelled. “He’s nothing if not consistent.” She pushed the paper, with its pretty rounded handwriting, toward Judith.
My dear Marsha,
After much thought, I have decided to withdraw my manuscript and all publishing rights from your esteemed Company. Fact is, I’ve had a better offer.
Yours,
The Dealer
Thirty-One
PETER BURNETT HAD BEEN waiting anxiously in the telephone booth for ten minutes, reading names in the directories, pen at the ready, presenting an appearance of frustrated determination. He had never before been kept so long.
As soon as the call came, he flung open the door and walked briskly toward Marble Arch, picked up a newspaper from the corner vendor and headed for the Underground. At Oxford Circus he switched to the Bakerloo line, heading south to Waterloo Station, the route he always took.
Anthony’s chauffeur met him on the steps. He had been standing by the kiosk eating a chocolate bar, wearing slacks and a sweater, not his uniform. The Rolls, its rear curtains drawn, was parked around the corner from the old Union Jack Club.
“I’m very sorry about the delay, Peter,” Anthony Billingsworth-Powell said when Peter eased into the back seat next to him. “An unusually hectic day, the meeting ran late, and I must be on my way to Heathrow. I believe you will find all of this in order.” He extracted a file from his briefcase and handed it to Peter. “I have signed agreements from nine. The four others will come along, but I don’t believe you’ll need them. The resolution from the Executive Committee will go forward to the Board next Friday. You will note that I neither moved nor seconded the motion for your nomination.”
He knocked on the window and the Rolls pulled away from the curb, heading toward Blackfriars Road.
“Thank you,” said Peter quietly, as he leafed through the sheaf of papers. A sheet near the top reported that it had been duly moved by Frank Russell and seconded by Anthony Billingsworth-Powell.
AND RESOLVED
THAT on behalf of all members of the Hamilton, Thornbush Corporation, the Directors record their great sorrow at the death of Mr. Eric Sandwell, a member of this Board and managing director of the Company. Mr. Sandwell was at the helm of the Company through a period which saw the Company grow spectacularly and mature to the important and diversified organization it is today.
As well as for his achievements in publishing, he will be remembered for his personal qualities. He was a man of consummate integrity…
“I am deeply sorry about Eric Sandwell,” Anthony said quickly.
Peter closed the folder, resting his hand over it as the car accelerated. He was staring out the window.
“You will assume the title of managing director after the meeting, and be responsible for the complete operation. As well, I have drawn another hundred shares for you from my personal portfolio. They are numbered, and not identified in any manner that would connect them directly with me. They were delivered to your lawyer’s office this afternoon.”
“There was no need for that,” Peter said, still gazing out the window.
“I know. I am also not unaware of your reluctance to benefit in this way. However, I felt it important to give you more voting power than the office itself will bestow. There isn’t much time, we’re coming back to the station. Please listen carefully.”
For the first time since entering the car, Peter faced Anthony. It wasn’t easy to force himself to look him in the eye.
Anthony leaned forward and turned toward Peter.
“You have worked with me for ten years now, and I know you understand the importance of our effort. Should we, for any reason whatever, be unable to continue, I want you to carry on for me here, make contact with your counterparts in other countries and rebuild whateve
r may have been destroyed. I have placed a book in a locker at Waterloo Station. It is self-explanatory and will give you all the information you’ll require. This is the key to the locker.” He handed Peter a small, roundheaded key. “I hope you will not need it…”
Thirty-Two
THE BREAD MANIFESTO made the front page of theNew York Times on April 23. It ran with a page-width headline, right under the banner, and it occupied more than half the page. There were photographs of Ethan MacMurty, Nelson Roberts Jr., and Anthony Billingsworth-Powell at Harvard, class of 1965; at Nassau, Ocean View, March 1984; in London 1972; and at the locations of three other reunions. There was a recent photograph of the MacMurty family celebrating the announcement of Ethan’s candidacy for governor of Massachusetts. The story turned to page two subheaded “Peace without Honor,” and again to section two with more photographs. The Manifesto was reproduced, small but legible, as were copies of the staff hiring criteria drawn up on June 1, 1967, and the resolution of March 15, setting the terms for the proposal to the USSR Supreme Soviet.
