The Kennedy Moment

by Peter Adamson

  Toni Restelle held Michael’s eyes for a moment then turned to the CDC Director. ‘Becket?’

  ‘I agree with everything Michael’s just said. It’s not about commitments on paper. And on the cost – I’d defer to Michael if we’re talking worldwide. But I should tell you it might well cost the US more than that to restart routine smallpox immunization at home, not to mention what we’d probably have to pony up to help other countries do the same. Just to give you some idea, we’re estimating that not having to give a shot of smallpox vaccine to every citizen of the US is saving the Treasury around a hundred million dollars a year right now.’

  Michael held himself in check, but the Chief of Staff had noticed the hesitation. ‘Dr Lowell?’

  Michael raised his fingertips from the table just a fraction to indicate that what he was about to say wasn’t a major consideration. ‘Might be worth adding – there can be a whole lot of kudos in a thing like this. The Soviets know all about it. They got a lot out of smallpox, especially in India.’

  Warren Taylor looked up, surprised. ‘I thought that was us?’

  ‘It pretty well was, in the end, especially in the toughest spots. But it was Zhdanov who proposed eradication back in ’59 and it was the Soviets who kicked the whole thing off, donated hundreds of millions of vaccine shots. Got a lot of political mileage out of it, especially in South Asia.’

  The clock stood at half past twelve when Toni Restelle, after a glance at the National Security Adviser, placed both hands face down on the table. ‘Okay, gentlemen, unless there’s anything else I think that’s a wrap. Lunch is right down the hall. By all means take a walk outside, explore the place or whatever, but remember this is a public place. Can I ask you all to be back here at, say, 2.30?

  Michael Lowell and Becket Bradie, wearing neither coats nor gloves, walked the lakeside path, enjoying the startling exposure to the elements after the closeted intensity of the morning. The day was becoming colder, a wind springing up, a dullness of cloud descending on the Shawangunks. By unspoken consent, the first part of the walk was accomplished in silence, the path climbing steadily away from the lake towards the outline of a gazebo on the clifftop.

  Becket stepped inside and leant on the rail, looking down on the quarter-mile stretch of ice and the unlikely edifice of Mohonk Mountain House. ‘Be good to come back here some day with nothing to worry about.’

  ‘When did you first get to hear about this thing, Beck?’

  ‘Tuesday night. Hughes, the UN guy, found the envelope on his doormat about nine o’clock. Called me at home. He’s on the Centers’ Federal Advisory Committee.’

  ‘Smart move.’

  ‘Yeah, didn’t do a whole lot for my weekend. Sorry you had to get dragged in. Glad I caught you in New York, though.’

  ‘And the Chief of Staff was the one you called?’

  ‘Yeah. Toni. Stroke of luck there. Known her since she was a kid. Grew up in the same street back in Portland. Parents been friends for years. It meant Tuesday night’s little communication got through to the President in what our Mr Marriot would no doubt call a hop, step and a jump. Took just a little while to get my head around the girl next door being Chief of Staff, but after a couple of meetings with the grown-up version I have to say it doesn’t seem so strange anymore.’

  ‘Powerful position.’

  ‘You betcha. And a lot of it comes right out of controlling the information flow. President’s right to use her as cut-out of course, preserve deniability and all. Result is, she gets to decide what he hears as well as who he sees, not to mention relaying the decisions back in whatever way seems best. The way Edith Wilson ran the country right after World War One.’

  ‘And you don’t approve?’

  ‘I do if it’s Toni Restelle, adult edition thereof. Somebody else in there I might be more worried.’

  ‘Beck, I’ve been waiting to ask you – how’s Paul doing?’

  Both men looked down on the stillness of the frozen lake a hundred feet below where two or three fallen pines were frozen into the ice. The silence said that there was nothing of good cheer to be relayed. Eventually Becket turned away from the view. ‘Brave. As you’d expect. Fact is, he doesn’t have long.’

