American Romantic

by Ward Just

  Harry looked again at granite-jawed George Kennan. He had been out of government for many years but retained influence through his books and lectures. Harry tried to imagine himself at fifty or sixty years old and responsible for relations with a leader as malicious as Joseph Stalin. He could not. Hard enough even to imagine Stalin and the mountains of dead he left behind in his great experiment, corpses beyond count. Diplomacy was a great calling but you had to have the nerves for it and the wind, the confidence to look the American president in the eye and say, This is what must be done. Probably to do this successfully you had to have lived through the most desperate days of World War II, the outcome in doubt, and the Great Depression before that. You had to believe without question in the virtue of the American experiment, the project itself. Not that the nation was blessed by God. God’s purposes were enigmatic. At the very most you had to believe that God was not frowning. God did not disapprove. But His thumb wasn’t on the scale either.

  The times have changed, Harry thought.

  The men in charge were insecure, hence the war.

  He closed his eyes and drifted off. God and Kennan went away. Harry conjured the German hospital ship under way on the open ocean, steaming through drizzle, everyone excited at the prospect of home, industrious Hamburg and its riotous nightlife. What did the Germans call home? Heimat, more than merely a dwelling or a city, a profound state of mind. Meanwhile the passengers had the featureless ocean to gaze upon, hoping that a dolphin or some other sea creature would show itself. At some point the vessel would have to put in for refueling. He had no idea where that would he. Probably somewhere in the vicinity of the African coast, one of the ancient ports like Mombasa or Aden. They would remain a few days, allowing the crew shore leave, though neither Aden nor Mombasa promised much in the way of sightseeing or recreation. Even so, they would be thinking of Hamburg and Heimat. Sieglinde would be dreading Hamburg, the place she disliked so. She did not care for Hamburg’s past, nor the weather, the north wind and the icy rain that came with it. Neither did she care for the men, Germans of the big blond type. Perhaps that, too, was a tall tale.

  Harry?

  He peeked from behind the newspaper.

  Harry, you’re talking to yourself. You said “Aden” and then you said “Mombasa.”

  I was thinking of ancient port cities.

  Mmm, Marcia said. Well. The ambassador’s waiting.

  Announced by Marcia, Harry stepped through the doorway of the ambassador’s office, not as spacious as one expected. But they were short of space at the embassy, so many new arrivals, even the ambassador was asked to make allowances. The old man was seated at his desk, telephone in hand, his feet up, scanning a telegram. He waved Harry to a chair without looking up. Basso Earle said, Give me a minute, Harry.

  Harry stepped to the window and stood looking into the street while the ambassador turned his back and spoke quietly into the telephone, not a word audible, but his exasperation was palpable in the rise and fall of his voice, here and there an ambiguous grunt. Harry watched a one-legged man struggle on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on two crutches. He wore a black beret and a shabby windbreaker against the drizzle. Every step was painful. His right leg, severed at the knee, looked to be a heavy appendage. He was very old and gaunt, stubble on his chin. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment, and then he turned the corner and was lost to view.

  Harry, the ambassador said.

  Good morning, sir.

  Listen to me. Learn something. You will be an ambassador one day. When that happens you must expect to receive telegrams and telephone calls from Washington. Any time of the day or night, usually without warning. Always be polite. Sometimes this will be difficult. More difficult than you can imagine, because what they are saying to you is so god damned stupid. But do it anyway. Be patient.

  Yes, sir.

  However, there are exceptions to every rule.

  Yes, sir.

  You will be tempted to scream at them.

  I understand, Harry said.

  Choose your moment for screaming. This was not one of the moments.

  I’ll remember, sir.

  Well, he said. Let’s get to business.

  Basso Earle III was a Southerner from one of the parishes near New Orleans, a career foreign service officer of great ability who had declined to enter the family business, which was politics. In Louisiana politics was dangerous business. His grandfather did jail time and his uncle was obliged to expatriate himself to South America to await the appointment of a fresh governor. They were men who played by the rules, but the rules changed frequently and both his grandfather and his uncle had moments of inattention—call it forgetfulness—and a price was paid at once. Louisiana had the agreeable reputation of easy come easy go, a forgiving nature, a jurisdiction that looked the other way as a matter of course, and this reputation was true as far as it went. It did not include the sin of inattention. Basso Earle knew from an early age that he was an inside man, comfortable at a table or a tête-à-tête in a quiet room somewhere, not especially at ease in crowds or at lecterns or speaking into microphones. He much preferred the quiet word in a receptive ear, and while the word might be painful, his tone of voice was silky and in most instances persuasive. He avoided the press. He could make a speech but preferred not to. Ambassador Earle always took his time telling a story, his head thrown back, an easy smile in place, his hands loosely laced upon his belly—and the more important the story, the more time he took to tell it.

