Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  From the seriousness of everyone in the room, Elke recognized the gravity of the discussion: she supposed it was the most significant session of the committee there had so far been.

  ‘Was there any figure – even an estimate – of what the total troop reduction might be in Europe?’ the Chancellor demanded.

  ‘Only estimates,’ said Mosen. ‘We know there are 321,000 American military based in Europe at the moment: 340,000 if we include sailors in the Sixth Fleet, in the Mediterranean. Using the percentages suggested in Brussels, the withdrawal could involve approximately 40,000 men.’

  At last Werle, who Elke realized had remained unusually silent, said: ‘Only proposals! Everything you’ve outlined from Brussels is tentative, isn’t it?’

  Elke noted that the committee was instantly attentive upon whatever point the Cabinet Secretary was about to make.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mosen, nodding, which he shouldn’t have done.

  ‘What about gallery-playing to the Soviets?’ Werle demanded. ‘Bypassing Europe as Washington has done so many times in the past in the hope of achieving some dramatic, President-boosting diplomatic agreement with Moscow! Expecting us and every other involved country to accept the outcome humbly, like dutiful satellites?’

  Elke was surprised at the depth of feeling in Werle’s voice.

  ‘There were the assurances, public and private, that NATO came first in any United States consideration,’ repeated Mosen, hopefully. ‘The Presidents of both America and the Soviet Union have publicly said they would not consider entering unilateral decisions over Europe.’ The Defence chief was clearly uneasy at being asked for a political opinion.

  ‘There are always such assurances, public and private,’ said Werle, just as clearly unimpressed. ‘Did you have any talks about the Vienna Treaty on Conventional Arms?’

  The Defence Minister visibly flushed, and Elke guessed that Werle had isolated an oversight. ‘Any reduction of United States armed forces in Europe is conditional upon that Treaty being signed and ratified,’ Mosen confirmed. ‘It was a point I was about to make.’

  Elke thought, sadly, that the man should not have attempted such a blatantly empty excuse: neither Bahr nor Klaus Mueller, the Intra-German Relations Minister, bothered to keep the contemptuous expressions from their faces.

  ‘A bargaining ploy,’ insisted Werle, simply.

  ‘Not to be taken seriously?’ queried the prevaricating Chancellor, in his falsely energetic way.

  ‘Everything has got to be taken seriously, in the climate in which we find ourselves,’ said Werle. ‘In my opinion it comes down to our correctly interpreting the degree of seriousness. How much Washington and Moscow are each genuinely prepared to give up, against how much is bluff to get a properly unified Germany into the Western alliance.’

  Interpretation, Elke saw. Always interpretation, for these men here trying to chart the future for the country, for Otto trying to interpret their interpretation to satisfy disbelieving editors in some country on the other side of the world who probably couldn’t find Bonn or Berlin on an unmarked map if the challenge were presented. Words echoed in her mind, as her concentration drifted. Could you really be transferred if your magazine don’t accept your opinions? Her words. And his reply, after that pitiful attempt at reassurance. Yes. He couldn’t go: couldn’t leave her, not now. She had to do everything she could to prevent that even becoming a remote possibility. ‘… taken seriously or not, if your assessment is correct we have to gauge our own responses with the utmost caution …’ The words of the Foreign Minister intruded into her reverie and Elke snatched for her lost concentration.

  ‘Something else,’ questioned Werle. ‘Was there any talk about upgrading the short-range nuclear missiles ahead of the agreed discussion date of 1992?’

  ‘None,’ said Mosen, shortly.

  ‘Did you specifically ask?’

  ‘Not directly,’ conceded the Defence Minister. ‘I considered they came under the general heading of existing forces and weaponry based here. And I did ask about that. The reply was that all bases and all commitments in Europe were up for examination and recommendation before the American Defence Committee.’

  ‘Defence Committee!’ seized Werle, instantly.

  ‘What?’ asked Mosen, baffled.

  ‘Is that what he said, the Defence Committee? Or did he say the Administration? There’s an essential difference.’

  Mosen flushed again. ‘The Defence Committee. I’m sure that’s what he said.’

  ‘Further manoeuvring,’ Werle assessed. ‘The Defence Committee is Congressional, not beholden to the Administration. They can bounce the missile upgrading back and forth between Capitol Hill and the White House for months, giving every impression of serious debate and consideration, and when it suits them to do so announce there won’t be any upgrading. It’ll make Washington appear the peacemaker.’

  So much to learn and properly understand, Elke reflected: at this level hardly anything turned out to be as it appeared, at face value. Interpretation, she thought again.

  ‘There should be another official statement,’ suggested the Chancellor. ‘I propose we recommend for entire Cabinet approval a communiqué welcoming the assurances of both the American President and Defence Secretary that the United States has reiterated its pledge fully to support and maintain NATO. And that we welcome further another American pledge to consult its NATO allies in advance of any disarmament agreements that may be reached with the Soviet Union. It boxes Washington in: greatly reduces their freedom for a back-door agreement.’

  Elke watched expectantly for the nods of assent to come from around the table. They did.

