The American Ambassador

by Ward Just

  Max gave a little contemptuous wave of his hand, with a harsh sigh, pah, Maria Theresa dismissing a courtier’s limp explanation.

  Bill smiled. He was beginning to like Max Mueller. He said, “About Munich. There are one or two facts you don’t know. Maybe your people know, though I doubt it. I don’t have the feeling that your people go very far below the surface of things. For example”—he decided to throw one pebble into the pond, to watch Max react—“the oaf is not an oaf.”

  “It is not good to argue,” Max said.

  “It is a question of point of view, the selection of the target.”

  Max shook his head again. “A disturbing attitude, that is what I mean. That is what worries my people.”

  “Your people worry me, Max.”

  “Yes?”

  “Their caution. Their insistence on discipline, but only their discipline. Their fondness for hired guns. Too many wheels within wheels, your people miss opportunities, on account of the bureaucracy. You’re like the American Pentagon, you’re muscle-bound. You’re not flexible. You approach every operation like Desert One, and you fuck it up.”

  Max laughed, amused and amazed. “You are quite wrong about that. We would never, never have executed a Desert One. Never.”

  He said, “You never move at the propitious time, and at the other end of the scale—I take your point about Desert One, though you are wrong—you’re terrified of failure. You won’t move until the odds are one hundred to one and then someone says, Wait a minute. Too risky. Let’s wait until the odds are two hundred to one. You want the error factor to be zero, and it never is. You have too many people and they talk too much. They talk to each other, and sooner or later the word gets around. Your people are dangerous. Dangerous to us, Gert and me. How do you think it is that I know about you. That I knew where to reach you, and how?” Max hesitated. “From Gert.”

  “Not from Gert. You know better than that.”

  “Well,” he said.

  “Christ, Max. If you think that, you’re really stupid.”

  Max colored, and raised a warning finger.

  “Gert does not understand. She does not understand things in that way.” He looked at Max, tense now. “Word is around, and I heard it. And I acted on it.”

  “I am in all the dossiers,” Max said.

  “Some, not all. And the information in them is wrong.”

  “Yes,” Max said.

  “Would you like chapter and verse?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Your people are too old. No offense, Max. But your people do not understand the situation as I do. They do not understand the Americans, and how the Americans react to a breakdown of order. I could read you the new regulations from the Department of State. I have them in my possession. Your people would dismiss these regulations as of no interest, obvious, in some ways amusing. They have to do with personal security of diplomats. New procedures for the protection of embassies, the families of diplomats. Who is assigned bodyguards, who isn’t. They know that these measures are cosmetic only, more irritating to them than to us. And the idea is to keep them irritated, off-balance, uncertain, weary, and afraid. And angry.” As he spoke he paced the room. Max’s eyes never left him. “Now we need help, Gert and I.”

  “I will have to know details.”

  He said, “No details.”

  “Not every detail. But I will have to know the main lines. Surely that is understandable. It is normal. What do you expect from us, a blank check?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “That is impossible.”

  “I need four passports, two for me and two for Gert. American and German for me, German and French for Gert. Expiration dates two years from right now. I need two cars, one with German registry, one with French, rental cars, Avis. They try harder. The German car I want to pick up in Cologne, the French in Paris. I also need money, but that’s less important. One can always find money in Europe during the tourist season.”

  Max was silent a moment. “It takes time.”

  “Two weeks, Comrade. Surely you can do it in two weeks.”

  There was silence between them while Max thought, his eyes closed. He seemed almost to be dozing. “There was a report that you met your father in Hamburg, Your mother and father, a few years ago, that you met them and had a conversation. This is a report that we have and I must know if it is true.”

  “It is true,” he said.

  “You had them taken to your apartment?”

  “An apartment. Not mine.”

  “Gert was there?”

  “No.”

  “You talked for an hour, the three of you.”

  “Ninety minutes.”

  “Why? Why did you do this?”

  “Why I did it is my business. Say I wanted to see them again. You can say that in your report.”

  “You see,” Max said, “again. Again, this raises questions. It raises questions about stability. Such a meeting was not wise. It was dangerous to do such a thing. And its purpose is unclear and that, too, raises questions.”

  “Everything worked out fine.” He smiled. “We had a full and frank exchange of views.”

  “Herr North.” Exasperated.

  “And our security—my security, and Gert’s, and the security of our people—is for me to decide.”

  “How many people are there. Under your supervision. Whose security is your responsibility?” There was no answer, as Max knew there wouldn’t be. “What I am suggesting is that you are not an independent government.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “That’s the point.”

  “It is not good to argue,” Max said.

  He said, “Passports and cars.”

  “I must know the details.”

  “You don’t want to know them.”

  “Those are my orders. I will speak to my people. I will tell them what has been said here. What you have said, and what you haven’t said. That is all I can do. They will decide.”