  He said, We’ve had some contacts lately with the opposition. There’s disagreement among our analysts as to how reliable these contacts are. That is to say, has someone strayed from the reservation or is he following instructions from his superiors? In other words, are we being played? Are we somehow being set up? They’re good at games, you know. Good at chess. Very good at cards. They’re born gamblers but not known, generally, for the bluff. Bluffing is not usually in their bag of tricks. Bluffing requires wit and they are not a witty people. Then the ambassador detoured into a complicated anecdote concerning his own experiences at roulette, apparently one of life’s signature lessons, for at the end of it he said to Harry, Do you see what I mean?

  Harry said, I think so.

  Sometimes it’s wise to rely on instinct.

  Not always, Harry said under his breath.

  What did you say?

  Not always, Harry said.

  Yes, of course, not always. Obviously.

  Harry knew he had blundered with an obtuse remark. He smiled and said, In affairs of the heart, instinct can lead you astray.

  Lust, the ambassador said.

  Lust, Harry agreed.

  Risk, reward, the ambassador said, returning to the matter at hand. It always comes down to that, depending on the spot you’re in. We’re in a spot, as I don’t have to tell you. If our enemy wants to talk, isn’t it worthwhile listening to what he has to say? Depending on the risk. He hasn’t wanted to talk before. We’ve opened channels in every damned way you can imagine and it’s never worked out. We’ve been up on tippy-toe waiting to be kissed and what we’ve gotten is a fish in the face. That’s a Louisiana expression, Harry. It means shit. One disappointment after another. And here this comes from out of the blue.

  An offer to talk, Harry said.

  The word was passed up the line, one courier to the next.

  Until it reached you.

  It reached me, yes.

  And you believe the offer is genuine.

  I have a friend, the ambassador said. She is a very old friend. I met her in Paris years ago when I was head of the political section at the embassy. Adele and my late wife were very close, a pair of mischief makers. I cannot say that I approved of their friendship. Adele was a rogue, headstrong, an adventurer, very smart. But there wasn’t much I could do about it, as I was putting in twelve-hour days trying to assess the various governments coming to power and losing it, only to surface months later. It was exhausting. In those years it
seemed there was a new government every month or so. Adele is French but has lived all over the world. She lives here now. She grew up in this country—her father was a colonial administrator in the old days—and loves it, strange as that may sound. I think she likes the heat, and I know she likes the turbulence. She is attracted, if I may say so, to instability. She is well connected with many elements of this society, including the worst elements. Adele is a woman of the Left, well educated, sometimes indiscreet. We see each other from time to time and our relations have improved to the point where she smiles when she calls me a tool of the imperialists. That’s another way of saying we understand each other. And when I put the facts of this matter to her, she asked me to wait a few days and she would get back to me after she completed what she called her “soundings.” The ambassador paused there, frowning at the word he put in quotes. There was pain in his eyes, too, and Harry had the idea he was thinking of his late wife and her friendship with the adventurer Adele. He said, It took her a week. Last night she came by the residence to tell me that, in her view, this démarche is genuine. She will not swear to it. She did not guarantee it. She believes there is some dissension among the enemy leadership and that confuses the issue somewhat. But she did insist that serious people were involved and that, all in all, it’s worth a tumble from us. If we were serious also about talks. Are you with me so far, Harry?

  Harry said, So far.

  Because I think you’re the man for this job.

  I’ll help in any way, Harry said, fully concentrated now.

  You’re the right rank, not too high, not too low. In a word, you’re deniable in case this somehow leaks. Which it will not do. And you have as much experience in-country as almost anyone in the embassy. You don’t have the language, that’s true, but neither does anyone else. And you’ve nothing to do with the security services. That’s an advantage in these circumstances. Our friends on the third floor could use more cloak and less dagger. They are definitely not trusted by the other side. But most important, you have my complete confidence.

  How much does Washington know?

  What I have chosen to tell them, the ambassador said.

  I see, Harry said.

  The Secretary and I are very old friends.

  I didn’t know that.

  Sometimes we talk in code.

  Yes, sir.

  If this goes wrong, I’m responsible. You too, but less so. The ambassador paused and added, This is what I call a moment of consequence.

  Yes, sir, it certainly is.

  You must have questions, Harry. What are they?

  What’s my brief?

  Listen. Listen damn hard. Listen to every nuance. Take notes, if they agree to note-taking, which I doubt. Don’t make an issue of it.

  I understand, Harry said.

  Go in a skeptic, stay a skeptic. Look on it as a visit to an especially disagreeable lawyer whom you might learn something from. How’s your memory?

  Good, Harry said. I have more memory than is good for me, to tell you the truth. More than I need sometimes.

  The ambassador offered a wisp of a smile. He said, This will probably come to nothing. The track record with these people is pretty dismal.

  On the other hand, Harry began.

  Maybe not. Maybe they see an advantage. They initiated this after all. It’s their play. The iron does seem to be hot. When it’s hot, it’s time to cook. At any event, clear your desk. You leave tomorrow.

  Where exactly?