  Michael looked down at the beaten earth floor of the gazebo. ‘Anne and the boys?’

  ‘Can’t imagine what they’re going through.’

  ‘He still at work?’

  ‘We’re battling with him, telling him to take off, spend time with the family. It’s the obvious cliché, Mike, but, when you think about it, it’s not necessarily the easy option.’

  The breeze was now being forced up from the lake at an eye-watering rush and they were about to turn and head back when the figure of Warren Taylor appeared at the top of the climb, treading warily in his business shoes. Slightly out of breath, he sank on to one of the rough wooden benches. ‘You fellas didn’t get yourselves lunch?’

  ‘We thought we’d clear our heads first. Maybe grab a sandwich at that coffee counter place.’

  ‘Give me a couple minutes and I’ll walk down with you. Plenty of time. I imagine Toni is still briefing the President on this morning’s little discussion.’

  Becket Bradie took the bench opposite. ‘She didn’t appear to be taking notes.’

  Warren Taylor smiled. ‘Not a single one, but I’d bet any money the President has a succinct account of everything germane by the time I sit down with him at two o’clock. Fact I’d go a whole lot further. I’d say Toni will have gotten him facing the right way before he’s finished his Key Lime pie.’

  As Becket frowned his surprise, Michael seated himself on one of the benches, pulling his jacket closed. Warren Taylor took a few more moments to recover, then turned away from his two companions to begin addressing an imaginary fourth occupant of the gazebo. ‘While the Bureau’s spinning its wheels, Mr President, you got a difficult choice to make here. On the one hand you give the order to alert a few hundred thousand public-health officials to keep an eye out for an outbreak of smallpox, with a real strong possibility of the mother and father of a panic, clamour for vaccines, shortages everyplace, honeymoon over, history of the first hundred days already written, administration’s not up to the job of protecting the American people.’ The National Security Adviser paused and held up a hand, glancing at his companions but then turning again to the imaginary occupant of the gazebo. ‘On the other hand, sir, you get to make a historic speech, a Kennedy moment you might call it, committing your administration to an enterprise that boosts the prestige of the United States all around the known world, lets everybody know the heart of a great humanitarian beats inside the tough welfare reformer, gives you a legacy to die for and puts you in with a shout for a Nobel Prize. Plus, by the way, sir, we’re talking nickel-and-dime stuff. Price of a couple of aircraft carriers.’ Again he glanced back to check the reaction, but once more held up a hand. ‘And what’s more, Mr President, this way we get the precious gift of time for the Bureau to hunt down whoever’s behind this thing. And if they don’t, and the bastards come back for more, why, I don’t rightly like to say this, sir, but by that time it’ll likely be somebody else’s problem.’

  The National Security Adviser finally turned to face the other two. ‘Now how difficult do you fellas think that decision’s gonna be?’

  Becket blew on his hands. ‘That’s the way you think he’ll go?’

  Warren Taylor got to his feet and turned for a last look at the view. ‘I dare say there’ll be a little interlude of chin music about the principle of the thing, and of course he’ll want a day or so to think about it. But in my opinion the toughest problem he’s going to face is how to make the rest of the speech as good as those passages somebody out there has very kindly drafted for him.’

  At half past two that afternoon, Becket Bradie, Bill Marriot and Michael Lowell were informed by Toni Restelle that the President was taking the rest of the weekend to make the call. Drs Lowell and Bradie were asked to hold themselves available i
n case further consultation might be needed. Both were assigned suites in the central tower block and again warned that Mohonk Mountain House was a semi-public place.

  Afterwards, the two spent an hour sketching the outline of a provisional plan for coping with the news of the threat becoming public. At four o’clock, when afternoon tea was served, they took a time out on the veranda, breathing in the pine-scented air and taking a last look at the lake. Michael wrapped both hands around his tea cup and leaned his elbows on the balustrade. ‘What do we know about Bill Marriot?’

