Reckless

by William Nicholson

  ‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ he said. ‘Come back in a couple of months, so we can be sure we’ve got the right fit. Give my love to Christine.’

  30

  That same afternoon Rupert was meeting Ivanov by arrangement at Stephen Ward’s flat in Wimpole Mews. Stephen himself joined them, to act, as he said jokingly, as a neutral observer.

  ‘I hope I’m not wasting your time, Captain,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Eugene, please. Call me Eugene.’

  The walls of the living room were hung with Stephen Ward’s portraits, mostly pencil sketches. Rupert studied them unseeingly as they talked.

  ‘You do understand, I hope,’ he said to Ivanov, ‘I’m not in a position to pass you any information of any kind.’

  ‘Mr Blundell,’ said Ivanov. ‘Rupert – may I call you Rupert? Stephen here knows me well. Stephen, tell Rupert what it is I want most in the world. What is it I say to you, many times?’

  ‘Eugene wants peace,’ said Stephen.

  ‘You know what Chairman Khrushchev says?’ said Ivanov. ‘He says, “Communism is the best life for everyone. Why should we carry it to other countries on bayonets?”’

  ‘Do the people of East Germany agree with that?’ said Rupert.

  ‘Some do, some don’t.’ Ivanov waved the issue aside with one hand. ‘Socialism is young, the socialist countries are poor, capitalism offers many temptations. All we ask for is the chance to make our dream come true. For that we need peace.’

  ‘No one is against peace,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Then why does General Curtis LeMay, who commands the United States Air Force, say in public that the Soviet Union should be bombed out of existence?’

  Rupert gave a shrug of his shoulders and turned round to offer Ivanov his full attention.

  ‘LeMay’s a soldier. Soldiers think about winning battles. But I can assure you he takes his orders from his elected leader.’

  ‘You do understand, Rupert, that we in the Soviet Union have reason to fear attack by the West? We are surrounded by nuclear missiles. In Germany, in Italy, in Turkey, and here in Britain.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘There are many regions of great tension. Most of all West Berlin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One day there will be a spark. A flash of fire.’ He reached forward and tapped Rupert on the arm. ‘On that day, how will war be averted? A war that will begin with two tanks, perhaps at Checkpoint Charlie, and will explode within days, within hours, into a global holocaust.’

  He sat himself down in one of the armchairs, staring at Rupert, nodding his big handsome head.

  ‘I can only hope,’ said Rupert, ‘that saner counsels will prevail.’

  As if to show his willingness to achieve this end, he too sat down. He was realising that his first instincts had been right: he and the Russian had much in common.

  ‘You think,’ said Ivanov, ‘there will be no temptation on either side to launch a pre-emptive first strike?’

  ‘The temptation exists,’ said Rupert. ‘But I don’t believe either our leaders or yours want a global holocaust.’

  ‘You don’t want it,’ said Ivanov. ‘We don’t want it. But if you think we might do it, or if we think you might do it, then either of us might choose to do it first.’

  ‘That’s the problem of intention,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about that.’

  ‘The problem of intention?’

  ‘We base our assessments of our enemy’s intentions on our worst fears, and so we’re drawn into needless aggression.’

  ‘That is so true!’ exclaimed Ivanov. ‘Stephen, this is a wise man! Tell him, he speaks like me!’

  ‘Eugene believes,’ said Stephen, ‘and I agree with him, for what it’s worth, that should a crisis occur the greatest danger is that the opposing leaders mistake each other’s purposes. They don’t speak each other’s language. There’s no direct phone link from Washington or London to Moscow. All communication is through layers of intermediaries. There will be distortions and misunderstandings.’

  ‘And there will be misinformation,’ said Ivanov. ‘There are many who will seek to control the message. We too have generals like Curtis LeMay. This is what you call the problem of intention.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rupert. ‘I believe the only way out of the present situation, which is essentially a balance of terror, is to transfer the intelligence effort from weapons to intentions. We must become far better informed about the minds of our opponents.’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Ivanov. ‘Yes, and again yes! I am the man who can make this happen!’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I can have a report on Khrushchev’s desk in twenty minutes.’

