The Kennedy Moment

by Peter Adamson

  ‘And half the Cabinet. Secretary of State. Defense. National Security Adviser. Some foreign-policy thing. We were just the sideshow.’

  Camden, dressed as always in dark suit, white shirt and Fifties-vintage striped repp necktie, could not keep the curiosity out of his eyes. ‘I’d like to hear about it, but no need at all to tell me anything I don’t need to know.’

  ‘Nothing much to tell anyway. No decision yet. I’d rather hear some more about the book. How’s it coming along?’

  ‘Well, thank you. Slowly, I think is the answer. But before that there’s something I think I ought to tell you. I would surely have asked you back to Sutton Place this evening to share a one-pot dinner and drink a little wine, but I thought maybe we’d be more comfortable in this uncomfortable setting seeing as how my home has been entered and searched, and I’m assuming it’s now wired for sound.’

  Becket frowned, returning the glass of iced water to the table, condensation making a damp ring on the cloth. ‘I don’t believe they did that.’

  ‘I’ll allow they were discreet.’

  ‘How do you know they were there?’

  Camden sighed. ‘Man lives alone, he knows when a stranger’s passed through. Little things. Hood on the Rolodex closed all the way when you’re pretty sure you left it half open just where it sticks. Magazines your memory tells you were leaning the other way on the shelves. Papers maybe a tad too squared-up. More than that. Something in the air, not the smell exactly, just something a little bit different from all the other nights. Like I said, you live alone, someone passing through your life, man knows.’

  ‘This is Marriot. Bill Marriot. FBI and CIA. He was up at this Mohonk place too. Kept on asking why they picked you.’

  ‘Suppose the man’s just doing his job.’

  ‘To use his own words, the man’s fucking flies. McCarthy mentality, only it’s the Civil Rights Movement he seems to think is some kind of unAmerican activity.’

  ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm done, and certainly the unfortunate functionary at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue who drew the task of listening to the tapes is going to find the long winter evenings just flying by.’

  Food arrived with a flourish and the two men remained silent as the wine bucket was placed on its stand. None of the adjacent tables was occupied but Becket glanced again around the restaurant. ‘I’m really sorry that happened, Camden. Be just temporary. But I know it’s not what you want in your own home.’

  Camden frowned, thinking of the special importance that the privacy of his study and the few quiet hours of each day played in his life. ‘I’ll take it for a while. Then I’ve got some contacts of my own to call in. And of course a certain knowledge of the federal law in such matters that could make things awkward for your Mr Marriot if he pushes too hard or too long. Days are gone when the Bureau was a law unto itself. And, if I’m not mistaken, I seem to remember that little change came about after a group of citizens decided to employ distinctly illegal means.’

  ‘Where are you headed, Camden?’

  ‘Just sayin’. Those papers so inconveniently pushed through my door that night. I read them a second time. And a third. As I suspect you did. And I was wondering if just a little bit of your own heart wasn’t singing from the same hymn sheet?’

  ‘I asked Michael Lowell pretty much the same question this weekend. The WHO guy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he was about as evasive as you and I are being. Good thing we’re not in your apartment, by the way. But as we’re not, what went through your own mind?’

  Camden Hughes put down his knife and fork and leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers locked. ‘Is it true, Becket? Five million youngsters every year? Vaccines sitting there costing a dime a time? No one bothering to get out there and do it?’

  Becket Bradie also rested his knife and fork. ‘We generally dress it up a little differently, but the answer’s yes, it’s true.’

  Camden stared, frowning his incredulity. ‘And it could be done, like they say, if anyone cared?’

  ‘The answer is yes.’

  After a long pause, Camden pushed his half-eaten dinner to one side. ‘Most of my life’s been spent insisting on what you might want to call correct procedure. Due process. Letter of the law. Even when sometimes it seemed a little stuffy. And that was because there was always something bigger behind the little things. Something bigger than the petty details I found myself insisting on. Due process was a long time coming. It’s what’s replaced might is right, power growing out of the barrel of the gun, or the stock of a whip. But when I read that statement … the thought of those kids. And, I have to tell you, though I try not to have any kind of a chip on my old shoulder, I could not entirely help but recall that these are ’most all black and brown kids.’

