Stained Glass

by William F. Buckley

  When the meeting in the White House adjourned it was after eleven. It had begun at two in the afternoon. At various stages it was a session on military strategy, a seminar on ethics, a debate on psychology, a hypothetical discussion of pre-emptive war, a history of assassinations, reflections on the Constitutional Convention, and a dispute on the rule of civil behavior at such meetings as this. The President sent word he would not attend the meeting and, moreover, that he would leave it to the Secretary of State to decide whether the President should be informed of the meeting’s outcome. At one point, three hours after the sandwiches were eaten, and after the twelfth pitcher of coffee had been brought in, the Secretary of Defense, pointing his hand upstairs in the general direction of the Oval Office, made a heated reference to “old Pontius Pilate up there.” Presiding, the Secretary of State said that as the son of a Christian clergyman, he could not make out a case for Pontius Pilate, but as a former partner of Sullivan and Cromwell, he’d have advised Pilate to do exactly what he did. Over and over the variables were considered. Three times conversation stopped entirely until a specific piece of information was elicited—from Defense, from the CIA research division, from a nineteenth-century diplomatic protocol. At eight p.m., the chair ruled that no further legal discussion would be permitted. By nine, anybody who mentioned the Constitution of the United States one more time would have run the risk of being dragged out from the Situation Room, turned over to the marine guard, and shot. By eleven it had become clear to the exhausted assembly of five persons that whatever course of action the Secretary of State recommended was the course of action that would be taken. There was no other way to interpret his mandate from the President. And so it was left: He would make a decision. He would then report back to the executive committee of the National Security Council on the probable effects of that decision. Then the agencies of the government would deploy. The dapper Secretary motioned to the Director as, with some physical effort after so many sedentary hours, he pried himself up from the chair. “Let’s go to my place, Allen.”

  They did, settling gratefully for a scotch and soda, sitting deep in the Georgetown chintz, the windows tightly shut, the secret service guard discreetly at his station near the kitchen; the house otherwise empty, except for the cook and the maid, asleep on the third floor.

  The Director spoke first. “Some of the points made tonight stick in my mind. Maybe it’s true. Maybe Stalin wants Wintergrin to win the election and hand him that ultimatum.”

  “Stalin certainly would want that if he had heard the nine hour conversation in that room tonight. That festival of indecision. Dear Allen, reassure me on at least that much. Was anyone in that room a Soviet agent? You’re not by any chance a Soviet agent, are you, Allen?” The Director managed a weak smile.

  “You wouldn’t think, would you, that we were the world power with three hundred and sixty nuclear warheads, and the Soviet Union the power with nine paleolithic atomic bombs? That we have the air force to deliver those bombs, whereas they don’t? That, after all, Wintergrin is asserting rights guaranteed under the UN Charter to which the Soviets are signatories? No, you would think that we were the aggressor, the threat to world peace, the weak sister, and Wintergrin the imperialist. It is inexplicable how these inversions come about.”

  “It isn’t really so inexplicable, Dean. We have a conscience. Isn’t it that easy? And that difficult? We are required to think in terms from which Stalin is totally liberated. Even if we reject—or ‘transcend’—the norms, we are aware of them. And we are fatigued by the experience. We are … ambiguists.”

  “Stalin himself has plenty to weigh. Well, not plenty, exactly. He has to weigh our reaction. He has never really cared about world opinion, and here Wintergrin has played into his hands. Have you noticed the cables? Wonderful! The line is exactly what any Soviet-watcher would have supposed: WINTERGRIN THREATENS ATOMIC WAR AGAINST SOVIET PEOPLE: WORLD HOLOCAUST POSSIBLE. That line, played over and over again during the next two months, would provide the Communists with cover for the resurrection of extermination camps for the purpose of providing a final solution to anyone in Germany who by his vote in the November elections signified a desire to live in freedom.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. The only thing that’s going to stop them is if we tell ’em, and if we tell ’em in a way that leaves them in no doubt that if they march into Germany, we’ll dump on Moscow: right down in the Kremlin courtyard—”

  “And send John Hersey over a month later in a gas mask to lucubrate on it all—” the Secretary interrupted.

  “But who’s going to tell them that?”

  The Secretary sipped at his drink. “Let me see now. The Voice of America. Or shall we send a delegation to Moscow? Ah, yes. A bipartisan commission headed by Adlai Stevenson–he could take a couple of weeks off from the campaign: nobody would notice. And as delegates, let’s see: Norman Cousins? Of course. Archibald MacLeish? He terrified Hitler. What’s the name of that tiger in Greenwich Village? The woman. Yes. Mary McCarthy. ‘We are here, Comrade Stalin, to have one last look at the Kremlin because, you see, the day after tomorrow it will cease to exist. That is the message from our government. Bipartisan message. That’s why Adlai Stevenson is the head of the delegation.’ Allen, am I going nuts?”

  “From all appearances, I would say yes, Dean.”

  “That will prove a terrible loss to mankind.”

  “You forget, there won’t be any mankind left.”

  “I forgot.”

  “It does seem late in the evening to worry about mankind.”

