The Envoy

by Edward Wilson

  Kit told the taxi driver to drop him off in Berkeley Square – one of those places that Americans always mispronounce – so that he could walk the remaining three blocks to the embassy. He didn’t like people knowing that he was a diplomat. He also imagined, the paranoia again, that London cab drivers made a few extra pounds by reporting details of their passengers to the security services. It certainly happened in Moscow and Bonn. In any case, Kit liked walking in London – especially on the endless summer evenings. Few Americans realise how far England lies among the kingdoms of the north. The light summer evenings expose all, just as the winter murk hides all. As Kit scurried towards the embassy, he felt a hundred eyes boring into his back and a dozen cameras recording each guilty stride and backward glance.

  As soon as Kit was ensconced in his office, he got out the maps and a pair of dividers to measure distances. It was, he thought, an awfully long fucking way. It was an enormous country – a vast land ocean. He then calculated driving times. It would have taken almost a week. Surely, it wouldn’t have been possible. There would have been a security alert, check points and searches. But who would have manned the check points and carried out the searches? The Ninth Directorate. Was the entire unit part of the conspiracy?

  Kit loosened his tie and stretched out in a chintz armchair that was placed next to his bookshelves. The chair had been among the furniture salvaged from Winfield House when it had been turned into a US Air Force Officers Club during the war. The Air Force guys made a mess of the house – and it had been bombed a bit too – so that at the end of the war the owner, Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton, gifted it permanently to the US government for one gringo dollar. The mansion, phoney 1937 Georgian with high iron gates, sprawled over twelve acres of Regent’s Park and was now the Ambassador’s residence. There were, however, rescued bits and pieces of Hutton’s Winfield House strewn throughout the embassy. She must have been trying for a fake English country-house look. It didn’t work. The chintz roses looked even more out of place in Kit’s office – but he liked it. Kit wished he had an open fire and a sleeping cat purring away on his knees.

  Why, thought Kit, hadn’t Vasili told him more? Was it because his Russian friend, in all honesty, did not know the whole truth? Kit committed the routes and rough figures to memory, then put the maps away. Kit knew that he was going to have to tell someone what he had learned and what he feared. But he wasn’t sure who he should tell. Why was he keeping it all secret? Kit began an examination of conscience. Duty, honour, country. What about fairness and humanity? The problem was egotism: it could wear all those disguises.

  Kit took off his tie and settled down for a long night. It was his turn in the rota to be embassy duty officer. Until eight the next morning, he was the chief representative of the United States of America in the United Kingdom. The official phrase was ‘Envoy Plenipotentiary’. If, say, in the dark watches of the night, Washington declared war on Great Britain, it would be Kit who would have to don court dress – a tricorn hat and knee breeches – and trot over to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office to deliver the declaration that ‘a state of hostilities existed’. Kit took off his jacket and shoes and sat down on the camp bed that the marine guards had set up in his office. The bed was made with such military perfection that he felt it a shame to ruin the immaculate tautness of hospital cornered sheets. But he needed sleep, so he peeled the blanket back. Before turning in, Kit carried the telephone over to the bed and dialled the night switchboard and communication centre to let them know he was there for the night.

  Hours of deep dreamless sleep passed before Kit was jolted awake by a loud ringing. He fumbled for the phone and knocked it over. A voice from the disconnected receiver was saying, ‘Hello, hello, hello, anyone there …’ Kit finally recovered the phone and put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello, sorry, I was asleep.’

  ‘Counsellor Fournier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, this is Lieutenant Buckley from the ODA. There’s been a serious incident at Lakenheath Airbase in Suffolk.’ The fear in Buckley’s voice was making his voice waver. ‘General Walsh has copied us the wire he’s just sent to General LeMay’s office at the Pentagon. Would you like to…’

  ‘I’m coming to see you now.’

  A minute later, Kit was standing in the harsh neon glare of the Office of the Defence Attaché. The walls were decorated with photos of aircraft carriers and gleaming jet fighters. Kit looked at the yellow paper in his hand, the perforated strip from the secure telex machine still clinging to its sides.

