‘Come now, Hugo,’ he said. ‘Surely you don’t resent an honest opinion?’
‘No,’ said Altmann, still scoring. ‘I don’t resent an honest opinion.’
He was losing, Turgonev knew. Hurriedly he moved to deflect Altmann.
‘What do you think of them?’ he asked, gesticulating towards the door through which the three men had departed. Altmann shrugged, unhappy with his victory. Such an attitude was juvenile, he thought. He would need Turgonev’s help in the future.
‘All right,’ he allowed reluctantly. ‘Given too much time with Hollis, though, they’re bound to create suspicion.’
Turgonev nodded, as if the Austrian had confirmed an impression he had already formed.
‘I still feel the meeting was unnecessary,’ criticized Altmann. It had meant he had had to miss one of the weekly visits to Hannah: another lapsed promise, he thought.
‘Don’t overlook the importance of the project,’ warned Turgonev. ‘Everything has got to be exactly right. There had to be a meeting between you. So why not now?’
‘Nothing ever goes exactly right,’ generalized Altmann sadly, accepting the Russian’s explanation. ‘Countries usually win. People never do.’
‘Tell me, Hugo,’ said the Russian quietly, staring from the window out over the river. ‘Does it ever worry you, the things you do to people?’
Altmann frowned at the man’s back, perplexed by the question. Turgonev turned, his attitude demanding a reply.
‘No,’ covered Altmann. ‘It doesn’t worry me at all.’
The Russian’s expression left Altmann unsure whether he had given the right response. It wasn’t much, thought Turgonev, but it was important to leave the Austrian apprehensive after the man had made him appear foolish on the recordings.
He would be much more apprehensive, thought Turgonev, at the knowledge that the real purpose of the meeting had been to record on concealed cameras the existence of a four-man spy cell for possible later production before a court trying Hollis. Originally there had only been three cameras, but the colonel had instructed another concentrating entirely upon Bauer.
‘What news from Vienna?’ asked Altmann.
Turgonev sighed, bored by the frequent question.
‘I’ve told you,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s a complete accident. We couldn’t find any trace of a man with a limp.’
A sudden coldness spread throughout Altmann’s body.
It had seemed almost childish, and frequently in the last weeks he’d felt embarrassed at setting the trap. But Turgonev’s visit had appeared too coincidental, and at the time it had seemed a sensible precaution to omit the fact that the man who had kept him under observation and then attempted to push him beneath the car had had one leg shorter than the other.
Police records only contained details of dangerous driving. So there was only one way the Russians could have known of the deformity.
‘So forget it,’ instructed Turgonev, smiling. ‘It’s become a meaningless obsession. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘All right,’ said Altmann evenly. ‘I’ll forget about it.’
Why, wondered Altmann, had the Russians tried to kill him? And so ineptly, too.
(10)
Perhaps it was the feeling people attained through taking drugs, reflected James Murray, like a heroin or cocaine high. He felt euphoric, lightheaded almost, and the skin on his hands and arms was sensitive to the touch. He smiled to himself in the back of the unmarked limousine which was edging through the suburbs of Vienna to the former Hapsburg hunting-lodge, where the current session of the secret talks was taking place.
He wouldn’t have imagined, after his political upbringing, that he would be so excited.
‘We should make definite progress today,’ said Dennison.
Murray looked at him impassively. He would keep Dennison, he decided. Nearly everyone else would be reshuffled, but Dennison would stay. But he’d have to lose that patronizing edge, he decided. And damned quickly. It appeared to be growing stronger at each conference. He sounded like a football coach demanding extra effort; perhaps it was such close association with Bell.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. The irritation sounded in his voice, as he intended.
‘They’ve had a lot already,’ stressed Dennison, noting Murray’s tone. ‘… The wheat … a large quantity of equipment … it’s time they started to give …’
‘They’ve stepped up Jewish emigration,’ said Murray, guardedly, coaxing Dennison along.