  Rupert raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s quite a claim.’

  ‘The Soviet system has many failings. One of its failings is a distrust of official channels. They are seen as forms of propaganda. A secret report from a second naval attaché who has formed his own private relationships in a foreign capital will be given more weight than an official communiqué from that capital’s foreign minister.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I am not a rogue operator, Rupert. Everything I do is cleared with my superior at the embassy, and by him with his superior in Moscow. I am known to have friends in the British ruling circles. I have been authorised to build a private bridge between our leaders and yours. But bridges, you know, must not be too long, or the river will wash them away. I can offer you two arches. From me to my boss. From him to Khrushchev.’

  ‘And you want a bridge from me to Mountbatten, and from Mountbatten to the prime minister.’

  ‘And from Macmillan to Kennedy.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that.’

  Rupert sat in silence, pondering. Stephen went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

  ‘Tell me, Eugene,’ said Rupert at last, ‘isn’t an initiative of this sort unusual for a man in your position?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘You must be a very ambitious man.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You think I do this for my own glory.’ He turned and called to Stephen in the kitchen. ‘Am I a vain man, Stephen?’

  ‘Vain as a peacock,’ Stephen called back.

  Ivanov laughed.

  ‘In my squadron,’ he said, ‘in the Black Sea fleet, I was graded the top of my artillery class. The number one. I was handpicked to join the Academy of the Soviet Army. I received an honorary gold medal. So yes, I have a high opinion of myself. But let me also tell you about my father. He fought on the Valdai in ’41. He was awarded the highest combat decorations, the Order of Lenin, and the Order of the Red Banner. But he was very badly wounded, and sent back to us in Sverdlosk. I was fifteen years old. I saw how war had turned him into an old man. He died only a few years later. Because of that, even though I wear a uniform and am a patriotic citizen, I hate war. I fear war. And I will do all in my power to prevent it.’

  Stephen came in with a tray of coffee.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be something?’ he said. ‘I can see the headlines now: “Men of Goodwill Save the World.”’

  ‘There’ll be no headlines,’ said Ivanov. ‘The leaders will take the credit.’

  ‘So describe to me,’ said Rupert, ‘the kind of traffic that will pass over this bridge of yours, that will save the world.’

  ‘I will give you an example,’ said Ivanov. ‘A Soviet missile shoots down an American spyplane that enters Soviet airspace. The American public demands reprisals. The Soviet leadership threatens to attack the base of the spyplane. The American military pushes for a pre-emptive attack. The rhetoric on both sides becomes more belligerent. Through our bridge we communicate that the aggressive words are all for the maintenance of national prestige. There will be no attacks. The American president is able to restrain his generals. So the incident passes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rupert after a pause. ‘That’s all very interesting.’

  ‘We have a
deal?’

  At this point Pamela came in, carrying a brown paper package.

  ‘Oh, hello, Rupert,’ she said. ‘Are you having your secret meeting?’

  ‘Very secret,’ said Ivanov, pointing out of the window. ‘See? No car. I gave my escort the slip, as you say.’

  ‘Is it all right if I go and lie down in Christine’s room?’ Pamela said to Stephen. ‘I’m feeling really done in. I can’t face slogging all the way out to Brook Green.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Stephen. ‘I’ve no idea where Christine is.’

  Pamela gave them all a faint wave and left. Rupert rose.

  ‘Let’s keep in touch,’ he said, shaking Ivanov’s hand. ‘You interest me very much. Who knows what the future will bring?’

  31

  André arranged for Pamela to be driven down to his house in the country by a friend of his called Bobby Marchant. Bobby and Charlotte, his girlfriend or wife, were to be weekend guests too. Pamela had understood that the weekend was to be André and herself alone, and that in accepting the invitation she had tacitly agreed to sleep with him. Now she was not so sure. She was nervous about the prospect of her first sexual experience; both excited and apprehensive; but most of all she wanted it over and done with.