  ‘So a piece of you sang with what they were saying.’

  ‘Bigger piece than I’d’ve thought. You?’

  Becket met his companion’s eyes. ‘Camden, best years of my own life were spent with a fine bunch of colleagues trying our damnedest to rid the world of a disease that brought more death and distress to this world than any other. And I’m telling you smallpox doesn’t have any competition for that title. Not even the plague gets close. And the thought that anyone might threaten to release it into the world again should fill me with anger. Does fill me with anger. But when I read that thing … I’m not going to tell you I couldn’t understand where they were coming from. I thought about that statement saying it’s like we’ve found a cheap cure for cancer but decided not to bother with it because it only kills the poor. First off, I saw it as just hyperbole. But I kept coming back to it, playing with the figures, and I have to admit it’s pretty much on the money.’

  After a long silence, Camden Hughes poured more wine and again checked the restaurant. ‘So what’s going to happen. You have any idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a theory that we’re dealing with sane, intelligent people who wouldn’t dream of using the virus, people who are hoping just the threat to go public will be enough. If the President buys that, he could decide to do nothing. Call their bluff. But the risk there is that they’ll go to second and hit the media with that persuasive little statement. And if the President thought that was likely to happen he could take pre-emptive action. Hang tough on TV. US won’t give in to threats. This thing can be handled. But one or two people over the weekend were distinctly of the mind that he might not want to risk a public panic.’

  Camden Hughes sipped wine, not taking his eyes off his companion. ‘You mean he might even go with it?’

  ‘It’s one possibility.’

  A minute elapsed as Camden absorbed the thought. ‘Well, I guess all I can say is, worse things have happened.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘What does your childhood sweetheart think?’

  Becket smiled. ‘I don’t know. She plays the part of the rapporteuse, the go-between, only you can’t quite escape the feeling …’

  ‘That she might be running the show?’

  ‘She for sure directs the traffic.’

  Camden chewed for a while, amused. ‘And your friend from the World Health Organization?’

  ‘We might just be able to get it back in the bottle as far as the US is concerned, but globally it’s a whole different ball game.’

  Camden nodded. ‘And your man Marriot?’

  ‘Marriot thought the whole thing must be coming from someone in “our line of country” as he kept on saying. Some individual or maybe a group working in public health who’ve gotten themselves frustrated.’

  ‘Not entirely unreasonable.’

  ‘No. It’s not. Have to admit something about the guy made me think everything he said was unreasonable even when it wasn’t. We pointed out the spelling mistake – no one in “our line of country” likely to flunk “diphtheria” in a spelling bee.’

  Camden looked dubious. ‘Mmm. Just might be. But … statement like that – fair standard of literacy in th
e English language, I think you’d have to say – could be said to be the kind of error that smells of the lamp, if you catch my drift.’ He looked up at his companion, a smile brimming in his eyes. ‘Come to think of it, could even be someone at the WHO or the CDC wanting to deflect a little attention.’

  ‘You’re a suspicious man, Camden.’

  ‘Easy. Not a suspicion I’m about to pass on to your Mr Marriot any time soon.’

  ‘Marriot’s going to love your book by the way. Mentioned it several times up at Mohonk. Big fan of Marcus Garvey.’ Becket paused for a moment. ‘I’m ashamed to ask, but who was he?’

  Camden’s voice relaxed, rising from a half whisper to its normal quiet. ‘Black leader in the years right in front of World War Two. Born in Jamaica. Spent his life in the US. Believed in uniting the black race wherever they were in the world, wresting economic independence from whites. Bit like Fanon – “liberty has to be taken, not given”. Ahead of his time in preaching the mind has to be freed as well as the body. Started The Negro World, of which I am the proud owner of one of the very few complete sets in existence. Also founded the Black Star Shipping Line that got him into a whole lot of trouble. Predecessor of the Panthers in a way – “For over three hundred years the white man has been our oppressor, and he naturally is not going to liberate us … We have to liberate ourselves”.’

