‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable.’
They spoke, probed; and left it that she would return and make the counterproposal.
‘But what if Lavrenti Pavlovich says he can’t spare the existing model?’
Alistair Fleetwood sighed. ‘I suppose I would need to reorder my schedule for the next month or two.’
Alice Goodyear Corbett embraced him.
‘But understand, you are seriously to raise with him the alternative.’
‘I promise.’
‘Do you promise to make me go to sleep tonight blissfully?’ The Nobel laureate adopted the manner of a ten-year-old boy asking for a lollipop.
Alice Goodyear Corbett led him by the hand to the bedroom.
15
The Prime Minister sat stiffly in the back of the Rolls-Royce. His Foreign Minister was seated next to him. They drove through St. James’s Park toward the Palace. He made an idle observation about the weather (it was sunny and warm, and Dahl Breckenridge observed that it was sunny and warm) concerning which the PM took no notice. Anthony Brogan knew that the session with Queen Caroline would probably be the most painful of any of the weekly meetings since he became Prime Minister. He knew, moreover, that the Queen did not welcome third parties at their meetings. Even so, his bringing Breckenridge along was bound to ease his burden, which was why, through the Queen’s aide, he had solicited her agreement, perfunctorily granted, on the constitution of this particular meeting. There were moments with the Queen when it was very nearly impossible for the PM to say anything. Breckenridge was a phlegmatic type and was sure, when heavy weather came, to calm things down in his own unexcited, unexcitable way.
The Prime Minister’s car advanced through the Main Gate, as usual. The inspector poked his head towards the window, saluted, and waved the car on into the inner courtyard.
They emerged, the steward opened the King’s door, and they moved into the antechamber. The Queen’s equerry bowed slightly, said good morning, and led the two top officials of the government up the staircase to the Queen’s Audience Room. While they walked, Dahl Breckenridge said something complimentary about the Palace decorations. Once again the Prime Minister did not comment, so they continued the rest of the way to the Queen’s Audience Room in silence.
Queen Caroline rose as they were ushered in.
She was wearing a deep-blue long-sleeved dress and a light pigskin belt. Her familiar pearls caught the sunshine coming in from the window facing the courtyard. With her left hand she held her poodle, Furioso; with her right, she shook hands with her ministers, then motioned them to sit down in the two leather-bound armchairs. She sat opposite them in the larger chair, putting her dog down on the empty seat.
She ignored her Foreign Minister. ‘I suppose, Prime Minister, that you will remark on the excellence of the weather, on the grounds that otherwise I might not have noticed it?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ the Prime Minister made an earnest effort at geniality, ‘it would be positively—ungrateful—not to mention such weather, wouldn’t you agree?’
It was immediately obvious that carefree remarks about the weather were not being received this day at the court of Queen Caroline. She looked vaguely out of the window, stroking her dog. ‘Interesting formulation, that. If I say that I do agree—that it would be ungrateful not to mention the weather—then I am acquiescing in an implicit agenda. Am I correct? One begins by saying good morning. One moves next to the question of the weather. That is convention. Conventions are necessary, I agree. But to invest in conventions an extra meaning, as you have just now done, Prime Minister, by suggesting that to do otherwise than to express one’s gratitude for such weather is disdainful …?’
She turned and stared at him, and then smiled, picking up the dog and massaging his arched head. ‘Disdainful towards the God who willed us this good weather? It is always appropriate to express our gratitude to Him. But since it is unlikely that He was the efficient cause of today’s weather, then we are being grateful to what? To a chance concatenation of elements over which we have no control, and which are in any case insensible to any gesture of approval or disapproval from us.’