The Secretary of State laughed, a sneering sound. ‘They have been turning Jewish emigration on and off like a tap since Nixon and Ford,’ rejected the crumpled man, unimpressed. ‘It’s easy and gets world reaction. But it means nothing.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘It’s not what I want,’ corrected Dennison. ‘It’s what you want. For there to be any point in these meetings, you’ve got to be able to announce a definite date for troop-withdrawals and site inspection.’
‘You think the preliminary planning has gone far enough?’ led Murray, eager to establish whether the conversation was initiated by the President.
‘Definitely,’ asserted the Secretary of State, as the car pulled through the discreetly guarded gates in the shadow of Melk monastery. Murray left the car first, used already to the favoured treatment that was becoming customary. He nodded greetings to the aides and assistants already waiting, taking care to mention each by name. He’s learning well, decided Dennison, falling into step and following him into the conference room.
The ornately gilded, chandeliered room was dominated by a huge, oval table arranged so that the delegations sat round in a slow curve with each man facing his immediate opposite. Murray stood, stretching the cramp from his legs. Within minutes, the door at the far end of the room opened and the Russian party moved in. There were effusive handshakes, then the Russians moved into position across from the Americans. The Russian Foreign Minister, Igor Melkovsky, performed an elaborate bow, and Murray accepted the invitation and sat first.
‘Our friendship progresses from each meeting,’ opened Melkovsky. He spoke good English, without the need for translation, but the remarks were relayed to others in the party by interpreters interposed along the table.
‘But hardly well enough,’ replied Murray. He would control the meeting, he decided. Detailed reports would go back to Moscow on his personal conduct, he knew. So it was important the proper lessons were drawn about the manner in which he was likely to acquit himself in the future. Because Kennedy had appeared a soft man in this very city, Khrushchev had later threatened him with the Cuban missile build up.
The Russian’s smile faltered, the directness unexpected.
‘How so?’ he asked, shifting to make himself comfortable in his chair, the movement covering his surprise.
Like Dennison, he’s patronizing me, thought Murray. They were both like university dons smiling sympathetically at the stumbling efforts of a student explaining his thesis.
‘The original outline agreement that you and I …’, he paused, turning slightly sideways, ‘… and Secretary of State Dennison agreed at our meetings in Moscow provided for mutual benefit to both our nations by our coming closer together …’
Melkovsky nodded, head tilted curiously. Dennison sat impassively. Murray was moving too quickly, he judged. The remark in the car had not been meant as a guideline for the conduct of the meeting. Now there was no way he could stop Murray, he realized. Melkovsky was too experienced a negotiator to miss any intervention. And nothing could be done to undermine the future President.
The Russian spread his hands.
‘This is how my government understands it,’ he agreed complacently.
‘The facts hardly support that,’ disputed Murray.
‘What facts?’
The Russian’s tone was harsh now, offended by the pace at which the American was attempting to force the encounter.
‘Under the public, interim SA
LT agreement, the Soviet Union has numerical advantage in missile launchers.’ said Murray. ‘Your arsenal contains 2,358 to America’s 1,710.’
‘Because the United States has begun to equip offensive missiles with multiple independently targetable warheads,’ qualified Melkovsky.
‘But isn’t it a fact’, responded Murray, ‘that since 1972, Russia has developed MIRV technology and had them deployed before the end of 1974?’
Melkovsky shrugged, annoyed at being trapped.
‘According to our defence analysts,’ pressed Murray, ‘Soviet forces will have 7,000 multiple independently targetable warheads on intercontinental ballistic missiles compared to a projected figure of 1,650 for America. And that is despite the Vladivostok agreement with President Ford.’
‘Estimates,’ dismissed Melkovsky, spreading his hands again.
‘Mathematically calculated estimates,’ insisted Murray, ‘which show that at the present rate of Soviet development of offensive weaponry, Russia’s total payload of existing missiles will exceed that of America by a ratio of six to one.’
