by Clark, Eric
He had begun to think of himself as Edward Partridge and constant conversations with changing travel companions on airplanes, buses, trains and in bars had helped him perfect his cover story until the answers came without any hesitation.
He took a sip of his drink. The Aeroflot TU 154A was full. Half the passengers, he had been told, belonged to some trade union group; the others were simply curious tourists — like him.
His mind kept repeating one phrase from Cory’s briefing: ‘and to remain behind until you hear that the man is safe’ …
The aircraft broke through cloud and Parker could see runway lights below. The plane landed with a jerk, as though it might take off again. When it finally stopped, Parker was conscious of people crowding at the windows, eager to see this alien place.
A voice somewhere behind him said, ‘It looks like any other bloody airport.’
*
On the flight home from England, Cory began to feel guilt, triggered by what he recognized as his own unprofessionalism: there had been risks meeting Parker in London. He’d persuaded himself that such a meeting was necessary, that telling Parker the truth earlier would have been dangerously premature; and when Parker did learn, Cory needed to see his reaction.
But he only half believed himself. His real motive was the desire to be there, to be operating again. He didn’t want to let go until the last moment. Now, unless something went wrong, he would hear nothing for six days. Whatever happened, it was out of his hands.
It was easier when you were your own agent, as in wartime. The personal dangers were greater, but you remained in control. It was like the difference between travelling in this 747 and piloting yourself in a small plane in a storm. Here he was safer but nervous; there he might be in danger but he was master of his own fate.
Cory had another feeling — concern. For Parker. This was not because he liked the man — although he did — but because of his young daughter.
Cory felt tired but restless. He flipped through one newspaper and then another, only to replace it in the rack and try a magazine. Two subjects seemed to dominate all of them, Kissinger’s wizardry and Watergate. It was almost a month since the edited Nixon tapes had been published; almost two weeks since Nixon had said he would not resign under any circumstances.
Looking down at a photograph of the jowly face, Cory’s mind searched for a word to describe the President: shabby. That was it, shabby little man …
Dulles was crowded: tourists flocking in. He decided against the airport bus and took a cab.
His house felt cold and empty. He had come to feel at home at the rented house with Parker and Williams although, most nights, he had not slept there.
He kicked his shoes off and walked straight upstairs.
He stood for a long time in front of the portrait of Sue.
Tomorrow he would arrange for the disposal of all the materials used to train Parker. Then there would be the fear and anxiety of the waiting followed, hopefully, by the good news.
‘But what then?’ he asked the picture. ‘What then?’
And his hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
*
Now that it was happening at last, Sunnenden’s great regret was that he could not talk about it with someone. There was Cory, of course, whom he had seen the day he returned from London. But Cory was acting strangely, refusing to be drawn into conversation. Sunnenden hoped that the older man was not going to break down again.
Now, on the morning of Friday, 31 May, Sunnenden received the first piece of news since Cory had told him about the London meeting. What looked like a routine cable from Moscow hid a message that there was no sign of Parker’s being followed and that the briefing of Zorin would go ahead as planned.
For the moment he alone had the information; soon he would pass it to Cory, who would simply thank him and say little more. Perhaps at their meeting after Cory’s return from London he had sensed Sunnenden’s unspoken criticism. Sunnenden, amateur though he was, was convinced that Cory had been foolhardy to make the trip.
Nor could Sunnenden talk about it to his wife. As Cory had suggested, he had warned Janet that something important was happening — something so important and so secret that he could not talk about it to anyone, not even her. That worked well at first, confirming all the effort she had invested into getting him where he was.
But now that her husband had not been chosen to accompany Kissinger on his latest Middle East tour, she was pressing for more detail, even hinting she did not believe him. Sunnenden longed to tell her the truth. Nevertheless, he would hold back until it was over. But then!
Scott was not even in Washington. To everyone’s surprise he had flown out to join Kissinger in Geneva, disregarding his widely known fear of flying.
Most people believed he had gone because of Watergate: if Nixon went, would Kissinger also? And, if not, what part would he play in a new Administration? In State, it was no secret that Kissinger had dropped all his non-essential reading to study the published transcripts which were flown out to him as they appeared.
Even if Scott were here, he was even more reluctant to talk than Cory. He had made it clear that although he wished to know what stages events had reached, he wanted no details. All he cared about was results and how Sunnenden achieved them was his affair.
There were papers on Sunnenden’s desk, more than usual. He was preparing a round-up of global information he thought the Secretary should have on his return. But he pushed it back, and walked to the window.
Until now it had not seemed real. Even watching Parker rehearsing his role had had a theatrical quality. The news that he was on his way to Moscow had had its own air of unreality. The information in the cable changed that. At no point had he, nor Cory, nor Scott talked about what happened after. Did Zorin just settle down-in Israel? Could they ever talk publicly about what they had done — perhaps, one day, in his memoirs?
He just had to talk to someone — now. Even Scott would be better than nothing, he returned to his desk and pushed the intercom button.
Mrs Donovan answered immediately. ‘Any news yet?’ he asked. She knew what he meant. He had asked three times before: was the Secretary’s aircraft on its way home?
