Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘How much?’

  ‘And I do feel you should contribute to all the stuff I handed over free of charge, don’t you?’

  Josef stood, refusing to join in Endelman’s game, waiting for the demand.

  ‘I think,’ continued the photographer, ‘that a thousand dollars would be fair. After all, Nikolai made some of his most impressive public performances strung out on what I’d given him.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  Endelman raised both hands, palm upwards, in feigned horror.

  ‘But we can’t afford to fall out, can we?’

  ‘I’ve only got five hundred now,’ said Josef.

  ‘We don’t extend credit,’ said the photographer.

  ‘You know you’ll get it,’ said Josef. It would be another occasion when he would have to come running, the negotiator thought. Endelman would like that.

  From the bedside drawer, Endelman took the glassine envelopes and handed them to the Russian.

  ‘I want the money,’ he insisted.

  ‘You’ll get it,’ said Josef.

  Nikolai was hunched, cross-legged, in the middle of his bed when Josef returned to the embassy. He had been crying, Josef saw. The sheet was pulled-up, rope-like, and was creased and filthy where the writer had sat clutching it, like a baby sometimes holds its bedding for comfort. He grabbed the envelope from the other man and prepared his injection. Some of the powder fell on to the bed and he carefully brushed it back into the spoon. It was sexual, thought Josef, the slow entry and withdrawal of the needle. A bubble of blood popped up on Nikolai’s arm as he withdrew the hypodermicand Nikolai stared at it, hypnotically. It looked like a tiny cherry, thought Josef. Or a nipple. Sex again. Abruptly, the writer smeared the mark with his thumb, looking up at Josef.

  The negotiator felt a sudden moment of pity for the other man. He looked so frail and small, as if he were collapsing inwardly. Countries had tossed him about like children playing with a ball until it became dirty and punctured. And, like children, there weren’t any regrets.

  Before leaving the embassy that morning, Josef sought out the doctor, a bullish, shock-haired Georgian named Ravil Shevardnadze. The doctor’s genial greeting soured within minutes of their conversation, and he grew angry, but Josef argued patiently, frequently reminding the man of his rank. Fortunately, the hostility of Illinivitch and Vladimirov had not permeated through the embassy. Josef finally got his way, as he knew he would.

  Before the reception, there was more publicity sightseeing to the John F. Kennedy Memorial Centre and the Lincoln Monument, and lunch at the National Press Club. They divided into ridiculous, hostile camps, the ambassador and Illinivitch isolating themselves, Nikolai and Endelman together but hardly talking and Josef thrown into constant contact with Blyne, to which he did not object.

  ‘Not like a scene out of happy families,’ mocked Blyne, as they drank before lunch.

  Josef smiled, knowing there was no hostility in the American’s remark.

  ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the publisher. ‘I don’t envy your position.’

  ‘No,’ said Josef, sincerely. ‘Neither do I.’

  Vladimirov had chosen to be the interpreter, as Semyonov had in New York. Illinivitch stood to one side looking more at Josef than at the writer.

  ‘What are you going to do about Matheson?’ asked Josef.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blyne, as if the matter were not important. ‘He fouled up.’

  ‘Have you fired him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t think you should,’ said Josef. There were too many casualties already, he thought.

  Blyne looked surprised.

  ‘What happened to him would have happened to either of us if we’d been there,’ said Josef.

  ‘Probably,’ agreed the publisher, doubtfully.

  ‘There’s no doubt,’ stressed Josef. He stared across at Endelman, who was quietly taking pictures. Throughout everything, Josef realized, the man had remained the complete professional. They all had, he supposed, reflectively.

  Blyne’s swearing had diminished, thought Josef. It had obviously been a nervous gesture.

  Once again, in public, Nikolai performed well. As he stood beside him, translating his answers to the questions that followed the press lunch, Josef thought how odd it was that a narcotic that was destroying the man could make it possible for him to behave with such confidence. The pendulum began swinging back at the end of the meal. Nikolai started shifting as if it were impossible to become comfortable and surreptitiously he scratched his arms and then, trying to disguise the movement, his legs. Josef saw Illinivitch and Vladimirov watching intently, then bunch in conversation.

