A babble of objecting voices rose up round the table.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Rupert, ‘you all think it doesn’t matter who’s right and wrong, it only matters who wins. But you’re wrong.’
This produced a laugh.
‘What deal?’ said Mountbatten.
‘Trade the Soviet missiles on Cuba for our Thors.’
That reduced the meeting to silence. Rupert looked round the shocked faces of his colleagues.
‘The Thors are no good to us. We all know it. We’ll never use them. To hell with them. Let them go.’
Alan McDonald was going progressively redder in the face. Now his outrage burst from him in speech.
‘You can go crawling to the Russians if you like! You can give in to threats! That’s not my idea of being British. We’re one of only three nuclear powers on the planet. Do you have any idea what that means? You want to be a second-rate power? This Cuban adventure is a test of our strength and will and you say, Roll over. Surrender.’
‘So what do you say, Alan?’ retorted Rupert. ‘Fire the Thors? Scramble the Vulcans? Incinerate half Russia? That would show our strength and our will.’
‘For heaven’s sake! Can’t we be a little grown-up about this?’
‘Gentleman,’ said Mountbatten, rapping the table. ‘I must leave you. I’m lunching with Laurie Norstad.’ General Norstad was CINCEUR, the commander of NATO forces in Europe. ‘Please continue in my absence. I don’t expect agreement. I’d appreciate a memorandum laying out the range of your suggestions.’
He rose to go.
‘Rupert. A word.’
In his office, Mountbatten said to Rupert, ‘We can’t trade the Thors. It’s too big a political hit. But what about the Jupiters in Turkey?’
‘Wouldn’t the Turks say that was too big a political hit for them?’
‘Turkey’s right on the Soviet border. Very like Cuba for the Americans. There’s a symmetry to it. I’m going to try it on Laurie.’
‘What’s the PM saying?’
‘Oh, you know Harold. He gives you that hooded look of his and says, “When in doubt, do nothing.” It’s driving the chiefs wild.’
*
The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament announced a mass rally in Trafalgar Square in four days’ time, on Saturday afternoon. The British Council of Churches met in Coventry and had an acrimonious debate over what statement to make about the crisis. The issue was whether to include the word ‘truculence’ in the sentence: ‘The Council encourages Christian people to continue in prayer for the victory of moderation and statesmanship over pride, truculence and fear.’
The ageing philosopher Bertrand Russell declared, ‘It seems likely that within a week we will all be dead to please American madmen.’ He then sent a cable to President Kennedy.
Your action desperate. Threat to human survival. No conceivable justification. Civilised man condemns it. We will not have mass murder. Ultimatum means war. I do not speak for power but plead for civilised man. End this madness.
Kennedy’s official reply ran: ‘I think your attention might well be directed to the burglar rather than to those who caught the burglar.’ Unofficially he said, ‘He can go and soak his head.’
Russell also cabled Chairman Khrushchev:
I appeal to you not to be provoked by the unjustifiable action of the United States in Cuba. The world will support caution. Urge condemnation to be sought through United Nations. Precipitous action could mean annihilation for mankind.
In the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, the GRU rezident General Anatoly Pavlov summoned Captain Ivanov.
‘Zhenya,’ he said, ‘the time has come for you to build your bridge. Moscow wants this crisis settled.’
Ivanov put in a call at once to Rupert Blundell.
‘Rupert, my friend,’ he said. ‘Our moment has come.’
*
They met that Tuesday evening at Mountbatten’s house in Wilton Crescent. To start with Mountbatten was guarded and suspicious.
‘You’re very junior, Captain Ivanov.’
‘I am disposable, your Excellency. I am, as we say, deniable. If our discussions are made public and cause embarrassment, my people wave their hands and say, “Who is this Ivanov? A junior naval attaché who has a fantasy that he is important. Forget him.”’
‘Yes. I do see that.’
‘Eugene insists,’ said Rupert, ‘that Khrushchev has no aggressive intentions. What he wants now is to extricate himself from this mess.’
‘No aggressive intentions? Nuclear missiles on Cuba?’
‘May I ask, sir,’ said Ivanov. ‘Are your Thor missiles, which are targeted on Russian cities, a sign of aggressive intention?’
‘One hundred per cent defensive,’ said Mountbatten.
Then they all laughed.
‘Still,’ said Mountbatten, ‘this whole thing could turn very nasty.’
‘So we must make our bridge.’
‘You’re telling me you have the ear of Khrushchev?’
‘Khrushchev will not listen to me,’ said Ivanov. ‘He will listen to you, and the British prime minister.’
Mountbatten turned to Rupert.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, eh?’
‘It’s worth a shot, sir.’
‘So we bodge up some sort of deal. I can tell you right off, the Jupiters can’t be any part of it. I tried the idea on Laurie Norstad. He said it would break NATO if the Americans were seen to sacrifice Turkey’s security for their own.’
‘The Jupiters are junk,’ said Ivanov.
Mountbatten looked at him in surprise.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a military attaché. It’s my job to know.’
‘Well, they’re not for sale. So what else have we got?’