  Bobby drove a Bentley convertible. He was big and handsome, with dark swept-back hair and a broad chest like a rugby forward, which it turned out he had been at school. Charlotte was small and blonde, and more or less asleep, curled up on the car’s back seat.

  ‘She had a very late night,’ said Bobby, smiling, showing excellent white teeth. ‘She’ll be fine in an hour or two.’

  Pamela got in the front seat beside Bobby, and he drove off through a maze of London streets, over Putney Bridge. As they went they talked about André.

  ‘Cleverest chap I’ve ever met,’ said Bobby. ‘Best friend a man could have.’

  ‘Were you at school with him?’

  ‘Not school, no. We met at Oxford.’

  ‘I’m in a terrible muddle about André’s nationality. He’s Belgian, isn’t he?’

  ‘Probably. I think his dad’s Belgian. His mother’s English, very top-drawer. She’s Lady Tillemans, by the way. You’ll meet her. Very unusual woman. She lives at Herriard.’

  Herriard was their destination. Pamela had thought it was the name of a village. Now it sounded like a house.

  ‘Are his parents divorced?’

  ‘Not divorced, as far as I know. Detached, more like. But they have so many houses, and move about so much, I don’t see how anyone could ever know.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be so fearfully rich. It makes my head spin.’

  ‘All the Tillemans are rich. I think they may be the richest family in Europe, I’m not sure. But André never flashes it about. I don’t think he cares a rap about money. All he spends it on is art.’

  He threw her a glance.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen his collection?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Quite something.’

  ‘I think André almost wishes he wasn’t rich,’ said Pamela.

  ‘You could be right. But I’ll tell you what, Herriard’s a nice place. You’ll see, you get well looked after there. It takes money to be a good host.’

  ‘It takes money for most things,’ said Pamela with a sigh.

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ said Bobby. ‘A girl as gorgeous as you shouldn’t need to pay for a thing. André’s a lucky fellow to have you.’

  Pamela wasn’t at all sure that André did have her. Perhaps by the end of the weekend her status would be clearer.

  ‘So where do your people come from?’ said Bobby.

  ‘Sussex.’

  ‘Do you know the Egremonts?’

  ‘No,’ said Pamela. ‘We’re not at all grand. My stepfather sells wine.’

  ‘Oh, really? Where?’

  ‘It’s called Caulder & Avenell, in St James.’

  ‘I know the place. Good business, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘What do you do, Bobby?’

  ‘I work for a bank. I persuade people to buy things for more than they’re worth, and sell things for less than they’re worth.’

  ‘Why would anybody do that?’

  ‘Ignorance. Greed. Vanity.’

  ‘But you don’t have any of that?’

  ‘I have all of it.’

  He grinned at her. Pamela found herself liking him.

  ‘So who’s the girl asleep in the back?’

  ‘The girl asleep in the back is my wife. We’ve been married four months.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Herriard turned out to be both a village and a house. The house was set in a park down a long winding drive. It was a classic early nineteenth-century gentleman’s residence, free from the usual Victorian additions, set on a slight rise, overlooking grounds that, according to Bobby, had been laid out by Humphrey Repton.

  André himself came out to greet them. He was wearing a jersey and casual trousers, but still looked stylishly elegant. While Bobby roused Charlotte from the back seat, André kissed Pamela chastely on one cheek.

  ‘I’m so happy you’ve come,’ he said.

  Commonplace words, but he held her eyes as he said them, and spoke as if he meant it. He then led her into the house to meet his mother.

  Lady Tillemans was in a back pantry, cutting the long stalks off a heap of dahlias. She was a tall woman with greying hair pinned up in a bun, and a gravely beautiful face like her son’s. She wore a dark-green apron and wielded a pair of secateurs.

  ‘Mummy, this is Pamela.’