  ‘Only what Toni’s told me. Ex-US Navy SEAL. Came up through military intelligence. No title. No listed public profile. Sits at the top table at both the Bureau and the CIA apparently. Go-to guy whenever they have to be coerced into co-operating.’

  Michael had been hoping to discuss Marriot’s request for names before meeting with the man again, but at that moment Marriot himself appeared on the veranda, his body language making it clear that this was no time to be drinking tea and taking in the view.

  For the next hour, Michael dredged up a dozen names of researchers and laboratories, many of them laboratories in the Soviet Union or the Middle East, some of the researchers dead or retired or moved on, and all of them likely to lead Bill Marriot’s people precisely nowhere. It was distasteful work and he could not wait for the meeting to finish, unable to dismiss from his mind a picture of himself standing atop a ladder with a bucketful of fish as Marriot rose repeatedly from the water to take one red herring after another from his outstretched hand. Pressed, he had agreed to provide the WHO’s list of the eight hundred or so institutions around the world known to be carrying out research on viruses. There was nothing secret about the list, and he had also suggested that Marriot’s people scan the Index Medicus for the last few years to identify the laboratories that had published papers on smallpox or been cited in the references. Again, this was no secret; it was how the WHO had compiled its own lists in the first place. By the evening, he was suffering from a rare headache and opted out of dinner, picking up his key at the desk and retreating to his room on the third floor of the tower block.

  There he opened a window and propped himself against a pillow on the canopied bed, surrendering to silence, allowing his surroundings to ease the tensions of the day.

  The Mountain House eschewed obvious luxury. The charm of the place resided in its settled quality, the quietness of old floorboards, the weight of brocade drapes framing the leaded windows, the polished nineteenth-century furniture, and the tranquillity of an establishment that had been receiving guests for a century and a half and knew how to do the job without trying too hard. For a few minutes he allowed himself to imagine staying here with Seema; sitting side by side in the steamer chairs on the veranda, or skating out on the lake, or setting off for the day on one of the trails into the hills, or chatting comfortably beside a Victorian fireplace. Or here, in this room, this quiet, this bed. It was now twenty-four hours since he had taken the call.

  He stared up at the elaborate moulding of the ceiling light, enjoying the smell of beeswaxed wood mixed with the piney tang of the mountain air. He closed his eyes, waiting for the headache to lift into the silence. On the edge of the lake, Bill Marriot appeared in a Homburg, skating unsteadily with the help of a tubular chair. On the deserted jetty, Becket stood watching as Marriot neared the hole at the edge of the ice, doing nothing to warn him, speaking quietly of Paul Lewis’s recovery, which seemed to be an established fact. He and Michael turned back together, but instead of the Mountain House there was now only a dilapidated gazebo, and when he stepped inside it was not Becket but his father by his side, carrying the Gladstone bag. And it was his father who was inserting the little fingers of both hands in the corners of his mouth to perform the famous piercing whistle that would warn Marriot of the danger. But the man out on the ice now was not Marriot but Toby, who turned the chair around and gave them a cheery wave. When he turned around the Mountain House was there after all, and in the lobby a stone chessboard before a blazing fire. There was no sign of the slow, sarcastic smile as Benny rose to shake hands.

  42 | A kiss is still a kiss

  Michael breakfasted alone in the windowless ground-floor area that served coffee and croissants to early risers before the Mohonk dining room began serving its full breakfast menu. Just after seven o’clock he was joined by Toni Restelle. She declined coffee and informed him he was free to leave. Communication was to be kept to a minimum, so she would like to thank him now for his input; a car was available to take him to the station at Poughkeepsie whenever he was ready. All this in a manner that, though efficient, also left Michael wondering why the young Becket Bradie had not taken more notice of the girl next door.