The disconcerting thing about Queen Caroline when she went on one of these jags, the Prime Minister ruminated, was that she managed it all without malice. She was amusing herself, working her resourceful mind, draining the meeting of the kind of routine which so many of her predecessors (he had gathered) had invested it with. There was no alternative other than to wait it out; and it was dangerous, very, very dangerous, to let the mind wander: she demanded exact attention to what she was saying …
‘On the other hand, if I disagreed with you, you would harbour in your mind—don’t contradict me now, Prime Minister—you would harbour in your mind the suspicion that your sovereign is simply insensible to the episodic niceties of nature. That would undermine me in your eyes. Obviously I would not wish to be a party to any attrition of my own reputation with my own Prime Minister, now would I? Would you?’
Anthony Brogan sighed. But that sigh was not detectable. Visibly, he smiled, and chuckled a little bit, and said nothing. It would be over soon, this—rite of passage—that so regularly preceded the matters of state, which were the staple of the weekly meetings.
‘But let it pass, let it pass, Prime Minister. Yes. It is indeed a beautiful day. And I trust you are feeling well.
‘Oh, speaking of feeling well, I cannot imagine that British farmers are feeling well, on receiving the news that you plan to cut farm subsidies. Doesn’t it appear to you awkward, not to say wrong, to cut farm subsidies so soon after cutting the tax on luxuries? I acknowledge that ours is a Conservative government, but I shouldn’t think it likely that it would continue for very long in power if you give the impression that you are engaged in transferring income from poor farmers to rich diamond merchants?’
The Prime Minister carefully explained that the luxury tax was being reduced from 75 per cent to 50 per cent, while farm subsidies were being reduced by a mere 16 per cent. The Queen listened, put the dog down, then smiled in the way she so often did, as a punctuation mark indicating that she was prepared to move on to the next matter at hand.
She turned, for the first time, to Dahl Breckenridge. ‘I am always pleased to see you, Mr Breckenridge, but I must suppose that there is some special reason for your accompanying the Prime Minister today?’
Anthony Brogan broke in. ‘Ma’am, we have come to the conclusion that there is tension among the leaders of the Soviet Union in their struggle to consolidate power—’
‘Stalin has been dead for over a year.’
‘Yes, ma’am, but he was almost thirty years in power, and there are never orderly arrangements set up to provide laws of succession for tyrants. In any event, we—the Foreign Office, after extensive consultation with our people in Moscow and elsewhere—are convinced that Mr. Malenkov is, of all the major figures in the Kremlin, the most disposed to a foreign policy that would conduce to amicable relations—’
‘Who wants amicable relations with the Soviet Union?’
‘Ma’am, I did not mean “amicable” in that sense. I meant amicable in the sense that we are not at war with each other. May I continue?’
Queen Caroline nodded.
‘It has been most discreetly suggested to our ambassador in Moscow that the hand of Mr. Malenkov would be considerably strengthened if’—Anthony Brogan breathed deeply—‘if Your Majesty were to receive Mr. Malenkov after he addresses Parliament, which it is our proposal to invite him to do.’
Queen Caroline’s large blue eyes grew larger. She reached for Furioso and plopped him on the adjacent cushion.
‘Are you seriously suggesting that I receive the prime tyrant in the world, whose entire country is mobilised to suppress the freedoms of Eastern Europe, so the Soviet Union can get on with the business of attempting to suppress our own freedoms—that I receive that monster?’
‘We are attempting, ma’am, to conduct a foreign po
licy that best guarantees the protection of our freedoms.’
Dahl Breckenridge broke in. ‘Understand, ma’am, that the tradition is very ancient that a head of state—’
‘Malenkov is not a head of state. He is head of government. Voroshilov, Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, is the head of state.’
‘To be sure, ma’am, you are of course technically correct, but Malenkov is acknowledged by all the world as the principal political figure in the Soviet Union. And the tradition has always been that, if such a figure is invited to address Parliament—which we propose to invite him to do—that ceremony is followed by some contact with the British sovereign. Ordinarily this would be a state dinner. We are not asking for that. Merely something—perhaps tea at Windsor? Something that would ensure that he didn’t think himself—snubbed.’
