The Kennedy Moment

by Peter Adamson

  Toby held up both hands in a forestalling apology. ‘Sorry, sunshine, forgot about all that. And about the Russkies being passionate about Ethiopia, Libya, Syria, and – what’s that other place? – Angola out of pure unadulterated concern for the suffering masses. Pig’s bum, mate.’

  Stephen made a very visible effort to remain patient. ‘The Soviet Union shows solidarity with those few socialist governments struggling to free themselves from the grip of a neocolonial world economy. And, yes, it helps progressive resistance movements that try to do something for the mass of the people. Helps them toward some sort of national liberation in the face of—’

  Toby assumed a look of exaggerated enlightenment. ‘I see. National liberation like in Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia – not forgetting Afghanistan, of course, just the other week. Anybody want to share that last bagel?’

  Hélène fought a sudden onset of tiredness, her thoughts wandering out of control. Fabrice would have agreed with so much that Stephen had to say. But it was much easier to imagine him getting on with Toby.

  The others let Stephen finish his speech on the Soviet Union’s need to buffer itself after years of wartime suffering, no one wanting to prolong this particular argument.

  At the first pause, Hélène put the day back on track. ‘I still want to know how this thing would work in practice and what each of us would have to do.’

  Stephen turned away, picking up a copy of Saturday’s New York Times as Michael began a reply.

  ‘The heart of it all is the statement, the one we threaten to go public with. It has to be something so special that the administration would go to almost any lengths to avoid seeing it in the Times or the Post. My hope is it will be written by someone who could do that job better than anyone I know.’

  The others followed Michael’s look. Toby was sitting on the floor, staring intently at the glass doors of the stove. For a few moments the silence was broken only by the quiet roar of the flames. Hélène finished her coffee, hoping the caffeine would soon kick in. ‘And the rest of us?’

  Stephen lowered the newspaper. ‘I should have thought it was obvious that I should make the drop. Grand Central, or wherever. I don’t want to be in the position of having suggested something I’m not prepared to put my own neck on the line for. Besides, I’ll be here. The rest of you, I assume, will be going back whence you came?’

  Michael looked around at the others. ‘Okay, Stephen, but before that there’s something else we’d need to consider. I can’t take the samples with me through airport security. If we decide to call the whole thing off then I’ll destroy them. That isn’t a problem. But, if we’re going ahead, they have to stay here in New York.’

  ‘They can stay in my fridge at the Chelsea.’ Realizing that he might have sounded over-eager, Stephen attempted to make light of the offer. ‘Probably less lethal than some of the bugs already in there.’

  Seema looked at Michael in a fleeting glance of alarm. Michael shook his head. ‘What about chambermaids, cleaners? Then there’s the package to deliver. Key, letter, statement.’ He looked around at the faces of the others, each stage in the process seeming to make the plan more real. ‘I can do that myself. I’ll be back in New York before too long.’

  Hélène clicked her tongue. ‘That’s crazy, Michael. Hundreds of people at the UN know who you are and a lot of them live in Midtown. You’re the last person who should do it.’

  Toby looked up, frowning. ‘So have we decided on this Hughes character?’

  Stephen dropped the newspaper on the floorboards. ‘Seems to me he ticks all the boxes. And if it is to be Hughes, then it’d better be me again. No one knows me around the UN, I’m pleased to say.’

  ‘I will do it.’

  The voice was still quiet, but seemed to fill the whole space of the loft. Stephen pulled a sceptical face. Michael looked alarmed for the first time. ‘Seema …’

  ‘If we decide to do this, I will keep the vials here. And I will deliver the package.’ Though quiet, there was something about the statement that defied challenge.

  It was Toby who broke the tension. ‘What chance of forgetting all about it for a couple of hours while we go out for brunch?’

  ‘Not good, but we could give it a try.’ Hélène was looking round for her shoulder bag as the others, relieved at the suggestion of escape, began to stir.

  As they crossed the Avenue of the Americas, huddled against the wind, Seema took Michael’s arm, slowing her pace so that they fell some way behind. For two blocks they walked without words until, waiting for the lights at the corner of Bleecker, he turned to face her. ‘You know you just have to say the word and all this will be over?’

  ‘I know that, even if I don’t know why.’

  ‘I think you probably do know why.’

  The lights changed and they walked another block in silence, hardly noticing their surroundings as they passed by Pei’s brutalist Silver Towers. The cold bit deep as they turned in to the wind on La Guardia Place.

  ‘We’ve never really talked, have we, Michael? Not in Oxford. Not here.’

  When Michael made no reply she glanced up at him. ‘And now this. Which makes it impossible to talk about anything else.’

  Another block went by in silence.

  ‘The others are all with you, Michael, you know that?’

  ‘And you?’

  Years later, Michael would remember the exact place, waiting under the bare trees halfway across Houston. They ignored the stop light changing to green, allowing others to cross towards the softer street lights and welcoming restaurants of Soho. And he remembered, too, the complete conviction that he should not be the one to speak.

  ‘And so am I.’