  ‘I can see why Marriot is a fan. What was it that drew you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. More the fact that his life pulls in so many strands from such interesting times. As a man, I have to say I prefer Langston Hughes. No relation as far as I know. Met him once or twice. But there’s a whole slew of books on Hughes. You know Freedom’s Plow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never yet met anyone who did. In my book it gets a shot at the great American poem. First in the heart is the dream – then the mind starts seeking a way.

  ‘So how long before the book’s finished?’

  ‘Oh, I should think I’ll have to retire before I can really get to work.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘No set retirement age for those of my exalted rank, but the option arises ’bout two years seven months from now.’

  Becket smiled. ‘And, when the time comes, what would you say about playing a bigger role at the CDC?’

  Camden Hughes looked over his wine glass. ‘Down there among the swamps and the medical mafia? No sir, I’ll be staying right here in the land of the free. Besides, a man’s about a foot shorter down there if he doesn’t have an MD to his handle.’

  ‘Think about it. Still leave you time for Garvey.’

  Camden Hughes smiled and shook his head. ‘Time comes when it’s right to take your hand off of the plow. Poet never thought of that. Too young, I expect. So, what happens next? You out of this thing?’

  Becket shook his head. ‘If the President decides to hang tough I guess I’ll be heading up the response team. Try to get us in shape. Assuming Marriot’s people are still chasing their tails.’

  Camden’s expression became stern for a moment at the mention of Marriot, gradually softening into an amused inquiry. ‘And if your friend Ms Restelle calls it the other way? If the Chief, in his infinite wisdom, hits the airwaves with that little speech someone has very thoughtfully drafted for him?’

  ‘I guess I’d be called in anyway. Start planning how best to help get the ball rolling on immunization.’

  Camden leaned forward slightly over the table as the wine waiter threatened. ‘Now maybe you’d like to tell me, Dr Bradie, which would you rather be doing?’

  44 | Competing with James Dean

  Hélène unbuttoned the man’s striped shirt in which the little girl had been wrapped and saw what she expected: wrinkled grey skin being sucked in between the ribs with each shallow breath. For a moment there had been no movement at all save for the liquid fear swimming in the eyes. And then from somewhere the tiny body found the energy for a harsh, paroxysmal cough. And then another. She rested a hand on the bones of the shoulder, noticing the dry, cracked skin around the lips as she placed the stethoscope on the chest, listening to the unmistakable cracking, snapping and whistling of advanced TB.

  Half an hour later she was back in her own room, lying on the bed under the steady motion of the ceiling fan and weeping for what she had done. The injection she had given wouldn’t do a damn thing. Its only purpose had been to help protect herself from the mother’s grief. There was nothing else she could have done for the child. But still she wept tears of pity and shame.

  She dozed miserably for a while, then forced herself to get up and carry the week’s mail out to the veranda. The sun was slanting under the eaves, still fierce enough to burn, and she shuffled the wicker chair back into the shade. The tiredness in her limbs was still there, but the swelling in the lymph nodes had calmed down over the last few days.

  Seema’s letter was chatty and inconsequential until the last paragraph.

  No word yet on our application. Apparently Toby wrote us a marvellous letter of recommendation, though I haven’t seen it myself. Otherwise all well here. Stephen still around, though getting fidgety I think. Michael had to delay his return at the last moment on account of some meeting, so I was able to see him again, just briefly, when he came through town again on his way to JFK. He said to send you his love and say he’d be in touch soon.

  And the postscript that came as no surprise at all:

  I don’t know why I didn’t tell him this, but I’ll tell you – I’m living in hope.

  Hélène looked up from the flimsy air-mail paper towards the glow of the setting sun. The night gardien had arrived and was installing himself by the gate, setting his machete beside him on the earth.