‘I only discuss facts, not guesses or estimates,’ said Melkovsky, haughtily.
‘Excellent,’ snatched Murray, enjoying himself. There wouldn’t be a Cuban situation while he was President: today was the first of many lessons from which the Russians needed to learn.
He hurried on.
‘Let’s talk facts. There has been shipped to Leningrad 375,000 tons of grain, together with 70 four-ton and 120 three-ton combine harvesters and oil-exploration equipment valued at $70,000,000.’
Dennison glanced at Murray. The man was talking entirely without notes, he saw. So the bluntness of the approach wasn’t an instinctive reaction to the car conversation: Murray had planned it from the outset. The man was proving a constant surprise, thought the Secretary of State.
‘Have we not expressed gratitude?’ played Melkovsky.
‘But now we feel it is time to express more,’ said Murray.
The American was completely in control, thought Melkovsky regretfully. There were to be none of the platitudes that usually sugared such negotiations. The Foreign Minister tried to fix a mock-apologetic look.
‘But the time-tabling was yours,’ he pointed out, still holding his temper. ‘We have done everything to permit the speculation of an arms-limitation agreement to emanate from the White House rumours.’
‘By remaining silent,’ qualified Murray directly. ‘Now I think it’s time we moved beyond the silence and the rumours.’
Both Dennison and Melkovsky recorded Murray’s use of the word ‘I’.
‘How?’ asked Melkovsky. There was still much to be obtained from America, he knew. Moscow had hoped to avoid the actual commitment for several months yet.
‘I want to indicate the breakthrough in the SALT talks in a fortnight,’ stated Murray.
Melkovsky remained expressionless.
‘… And within four months give a definite date for the withdrawal from Europe and the beginning of site inspection …’
Melkovsky’s face tightened and Dennison shifted uncomfortably.
‘I hardly think the detailed discussion …’, protested Melkovsky, waving at the aides gathered around them, ‘… has reached the point where it is possible to pledge ourselves to definite dates …’
‘I think it has,’ argued Murray. ‘Since our Moscow meeting there have been five gatherings between your advisers and mine. And this is the third confidential meeting. I’ve studied every position paper. The secret talks are now getting immersed in the unnecessary polemics of the public SALT sessions.’
The entire Russian delegation was stone-faced now, and the hostility was growing between them like a wall.
‘I wonder’, interrupted Dennison at last, anxious to prevent a breakdown, ‘if this wouldn’t be a good moment to consider a refreshment recess?’
Murray turned on him, furious at losing the momentum of the dispute. Melkovsky rose, seizing the escape. He bowed again, stiffly this time, and led his delegation from the room.
The Americans with drew through the opposite door and as it closed Murray hustled Dennison away from the rest of the party.
‘You screwed it,’ he yelled.
His voice carried easily to the aides grouped at the far side of the room. Murray knew, but didn’t care.
‘I opened this diplomacy,’ insisted Dennison, striving for control, determined not to be completely stifled. ‘And I don’t want it to fail. And you can’t afford failure.’
He was brave to risk the impudence, thought Murray. Such defiance could lose him the job in a few months’ time.
‘I don’t consider we’re risking a breakdown,’ rebutted Murray. He paused tellingly. ‘Wasn’t it you advising a stronger approach this morning?’
‘There’s a difference between a proper approach and rudeness,’ countered Dennison, still defiant. ‘Never forget the Russian pride.’
‘Nor the Russian obstinacy,’ argued Murray. ‘They’re quite prepared to let these meetings ramble on with the benefits all one-sided. And you know it’
‘Don’t we have to take that chance?’ asked Dennison, tempering the view he’d expressed earlier. Murray stared at the old man, curiously. That had been a naive thing to say, he decided. At least it answered one query; the remark in the car was entirely unprompted.
‘Of course not,’ said Murray. He saw Dennison react to the coldness in his voice and knew the man would never patronize him again.