  They went back to their scotches and said nothing for a few minutes. The Secretary looked at his watch. It was after midnight.

  “Let’s meet here for breakfast at six a.m., Allen.”

  “I’ll be here,” the Director said, rising. He took his overcoat from the rack, but didn’t put it on. “I’ll manage, thanks.” He opened the door, and slid into the waiting limousine.

  The next morning when he returned, he found the Secretary in the kitchen, making the toast. Without looking up, he began right away. “We shall have to go along with them, Allen. As you turn it over in your mind, there is, really, no alternative.”

  “I’ve reached the same conclusion.”

  “But here is where I think we can make a point with old hatchet face.” They were seated now at the kitchen table, the juice was already served, and the Secretary poured the coffee as he sat down. “Why shouldn’t they do it?”

  “Well, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t. But remember, Wintergrin’s alleged to be our operation. I don’t think even Stalin really believes that. But it’s a convenient clothes horse for all their complaints.

  “But listen. Even if it were so. Even if Wintergrin were our man. So, we take the position: ‘Okay, go ahead and get rid of him, even though he is our man.’ What better evidence that he isn’t our man than that we’re willing to see him disappear from the scene?”

  “It’s worth trying.”

  “I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to say, Either they do it or it won’t be done.”

  “Do you have a fallback position?”

  “Yes. If they insist, I’ll shoot Wintergrin myself.”

  The Director smiled. And was silent.

  The Secretary spoke again, stirring his coffee for no apparent reason, since he had put neither sugar nor cream in it. “What is his security like?”

  “Up until Frankfurt, Laurel and Hardy could have bumped him off. It was loose, loose as hell. Now it’s pretty tight. Oakes reports that a real pro has taken on the responsibility of keeping the candidate alive. You can’t get near St. Anselm’s any more. Even the press are frisked when they go see him.”

  “What a wonderful opportunity.”

  “To do what?”

  “To emasculate the press, dear Allen.”

  “And he travels behind an armed car, with radio. He’s been protesting the appearance of all this, because Adenauer and Ollenhauer are mov
ing about conspicuously unescorted. But there doesn’t seem to be any negative public reaction. Incidentally, don’t eliminate the possibility that somebody else will try to bump him off. The opposition isn’t all from the left. Der Spiegel is off-its-rocker-mad at him, says he’s going to cause the destruction not only of East Germany but of West Germany. Oakes says there’s a lot of randomly motivated hate mail.”

  “Any of it signed ‘Harry Truman’?”

  “And the police, a few days ago, arrested a young guy at a rally with a loaded pistol in his pocket. He’s being interrogated. They’ve established he is a member of the United World Federalists.”

  “Allen, did you ever read Murder on the Orient Express?”

  “No, but I could use Hercule Poirot right now.”

  “Well, the murdered man has thirteen knife wounds. And there are thirteen passengers on the train. And M. Poirot establishes that every one of them had a motive to kill him. And the denouement is: They all did—took turns with the knife.… That would be a hell of a coincidence if, a few days before the election, Count Wintergrin was simultaneously shot, stabbed, asphyxiated, poisoned and drowned.”

  “Some people would know it was a CIA job then.”

  “Well,” said the Secretary, leading the way into the living room, coffee cup in hand, “now let’s go and get grim together. You go see your man Rufus, and get him into the act. I’ll bring in hatchet face. My office will tell him ten a.m.”

  “We’re both lawyers, Dean. You’re a constitutionalist, or anyway you pose as one. The mandate here is a little irregular. What, in your opinion, are my direct responsibilities to the President?”

  “In my opinion, your responsibilities to the President are never to mention the name of Wintergrin in his presence. His responsibility to you is identical.”

  CHAPTER 10

  When Blackford called the number in Bonn, he was told to ring a second number and to ask for “Bob.” He rang it, giving—when asked by the voice at the other end of the telephone, “Who is calling?”—his agency name. On hearing “This is Singer!” Blackford felt, for the first time since arriving at St. Anselm’s, that he was back in touch with his own country. For eight weeks he had been reporting only to a disembodied voice at the other number, and nothing had come of his request to go to Bonn and speak directly with his superior. He would receive his instructions over the telephone, file his reports either over the telephone, or by mail to Bonn, depending on their character. He had no knowledge of the uses to which his information was being put, or any acknowledgment of the work he was doing.

  “God, am I glad to talk to you!”

  “Me too, buddy. I want you to come around and see me.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “Call the other number at noon, and they’ll tell you. Got to go. See you tomorrow.”

  Blackford could easily account to his associates for any trip to Bonn. Bonn, after all, was where Washington sent the money. It was the administrative center of all German reconstruction projects financed or partly financed by Marshall Aid. And, of course, Blackford would take the precaution of checking in with the foreign aid mission office to report on progress.

  He was at the chapel at eight, to go over the day’s work with Overstreet and Conditti. At nine he was to see Wintergrin, who had asked him to stop by. Getting in and out of the courtyard had been something of an operation. The additional sentry was posed at the top of the hill at the entrance to the courtyard. There were guards outside the castle. The inner sanctum was defended by three men casually distributed in the corridor with automatic weapons. They all knew Oakes by sight, and several times saw him stroll in and out of the church and the castle in the relaxed company of Count Wintergrin; still, with Teutonic thoroughness, they went through the motions of inspecting his credentials as if for the first time, until Count Wintergrin caught them doing it. At the stormy ensuing session with Wagner, Wolfgang was called in and specifically reprimanded, and now Blackford could circulate without interruption.