  ‘Are we all agreed?’ urged the Chancellor.

  ‘Something more, to be added,’ Werle quickly interjected, before the final approval. Looking directly at the Chancellor he said: ‘Why don’t we add to it your expectation to go personally to Washington for a series of talks with the President to discuss the whole future of Europe? And initiate approaches through the US ambassador here, today, for such a visit to be arranged? There can’t be a refusal and it would further box them in.’

  ‘Excellent!’ the Chancellor accepted, not allowing any discussion on the idea.

  Günther Werle had shown himself as a strong motivating force in every discussion she had so far witnessed, Elke recognized, as they returned to their own Chancellery offices. Increasingly confident of herself, as she became more accustomed to her role, she said during their analytical session in his rooms: ‘Herrr Mosen appeared ill-at-ease, sometimes?’

  ‘He’s over-promoted,’ said Werle, with unusual candour. ‘He was capable enough at State level in Bavaria. He hasn’t the capacity for national politics.’

  ‘Isn’t that a disadvantage, at a time like this?’

  Werle nodded appreciatively. ‘A very definite disadvantage. But there again, at a time like this, there can be no thought of his being replaced, can there?’

  ‘I’m finding this fascinating,’ admitted Elke, openly.

  Instead of continuing the professional conversation Werle said: ‘The Vienna choir was superb.’

  ‘Did Frau Werle find it so?’

  ‘She didn’t come with me,’ said Werle. ‘The seat was wasted.’

  It was a sanitized tape, all the extraneous inferences edited out. ‘There’s a very definite antagonism between them,’ judged Sorokin. The KGB deputy had insisted for the first time upon hearing a transcript. He was at the window of his office overlooking the square, talking with his back to the other two men.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about their personal relationship,’ said General Cherny, who took personally a lot of Reimann’s remarks that he had just overheard. ‘He’s an arrogant, conceited bastard.’

  ‘It was insecure, wasn’t it? Having the woman carry a document like that?’ said Sorokin. Having insisted upon the creation of the lists, Cherny had further insisted that Jutta take them back to West Germany, so that no instruction or request would b
e overlooked or forgotten. It had made the man identifiably responsible if anything had gone wrong.

  ‘We need results!’ Cherny defended. ‘And so far we’re not getting them. From Bonn we’re getting statements about NATO military capability at the same time as expectations of unified German membership. And what do we get from Reimann, to tell us the real picture? Nothing except excuses why he can’t move faster than he’s doing!’

  ‘The Bonn statements are simply placating,’ Turev argued. ‘There’s nothing new in them.’

  ‘He’s your man!’ said the soldier, spreading the blame as if he were sowing seeds by hand. ‘Drive him harder!’

  Turev detected the patronizing look upon Sorokin’s face, and decided he had nothing to fear from the General’s rage: like Sorokin, he knew well enough that it came from the ridicule on the tape. Turev said: ‘I think Reimann is working as well as we could possibly have expected.’

  ‘There’ll be an inquiry soon, about why everything is taking so long. Either from the Politburo or the President’s Secretariat itself,’ Cherny predicted.

  Sorokin indicated the machine lying before him on the table. ‘We can produce all the tapes, to show we’re doing everything possible,’ he said.

  Cherny stared, purple-faced, at the KGB deputy but didn’t respond to the mockery. Instead he said: ‘And what’s happened to the Vienna source? Why has that dried up?’

  It hadn’t.

  Two days later there was another anonymous delivery. It referred to possible US troop reductions in Europe.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Once again, as she had before the visit to Ursula at Marienfels, Elke tried to prepare Reimann ahead of the meeting with Ida and her family, wanting to lay the groundwork for him to like them: it was important to her for him to like them. She identified Horst as a high-ranking official in the Post Office and described Ida as beautiful (I’m terrified of the competition!) and called them her best and closest friends. He might think the house a little run down, the furniture slightly faded, but that’s the sort of people they were, vaguely Bohemian. Horst was actually writing a book. He believed himself to be a bit of a wine connoisseur, as well.

  ‘Good,’ said Reimann. Bohemian or short of money? he wondered: a possible explanation for the thirty thousand Deutschmarks. There had to be an advantage.

  ‘Bad,’ said Elke. ‘He isn’t a connoisseur at all. You’re going to have to be brave.’

  It was obvious that Elke was working hard to prepare the most favourable impression in advance, but Reimann also guessed that she was slightly ashamed of them: apprehensive, at least, that he would not approve. He was glad she remained nervous: that always had to be her underlying feeling, about everything. She could never be allowed to be completely confident about their relationship: to believe she could take him for granted. It was Reimann who suggested, ahead of the tentative Elke, that they take gifts, and he who selected them. Having had the children and their interests detailed to him he bought a re-released tape of all the international top-selling songs of the Beaties for Georg, and an inexpensive pop watch for Doris in the shape of a boat: the funnel had to be lifted to read the time. He chose a Hermes silk scarf for Ida and had it flamboyantly gift-wrapped in the shop. For Horst he found some 1975 Château La Tour-Martillac and had three bottles prepared in a presentation case.