‘The deal will be hard to make,’ said Ivanov. ‘What will not be so hard is to get agreement on both sides that there must be a deal. We must remove the threat of war. I would propose that the British prime minister calls a top-level conference, here in London, to resolve the dispute.’
‘Not the UN? Everyone’s calling on U Thant to step in.’
‘Who listens to the UN?’ said Ivanov scornfully. ‘No, the conference must be called by one of the nuclear powers.’
‘What about the Americans? Would they go for it?’
‘Not as things stand,’ said Rupert. ‘But if the Soviets turned the ships round, that could do it.’
‘Even though that leaves the missiles on Cuba?’
‘Of course the missiles will have to be withdrawn,’ said Ivanov. ‘But you understand that Chairman Khrushchev is very sensitive to world opinion. He is concerned for the prestige of socialism. He must make bold and angry speeches against the Americans. If your prime minister would offer a London conference today, he couldn’t accept it. He would demand an American climb-down first.’
‘So how are we to do it?’
‘We establish in private that both sides would support a London conference. Then we discuss the moves that must be made before a conference is even spoken of. The two leaders then appear as statesmen, seeking peace. So no humiliation, please.’
Mountbatten looked at Rupert, and nodded.
‘This is a sensible man.’
‘And disposable,’ said Rupert.
‘Very well,’ said Mountbatten. ‘I’ll sound a few people out.’
Rupert met Ivanov’s eyes. Maybe they had a part to play after all.
44
Pamela was alone in the house on Wednesday morning when the phone rang. She answered, expecting to take a message for Harriet or Hugo, but the call was for her.
‘Pamela? It’s Bobby! Remember?’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Don’t be like that. Let me buy you lunch. I asked Stephen how to get hold of you.’
Stephen, who knew how to get hold of everyone.
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. Whatever you’re doin
g can wait. You know it can.’
He sounded so cheerfully untroubled. Pamela didn’t know how to explain. This was the man who had witnessed her humiliation. More than witnessed. This was the man who had taken her virginity.
‘What do you want, Bobby?’
‘I want to give you lunch.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s what chaps like to do with pretty girls. It cheers them up. The markets are falling off a cliff. I need cheering up. Be a pal. I can be with you in five minutes.’
‘How can you be with me in five minutes? I’m in Hammersmith.’
‘So am I. I’m in a phone box by Olympia.’
She felt helpless. He was unstoppable.
‘All right.’
She went up to the bathroom to brush her hair and touch up her lipstick. Gazing at herself in the mirror she wrinkled her brow, cross with herself that she had given in so easily. Then she realised that she wanted to see Bobby again. There was so much unfinished business. She wanted to know what André thought of her now, if he ever thought of her at all. She wanted someone to talk to about that night in Herriard. She wanted to know what she thought of it herself.
The doorbell rang. There on the steps was Bobby, big and beaming and handsome, with a wicker hamper in his arms.
‘What’s this?’
‘Lunch.’
‘I thought you were taking me out.’
He came into the house, looked round, found the kitchen.
‘This will be far jollier,’ he said.
He put the hamper down on the kitchen table and proceeded to unpack it. Out came pork pies, chocolate eclairs, and two bottles of wine.
‘I take it you can rustle up a couple of wine glasses.’
Pamela looked on in bewilderment.
‘How did you know I’d be alone?’
‘There’s enough for four here.’
‘You’re taking an awful lot for granted, it seems to me.’
Bobby moved about the kitchen finding plates and cutlery.
‘Don’t go all spinsterish on me, darling,’ he said. ‘It’s only lunch. You do look ravishing.’
It seemed she had no choice. But she saw no need to pretend to be polite.
‘And what about Charlotte?’
‘Charlotte’s fine. She sends her love.’
‘And I suppose André sends his love too.’
‘Absolutely.’
He drew the cork from one of the bottles. The wine glugged cheerfully into the glasses. He held out a full glass.
‘Here! Bottoms up!’
‘You don’t think, I suppose, that someone owes me an apology.’
Even as she said it she realised she sounded what Bobby called spinsterish.
‘Oh, come on!’ said Bobby. ‘Just a bit of fun.’
‘Is that what you and André said afterwards? That you’d had a bit of fun?’
‘Look, Pamela, no one died. No one got hurt. It happens all the time. Some people even like it, you know? André’s a lovely man, he hasn’t an unkind bone in his body. And anyone can see with one look that you’re well able to take care of yourself.’
One look. She had so wanted them to believe she belonged in their world. But sometimes one look isn’t enough.
He cut up the pork pie, and gave her some on a plate. Pamela struggled to express what had been to her a violation. In the end all she could say was,
‘You should have asked me first.’
‘Most people like surprises,’ said Bobby. ‘I know I do. That’s how I got to know Charlotte.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was at Bovey for the weekend, the Hutchinsons’ place, with Sally Milman, the girl I was with at the time, and Charlotte was there with some chap. Anyway, I was done in, so I went up to bed about midnight, and the others stayed up. An hour or so later this girl crept into my bed, and it wasn’t Sally, it was Charlotte. Turned out they’d made this bet. Charlotte said men only recognised girls by smell, and that if she put on Sally’s perfume I’d never know the difference. So Sally got out her perfume and Charlotte sprayed it all over. And away she went.’