  TOP SECRET

  ----------

  PERSONAL FOR CINC LEMAY FROM WALSH. HAVE JUST COME FROM WRECKAGE OF B-47 WHICH PLOUGHED INTO AN IGLOO IN LAKENHEATH. THE B-47 TORE APART THE IGLOO AND KNOCKED ABOUT 3 MARK SIXES. A/C THEN EXPLODED SHOWERING BURNING FUEL OVER ALL. CREW PERISHED. MOST OF A/C WRECKAGE PIVOTED ON IGLOO AND CAME TO REST WITH A/C NOSE JUST BEYOND IGLOO BANK WHICH KEPT MAIN FUEL FIRE OUTSIDE SMASHED IGLOO. PRELIMINARY EXAM BY BOMB DISPOSAL OFFICER SAYS A MIRACLE THAT 1 MARK SIX WITH EXPOSED DETONATORS SHEERED DIDN’T GO. FIRE FIGHTERS EXTINGUISHED FIRE AROUND MARK SIXES FAST.

  Kit reread the message. ‘Mark sixes’ were heavy-yield strategic nuclear weapons; the ‘igloos’, so named because of their shape, were the concrete bunkers used to store nuclear weapons. Kit remained staring at the stark words – a miracle that one mark six didn’t go. The full meaning of what had happened finally sank in. The United States Air Force had, by a stupid accident, nearly turned the East of England into a nuclear desert.

  Kit handed the message back to Buckley. ‘Don’t copy that and don’t let anyone else see it. Have you rung your boss?’

  ‘He’s on leave in Arizona.’

  ‘Shit. Well in that case, you’d better tell General Walsh to get his ass in here.’

  ‘Sir.’ Buckley looked pale and trembling. Walsh was, after all, the commander-in-chief of all US forces in Britain.

  ‘Listen,’ said Kit, ‘you’re not the one giving orders to the general, it’s the US State Department. If he gives you any shit, pass the phone to me.’ Meanwhile, Kit was personally dialling the home numbers of the DCM and the Ambassador. The situation was too sensitive to pass through the switchboard.

  Chapter Twelve

  The meeting began at quarter to nine in the morning. Attendance was on a strictly need-to-know basis. Kit sat bleary-eyed at the end of the conference table in the Blue Room. He was relieved to have kicked the Lakenheath incident upstairs and sideways. It was a matter far more relevant to the ODA, Office of the Defence Attaché, than to his own department. It was also a problem for the press attaché, who – if rumours stirred – would have to be adroit at deflecting, denying and outright lying. She was good at it.

  At the start of the meeting General Walsh referred to the Lakenheath incident as a ‘bent spear’ – not as serious as a ‘broken arrow’, that’s an accident when the nuclear weapon actually explodes. Other mishaps were known as ‘empty quivers’ and ‘faded giants’. When pressed for more details about how the accident happened, the general admitted that the B-47 had crashed into the nuclear bunker while practising ‘touch and go’ landings. The Ambassador grimaced. Walsh said the practice was ‘under review’.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, it was agreed to issue a press release stating that there had been an accident at Lakenheath and that four US airmen had been killed. The accident had occurred near an area where conventional weapons were stored, but none of the weapons had been damaged and at no point was there the slightest risk of detonation. And finally, that no nuclear weapons were stored at Lakenheath and there were no plans to do so in the near future. The press attaché asked if she could release the names of the dead air crew. After a short discussion, it was agreed that openness in this regard would increase the credibility of the cover story. The general read and spelt the names: Captain Russell B. Bowling, 2nd Lieutenant Carroll W. Kalberg, 1st Lieutenant Michael J. Selmo, Technical Sergeant John Ulrich. Only Americans, tho
ught Kit, had names like that: the deracinated roster of the melting pot. The words of a poem floated into his head like a flickering neon advert.