She had never known him to be so edgy.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘someone must know. For Chrissake find out!’
The intercom went quiet. She stared at it for a few seconds, before picking up a phone to call the Secretary’s office. God, she thought, what the hell is eating him?
*
The Secretary and his entourage arrived back in Washington, but Sunnenden and Scott did not talk that day.
It was, thought Sunnenden, like the return of a victorious Caesar. The Secretary’s standing had never been so high. A poll of the most admired men put him firmly ahead of both the Pope and Billy Graham.
It was Saturday morning before he could reach Scott and by that time he had another message from Moscow: the briefiing was accomplished.
The two men met at Scott’s golf club. They carried drinks outside. Scott had just finished playing eighteen holes with a union lobbyist, and from his manner had played well. He looked slightly ridiculous in bright orange check trousers and a green shirt, both too tight, accentuating his excess weight.
Sunnenden cupped a hand over his eyes to stop the glare. Golf clubs made him feel uneasy; somehow, the idea of men following a small ball around a lot of greenery offended him. Golf was not even healthy — a rapid walk would have done most of the players more good.
Scott waved nowhere in particular with his free hand and said, ‘Nice place, huh?’
Sunnenden lifted his glass in turn. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’
Scott was looking out on to the course, holding his glass aloft.
‘So, tell me,’ he said.
‘It’s go, Monday’s the day. That’s when our friend breaks out.’
‘Breaks out!’ Scott’s voice was harsh and querulous.
‘There’s not going to be anything dramatic?’
Sunnenden felt on the defensive. ‘No, no, it should all be smooth.’ After a pause he added, ‘You want details?’
‘No, not details,’ said Scott. He turned to face Sunnenden and gave a huge, politician’s smile. ‘Why’d I want details, when everything seems to be going well.’ His voice changed, became precise, ‘It is all right? No problems?’
‘No problems,’ said Sunnenden.
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Scott.
This time his smile seemed more genuine and less forced.
‘You’ve done good work, Bob,’ he said. ‘Very good work.’
He turned to face Sunnenden. ‘A message for you,’ he said. ‘There’s a meeting in the Oval Office Monday to help brief the President on his forthcoming trips to Russia and the Middle East. The Secretary would like you to sit in, help out …’
Then before Sunnenden could react, Scott began to laugh.
‘You know what you’ve done?’ he said. ‘While we were out there screwing the Ruskies in Egypt, you’ve been screwing them from here — right in their own yard.’
He put his arm round Sunnenden and began to lead him inside, into the bar. Sunnenden found he was laughing too. It was only later, on the way home, that he remembered there were still three days to go.
Chapter Thirteen
SCOTT PICKED UP Sunnenden at his office just before 9.30. ‘We’ll have time to walk and discuss things on the way,’ he said.
Despite the heat and the fact that they had only eight blocks to walk, Scott set a rapid pace as they turned in the direction of F Street. Sunnenden found himself having to walk faster than he liked in order to keep up.
Scott did not speak until the two men stopped at the first intersection. ‘I know you’ll have sorted out the answers to anything you might be asked,’ he said, ‘but I thought maybe you ought to be prepared for what it’s like in the bunker right now.’
‘That bad?’
The lights changed and the two men set off.
‘Can be. It won’t affect anything, but I just wouldn’t want you to be thrown. He rambles a little sometimes. Likes to recall things he’s done.’
Sunnenden was listening, but part of his thoughts were in Moscow. Today was the day. He began to find Scott’s voice, raised above the hum of the traffic, irritating. It was partly the heat, partly fatigue. He had not slept the previous night thanks to a 3.30 a.m. quarrel with Janet. She had come downstairs, understanding that he could not sleep, but angry about the glass in his hand.
And she had wanted to know what was happening.
He could still hear her voice, shrill, not caring for once if the boys heard. What did he think he was doing? Why did he let everyone at State walk over him? Why was he wasting his chances? Who did he think he was fooling?
It had been hard not to tell her. But he had maintained a hurt silence, helped by the numbness of being semi-drunk. But God, in a few days when he did tell her the truth …
Sunnenden forced his thoughts back to the present. ‘So what do you advise?’
‘Just remember that he’s the President,’ warned Scott. ‘Just remember that if he survives, what he thinks of you matters. And that if he doesn’t, Henry’s going to go on — probably more important than ever.’
They turned into F Street. ‘You really think he might go?’ Sunnenden was surprised that Scott conceded such a possibility. Scott paused for some seconds, as though considering the question seriously.
‘For the first time, yes,’ he said. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what happens to Kleinsdienst.’ The former Attorney General was faced with being the first man in his position to be convicted of a crime in US history; the verdict was likely to be known later in the week.
‘Anyway this trip to Russia is important to the President. Don’t forget that. His one hope is persuading everyone that when it comes to America’s position in the world he’s Mr Indispensable.’
The North West Gate of the White House came into view and the two men turned into the driveway. They entered the lobby where the White House Press Corps usually congregated; the green leather chairs and couches were empty. Down the hall, they paused at a door until it was opened electronically from the other side. In another hallway, the secret serviceman nodded at Scott.