  There were three hours before the Presidential reception. As soon as they returned to the embassy, Josef took Nikolai to his room and gave him another envelope. The negotiator had insisted on holding each dose until it was necessary. The sight of the writer injecting himself had begun to disgust him, so he left the room to find Vladimirov’s secretary waiting in the passageway to say Illinivitch wanted him in the upstairs study. The ambassador was there, too, when Josef entered.

  ‘A disgusting scene,’ began Illinivitch.

  He’s accepted that whatever move he planned against Devgeny has failed, decided Josef. So now it was time for the deputy Minister to start rebuilding bridges.

  ‘What?’ demanded Josef, truculently.

  ‘The sight of Russia’s foremost writer, groping and snatching at himself because of a filthy addiction.’

  Vladimirov was smiling, delighted.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Josef, ‘you will have made a full report to Moscow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Illinivitch. ‘Of course. I’d be failing in my responsibility as deputy Minister if I had not done so.’

  ‘And no doubt,’ coaxed Josef, speaking to Vladimirov, ‘you have fully endorsed what Comrade Illinivitch said.’

  ‘Nothing has been overlooked,’ assured the ambassador. Already, thought Josef, he’s imagining another trial. He would enjoy the second much more than the first.

  ‘You fully support Comrade Illinivitch in what he is doing?’

  ‘Of course. And always have done,’ said the ambassador, smiling at the deputy Minister.

  ‘We have considered trying to get tonight’s reception cancelled,’ said Illinivitch. ‘Because of Balshev’s condition, there is a risk.’

  ‘I’m far better able to judge Balshev’s condition than either of you,’ said Josef, curtly, knowing his tone would unsettle them. They would expect him to be frightened. ‘He has just had another injection,’ continued the negotiator. ‘He will be quite capable of attending the reception. To pull out now, after Nikolai’s successful appearance at the press luncheon, would be a direct insult to the President …’

  He looked pointedly at the ambassador. Illinivitch would have told him very little, guessed Josef. They could both manipulate the man to give the answers they wanted.

  ‘Do you think it advisable that such an insult should be allowed, particularly with the growing American rapprochement with the Chinese?’ he asked.

  Vladimirov hesitated, seeking the trap to the oddly formal question. Unable to find it, he said, ‘No, I don’t think it should.’

  The deputy Minister stared curiously at Josef. He’s worried, thought the negotiator. That was good. It might lead to mistakes. Illinivitch regretted the ambassador being present, decided Josef. He was unsure at the way Josef had taken over the conversation and could not see the point to some of the questions.

  ‘This is degenerating into the sort of inquiry that will be necessary elsewhere,’ he said, heavily. ‘Comrade Vladimirov will formally introduce Balshev to the President and to the necessary members of the diplomatic corps, but I will expect you to act as interpreter otherwise.’

  Josef nodded. They were even frightened of association now, he realized. His earlier thought about Nikolai re-occurred. The punctured ball was
being discarded.

  The reception was in the East Room of the White House and was even more crowded than that in New York. The Chinese appeared to have realized their mistake, he thought, as he entered through the bottom door. The communists, whose presence in the American capital had been agreed upon after the Kissinger visit to Peking in 1973, were in an isolated group near the canapé table on the left. They all wore their dark grey, buttoned-to-the-neck tunics, emblazoned only with the crimson Mao badge. They looked immaculate, thought the negotiator.