  From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State…

  When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

  As Kit walked back to his office, the recollection of the general’s use of nuclear weapons jargon made him smile: ‘bent spears’ and ‘broken arrows’. And now, there’s seems to be an ‘empty quiver’ too.

  August had never been Kit’s favourite month. When he was a child, it meant the summer vacation was coming to an end and heralded the arrival of Chesapeake Bay thunder showers and squalls. And for his father, it had meant Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And something in Kit’s intuition told him that August 1956 wasn’t going to be a good one either.

  The international situation was dire because no one understood the consequences of what they were doing. Nasser had seized the Suez Canal and was stirring up pan-Arab nationalism. He didn’t seem to realise that Israel, Britain and France were getting ready to thump him. On the other hand, Israel, Britain and France didn’t seem to realise that America was going to thump them if they thumped Nasser. Meanwhile, the Hungarians were deluding themselves that they could break free of the Soviet bloc – and they were in for a thumping too. And all this was happening because people didn’t read the signals or listen to any words other then their own voices. Too many foreign policy analysts spend so much time reading between the lines that they forget to read the lines that actually are on the page. That’s how wars start.

  And August, for Kit, looked bad in personal terms too. His mother was making a fool of herself with an electrician she had met in Bergerac. Caddie, his doctor sister, had written him about it. He’s not exactly a gigolo, he’s only two years younger than Mom, but he’s not exactly an intellectual either. He has a tattoo! In any case, Kit, it looks like we can kiss our inheritances goodbye. At least, you and I have decent jobs – as for poor Ginny, she’s still ‘writing’ and hanging around with human spirochetes. I’m not going to look after her when she’s old and indigent – you’ll have to. By the way, do you see much of the fragrant Jennifer? I hear she’s pregnant. Amazing news. A woman – who has never micturated nor defecated – appears to have fornicated! I won’t believe it until I’ve seen the proof.

  Kit knew that Caddie would regret the bitchiness when she heard the latest news about her cousin. Kit had guessed what had happened as soon as Ethel, his secretary, told him that there had been a telephone call from Jennifer. She had never phoned him before at the embassy. ‘Was there a message?’ said Kit.

  ‘She left a number, sir, and asked if you could ring back as soon as possible.’ Ethel handed him the number.

  When Kit saw that it wasn’t Jennifer’s home telephone, he felt a shiver run down his spine. As soon as he was alone in his office, he dialled the number. The voice that answered was full of starch and efficiency: ‘Woodbridge Hospital.’

  By the time Kit got to Suffolk, Jennifer had already been discharged from the emergency clinic and gone home. When Kit arrived at the cottage, she was sitting on a deck chair in the garden with a blanket over the lower part of her body. The pale yellow August sun seemed to jaundice her face and bare arms. There was a discarded book at her feet, a breeze rustling its pages. Jennifer was wide awake and staring blankly at the woods. As soon as she saw her cousin walking across the parched lawn, she spread her arms. At first Kit thought she was smiling, but then he saw that her face was distorted with pain and that tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  Kit embraced her, then sat on the ground beside her and held her hand to his lips. She felt so feverish. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

  ‘I would do anything for you. Nothing or no one could stop me.’

  ‘I lost the baby.’

  ‘I know how much you wanted that child.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Kit was afraid to look into her eyes and buried his face in her lap. The rough blanket was wet with her tears. ‘Perhaps I don’t.’

  ‘You didn’t want me to have this baby, did you?’

  ‘I wanted you to have the child because I wanted you to be happy.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Kit looked into her eyes. It was like drowning in a whirlpool. ‘Please, Jennie, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be a bitch to you.’

  ‘Jennifer, I’ve always wanted to help you – but I’ve never known how.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be all right.’

  ‘You will, I’m sure.’ Kit wanted to ask about her husband, but was afraid to say the words. ‘You’re not,’ he said, ‘going to be alone, are you?’

  ‘Brian is away on Ministry business. I don’t know where he is. I left a message at his office and they’ve promised to contact him.’

  ‘I’ll stay until he gets back. I’m sure they’ll give him compassionate leave.’

  ‘But what about your job?’