  “How many people, Max? How large a meeting will it be? Two people, five? Ten? A ministry? And how many stenographers, and where will the transcripts go?”

  “That is foolish,” he said.

  “Well, Max. I can get the goods elsewhere.”

  “Then why don’t you? Why do you come to me, knowing that an explanation will be required? Surely you know that.”

  “I thought it was time we met. I thought it was time we sat across the tea table face to face, got to know each other. To see if there was mutual confidence, and understanding. Your experience has been very different from mine. I wanted to see if we were on the same side, given our different experience, our backgrounds. What is to be done? I wanted to see what you looked like, your manner. The authority that you have. The questions you would ask. I do not know very many from your generation.” As he looked at him, he knew they could never work together; they were out of synch, and would always be out of synch. Perhaps it was a question also of nationality. Max Mueller had too much of the wrong kind of experience, too many failures, too many disappointments, too many after-the-fact justifications. Too much ideology, too little passion; too much history. He still distinguished between ends and means, failing to understand that the means were the ends; often the means were more expressive, more elegant, than the ends. Poor Max, he had ceased to appreciate possibilities, and his pessimism was infectious. He put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “And of course because of Gert,” he said.

  “I need to know the main lines of your operation,” Max said.

  He said abruptly, “Let’s take a walk.”

  Max hesitated, then rose slowly. “What about Gert?”

  He said, “I’ll see to Gert. You wait.” He smiled reassuringly and stepped into the bathroom. Gert was standing in the shower stall in the darkness. He could hear her breathing. He kissed her lightly and said they were going, would be gone for an hour, no more. They were taking a walk, he and her father. He and Max together, as they had planned. He repeated the w
ords, and then he watched her nod. He lowered his voice and asked if she understood what she had to do when they left the apartment. She smiled brilliantly, and kissed him. He walked back to the living room.

  Max was staring out the window, his expression thoughtful.

  He said, “This room is stuffy, don’t you agree? We need a walk outside.”

  “It’s still raining,” Max said.

  “Only a drizzle.”

  “Gert will stay here?”

  He nodded. “Until we return.”

  Max said softly, “You have a destination?”

  He said, “No. I just thought, a little walk, a walk in the zoo.”

  5

  ON THE STREET AGAIN, they both paused and looked left and right. The Volkswagen was gone, and there was no Volvo in sight. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalk, except for an old man and his dog. Max watched the old man a moment, then they began to stroll through the rain in the direction of the zoo.

  He said to Max, “Did you know your father well?”

  “Of course,” he said, “he was my father.”

  Bill was silent. They walked on to the intersection. Bill said, “What did he do? How did he make a living?”

  “He was a factory manager. The factory made wheels for military vehicles, staff cars and troop carriers. My father used to say that an army did not travel on its stomach, but on his wheels.” He smiled. “He died in 1928 when the factory closed. Everything closed in 1928, the entire country closed down, the inflation, reparations to the victors. The spoils of war. I was nine years old, but I remember him very well, he was an excellent plant manager. His plant set records in the war, I mean production records. They gave him a small pension when the factory closed, but still my mother sold the house. We lived near Danzig.”

  “He would play with you as a child?”

  Max looked sideways, puzzled. “Play? No, we didn’t play. Why would we play? I played with my classmates.” Up the street was the fading waa-waa of an ambulance siren. Max began to walk a little more quickly.

  “You admired him?”

  “A terrible injustice was done my father. The swine who owned the factories, my father’s factory and other factories, simply closed them down. Put a padlock on the gate, and a sign: Factory closed until further notice. And went to live in Baden-Baden with his wife and his mistress. He was waiting, he told my father, for discipline to return to Germany. Still, my father could not bring himself to question what had been done, or to criticize. He had known the family for many years, the old baron as well as the young one. My mother was a vocal woman, in her opinions a radical. My father was always a company man, but then the company let him go. Because of his loyalty, he was a serf in their eyes. So I loved him, but I did not admire him.”

  They walked on, crossing the boulevard to the zoo. A group of children were waiting at the ticket window, spirits undampened by the rain. They stood in line behind the noisy children.

  Bill said, “When did you become a Marxist?”

  “I have always been a Marxist. From the earliest time that I can remember. Some of my friends when we were boys wanted to be army officers or lawyers or businessmen or civil servants. I always wanted to be a Marxist. I looked on it as a career, as my father looked on his career. Perhaps as your father looks on his career.”

  “My father always wanted to be a diplomat,” he said.

  “A reactionary.”

  “He would say patriot.”

  Max made a noise, and they both laughed.

  At the ticket counter, Bill fumbled for coins and Max paid. The ticket seller looked naturally to Max and, as naturally, Max had the correct change in his hand.

  “My father is in Washington now.” They were looking at the zebras, who were huddled together in the rain. One of the children threw a piece of chocolate, and was admonished by his companions. “He is doing his patriotic duty in Washington. They have put him into a hospital. That is the last I have heard.”