‘My dear Prime Minister, do we really desire that he should not think himself snubbed? Why should he not be isolated from civilised company, if Comrade Malenkov would be so generous as to assume that my company is civilised—sometimes, I concede, an arguable point. Prince Richard would definitely hesitate before committing himself on the question. On the other hand, His Royal Highness Prince Richard will hesitate before he commits himself on any question, save that any human being whose skin colour is other than white has reason to loathe the British Empire for all the dreadful things we have done to them, like trying to give them civilisation—’ Queen Caroline’s strictures against her husband’s affinity for what the winds of change in Africa were bringing on were common knowledge.
‘Well, ma’am, we have resolved that the House of Commons’ invitation should be extended. But to extend the invitation is to convey a certain message that not only is incompletely conveyed if you are unwilling to receive Mr. Malenkov, it is worse: the departure from convention would stress that—exclusion. And that is the opposite of the impression we seek under the circumstances to give. The likeliest alternative to Mr. Malenkov, for instance, is Mr. Beria of the KGB, who is the most dangerous man alive, with designs on West Germany that could lead to general mobilisation. And there is Mr. Suslov the dogmatist, and that wild man Khrushchev …’
The exchange lasted another half hour, during which the Queen attempted to make the point that social and political exchanges should be distinguished from each other, while Breckenridge and Brogan argued that on this occasion there was no way in which this could be done.
The Queen said, finally, ‘Well. You appear to make it quite plain that we are talking not about royal style, over which I have—still—a certain tenuous authority, but about political mores, which are the business of the House of Commons. Very well. You will grant that the season in London this summer will prove confused. We began it by welcoming Dr. Billy Graham, who holds his evangelical revival meetings here, warning against the evils of communism. We learn in the press that Mrs. Donald Maclean has written to her mother from—somewhere. She did not divulge where she is hiding her husband, who happens to be a traitor in the employ of the Soviet Union, which is no doubt rewarding him for stealing what secrets we have left. Do we care? Indeed we do: I read that the Boy Scounts have just finished expelling a member on the grounds that he is a member of the Young Communist League. And to cap all of this, it is proposed that I entertain this Hydra at Windsor. It is, really, all rather confusing, is it not?’ Suddenly she raised her hand, arching her eyebrows. She had not finished.
‘I wonder if I might,’ Queen Caroline grew ostentatiously solemn, ‘at the same time, have an ecumenical tea of sorts at Windsor?… Yes! We could invite Mr. Donald Maclean, the communist Boy Scout Mr. Malenkov, and then ask Dr. Billy Graham to say grace before we pass the crumpets. Yes! Yes indeed! Does that appeal to you, Prime Minister?’
Anthony Brogan chuckled with nervous relief, as he bowed his head and rose, together with the Foreign Minister. Queen Caroline stood, Furioso in hand. She smiled.
‘Good day, Prime Minister. You have noticed, have you not, that it is a lovely day?’
16
President Dwight David Eisenhower listened. Attentively, for quite a while. He became fidgety when his Secretary of State was reciting the biography and probable performance, should he come to power, of the fourth on the list of top Soviet figures, Nikita Khrushchev. Finally he interrupted.
‘Do you know something, Foster? I don’t think our people have the remotest idea how long Malenkov is going to stay in power—one month, one hundred months; who is coming in if he goes out: Beria, Bulganin, Suslov, Khrushchev, Molotov—it’s all conjecture. I read Walter Lippmann on the subject—you may laugh, but twice a year I read Walter Lippmann. Doctor’s orders, only twice a year. Anyway, he was gassing on about what I take it they now call—Kremlilologists? That right?’
‘Kremlinologists,’ John Foster Dulles corrected him.
‘That’s it. Kremlinonogists. Anyway, they do nothing but study the comings and goings in the Kremlin, and the idea is they can predict everything that happens. I would like to know one thing: Why is it that if they can predict what happens, I never get told what happens? I mean, who told me Malenkov was going to succeed Stalin?’
The President permitted the silence to predominate in the Situation Room. He rather relished it, and took the opportunity to look languidly about the table at the graven faces of the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Adviser, the Vice President, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
‘Okay. So nobody knew. So what do they know now?’