  ‘Seema … you can take all the time you need …’

  The brunch at Florio’s was a failure. As if by osmosis, each was aware that the decision had been made and that talk of anything else was irrelevant. In the event, they could not wait to get back to the apartment.

  When the fire had been revived and silence had fallen, all of them knew that the time had come. It was Michael who formalized it: sitting upright and resting both hands on his knees, he looked at each in turn. ‘Stephen?’

  Stephen pulled an extraordinary face, waving a casual hand, implying it had been a no-brainer all along.

  ‘Hélène?’

  ‘I won’t be here. But for what it’s worth, yes, I’m in.’

  ‘Seema?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Toby?’

  ‘Consensual.’

  Another silence followed, each aware that the chasm they had looked into all weekend was now being stared at from the other side.

  The discussion that day continued long after there was anything more to be said. By three o’clock, Hélène was drifting in and out of sleep. On the sofa, Toby had long ago fallen silent. Michael stared into the flames, wondering at his capacity to be at one and the same time permuting possible outcomes of the plan and absorbed, heartstruck, by the woman sitting almost opposite him in the firelight. Eventually, seeing strain and tiredness all around him, he suggested going back to their hotels. ‘But before we go, there’s something I want to just mention.’

  ‘It’s not another of your little suggestions is it?’ Toby had opened his eyes.

  Michael looked at the skylight above. The day had grown dark, but no lamps had been switched on and only the flames from the stove lit the faces around him. ‘Toby said yesterday we shouldn’t take into account the risk to ourselves. And I guess that’s right. But the point is, if we’re identified, the plan fails. So no risks. And as I see it there really is only one risk.’ He looked at each of the others. Hélène was still fighting sleep. Seema and Toby had both guessed what might be coming. Stephen was folding up the newspaper, apparently unconcerned. Above their heads, the wind battled with the chimney stacks.

  Michael shuffled forward to the edge of his chair. ‘Let me back up aways. None of us has any kind of record, or any kind of connection
to any group that’s likely to come under any suspicion. We all belong to establishment institutions. We’re not going to be on NSA databases or FBI wiretaps. The only way we could ever be traced would be via witnesses or forensics. And there won’t be any.’

  Toby rubbed his eyes. ‘Forensically, in Michael we trust.’

  ‘The only risk is that one of us lets something slip.’ The expressions of the others suggested that no warning was needed, but Michael was shaking his head. ‘I know what we’ll all say. But it could happen. Secrets create pressures. And this secret would have to be for the rest of our lives. Nothing could ever be said. Not in a moment of anger, or under stress, or in some kind of life crisis, or because we don’t want to keep anything from someone we love, or because one night years from now one or other of us has a glass of wine too many.’ Toby winced, though none of the others had looked at him. ‘There are five of us. And a lot of years to come. Something like this comes with psychological pressures that we’ve none of us any experience of.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Okay, that’s it, I’m through.’

  The rain on the skylight above became more insistent as they each imagined possibilities, circumstances, consequences. After a few moments, Hélène stood up from the sofa with a shake of her head, as if to stop her eyes from closing again. ‘It’s really weatherin’ out there.’

  19 | For the rest of our lives

  Hélène had known what was coming as soon as Michael had invited her to lunch.

  They had arranged to meet at the Swiss Inn where they were able to find a corner well away from the more popular window tables overlooking First Avenue. They ordered quickly.

  When they were alone Hélène began with a deep sigh and a long, dubious look at her companion. Michael gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Get much sleep?’

  ‘Not much. I went off okay, then woke with a start about two o’clock thinking “Holy Mary Mother of God, what are we doing?”’

  Michael’s smile faded. ‘I think I’m going to change my mind and have a glass of wine.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll join you. Better make it just one, though. Oh God, I wonder if we’re going to be saying that for the rest of our lives?’

  Michael looked around. The restaurant was almost empty, the only other diners being a couple who had taken a table by the window. ‘Not too long on atmosphere.’

  ‘It’s terrifyingly ordinary.’

  They were silent as the waiter placed two glasses of white wine before them, along with a small plate of olives. From outside came the deep foghorn of a truck bruising its way up First Avenue. When the waiter had gone, they raised their glasses and lightly touched rims, Hélène taking only a token sip. ‘Let me save you some trouble here, Michael. I can’t make the speech, can I?’

  Michael also returned his glass to the table. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’d already worked it out. “Telling it like it is” right here in New York so close to … you know … I’d be in the frame right off.’

  Michael lowered his voice, though there was no one within fifty feet. ‘It would trigger an investigation like you wouldn’t believe. They’d be going through every single one of your contacts as far back as kindergarten. Wouldn’t take long to get to me. And that would be too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘I know. I realized as soon as I saw the speech on my bedside table when I got back last night. It’s one or the other.’

  Food arrived and for a while they ate in silence. The tables by the windows were filling up, the background hubbub beginning to rise. ‘Fish is good.’

  Michael looked as if he were noticing what they were eating for the first time. ‘I can imagine how much you’ve put into it, how good it would have been.’

  Hélène shrugged and took a more determined sip of the wine. ‘I must admit, I’d worked myself up to it. I did want to make the speech.’

