Proteus

by Morris West

  Next day, Kitty Cowan came to see him. He was shocked at her appearance. She looked pinched and pale. There were lines of strain at the corners of her mouth. When he kissed her and put his arms about her she burst into tears. It took him a long time to soothe her. Then she said:

  ‘I’m sorry! It’s just seeing big John Spada locked up in here like a prisoner.’

  ‘I’m fine, Kitty. The liquor’s good, the food’s adequate and I’m playing poker for high stakes! How are you?’

  ‘I’m lost. I don’t seem to understand anything any more. When I saw you on television I thought: “Look at him! That’s a real mensch. That’s the man I love!” . . . Then, when I heard what people were saying, when I read what terrible things this germ thing can do . . . I couldn’t believe it was you who were threatening to use it…’ She fumbled in her purse and brought out a folded newspaper clipping. ‘Read that!’

  Spada shrugged and scanned the familiar facts: the ease of procurement; the infinitesimal dosage that would kill a normal man; the symptoms of dizziness, nausea, double vision, the cranial involvement that presaged death; the high mortality rate of at least fifty per cent of infected cases; the limited availability of anti-toxin; the difficulty of policing water-supplies. He folded the paper and handed it back.

  ‘It’s a pretty accurate report.’

  ‘And you could inflict that suffering on innocent people – even on babes in arms?’

  ‘If necessary, yes.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s what they believe in cabinets and chanceries and in the UN Assembly Chamber. They’re trying to persuade themselves I’m bluffing; but I’m not.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Suddenly she was trembling. She leaned against the table-edge to steady herself. ‘We’ve been friends. We’ve been lovers. I still wake in the night and imagine you’re there . . . Now, suddenly, I’m staring at an executioner with an axe in his hand! . . . For God’s sake! There must be some alternative, some compromise.’

  ‘Then they have to bring it to me. The moment they believe I’m weakening, they’ll bore in like jackals and tear me to bits. You’ve been around long enough to know how the power-game works.’

  ‘Oh yes! . . . But suddenly it turns out I know nothing at all! Do you think Anna or Rodo or Teresa would have wanted you to do this? Would they have let you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know; and they’re not here to ask.’

  ‘But I’m here and I’m asking. Why? Why?’

  ‘Sit down!’ Suddenly he was harsh and peremptory. She obeyed, cautiously like a child with an angry parent. Spada reached out to stroke her hair. She drew back as if afraid of his touch. ‘You ask why? Because this is a rigged game! The only way you can play it is with guns on the table and eyes in the back of your head! Even you, my love – you’re a kind of enemy, because you distract me, you soften me. I can’t afford that. The moment my attention wanders, they’ll be in for the kill . . . But, if I can stand the pressure long enough, they’ll be the ones to crack, because none of them is as absolute as I am. They’ve all got monitors – the press, their cabinets, people who want their jobs, the voters. I see you cringe from me as though I’m some kind of monster. Why don’t you try again to see me as I was on the floor of the chamber, hear me as I spoke then? That was a truth. That was John Spada telling it . . . I love you, girl. I don’t want to go out with you hating me; but if I must, so be it!’

  ‘I can never hate you, John.’ She reached out a tentative hand to make contact with him again. ‘It’s just that it’s all too big for me – too complicated and confusing.’

  ‘Then keep it simple. Listen! What they did to Teresa and Rodo was an act of hate. They like to debase people, humiliate them, dehumanise them. At least there’s still love in what I do. I’m hanging on to that – but if I lose it, that’s the end. Without love, a human being is just a paper football that kids kick to pieces in an alley. Please, for your own sake, try to hold on to that one thought…’

  For all his indifference to it, the threat to his life was real. Now there were guards posted at each end of the corridor outside his room. His food was specially prepared. The liquor they served him was brought in bottles with the seals intact. His request, relayed through Maury Feldman, to be allowed to take some exercise in the precincts of the building, was refused by the Secretary-General.