None of the principals was available for comment. Anthony Billingsworth-Powell was on a business trip to Prague. His office claimed he had gone to Czechoslovakia to purchase pulp for his European papers. Sir George, his father, interviewed on the steps of the Upper Chamber, said he considered the allegations preposterous, their origins probably linked to his son’s competitors in the United States.
Nelson Roberts Jr. was at his ranch in Wyoming. A spokesman for Mr. Roberts had informed the reporter that Mr. Roberts would be taking legal action against the paper. An injunction was being sought to bar the London Times from running the story.
There was a photograph of Ethan MacMurty entering his Central Park South condominium building at midnight last night, holding up a folded newspaper to shield his face from the camera.
The byline was Anthony Sankey’s.
“It makes a hell of a story,” Judith said wistfully. “Though I could have made it more exciting. It lacks flesh and blood—and sympathy.”
“It would’ve made a hell of a book, too,” Marsha said, her arm over Judith’s shoulder. “But you’ve got to give them credit for speed. Tony wouldn’t have picked up the package till 3:30 p.m. on Monday. He enjoys long lunches. After the initial shock, he would have talked to his editor, his lawyer, the research department to check known facts, teamed up with his colleagues for a review, met with the editor-in-chief and the publisher, more lawyers, more checkers. It takes a lot of courage to run a story like this one; everyone would be in on the decision. And once he was given the green light, he still had to write it. All that in less than two days.”
They had been sitting around the dining room table in Marsha’s apartment eating a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, waiting for The Times to be delivered. The children were still asleep, as was the young man called Bob whom Larry’s CIA friend had assigned to stay close to them while the Agency’s people mulled over the information they now had. The Dealer’s man had demanded the manuscript back, and without a contract to publish, they couldn’t hold it. Without the supporting documents, they had no proof.
Marsha had expected Ferenc to send for the rest of his property, but she hadn’t heard from him.
“He thrives on never doing the expected,” Bob had said. “Nurtures his own aura of mystery. And if he has sold out elsewhere, you can be sure he’s already collected his fee and moved to a new location. He never stays in the same place longer than a week.”
She hadn’t told them where the documents were. Though she was sure the CIA would use them to remove Roberts, MacMurty and Billingsworth-Powell from their positions of influence, she did not believe they would cause the information to be published. And if there was one opinion she shared with Ferenc, it was his assessment that the Agency would find other uses for the documents.
“I guess this will put them back on regular duty, whatever that is for the CIA,” Judith said. She was shaking the young man on the couch to wake him.
“I think you’ll want to read this,” she said, when he sat up.
Bob stared at the front page of the paper in disbelief.
“The boss isn’t going to like this much. No, sir,” he said, shaking his head.
As it turned out, Marsha’s boss didn’t like it any better: Larry phoned in a rage.
“You,” he yelled at Marsha, “what the hell gives you the right to make a decision like that? You set me up like an idiot. Not once, but twice. First you harass me to publish some goddamn book you already know isn’t ever going to be published. Then you use me to involve the CIA and you don’t even level with them. What kind of game are you playing?”
He didn’t really listen to her explanation. In the middle, he hung up.
“Perhaps you could write it out for him,” Judith suggested. “He didn’t sound like he was taking it in.”
The next call was for Bob. He said yes about a dozen times, then handed the phone to Marsha.
“Like I told you—he’s not happy. He wants to speak to you,” he said.
“How,” asked the voice, “did you get that stuff to Sankey?”
Marsha told him.
“You must have known, then, long before you saw his note, that The Dealer wasn’t going to let you publish.”
“I didn’t know. I suspected.”