  Deciding that the Mountain House was better than a Manhattan hotel for the few hours more planning that were needed, Michael and Becket spent the morning fleshing out the previous day’s preparedness plan, including agreeing a list of the individuals and institutions who would need to be brought in if the threat were made public. After lunch they were driven to the rail station at Poughkeepsie, from where Michael called Seema to ask if she could meet him at the East Side Airlines Terminal on 38th Street. He had already had himself rebooked on the overnight flight to Geneva.

  The Metro North train that left Poughkeepsie some time before four o’clock that afternoon was almost empty, being on its way to bring commuters home to the suburbs, and the two men had no trouble finding themselves seats in the centre of a deserted non-smoking carriage as the train began its long rumble down the Hudson Valley.

  Becket took a last glance around the carriage. ‘I’m going to be a busy man, Michael. My guess is you will be too.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t see it happening.’

  ‘No? You think the President wouldn’t do ’most anything to stop that statement getting out? And any which way this thing breaks, the immunization thing’s going right up the agenda. Right now nobody’s even heard of the eighty-per-cent goal outside of our own charmed circle. Couple of weeks, that could change. Millions might know about it – what it could do, what it would take. And an awful lot of them might be persuaded. You guys ready for that?’

  Michael watched the wealthy townships of upstate New York passing by in a blur. ‘Be nice to be pushing on an open door, but we’d need an awful lot of help. Particularly from Atlanta.’

  ‘While I’m there, you’ve got it.’

  Michael nodded. ‘I know. You back there tonight?’

  ‘I wish. Last flight’s already gone. Planning to call Camden Hughes, see if he’s free for dinner.’

  ‘You got clearance from your friend Marriot?’

  Becket scowled at the thought. ‘Camden Hughes is solid gold.’

  Michael looked out of the window to the broad expanse of the river. The sun was low now, setting the Hudson on fire and casting the distant Catskills in purple. ‘Seriously, Beck, you’d better assume Hughes is being watched. And his place will probably be bugged by now as well.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not about to start avoiding the guy on account of him being involved in the Civil Rights Movement.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate these guys. Could cause a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Coming from someone who spent ’most all of yesterday afternoon blowin’ smoke up Marriot’s ass, I’ll take that as seriously as it deserves.’

  In the end they had less than half an hour together before Michael boarded the Carey’s bus to Kennedy. Failing to find a bar or coffee shop, they walked the jogging path beside FDR Drive towards Riverside Plaza. For an instant, as they strolled these bleak surroundings, he thought about taking her hand in the cold, but was immediately deterred by how inappropriate it might seem. The only reason she had wanted to see him, even for a few minutes, was because she would be desperate to hear if there had been any developments. As they turned away from the wind screaming up the East River past the great residential tower blocks, their upper storeys lost in swirling cloud, he tol
d her that the hunt for whoever had delivered the letter was going nowhere. He also told her that a response oversight team called the ‘Mohonk Committee’ had been set up, that it had been deliberating with the President and his Chief of Staff at a resort hotel in upstate New York for the last two days, and that as yet no decision on the response had yet been made.

  As they turned to walk back towards the hangar-like structure of the East Side Airlines Terminal, Seema stopped, letting her hood fall back. She took both his gloved hands in hers and looked into his eyes for almost the first time since they had met that day. ‘Michael, how do you know about this committee?’

  ‘Because I’m on it.’

  The last few passengers were about to board the silver Carey’s bus as he lowered his head and kissed her lips, gently, for the first time in twenty years. It was an awkward kiss, uncertain and brief, somewhere between a goodbye and a declaration. But a kiss.

  43 | A little bit of your heart

  Camden Hughes and Becket Bradie met at La Petite Marmite in Mitchell Place, an upscale restaurant popular for expense-account lunches but generally quiet in the evenings. The service was as starched as the white tablecloths and as uptight as the cut-glass goblets, but it was one of the few restaurants in Midtown with enough space between tables to allow of a private conversation.

  When their order had been taken, Camden looked around to make sure that they were alone. ‘Mohonk Mountain House. No, can’t say I ever heard of it. And you say the President was there?’