  ‘It’s not important. You are.’

  In the early evening a doctor stopped at the cottage to have a look at Jennifer. He said she was going to be ‘fine’, gave her medication and wrote a prescription. Meanwhile, Kit made a long-distance call to the States to break the news to Jennifer’s parents. George answered the phone. ‘Rideout’s Landing, Colonel Calvert speaking.’

  ‘Uncle George, it’s me, Kit.’

  ‘Golly, are you back in the States again?’

  ‘No, I’m ringing from England.’

  ‘Gosh, you sound like you’re just down the road in Easton.’

  Kit explained what had happened. It wasn’t easy, but George seemed to understand – as if he had almost expected it. In the end, George was only concerned about his daughter. He only wanted to know that she was out of danger.

  ‘She’s fine, she’s perfectly all right – but feeling awfully sad.’

  ‘Does she want to talk? Please put her on.’

  ‘Not now, she’s not ready to talk now – and I think the doctor’s given her some sedatives.’

  ‘Poor thing. You must tell her not to fret, that it’s not her fault. Sometimes nature knows best. I suppose that sounds hard – and I know that Jennie must be feeling so sad and so disappointed. I realise that she must be feeling just awful, but the important thing is that Jennifer is safe and out of danger. And you say that is so?’

  ‘She is all right.’ Kit prayed that, for once, he was telling the truth.

  ‘Listen, I know that you’re making the call because Jennie is not up to talking at the moment – so tell her that’s OK, but that we’re always here for her. But please look after her, Kit, and tell her how much we love her – and that when she wants to talk that she must telephone us. It doesn’t matter when.’

  ‘I’ll have her ring you tomorrow. She’ll be more rested and composed.’

  ‘Thank you, Kit, you are a Godsend.’

  ‘Do you want me to talk to Aunt Janet?’

  ‘No, Kit, it’s best that I tell her.’

  ‘Give her my love. Goodbye for now.’

  An hour later the phone rang and Kit answered. The line was bad. It was a ship to shore ‘phone patch’ that meant you had to use radio procedure, only one person could speak at a time. It was Brian. Kit started to say what had happened, but Jennifer was suddenly there beside him. ‘Give me the phone,’ she said.

  ‘It’s radio communication,’ he whispered, ‘you’ve got to say “over” whenever you finish speaking.’

  ‘I know. I get a lot of those calls from Brian.’

  Why, he thought, was Brian so often at sea? Kit left the room as soon as Jennifer began to speak. He could still hear her voice through the closed door, so he went for a walk in the garden. He didn’t want to eavesdrop on marital intimacy during a time of sorrow. Once again, he was the outsider. Now that the summer sun had finally disappeared, the temperature began to drop. He shivered in the dank dark. There were noises from the trees and under
growth: a rustling of feathers, calls and barks. The English night was a wild place. In tidewater Maryland, the night was sweaty and full of hungry mosquitoes and fat moths. Sometimes, the night was hotter than the day – and you tossed for hours, naked and awake on sweat-stained sheets. But England was different. After even the hottest summer’s day, the chill of the North came back.

  When Kit saw Jennifer’s figure silhouetted in the light of the doorway, he went back to the house. She spoke first. ‘Brian’s coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good – you need him here.’

  Kit watched Jennifer slowly lower herself on to a chair by the kitchen table. She held one hand to her stomach and looked like a person in pain. ‘The doctor said the baby had been dead in my womb for some time. I think I knew, but didn’t want to admit it. I hate to think of my body as a tomb, a sepulchre.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s too awful.’

  Kit reached out and touched her other hand. ‘Don’t think that. You are life itself – it’s the rest of us who belong to the shadows.’

  ‘What did I do wrong? Did I eat the wrong food?’

  ‘Nothing, Jennie, nothing. Look at grandmother, she had two babies that died and five that lived. It’s nature – it’s normal.’

  ‘No, Kit, it isn’t normal. There’s something wrong, something on Orford Ness that Brian brings home with him – I think he’s contaminated.’