  Michael put down his knife and fork. ‘You already made it, Hel. You’re the one who woke us all up, including me.’

  Hélène surprised herself by being suddenly close to tears as she poked around in the salad with her fork. ‘Remind me to leave you asleep next time.’

  The waiter arrived to refill the glasses from a jug of iced water. By the time he had gone, Hélène had composed herself again. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to go back and do your best to forget about it.’

  ‘It’s not something that’s likely to slip my mind.’

  ‘What I meant to say is … you’ve already done your bit. In every possible way. The only thing you can do now is—’

  ‘Give you my blessing?’

  Michael took another glance around the restaurant before speaking again. ‘Yes. I do want your blessing, Hel. It’s partly what Seema said. You can put too much faith in your own judgement, too much trust in your own … mental balance – sanity, I suppose. People can get bent out of shape without realizing it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s insane, Michael, if that’s what you mean. You know what I think is insane.’

  He nodded, thinking of all that Hélène had witnessed over the years.

  She leaned towards him. ‘Anyway, as I see it, no one stands to get hurt.’

  Michael had given up the pretence of eating his lunch. ‘That’s what Seema wanted to know. But we can’t be absolutely sure of that. It’s possible they’ll decide to tough it out and start vaccinating first responders, health personnel, emergency services. That would probably cause some kind of a panic and maybe a whole bunch of people won’t believe that it can be contained and start demanding vaccines.’

  ‘And some people might get a bad reaction to the vaccine? Tell me, Michael, what’s the fatality rate for vaccinia?’

  ‘Slightly under 0.0001 per cent.’

  ‘Thought you might have a rough idea.’

  Hélène thought for a moment. ‘So, okay, let’s talk about balance. The chances of a fatal reaction from the vaccine are less than one in a million. But the very least we could expect is that immunizing kids gets kicked way up the agenda, accompanied by publicity like you’d never get in your wildest dreams, however many reports you published. And if that happens it’s going to save hundreds of thousands of young lives.’

  Michael thought for a moment. ‘I guess I’m trying to keep some kind of a toehold on “first do no harm”.’

  Hélène made her impatient clicking noise. ‘If physicians were puritans about that, we’d never have risked vaccinating anybody, never have risked giving anyone a blood transfusion, never have risked performing a caesarean …’

  Michael held up his hands in submission but Hélène was in full cry. ‘And in this particular case I’d have thought the balance of likely harm and likely good is what I believe they call over here a no-brainer. So, yes, Michael, you have my blessing, for what it’s worth.’

  Michael looked steadily at her, hoping his eyes were conveying something of the depth of his respect. ‘You don’t need to do anything. I’ll say you took sick. You going on to Montreal?’

  ‘Yes. And, as it happens, it won’t altogether be a lie. First thing I’m going to do is check myself into McGill.’

  Michael looked up in concern, thoughts instantly leaping to Paul. Hélène smiled, ‘Probably nothing. Been feeling tired these last few months, that’s all. Not your normal tiredness, I don’t think.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Lymph nodes a bit swollen a lot of the time. Probably just means I’m fighting off some infection, which I probably always am. Still … whatever it is, it’s knocked me for a loop.’

  ‘Any suspicions yourself?’

  ‘Not really. You know how it is. People like to think we always have a name for everything. And a drug of course. But, as you well know, it’s not like that, especially in Africa. Anyway, I’ll get myself thoroughly checked out. Take advantage of the insurance for once. I’ll go tomorrow, have an extra couple of days with Mom and Dad.’

  ‘And you’ve lost w
eight.’

  ‘And I’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Diarrhoea too?’

  Hélène hesitated. ‘Yes. For a few months now, I guess. Again not unusual in Africa, as you may know.’

  ‘Keeping yourself hydrated?’

  ‘Drink ORS like Toby drinks Scotch. Stephen’s a bit worried about that, by the way. You?’

  ‘Not really. Thing like this, he’d get a grip. Actually he’s a bit worried about Stephen. Thinks there might be a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, as he put it. By the way, can you make time to brief Toby before you go?’

  ‘Nothing I can tell him that you can’t.’

  ‘Not so. We already had breakfast. I talked him through my side of things. Now he needs to talk to you.’

  Hélène looked at him suspiciously. Michael decided not to smile. ‘He needs to talk to you.’

  ‘Okay.’ She was about to stand up to look for a payphone.

  ‘I’ll give him a call now.’

  ‘He’s at some lunch meeting up on Madison.’

  Hélène sat back again. ‘Difficult to imagine Toby’s other world, eh?’

  Michael nodded. ‘He’s been doing a pretty good job imagining ours.’

  ‘Yes. Yes he has.’

  ‘When does he leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. On Concorde.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Apparently the agency’s been invited to pitch for the Concorde account. Seemed like a good idea if he flew back on it. Got to do his research.’

  Hélène shook her head in bemusement. ‘Don’t really think of Toby all sleek and supersonic, do you? And that reminds me of something.’ She paused for a moment before looking up. ‘I want to repay my airfare.’