Then they were at the President’s outer office and being ushered into the Oval office. The two men nodded greetings to the seven people already there. Sunnenden knew them all vaguely. Neither the President nor Dr Kissinger had arrived.
One man nodded in the direction of the small green room just off the Oval office, and Sunnenden understood that Mr Nixon was there.
It was not Sunnenden’s first time in the Oval office, but it was the first time that he would spend more than a few minutes.
He sat back on one of the gold sofas that stood at right angles to the President’s desk. He was surprised by how little of his personality President Nixon had imposed on the room. The colours, he understood, were Nixon’s choice: bright blues and golds. Beyond that the only personal touch — and a moving one — was a small presidential seal which Sunnenden seemed to remember had been embroidered by Julie Nixon.
Sunnenden opened his document case and took out a number of papers. Suddenly he became conscious of a chair being pushed back somewhere to his right. He looked up. The President was entering the room, his arm around Kissinger. The two men were still talking, heads bowed, like conspirators. Sunnenden found it hard to believe what he knew to be true: that Dr Kissinger increasingly despised the President, whom he now called ‘that meatball President’ in front of some of his staff.
The President took his seat in the vast green swivel chair beyond the desk. Introductions were brief; Sunnenden merited a stare and a nod. The meeting began immediately.
The various aides and officials presented short reports on the forthcoming tour: the reception arrangements in the various countries, the press congingents, resumés of the main subjects of concern …
Sunnenden found himself awed watching the President. It was not the man, but the office, that made him feel small. Mr Nixon was, in fact, looking far from Presidential: his complexion was pallid, his face haggard. He followed the reports, though, with apparent interest, his eyes boring into whoever was talking.
Sunnenden began to feel that Scott’s warnings of the President’s state of mind had been overstated. Then Mr Nixon, his left knee hugged in both hands, interrupted one of his aides half way through a statement. His words were totally unrelated to anything that had gone before. With his head bent forward, as though addressing his feet, the President launched into a monologue about his ‘special, personal relationship’ with Brezhnev.
Sunnenden looked over the room, caught Scott’s eye and turned away. It was embarrassing, doubly so in view of his admiration for the man. It was like seeing a friend drunk and acting foolishly in public.
Kissinger looked embarrassed too. He kept cleaning his eyeglasses, alternating this activity with doodling on a yellow pad.
The meeting had now lost all point. The President was referring to his book, The Six Crises.
‘I guess you’ve all read it,’ he said. He swivelled back in the chair. ‘A damned good book.’
Sunnenden began to draw squares on the top sheet of the papers stacked on the lid of his document case. The typed sheet was headed: ‘Main points.’
Once or twice he thought the meeting would revert to normality, that he would be asked to present his report. He began to feel intense resentment at the chance being taken from him.
Then, suddenly, the meeting ended as abruptly as it had begun. A telephone call from the outer office reminded the President of the time. Almost in mid-sentence he stood to signify that the meeting was over.
Sunnenden got to his feet, slightly numbed at the realization that he had not been asked to say one word. The carefully worked-on report in his hands could be consigned to the waste bin.
He thought of Jan
et; again he heard that hurt, angry voice. He had relied on his reports of his performance at this meeting to buy him time until he could tell her the truth. He could lie of course, but it wouldn’t work; she would see through him.
The room began to empty, slowly. By his position Sunnenden found himself caught in a small group including the President, the Secretary and Scott.
The President now seemed more animated. He was joking with Scott about his passion for golf. Sunnenden looked on, wanting to join in, to speak, to say something. The President seemed reluctant to let his audience go. He was laughing at something Scott had said, his body moving in short jerky movements.
The other people had almost all left by now. Sunnenden found himself moving a pace towards the door. The President stopped him, speaking to Scott and Sunnenden. ‘You guys going to be out there in the Mideast with the President?’ he said, referring to himself in the third person.
He continued before either could say anything. ‘If you want to do something to help the United States, you figure a way of slipping a mickey to that Meir dame. God, she’s a toughie.’
Sunnenden’s desire to say something, to make his mark on the meeting, could no longer be contained. Almost before he realized what he was saying, he volunteered: ‘Well, at least you won’t have her bothering you about Alexandrai Zorin this time, sir.’
Nixon wrinkled his face. ‘Who the fuck’s Alexandrai Zorin?’ The name obviously meant something, but he was not sure just what.
The room had gone quiet, and the voice of Leonard Way of NSC was clear. ‘He’s that Russian scientist whose wife was deported. The Soviets locked him in a loony bin for a while.’
Sunnenden stared down at the eagle motif in the carpet. Without looking up he knew that everyone was looking at him.
It was Dr Kissinger who spoke, his accent sharper and more Germanic than usual.
‘And why won’t the President be bothered about Zorin this time?’
Scott tried to intervene. ‘I think if …’
‘No,’ snapped the Secretary, ‘let him talk.’
Sunnenden began to explain haltingly until Nixon interrupted him.