  Max said, “He is ill?”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “My father has always been healthy.”

  Max said, “I know a little of his career, but not much.” They were walking along behind the children. “I have looked at his C.V. But a C.V. conceals as much as it discloses, no?”

  Bill said, “He has done their work in Africa, and also in Bonn. And in Madrid. I have watched him in his office, on the phone and talking to people, and at receptions. Very smooth and controlled. He is a very smooth American diplomat, good with languages. Often droll. Of course he is a company man.”

  Max said, “And the company will never let him go. No padlock on the gate. No sign saying closed until further notice.”

  “They might, depending on the circumstances. Depending on what happens. But they would let him go very quietly, and arrange for other work.”

  “Yes,” Max said. “But he would have his pension.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bill said. “They are very good about that.” He paused and looked through the iron gates at the Cape buffalo, huge, horns the length of baseball bats.

  Max said, “What would cause them to let him go?”

  “Ugly creatures, aren’t they?”

  “A scandal, I suppose,” Max mused. “A scandal of sex or of money. The Americans rarely have scandals of politics. I mean loyalty.”

  “He has never cared about money,” Bill said.

  “Sex then,” said Max.

  Bill shrugged. Possibly.

  “Not loyalty, surely,” Max said.

  “He is an excellent diplomat. He has many commendations, including one from Bonn. He does their work expertly. Any ministry would be happy to have him. He is a professional in every way, and proud of his professionalism. Did you know he was first in his class to become ambassador?”

  Max looked at him. “Class?”

  Bill smiled, turning away slightly so that Max would not notice his amusement. He said, “Foreign Service class. He was the first of his class to become ambassador, and that was his ambition. Always had been. He was very young when he realized his ambition. It made him proud, naturally, he and my mother both. They felt—vindicated. I suppose that was what it was. What do you think. Max? It must have been the same with you, so successful at a very young age, wanting terribly to do something, and doing it. Setting a goal and achieving it, as a young man wet behind the ears. But he had a great record, and he never turned down an assignment. You would understand that, Max. Wherever they wanted him to go, he went. He served the President, and it didn’t matter which President.” The Cape buffalo was standing motionless, staring at them. The children had moved off a little way, ignoring the animals, kicking a bright red soccer ball. Bill remembered the day the ambassador received word of his appointment. They had dinner together, the three of them. His father and mother drank too much Champagne. They were noisy and unbuttoned, congratulating each other, his mother so flirtatious, the ambassador so cute. They poured him a glass of Champagne but he did not drink it; he did not care for wine. The ambassador made a sloppy toast, and his mother laughed and laughed. Bill turned to Max, having one more thing to add, but the older man had stepped away and was standing quietly looking at the ostriches. The cries of children rose around them. “The ambassador is one of their prizes, Max. Always on display. Something about him reminds me of that creature,” he said, pointing to the sullen Cape buffalo. “Very still, stupid-looking, large, dangerous.”

  Max nodded slowly. He had the air of a man who was listening carefully.

  “So it is a fine career. He has seen the world. The secretary of state is his friend.”

  Max said, “The Americans are very successful at concealing scandal. The most successful of any country, and are the first to object to scandal elsewhere. It would surprise me if they let him go, a man first in his class. A man who is friends with the secretary of state. It would be an embarrassment to them. What would cause them to let him go?”

  He watched the children skylarking, the ball passed and deftl
y kicked. One of the boys showed promise. He asked, “How did your father die?”

  “He was tired. They called it a heart attack.”

  “Did he take a long time to die?”

  “It was very quick.”

  “I would like his to be slow.”

  Max smiled, raising his eyebrows. He did not understand Americans. He did not understand what animated them. They had an insufferable belief in the rightness of their own actions. They had no discipline, and were never predictable; they were not patient. He thought of them in negatives, not this, not that. And of the American young, he knew nothing.

  “Strike at the heart of things,” Bill said.

  “Yes,” Max said nervously.

  There was a sudden cry, and in a moment two boys were tugging at Max’s sleeve. The ball had gotten away from them, it was Johann’s fault, a mis-hit ball. Inept Johann stood to one side looking at his shoes. But there it was in the buffalo’s cage, and what could be done now? Max looked at the boys and shrugged. He was deep in his own thoughts, wondering how far to push the American.

  One of the boys said, “It’s a new ball.”

  Max said impatiently, “Let’s move on.”

  The boy turned to Bill, so tall, who was standing on tiptoe, looking into the cage, measuring the height of the iron fence. “My father bought it for me only yesterday, and now stupid Johann—” The ball had come to rest between the animal and the fence, a spot of brilliant color in the gray cage. The buffalo had not moved. He gave no sign of noticing the red ball. Bill took off his raincoat and handed it to Max, moving a few steps away, looking at the fence now at an angle. He looked around for a guard but saw no one. There was just him and Max, and the two boys, and Johann miserable on the sidelines.