‘We began these discussions with no bargaining power,’ Murray pointed out. ‘Then there was no way of forcing the Russians to comply with their promises.’
Murray was leaving him behind, Dennison realized desperately. Murray waited dispassionately, forcing his capitulation.
‘And now?’ conceded Dennison.
‘Now they have to make concessions.’
If Dennison hadn’t shown such contempt towards him, Murray thought, waiting for the question, he wouldn’t have manoeuvred such complete humiliation.
‘I don’t understand.’ surrendered Dennison.
‘When we began the peasants were starving,’ said Murray, ‘but they knew there was little that could be done. To a country seriously concerned with internal dissent we’ve supplied sufficient grain to alleviate their famine …’
Dennison nodded, doubtfully.
‘… Alleviate. But not solve,’ enlarged Murray. ‘The equipment provided is just sufficient, too. But the harvesters have no spares. And there aren’t enough pipes to replace those that will crack on the oil rigs during the Siberian winter …’
Dennison’s face cleared.
‘We’re holding all the aces,’ said Murray, a man who never gambled. ‘They daren’t risk an interruption. And they know it.’
‘That’s still no reason to be as brusque as you were,’ insisted Dennison, attempting to recover. ‘One day, the position could change.’
‘I’m not interested about one day,’ discarded Murray. ‘I’m interested about this day. And what the results of this day will bring.’
‘What if it brings a walk-out of the Russian delegation?’ tried Dennison, feeling like a man seeing the train pull away from the station without him.
‘Then I’ll suspend the wheat shipments and aid,’ said Murray simply, turning to accept the coffee brought to him by an assistant.
‘And how will you explain that to an electorate already promised the sales and trade?’ asked Dennison.
Murray smiled, happy he had cowed the other man.
‘In the way that is going to be the hallmark of my term of office,’ he replied easily. ‘I’ll tell the truth. I shall explain the whole idea was a reciprocal agreement, but that the Kremlin was prepared to renege on their promises, making America look soft.’
The grin broadened. ‘Don’t forget our frontier machismo. Or the fact that the most powerful lobby in Washington is the Rifle Association, advocating guns for all. A strong America, refusing to be bullied, is as good an ap
peal as a mammoth trade-deal.’
‘It doesn’t have all the advantages of what we’re trying to achieve.’
‘True,’ agreed Murray immediately. ‘But it’ll be good enough. Politics is compromise, remember?’
‘It’s not the way I like conducting negotiations,’ said Dennison, huffily.
‘Then it’s the way you’ll have to learn, isn’t it?’ said Murray.
The two men looked steadily at each other, both waiting. The threat was better left unsaid, decided Murray, turning away. Dennison realized he was sweating and moved uncomfortably. Would Harvard have changed after all these years, he wondered.
An official moved in, indicating the Russians were prepared to re-enter the discussions, and the American party moved back into the room. Melkovsky slumped immediately into his chair, abandoning the theatre of his earlier greeting. Murray faced him, the tingling still permeating his body. He had rushed the encounter, he knew. Which was almost an aberration after all his years as a diplomat. The awareness of the error was sobering; he would have to be careful he didn’t become too over-confident. As Bell had warned months before, there were too many things that could still go wrong.
Silence settled in the room, like a heavy mist.
‘I’m sorry that the progress of our talks has been a disappointment to you,’ commenced Melkovsky.
Very slightly, Murray relaxed. It was important that the Russian had opened the debate. It showed his concern; and gave Murray the advantage.
‘I’m sure’, said the American, ‘that we have established a degree of frankness enabling progress to be improved.’
‘It would be unfortunate upon many levels if it weren’t,’ said the Russian, heavily, straining for a point.
‘Yes,’ seized Murray instantly, throwing the threat back. ‘Very unfortunate indeed.’
The room was very quiet and Murray had the impression that people were even breathing shallowly to avoid any sound.
‘And I’m sure’, pressed Murray, ‘that neither of us wishes to put at risk the mutual benefit about which we spoke earlier.’
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