  He found Wintergrin alone in his study. The adjacent room, once a refectory for hunting parties, was now a press office of sorts. It was there, surrounded by antlers, boars’ heads, strutting stanchions with jaded banners of war, that Erika worked, sharing the huge room with half the staff of twenty involved in scheduling, policy, and organization. Roland Himmelfarb occupied a small office between the refectory and the dark, bookfilled office of the count, into which Blackford was escorted by an appointments secretary.

  Wintergrin never appeared to feel harassed, but with Oakes he had become unusually relaxed, carefree. “I sneaked past the gorillas last night at six and took a look. It really is very exciting. The joinerwork up from the panels to the rood screen is first-rate work, first-rate. And the traceried panels themselves, as I’ve told you, are indistinguishable from the originals. The wood will have to age, but that will happen …” He rippled on about the details of the woodwork in the choir and returned to his continuing pre-occupation: the blue glass. Blackford wished he could divert him to the subject of his political campaign, but the occasion was too formal. Count Wintergrin had summoned his architect to discuss the business at hand, and so Blackford was resigned to a week with nothing to report to his employers when Wintergrin, almost without pausing, said:

  “I would like to get away for an evening. I have not been free from my staff since Frankfurt. I know a good restaurant, with private dining rooms. It is located, improbably enough, at Gummersbach, a dull little town, in case you don’t know it, between Dusseldorf and Bonn, but much closer. The maître d’hôtel there is called Walter (he pronounced it Valter). There are also discreet opportunities for postprandial relaxation, if that is the mood of the patron. I have two questions: Would you be disposed to accompany me? Second, if so, would you kindly make the reservations in your name only?”

  All this, thought Blackford, and Singer Callaway too, in a single day.

  “I should be delighted, Count Wintergrin.”

  “Axel,” he said, scratching the name of the restaurant on a notepad and handing it to Oakes. “I told you once, I shan’t tell you again. You may call me, in due course, ‘Chancellor.’ But that will have to wait.”

  “Do you get to be called anything special after you unify Germany?”

  “I should think ‘Liberator’ would do.”

  “And if you fail—‘Liberator Manqué’?”

  “If I fail, you will probably be referring to me as ‘The Late Count Wintergrin.’”

  “Who would be the successor to … all this … if that … happened?”

  Wintergrin took the narrow road in his answer, as if Oakes’s question were of purely biological concern.

  “I have a natural son in England. My lawyers have the documents. If all goes well I shall adopt him legally. If not, he will be acknowledged by my estate as the rightful heir … But go away, Blackford, I am busy, and I shall look forward to your impertinent questions tonight.” He smiled, more warmly than ever.

  “Fine. I have to go to Bonn anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t worry. They’re not running out of money. Routine stuff.”

  “You know to take the road north to Schmallenberg?”

  “I know to take the road north to Schmallenberg.”

  Count Wintergrin smiled, a little shyly. He reached out his hand. Blackford rose and started to extend his own but saw that the impatient count was pointing now at the door.

  “Don’t get corrupted in Bonn. And don’t forget to make the reservations. For eight p.m. At exactly seven-thirty I’ll walk out of my car, parked opposite the library at St. Anselm’s, wearing a raincoat, a fedora, and glasses.”

  “I’ll be there. Wearing a suit, over a shirt, tie, and underwear.”

  At Bonn, Blackford was directed to an apartment on Remagenerstrasse, within a block of the building where Beethoven was born. The door of the ground-floor apartment was opened by Singer Callawa
y himself, and he looked exactly as he had on that morning he had opened the door at Park Street in London to introduce Blackford to his mission there, almost exactly a year ago. Callaway was buoyant as ever, orotund in speech, conspiratorial in tone: and Blackford knew in his bones that the Wintergrin matter was coming to a head. All they needed now was someone like Rufus, and he would know that he was stationed on the forwardmost line. Callaway smiled broadly, led him silently through a moderate-sized, overstuffed living room into an adjacent study where, sitting at the desk, was: Rufus.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Rufus rose, smiled as warmly as he ever did, and quickly sat his thin frame (hung in clerical dress, including the Phi Beta Kappa key) down again, his eyes somber-brown behind the thick glasses, his hair neatly plastered on his balding dome.

  “I thought you had retired, Rufus.”

  “I thought I had too.”

  “What brought you back?” Blackford took the chair toward which Rufus waved him. Singer Callaway sat at the end of the desk, his elbows on it, his chin in his hands, prepared to concentrate.

  “What brought me back is the threat of a world war.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “It is really that bad.”

  “Intending no offense, Rufus, What do you know about it that I don’t know? I mean, that anybody following the news closely, and listening to the shouting and yelling couldn’t deduce?”

  “We now know the nature of the ultimatum of the Soviet Union.”