  ‘… They’re scared,’ Maury Feldman explained wearily. ‘And I don’t blame them. There’s a lot of steam building up, even among the delegates and the staff. I talk to them as much as I can, and the full meaning of the situation is just beginning to dawn on them. All this crap they’re talking about shades of odds and tolerable risks, doesn’t mean much if you’re thinking about wives and families in a possible contamination area.’

  ‘How is it,’ Spada gave him a sidelong grin, ‘you’ve never asked me where the toxins are and how they’ll be disseminated?’

  ‘Simple prudence, lover! If anyone thought I had half an idea, I’d be just as vulnerable as you are. I have no, repeat no, desire at all to find myself sweating under the lights in some dank cellar. As a matter of fact, I’ve been very plain with everyone: I don’t know; I don’t want to know; I’ve never asked you to tell me, period.’

  ‘What’s your best judgment on where we stand now?’

  ‘For the moment, everyone’s stalled on the old threadbare proposition that no government can, or should, bow to a threat of terror. That’s balls, of course! They’ve bowed before; they’ll bow again – to Arabs, Japanese, Germans – even to the oil sheiks who have another kind of blackmail. But they’ve got to hang up the window-dressing first, hold the citizens’ trust, keep order in the streets. They’re scared. Every damned intelligence service in the world is scouring the streets and the cellars for your cultures and your people. Airport security is doubled. They’re holding people for hours at customs and immigration check-points. International travel is a nightmare just now . . . So, they’re hurting; but who’s going to make the first move and talk amnesty? The wisest thing you ever did was to get yourself immunity in this place. Otherwise, they’d have you strapped down with electrodes up your backside! . . . And that could still happen, make no mistake!’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because one of the phrases I hear is “an outlaw under the protection of the law”. Another is “murder by protocol”. If they gain too wide a currency, you could be hauled out of here with a sack over your head. So far the Secretary-General is holding firm; but he’s only human.’

  ‘I promised I’d surrender myself.

  ‘They need that like a cold in the head, lover! This is black theatre now. They need an act to top yours on the programme. So far, they haven’t found it; but when they do . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished; and began sketching an indecent triptych on a sapphic theme. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? This is royal tennis, played by right royal bastards.’

  ‘Oh Christ! Pour me a drink, will you?’

  ‘Pour it yourself. I’m your attorney, not your butler!’

  John Spada gaped at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. Maury Feldman gave him a slow, sardonic grin.

  ‘I can be wittier than that if it helps.’

  Spada spluttered and gurgled and wiped his streaming eyes.

  ‘Man. Oh, man! They really are getting to me, aren’t they? They’ll be using you next.’

  He poured two drinks and handed one to Maury Feldman. They drank deeply and in silence. Feldman put down his glass and said flatly:

  ‘They are using me, John.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sure. Why do they let me stay? Why am I free to wander about and talk to the delegates and the newsmen and the hired help? They figure that, when the day of reason dawns, I’ll be here, Feldman the Wise, the Plato of Park Avenue, to write the settlement.’

  ‘And you will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When will that bright day dawn?’
>
  ‘Whenever you say, John.’

  Spada stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Not you too?’

  ‘Me too,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘The madness has gone on long enough.

  He dived a hand into his breast pocket and brought out two handwritten pages. He handed them to Spada and said:

  ‘Those are my suggestions. Study them and tell me what you think.’

  ‘Who else has seen these?’ Spada was suddenly wary and black-tempered.

  ‘You’re the first.’

  ‘I hope to Christ I can believe you.’

  ‘If you can’t,’ Feldman was ice-cold, ‘get yourself another attorney.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I had no right to say that.’

  ‘The subject is under stress and, therefore, has diminished responsibility. But straighten up now, soldier, and think! That’s a good document. We might just get away with it.’

  Maury Feldman’s written opinion was simple and concise.