‘It isn’t,’ the Director of the CIA spoke up, ‘that we know who is going to win in the struggle for power, Mr. President. But we do know that there is a struggle for power. And we are pretty much agreed’—he paused, as if to invite opportunity for dissent on the point—‘that is, we have a general idea that Malenkov is on the … softer side of the question. Clearly Beria would probably precipitate a crisis quickly, particularly since we know about his designs on West Germany—and the other contenders are mostly unknown, though of course Malenkov can hardly be thought of as an open book.’
‘You mean that everyone else you mentioned would probably leave us worse off?’ The President turned to his Director of Central Intelligence. ‘Is this surmise, Allen, or is it something more than that?’
‘It’s something more than that, Mr. President.’
‘Well, all right. I don’t need to know the details. Speaking of details, anything on the British leak? I am informed that if I wish to consult with the Prime Minister, I either have to call him on the telephone, which I don’t enjoy doing—Brogan can’t say good morning in less than ten minutes—that, or send him a postcard written in invisible ink, or whatever.’
‘No, sir,’ Allen Dulles spoke again. ‘Nothing concrete. We are working on it, but we don’t yet have an answer. It’s a rough one.’
‘Goddamn shame, that Albanian operation. Goddamn shame. So where were we? You’ve got hard evidence, Allen, that Malenkov ought to be humoured right about now?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Allen Dulles looked over at his brother, the Secretary of State, who took the lead.
‘He has been pressing for a summit conference. The objective is plain: the Soviets wish to delay the formal recognition of West Germany, and—’
The President interrupted him. ‘I don’t believe in summit conferences. You know that. And did you spot the vote in the Senate day before yesterday? No? Not bad: the vote was eighty-eight to nothing to give me a free hand on West Germany.’
‘Yes, Mr. President. You can recognise West Germany. Your decision would be final as it affects this country. But of course Mendès-France is doing his usual this-ing and that-ing on the subject.’
‘What about the Brits?’
‘I’ve consulted with Brogan,’ the Secretary of State said. ‘They’re willing to invite Malenkov to address the House of Commons. They don’t much like the idea of a summit conference among the Western powers. Brogan figures the Soviets would fi
nd a way to use it to stall the whole German question.’
‘How can they stall it if I can recognise them tomorrow?’
‘They can’t. But they hope to divide Europe in the matter, and get France to refuse to go along. Our thought was that something—some gesture, this side of a summit conference—would serve our purposes. A gesture in the direction of Malenkov, without accepting that Western summit he’s been insisting on.’
‘What do you have in mind? You’re not going to suggest we invite him over here? Joe McCarthy would really like that! That would be the end of the censure movement against that bastard. That is just plain out.’ The President spelled out the word, o-u-t.
Dulles spoke. ‘Perhaps, Mr. President, it would accomplish our purposes if I were to go to Moscow. We could then arrange for Breckenridge to go, perhaps after Malenkov comes back from London or even before; then apply joint pressure on France. It wouldn’t look like a summit or even like a mini-summit if we went separately. But it would accomplish what we think Malenkov wants, namely that the musclemen in the West are willing to court him a little.’
The President turned visibly thoughtful. He looked up at his National Security Adviser. ‘Bob, on the McCarthy business. When do you think the Senate will censure him? I mean, they will, won’t they?’
The betting, sir, is about fifty-fifty. There’s an awful lot of mail objecting to censure, and he’s got himself a hell of a lawyer, Edward Bennett Williams. And Williams has Brent Bozell working with him, and writing McCarthy’s speeches. He and Bill Buckley wrote the book McCarthy and His Enemies. Blows the hell, between you and me, out of most of the charges that grew from the Tydings investigation. So just can’t say.’
‘Hmm. I’d rather announce a Dulles trip to Moscow after McCarthy was censured. How urgent is all this business? I mean, can it wait a month or two?’
Allen Dulles spoke up. ‘It’s hard to say. But it does seem to be coming to a head.’
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