  ‘How good of you to come,’ said Lady Tillemans, not pausing in her work. Her voice was low, almost masculine. ‘Aren’t we lucky with the weather?’

  André then led Pamela upstairs and along a passage to her bedroom. The room was pretty and feminine, with pink toile de Jouy curtains. The wide bed had a quilted counterpane embroidered with roses. There was a tall wardrobe, and a dressing table with a mirror on the wall above it.

  ‘You should be comfortable here. The bathroom’s across the passage.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Pamela.

  ‘I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. Come downstairs when you’re ready. No rush.’

  Left alone, Pamela unpacked her overnight bag and puzzled over what to wear now, and what to wear for dinner, and what to expect later. Would André sleep with her tonight? And if so, where? He had shown her to a room of her own, not to his bedroom; but this was his mother’s house, and presumably the decencies had to be observed. On the other hand, she could have misread the signals. Just because he moved in the same circles as Christine and Mandy did not mean he shared their appetite for promiscuity.

  Then she remembered the man at the party who said to her, ‘Do you fuck?’ This was André’s world. Her instincts, she was sure, were not deceiving her.

  That left the question of when she should insert the Dutch cap. Not at the last minute. She shuddered at the picture of herself breaking away from an intimate embrace to struggle with the spring-lined rubber and the cream. It must be done ahead of time. Teddy Sugden had set a limit of eight hours. It was now coming up to five in the afternoon. She had no way of knowing how late they might stay up. Best to wait.

  She put on a simple cotton frock, and hung up her blue silk for later.

  She came down to find Lady Tillemans arranging her flowers in the big drawing room.

  ‘I think they’re playing tennis,’ she said. ‘I expect they’re hoping you’ll go and admire them.’

  She gave Pamela a keen appraising look as she said this.

  ‘Then I’d better not let them down,’ Pamela said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Lady Tillemans. ‘We must never let the boys down.’

  Pamela laughed, presuming this to be said jokingly, but Lady Tillemans did not laugh.

  ‘You’ll find the court beyond the stables,’ she said.

  Pamela went out by a side door and across an empty stable block. T
he late afternoon sun lay golden on the grey stone of the buildings. Beyond the stables was a tennis court surrounded by a high wire fence. André and Bobby, both in whites, were playing hard. Bobby was excellent, which Pamela would have expected. The surprise was André. He was slighter than Bobby, and his serves lacked Bobby’s raw power, but he was fast and accurate. It became clear that he was winning.

  As they changed ends they turned and briefly saluted her, raising their racquets. Then they resumed play with fierce concentration. Pamela sat in the warm sun and watched them. She made no attempt to follow the score. Instead she let her eyes linger over their leaping bodies, over their long bare legs and sweeping arms. André graceful and beautiful, Bobby muscular and very male. She had never seen a man entirely naked.

  They came to the end of the set and stopped at last. Pamela clapped. André had won. Both were sweating and happy.

  ‘I let him win,’ said Bobby to Pamela. ‘Never show a man up in front of his girl.’

  Pamela liked Bobby for that.

  ‘Quick hose down,’ said André, ‘then I’ll show you the park.’

  ‘I’ll go and rouse Charlotte,’ said Bobby. ‘I swear that girl could sleep for England.’

  André re-emerged in a white open-neck shirt and white linen trousers, in honour of the golden evening.

  ‘You look fresh as a daisy,’ said Pamela. Then, annoyed with herself for saying something so obvious, ‘What is it that’s so fresh about daisies anyway?’

  They strolled arm-in-arm down a grassy walk between high beeches to what had once been a sunken garden. It had been allowed to grow wild, but in a discreetly managed way. The stone pavers and low walls were overrun with acanthus and ox-eye daisies and soft-pink rock roses. At one end there was an open-fronted pagoda. They stood in its shade and looked back up the handsome vista to the main house.

  ‘It’s a lovely place, André,’ said Pamela.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her briefly and lightly on her lips.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone as lovely as you,’ he said. ‘I can’t take my eyes off you.’