  Against the assembled nations, their vast aggregates of population and resources, your power is inadequate and temporary. The damage you may inflict on them is horrible but tolerable. On the other hand, the damage they would suffer by abrogating their authority to a biological blackmail would be intolerable to them.

  My conclusion is that they will compromise and that you must compromise. They will not surrender their sovereignties. You will have to surrender your toxins. They will trade bodies for that. They will not trade reputations. You will have to capitulate first, not they.

  As to the terms, I believe we could settle as follows: the nations would agree to release, on a given date, a limited number of detainees. Before that date, you would publicly remove the threat and surrender or destroy the toxins. There is an adherent difficulty here. Since the culture and the toxin can be reproduced indefinitely, your guarantee of their destruction is of little value. However, we’ll argue that at the time.

  The merits of this proposal are, first, a moral and a factual victory for you, in that a substantial number of prisoners would regain their liberty; second, a face-saving operation for governments who, good or bad, have to continue to govern; third, a deterrent for any other persons or organisations which might try to organise a similar blackmail in future.

  Conclusion: an all-or-nothing stance only gets you more misery; a compromise gets you some amnesties.

  ‘It’s zero!’ Spada exploded. ‘No guarantees, a token gesture, and I disarm myself. No way!’

  ‘Amend it then! Improve it!’ Maury Feldman was exasperated. ‘But don’t throw it in the trash-can. It’s a starting point.’

  ‘OK. Let’s talk figures. Let’s say one contamination of a large city equals fifty thousand dead. How many live bodies will they give me? One for one? Pro rata by population? Next, how can I believe their promises?’

  ‘By the same token, why should they believe yours?’

  ‘Right! So it’s cash on the barrel. The observers cable that the bodies are at the rail-head. We tell them where the toxins can be picked up.’

  ‘In that case, how do you disjoin the two operations in the public mind? The nations have to win. You have to lose.’

  ‘And the only way I can contact my people is by way of television. I have to deliver the message in person.’

  ‘So the viewers watch you eat crow.’ Feldman shrugged. ‘I guess it’s not half as bad as dying of botulism.’

  ‘Let’s get back to guarantees.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Feldman sombrely. ‘You’ve compromised yourself too far. Remember that piece in your letter about a continuing biological threat. You think they’re going to forget that? This is a tough brief to plead, lover. Don’t have any illusions about it. Well . . . what’s the decision? Do I start peddling the idea or not?’

  ‘Start peddling,’ said John Spada. ‘But never let them forget, we’ve still got the toxins.’

  On the Saturday afternoon, when the UN was reduced to a skeleton operation, Maury Feldman brought the Scarecrow Man to see him. There was a macabre comedy in the spectacle of Lunarcharsky, dressed in clerical black, looking for all the world like a shabby curé out of Continental fiction. By some trick of make-up he had managed to transform himself so that even a close-up photograph would not identify him. He carried a battered breviary. The end of a frayed stole dangled from his coat pocket. Even his diction had a special unctuous quality. His first words were:

  ‘I understand you wanted to make your confession, my son. Are we private enough here?’

  ‘You’re private,’ said Feldman curtly. ‘It’s the first thing I established with the Secretary-General. The room is swept for electronic bugs every day. I’ll leave you two to your religious exercise!’

  When he had gone, the Scarecrow Man surveyed Spada like a museum specimen and then nodded approval.

  ‘Not bad! You’re wearing well enough. How is it going?’

  ‘It’s rough. It’ll get rougher. What’s the climate like outside?’

  ‘Changeable,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘It depends on the company you keep . . . On the issue of the prisoners, there’s sympathy and some understanding. But when you talk about toxins in the water, there’s pure anger. I’d say you could get yourself torn limb from limb before you walked a hundred yards on Broadway . . .’

  ‘But if we win?’

  ‘The betting is you’ll break. What did you want to see me about?’

  ‘My two friends in Argentina. Major O’Higgins and the President. I promised a day of reckoning. I want you to see that it’s arranged.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure. Do we send them an engraved invitation?’