  The conversation hushed as the party entered, then picked up again. People stopped eating and most turned towards them. Vladimirov and Illinivitch were either side of the writer, for the introductions. Endelman walked slightly to one side, to get the pictures he wanted. Josef walked alone, almost ostracized. Blyne was strangely quiet, awed in the presence of the President. Nikolai seemed perfectly controlled, relaxed even, walking quite confidently through the crowd, returning the smiles of strangers. The President was at the top of the room. He was a small man with grizzled hair and ears that stuck out, which embarrassed him. It had become an habitual gesture to finger them, as if he were trying to disguise their size. He did it now, as they approached. He wore built-up shoes, Josef noticed. He was sixty, Josef knew, and the Russian had expected him to have more grey hair. Perhaps he dyed it. The man smiled, with the quickness that Josef usually associated with nervousness, then came forward to meet them. Over his shoulder, Josef saw Morrison Rodney, the foreign affairs adviser whom he had met in the earliest stages of the wheat negotiations between America and Russia, after the disastrous harvest in the Soviet Union in 1972. The American smiled and nodded to him.

  Ahead of Vladimirov’s introduction, the President reached out, took Nikolai’s hand and then covered it with his left hand as well, holding it for the benefit of photographers. There were two, apart from Endelman. It was an electioneering pose, thought Josef. The President turned, indicating members of the cabinet, then the Senate and Congress leaders and Nikolai smiled and shook hands. Then the American leader began to move with the writer among the ambassadors who pressed forward.

  Morrison Rodney approached through the crowd and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Quite a triumph,’ said the adviser.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  The American, as susceptible to nuance as Josef, looked curiously.

  That’s how it appears to us,’ he said. ‘Although I personally was surprised at your involvement. Not your sort of thing.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Josef. ‘I haven’t enjoyed it.’

  ‘It was my idea to throw a reception,’ said Rodney. ‘The President became very keen.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Josef. So there was a point to their conversation. He waited.

  ‘We’ve been a little alarmed that relations have been tightening up with Moscow lately,’ continued the adviser. ‘We wanted to make a gesture.’

  There was more, Josef knew. He felt comfortable, like someone wearing his favourite slippers. This was what he was used to and enjoyed, shading words with colours.

  ‘There’s been increased communist activity in Indo–China. Do you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Laos wasn’t on the maps in ten years time. Our intelligence says all the support is from Peking.’

  The American indicated the group of Chinese, who stood watching Nikolai’s perambulation of the room.

  ‘The idea of this reception caused quite a lot of annoyance,’ continued Morrison Rodney. ‘We got the feeling Peking had misunderstood just how far we were prepared to let Russian relations slip in our keenness to maintain our accord with them.’

  ‘I’ll convey the thought to Moscow,’ said Josef, knowing he had been chosen as a message carrier. So Peking had become slightly too confident and an apparently innocuous reception had been staged to remind them of their biggest fear, a renewed and stronger link between Russia and America. Nikolai was making slow progress back towards them. The punctured ball had been picked up for one final game, thought Josef. He owed Morrison Rodney a debt, he realized.

  Nikolai reached them, looking strained, thought Josef. Vladimirov introduced Josef to the President.

  ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr Bultova,’ said the American leader. He infused meaning into the cliche.

  ‘I’m afraid a great deal of fiction is written into what I do,’ he dismissed, easily.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your visit this time?’

  ‘Very much. But then, I always enjoy America,’ replied Josef. He wondered why the man’s parents hadn’t had his ears corrected by surgery when he was a child.

  ‘I found Moscow interesting when I was there,’ said the President. ‘I thought the jewellery in the Armoury was magnificent. I was very glad to strengthen the bridges between our two countries.’

  Another hint, thought Josef. ‘I think everyone appreciates the growing friendship between the countries of the world. And the part you are personally playing to make it possible,’ he said.

  Diplomatic sleight-of-hand, thought the negotiator moving words around like a conjurer. The challenge was to find the shell beneath which was hidden the word that mattered.

  The President’s glance towards the Chinese was hardly discernible.

  ‘I’d like to talk with Mr Balshev privately for a moment,’ he said, looking around for the ambassador. Vladimirov had obeyed Illinivitch’s instructions and withdrawn to the other side of the room. He appeared deep in conversation with the deputy Minister.

  ‘Please,’ said Josef, quickly. ‘Allow me to interpret.’