  Becket Bradie called Michael at home late in the day, Geneva time, on Tuesday, February 24th. Figures were guardedly exchanged about vaccine stocks and Michael was able to confirm that the CASE manual had been received and checked. Other than that the conversation amounted to little more than a courtesy call: a week had passed since the meeting at Mohonk Mountain House. No word had come down from Washington.

  Michael inquired after Paul. The news was not good.

  Seema sat at the window table of a favourite coffee shop on West 8th Street. Out on the Avenue of the Americas, two black teenagers wearing only T-shirts against the February cold were rollerblading through the traffic. On the corner of Greenwich Avenue, a wino was shouting abuse at people buying newspapers from a street vendor and an elderly woman was cleaning up after her dog. An ordinary New York morning.

  The absurdity was that she had found herself able to work again, making progress with the book in a way that had not been possible for weeks. It had happened without any great resolution on her own part. Perversely, it seemed to have something to do with what they were embarked upon. And something to do with Michael. Again today she had turned down Stephen’s offer of lunch in order to spend the day in the library. But whenever she emerged from her work she was aware of being suspended over a bottomless abyss. The search would surely be in full cry by now, and she had almost made a mantra of Michael’s words about the impossibility of their being traced. Ashamed of her self-concern, she tried to recall the conversations that had led up to it all, in an Oxford garden, in the cold of Central Park, in the comfort of her own apartment. And always she came back to the heart-in-mouth consideration of what might be happening in response, each line of speculation running into the sands of the unknowable, her thoughts ending up, as always, with the man she had thought she had known.

  When Stephen awoke from his afternoon doze it was as if he were opening his eyes to the Chelsea Hotel for the first time. Surely a strange choice for someone who could afford a suite at the Waldorf. He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. The lock had no key and the curtain was a bed sheet loosely tacked across the window. Was this all that the Bohemian ambience really came down to? One or two battered pieces of period furniture. An ancient copy of the SCUM Manifesto on the nightstand.
A mawkish poem half-written, half-scratched, in biro on the inside of one of the drawers. Hallways that stank of stale weed. And a few original but bad paintings with which unrecognized geniuses might be supposed to have paid their bills.

  He returned to the bedroom, vaguely wondering if his inability to decide between the Chelsea and the Waldorf was in some way emblematic of who he was; a man whose sense of himself seemed to have no fixed abode. And for a terrifying moment the wiring of his brain seemed to fuse in an intense burst of nothingness, as though who he was had somehow emptied itself of any capacity to control itself, burning out thought, memory, personality, self. When it was over he stepped out on to the wrought-iron balcony, still carrying the towel, breathing heavily and glad to exchange the smell of stale ganja for the fresh diesel and petrol fumes arising from 23rd Street sixty feet below.

  The trouble was he could not decide from one day to the next whether he loved or hated this city, finding its anonymity elating one moment and depressing the next. Below him a yellow cab had come to a stop under the awning. On the corner of 7th Avenue a group of old men were stamping their feet in the cold and drinking from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags. He stepped back into the room and looked at his watch. It was too early to go out to dinner. Maybe tomorrow he would make the move. Maybe to the Plaza. Swap Bob Dylan for Jay Gatsby.

  Toby’s lethargy had not been lifted by the announcement that they had been awarded the Concorde contract on the basis of no more than his outline pitch. It had been a fillip to his own position but had failed to stir any of the old excitement. Only the mention of more or less unlimited free tickets for Concorde had sparked any interest. At least whenever there were empty seats, which apparently was virtually every flight and probably explained the haste to appoint a new agency. He sipped his drink. Why didn’t the damn thing fly somewhere useful? Abidjan, for example. Not that he’d go. Making a pathetic pink pest of himself. No chance of competing with whatsisname – Saint Fabrice of Boggley Wollah. Or was that India? Courage and idealism a cut above the average, apparently. No doubt handsome as hell. Plus he had the overwhelming advantage of being dead. Like trying to compete with … James Dean seemed somehow inappropriate but it was all he could think of at the moment.