  ‘No. Let them get the news at the judgment seat.’

  ‘Spoken like a true Christian. Does your own judgement bother you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John Spada. ‘It bothers me. Before it comes I hope to prepare a speech for the defence.’

  ‘It might be a good idea,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘I can’t speak for the Almighty because I don’t believe He exists. However, it could be a useful document for posterity – provided there are any left to read it.’

  Maury Feldman’s first brief document had been favourably received. It was seen as ‘a first ray of hope, a possible ground of negotiation’ which, as Feldman put it, was like swinging a carrot in front of the donkey while someone found a stick to beat him on the rump.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked John Spada.

  ‘Hell! You’ve drawn contracts yourself! You’ve sweated people with drafts and redrafts. Just imagine it’s you sitting out there in a polyglot committee, where each member has to report to the big boys at home. They’ve still got a week before deadline. You can count on them to make the most of it. Why don’t you relax and catch up on your reading?’

  ‘I have been,’ said Spada with a grin. He held up a paper-backed copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince. ‘Years since I’ve read it. It’s instructive, if not encouraging . . . There’s something I want to get straight between us.’

  ‘I thought we always had been straight with each other.’

  ‘We have. I want to keep it that way.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Are you sure we’ll get a compromise?’

  ‘I believe we will. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Suppose we don’t?’

  ‘Then the final decision rests with you.’

  ‘I decide to disseminate the toxin. Where do you stand then?’

  ‘I am not here,’ said Feldman gravely. ‘I walk away. I am a servant of the law. I defend my clients under the law. I cannot, I will not, co-operate with them in the commission of a crime.’

  ‘Nor would I ask you to do it. But your regard is important to me, Maury. More important than you know. During the war, you killed, you blew up barracks and houses. People died . . . When you finally come to judge me, remember that…. There’s another question.’

  ‘Make it an easy one.’

  ‘I wish I could. Is a state less g
uilty than an individual? Is it beyond attainder because there is no court before which it can be tried ? Is there no redress against its monstrosities?’

  ‘None – except the blood-bath. That’s why I draw dirty pictures. They distract me from the dirtiest one of all – what man inflicts on his own offspring. Anything else?’

  ‘Just this. When and if we get a settlement and you bring it to me to sign, you know you can guarantee my performance; can you guarantee theirs?’

  Feldman’s answer, for all the irony with which he pronounced it, was touched with the pathos of despair.

  ‘I’m an attorney. I draw very good documents. God makes men. I’ve never felt able to guarantee His handiwork. Sad, isn’t it?’

  As the days and the nights passed, in his room in the great building, the sadness grew in John Spada. They were really sweating him now, sending him reams of papers: conditions, exclusions, addenda, interpretations, extra clauses, sub-clauses and cross-references, that made his eyes water and his head swim.

  Maury Feldman was with him less and less now, because he was called to this committee and that subcommittee, with interpreters, with embassy lawyers, clerks and drafters of legal jargon. Each time he came, stubble-cheeked and weary, there was a new summary to be prepared, a new decision to be made against the inexorable fidget of the hand across the clock-face. They were sweating him too and he confessed it, in a final burst of vehemence.

  ‘First it’s the numbers. Russia agrees one, then withdraws because the Argentine won’t give more. The Chileans want the Cubans to concede as many as they do. The South Africans and the Koreans are ganged up against the East Germans and the Czechs. You’d think it was cattle they were trading, not human beings. Then it’s the observers: who’s acceptable and who isn’t. Some want the Red Cross. Some will take Amnesty. The Iranians won’t have religious groups. The British want a clean distinction between prisoners of conscience and political terrorists . . . Then there’s the time factor, and the delivery points, and where the released people are to be housed, and how to ensure they won’t be pulled back when the crisis is over . . . It’s a bloody madhouse! They all say much more time is needed,’