‘And you never guessed?’
‘Of course I guessed. But I wasn’t going to say no, was I?’
Pamela felt helpless. She was back in that other world, where other rules applied.
‘But Bobby, when you do things like that, don’t people ever get hurt?’
‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Didn’t Sally mind?’
‘Oh, she had her eye on the chap Charlotte had come with. That’s why she cooked up the phoney bet.’
‘And what about Charlotte when you were … when you were at André’s?’
‘At Herriard? Everyone knows what goes on at Herriard. You only have to take one look at André’s collection to know. It’s not exactly a state secret.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You jolly well knew by the time you’d been given the tour.’
Even now Pamela found she was ashamed to admit her own naivety. The erotic miniatures had come as a shock, of course. But she had still expected the evening to take what one might call the traditional course. Did that make her stupid? Should she have expressed her disapproval then and there?’
But I didn’t disapprove. I was excited.
‘And what’s more,’ said Bobby, ‘when we were in bed together, I got the distinct impression that you were all in favour.’
‘It was just a surprise,’ said Pamela. ‘And it seems to me – I expect you’ll think I’m being old-fashioned or something – but after all … ’
She gazed helplessly at Bobby. He was happily consuming pork pie and taking good long gulps of red wine.
‘It’s not really love, is it?’
‘Can be,’ said Bobby. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘I mean, you don’t love me. André doesn’t love me. So what’s the point for me?’
‘Fun,’ said Bobby. ‘It’s fun or it’s nothing.’
He looked up from his plate with a grin. It was quite clear that he felt no guilt.
‘Love’s the big one,’ he said. ‘But how often does love come round? So while we’re waiting, in the long lonely days and weeks and months, we might as well have a bit of fun. Or am I missing something here?’
‘I don’t know, Bobby,’ said Pamela. ‘I feel so muddled.’
‘But you’re not eating! This is the best pork pie in London!’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Oh, you girls. Always watching your weight.’
He started on one of the chocolate eclairs. Pamela watched him. He was so very obviously enjoying his eclair. You couldn’t stay cross with someone like Bobby.
‘You don’t really have a clue, do you?’ she said.
‘Probably not. Do you want me to?’
‘André does.’
‘Oh, yes. André’s frightfully clever. But what good does being so brainy do him? All he wants to do is watch.’
‘Did he say anything about me afterwards?’
‘Don’t think so. Just the usual.’
‘What’s the usual?’
‘Oh, you know. Sweet girl. Lovely girl.’
He watched me in bed. He saw me naked with another man. He saw me making love with another man. And he calls me a sweet girl.
‘I think he’s sick.’
‘Whoa! Slow down, gorgeous. That’s my best friend you’re talking about.’
‘I think you’re sick too.’
He stared at her, evidently baffled.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, Bobby. You’re all sick.’
‘Because we like pretty girls? That’s a pretty common sickness, you know.’
‘Because there’s no love.’
‘Oh, right!’ Light seemed finally to dawn. ‘I keep forgetting you’re still young. You have this look about you, very cool and in control, like you know exactly what you’re doing. It gives people the wrong idea.’
‘It has everything to do with it! When you’re young, girls especially, you still think you can have it all, in a single parcel, tied up with a bow. Love, fun, money, and happy ever after. Then after a few years you work it out. There is no single parcel. You get fun here and money there and love now and again. And that’s if you’re lucky. There’s plenty of people in the world who don’t get any of it, ever.’
Pamela reached for the bottle of wine, refilled her glass, drank.
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re not as stupid as I thought.’
‘There you go!’
He seemed impossible to offend.
‘And when you think,’ he said, ‘that the world may end tomorrow – well, hell, what are we waiting for?’
‘Why should the world end tomorrow?’
‘Pammy! What planet are you on? Don’t you read the papers?’
‘No.’
‘There’s going to be a nuclear war. Or there might be.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, it’s all about Cuba. Who cares? The point is, by the weekend we’ll all be fried.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Is there a newspaper in this house?’
He cast around and found the day’s Times. He scanned the main article on the news page, and read it out to her.
‘“The choice now facing mankind,” Lord Home went on, “was either to blow themselves to bits or to sit down round a table and negotiate.”’
He found another headline.
‘“Pope appeals to world leaders to spare the world the horrors of nuclear war.”’
Pamela was shaken.
‘But they’ll negotiate, won’t they?’
‘Treasury stocks tumbling. War Loans have dropped a whole pound. There’s a lot of fear out there.’
‘What can we do, Bobby?’
‘Nothing, sweetheart. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Why do you think I’m here?’
‘You should be with Charlotte.’
‘I was with Charlotte this morning. I’ll be with her this evening. But right now it’s lunchtime, and I’m with you.’
He looked at his watch.
‘I can’t stay too much longer. I take it this house comes equipped with bedrooms.’
‘Bobby!’
‘It’s not as if we haven’t done it before.’
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