“Why?”
“Instinct, I guess. It was the fulsome way he went on talking about democracy—as though he had just converted to a new religion. And there was something about his signet ring. I started to think about whether lions ever change their true nature. He enjoyed calling himself The Dealer—that was his true nature. He’d be looking for the best deal. I began to suspect he was using me as a lever. As he had used the other publishers. None of them had been intended to publish either.”
“Looks like he may have the last laugh, though. He has already collected $5 million from Billingsworth-Powell, and $2 million from MacMurty. And he’s got the story published. Score one, net two. He is consistent. It’s you that worries me.”
“When did he get paid?”
“As far as we can tell, while MacMurty was in Larry’s office. He must have known he couldn’t change your mind. Still, it was worth a try.”
The doorman buzzed to announce that a Mr. Allan Goodman was downstairs, hoping to be let in.
“It’s all right,” Judith told the young agent. “A friend from Toronto, and he’s almost like one of you. He works for the government.”
Anne and Jimmy came out of the guest room. Since they had discovered their role in the story, they had become too excited to sleep. Jimmy was particularly fond of their protection.
“I’ve always wanted to meet a real live agent,” he told Bob. “What’s it like crossing swords with the KGB all the time?”
“Gets kinda boring after a while,” Bob said. He turned to Marsha who had now put the phone down. “I guess he didn’t give you a rough time, after all. He likes people with guts.”
Judith found it encouraging to see Allan standing in the doorway. He looked bright and cheerful in his dapper brown suit, his neat polished shoes, the beige handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket, his air of having been firmly planted on the planet for a purpose. She had needed some reminder that not so long ago she had been leading a normal life.
“I see the whole gang is here,” he said scanning the room. “And who is that?” he asked, raising his eyebrows toward Bob, who had held the door open with one hand, palming his holstered gun with the other.
Marsha told him. It didn’t dampen his spirits when Bob insisted on searching him for weapons.
“It’s the patting down I really like,” he said, but Bob didn’t laugh. He’d probably heard that one already.
“You two have had yourselves quite a day.” Allan waved his folded copy of The New York Times. “All that’s missing is the proper credits. Why didn’t they quote the sources?”
“They didn’t know,” Marsha said.
“Wise.”
Allan asked for coffee and toast.
“They don’t serve you breakfast on the red-eye special from Toronto anymore.”
Anne and Jimmy were still devouring the newspaper and Marsha had turned up the television to hear what the newsmen were making of the story. Allan joined Judith in the kitchen, where she was boiling water for coffee.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” Judith said.
“Glad to be of service. Not too many opportunities left for short errant knights in armor to polish up their tricks.” He patted her hand gently. “You’ve been through a lot.” He wanted to know everything she could tell him about the manuscript, The Dealer, why Marsha hadn’t published the book. “Soon enough,” he said, “it’ll probably become classified information.”
“I don’t suppose this is just personal interest?” Judith asked suspiciously.
“It isn’t,” he said. “Though it started out as that. I wanted to make sure it was safe for you to come home again. After all, I can’t afford to keep you in New York forever—not on my salary.”
“I’ll pay you back,” Judith protested.
“Only kidding.”
“And is it safe for me to come home?”
“It should be. After you called I went to see the Attorney General for Ontario. It seems he’s known about the manuscript for some two weeks. George Harris’s lawyer sent a copy to the RCMP the Friday before you last saw George. He wanted confirmation of its authenticity, I think, though he now says his motives were those of a good citizen. The RCMP didn’t pay a whole lot of attention till Harris died. Then they began their own investigation, running more or less parallel with yours. One of their men was even assigned to watch over you, a sort of guardian angel.”
“Where was he when I needed him?”
“That one night he thought it safe to leave you unattended. You may have forgotten since, my dear, but that Monday night you spent in the company of one of Toronto’s finest—a Detective Inspector Parr, who professes to have some personal interest of his own in your affairs.”