  South to the mangrove swamps, their turf. You begin in one of the southern market towns. My driver will take you there. You will be met, and from then you’re on your own. I wish I were younger, I wouldn’t mind this assignment. It might actually lead to something important. It might be the first step out of this god damned mess. The ambassador slapped his hand on his desk and stood up. Harry stood also. The meeting was at an end.

  This could be dangerous, the ambassador said.

  As you say, Ambassador: No risk, no reward.

  That’s the spirit, Harry. I do wish we knew more about them. I mean their command and control. Personalities and names and backgrounds to go with the personalities. The man you meet could be a country lout or an honors grad from the Sorbonne. Odd, isn’t it? We’ve been here for some time and they’re still mysterious. We’re an open book. They know our order of battle down to battalion level, names and capabilities. They know my grandfather was a jailbird, for chrissakes. They probably have a dossier on you. By the way, who’s Sieglinde?

  Harry was startled. Sieglinde?

  Yes, Sieglinde.

  A friend. She’s gone away now on her hospital ship. Back to Hamburg.

  Don’t look so surprised. We keep track of our people. Part of the job. This is an unstable environment, in case you haven’t noticed. The ambassador stepped to the door, and when he spoke his voice was soft. I’ve saved the most important business for last. This operation is classified top secret. If it leaks, it’s scandal time. The idea of treating with an enemy as disorganized as this one is a no-go in Congress and elsewhere. There would be a firestorm that could threaten this effort for good. The Secretary and I are out on a limb. Of course we have the president’s backing. We’re not rogue elephants, although I’m not entirely confident, if worst came to worst, we wouldn’t be left drifting in the wind. I cannot stress enough the need for absolute discretion for this moment of consequence. You are to say nothing to anyone. If anyone asks about you, they’ll be told you’re on leave. You’ve wanted some leave and are owed some leave and in a few days you’ll be back at your desk, as always. Questions?

  None, Harry said.

  Good at keeping secrets?

  Always have been, Harry said.

  Yes, that’s your reputation.

  Need-to-know, Harry said.

  Need-to-know, the ambassador replied. And no one does.

  The press would go crazy, Harry said.

  Yes, they would. They don’t like us, you know.

  I’m not sure they understand what it is that we do. Actually.

  They’re addicted to fracas, the ambassador said, opening his office door. He put out his hand and said, Good luck. He added a few more details about the rendezvous in the south, recognition procedures, a timeline. The ambassador suggested that Harry travel light and, obviously, unarmed. This kind of work, a weapon doesn’t mean much. Theoretically you are their guest. They promised safe passage; we take them at their word. And for your journey I want you to have this. The ambassador reached into his pocket and took out a flat round case the size of a fifty-cent piece. The case was gold, the ambassador’s initials on one side and on the reverse a date. Compass, he said, a gift from my dear wife many years ago. When you return, I expect it back. But for now it’s yours. Who knows? You might need it. It’s always brought me luck.

  Harry took the case and snapped it open. It had the look and feel of a fine timepiece. I’ll keep it safe, he said.

  And one last thing, Ambassador Earle said. A friend of yours arrives tomorrow. I’ll have to tell her the cover story, you on leave. She will be disappointed. She certainly did want to see you and sends her regards.

  Harry barely managed to ask the question: Who’s that?

  Congresswoman Finch, he said, the battle-ax from the Foreign Affairs Committee. She’s leading a delegation to assess how things are going, meaning when do we take the gloves off and let the army fight as it was trained to fight. How in God’s name do you know her?

  Friend of the family, Harry said. And with that, he took his leave. In the outer office Marcia handed him an envelope. Greenbacks, she said. One thousand U.S. In the event of an emergency. You sign for it here, she said, and handed him a pen and a slip of paper. Harry signed, tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, and hurried down one flight of stairs to the street. He paused a moment, squinting into the morning sun. The street was crowded with cyclos and taxis, here and there an army jeep. The temperature was near ninety and rising. His mind was crowded with q
uestions to which there were no ready answers. He thought of them as gaps, a tumultuous landscape in deep shadow. He did not know where he was going, except it was south. He did not know whom he was to meet, not a name or a rank or an age. He did not know the agenda, if there was one. They had given him one thousand U.S. in the event of an unspecified emergency and Marcia had leaned close, touched his elbow, and murmured, Stay safe, Harry. Take care. He carried the gold compass in his pocket, a good-luck charm. And all this guaranteed by a Frenchwoman named Adele, a woman of the Left barely trusted by Basso Earle. Trusted just enough to—smooth over the gaps. Harry could hear the undertow of excitement in the ambassador’s voice. His confidence was contagious, a kind of American fever. Harry lit a cigarette and noticed the tremor in his fingers. Not fear but anticipation of the sort a man might expect on his wedding day, flowers in the church and a mighty organ groaning in the choir, a beautiful girl at his side—and out of sight but palpable, the shadow line dividing past and future, or youth and maturity. He was embarked on a great voyage, alone at the helm. The street filled up and Harry marched away to his villa to stuff a few things in a duffel and wait for the ambassador’s driver.