  The President hesitated, uncertainly, aware of the slight diplomatic discourtesy in not involving the ambassador. Vladimirov remained with his back to them. Shrugging, the President led the way to a side room, with Josef and Nikolai following. The negotiator saw Vladimirov and Illinivitch turn too late. They looked worried. Only by hurrying could Vladimirov cross the room before they entered the side chamber and that would have attracted attention. As they went through the door, Josef turned and smiled at them. An idea had begun forming in Josef’s mind. Poor Morrison Rodney, he thought.

  It was a small study, directly off the East Room complex. The American translation of Nikolai’s book lay on the desk. The whole charade had been staged for the benefit of those outside, so once in the tiny room there was little to say. The President indicated the book,

  ‘I enjoyed Walk Softly on a Lonely Day,’ he said.

  Nikolai looked surprised, as if he had expected something more profound from the man.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d sign it.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to,’ replied Nikolai, still disappointed. There was the arranged knock on the door and one of the official photographers entered. In years to come, thought Josef, the photograph would hang in some personal museum in the man’s home town. The picture session took exactly five minutes, then, as if rehearsed, the photographer stopped and the President began moving towards the door. Stopwatch diplomacy, thought Josef. Now it was his turn.

  As they approached the door, Josef said to the President. ‘We were talking earlier of the growing friendship between the countries of the world …’

  They passed into the main room as the President looked inquiringly at the negotiator.

  ‘… I would not like any offence created, however unintentional,’ continued the negotiator, ‘by Nikolai not having properly greeted the representatives of the People’s Republic of China …’

  They were in the middle of the room now, being approached by members of the Cabinet. Several heard the remark. The Chinese stood about twenty yards away, still by the food table. The President frowned, looking suspiciously at Josef. It had been calculated to the second, Josef congratulated himself.

  ‘I’m sure …’ began the American, seeking an escape, but Josef gestured towards the Chinese, openly, so they would realize they were being talked about.

  ‘They have waited,’ stressed the negotiator.r />
  The tiny knot of men went completely quiet. Several shuffled, embarrassed. They all knew it would be taking the rebuke too far. But not to approach the communists, now they knew they were being discussed, would be as bad as avoiding the meeting. Morrison Rodney stood on the edge of the group, his face burnt with anger. He had been seen talking to Josef and would be blamed. It was unfortunate, thought Josef, but in similar circumstances he knew Rodney would do the same. The Chinese were moving restlessly, talking among themselves. Across the room, Vladimirov and Illinivitch stared, aware of the discomfort but too far away to discern the reason. They had utterly misjudged the reception, decided Josef. His father had been wrong to champion Vladimirov all those years ago. The man was not a good diplomat.

  Reluctantly, the President moved towards the Chinese, smiling at their interpreter. It was a frozen, hostile encounter, Nikolai moving forward like a robot to barely touch hands with the Chinese envoy, who actually tried to look away at the moment of contact. There was a glitter of flash-bulbs. Whatever harm had been done by the Stockholm press-conference would be erased by that one photograph, Josef knew. He wondered if his acquaintanceship with Morrison Rodney were irreparably harmed. Probably, he decided. The President was glaring at him, fixedly, not trying to disguise the hostility. The man knew he had been tricked, although he probably guessed for the wrong reasons. He had badly damaged his credibility for any future negotiations with America, Josef knew. It didn’t matter. He was striving to survive.

  Having touched hands like dancers in a medieval court, they parted. The President was furious, Josef saw. There was a muttered conversation with people around him and the indication that the reception was over rippled through the room. Vladimirov and Illinivitch moved forward with Nikolai and Josef, making the first farewells as chief guests. The President shook Nikolai’s hand and smiled, knowing the writer was unaware of what had happened. He looked directly at Josef when their hands touched.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Bultova,’ he said. There was great finality in the three words.

  ‘You caused an incident,’ accused Vladimirov, in the car returning to the embassy. ‘There’ll be a complaint.’