  ‘Appropriate for a connoisseur!’ he declared.

  ‘You’ve been far too generous,’ she protested.

  ‘I want to impress them,’ he said, which was true. To ingratiate himself with them would be to ingratiate himself further with Elke, who he knew relied heavily on Ida and her opinion.

  Everyone at Bad Godesberg had tried, too, and Elke loved them for it. The children’s faces shone and there wasn’t a hair out of place: Georg wore what she knew to be his newest trousers, with a sharp crease, and Doris looked slightly self-conscious in a starched and pleated dress. Kissel was casual, but his trousers were freshly pressed and the new shirt still showed the creases from being packed in its box. By coincidence the predominant colours in the Hermes scarf perfectly complemented those of Ida’s silk dress, which Elke hadn’t seen before. Ida put it around her shoulders, completing the outfit. Throughout the greetings and the present-giving Elke stood slightly apart, preferring to watch rather than to be involved, aware of the social ease with which Reimann did everything. He did not treat Georg and Doris quite as adults, but neither did he talk down to them as children, so they confidently talked back and joined in with the gathering, without any shyness. He was attentive to Ida, but without the slightest suggestion of flirtatiousness. Elke considered him most successful with Kissel. There could be no doubt of Kissel’s uncertainty at encountering someone he knew to be a political commentator for influential overseas magazines; he was loudly welcoming, drowning insecurity beneath noisy bonhomie. Reimann at once entered into conversation with the other man, and Elke quickly noticed how he was deferring to what Kissel said: once she overheard him openly ask for Horst’s opinion of the developments in Central and Southern Europe, head bent in nodded concentration on the reply.

  They drank sparkling wine in the shabby drawing-room, and Kissel insisted on opening the wine that Reimann had given.

  ‘I love burgundy,’ he announced. ‘Can’t get enough that’s worth drinking.’

  He’d gradually quietened since their arrival, Elke realized gratefully: she’d become conscious of Ida’s growing irritation with her husband.

  During the meal Reimann talked animatedly to everyone, going out of his way to include the children in whatever was discussed, drawing them out and amusing them. Never once did he contradict anything Kissel said: neither, when Elke cast her mind back, did he agree. He latched on to remarks from Ida – and even Georg on one occasion – and told stories against himself (none of which Elke had heard before) to make Ida laugh, which she did, genuinely. As did everyone else. Elke stayed proudly on the sidelines, not needing – not wanting – to contribute more than the occasional interjection, although she laughed a lot as they all did. That’s all she had to do, she told herself. They were together, she and Otto: to admire – to enjoy – he was to admire and enjoy her. Reflected glory, which was hardly over-stressing it: just a tiny bit. Have you seen the two of them? God they’re incredible! Just so much fun! You can V believe the wit! The humour! But still – I know you’II find this difficult to believe – still so modest! So natural! Like they don’t recognize it. Incredible! Absolutely incredible! Not quite like that, Elke acknowledged, regaining a foothold on reality. Not yet. But close to what it could be if… Not a permitted thought: certainly not to be permitted to continue.

  The second bottle of La Tour-Martillac was opened. And then, against Reimann’s protest that it was a gift, the third. By the cheese course Reimann was sure he had worked out the thirty thousand withdrawal from Elke’s bank account and evolved a potential benefit: it was certainly something worth initiating, because there was a simple retreat it one proved necessary. He said to Kissel, through whom he had been careful always to tell his stories: ‘Elke tells me you’re writing a book?’

  ‘Trying,’ demurred Kissel, with unaccustomed modesty in the presence of someone he believed to be a professional writer. ‘It is still very rough. Needs a lot of work.’

  ‘Fiction or fact?’

  ‘Fiction. Just fiction.’

  ‘Just fiction! Don’t denigrate it! It’s my ambition to write a book. I’m too frightened to start!’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why so surprised?’

  ‘But you are a writer.’

  The table was quiet, and Reimann was aware of the concentration upon what he was saying. ‘There’s an important difference,’ he insisted. ‘A vast difference. For a journalist, the story already exists: is there. They have to tell it: report what happened …’ The listening Elke, he thought: he shouldn’t forget for a moment the listening Elke. He continued: ‘Even for a political commentator, an interpreter like I am supposed to b
e, the basic framework exists. But fiction is real writing: starting with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and creating something that might possibly move people: change real events in the world, even. That’s impressive.’

  ‘Well… yes … of course I understand what you’re saying …’ said Kissel, with head-waving modesty.

  Cretin! thought Reimann, gazing admiringly at the other man. ‘I don’t suppose I could see something of it?’

  For a few seconds Kissel, the would-be writer, couldn’t find his way. Then he said: ‘But like I say, it’s rough … a very rough draft. Needs so much work …’

  ‘Why so hesitant, darling?’ said Ida. ‘You’ve been telling me for weeks how good it is, even in rough draft.’

  ‘Well … maybe a sheet or two …’

  Elke thought Kissel was flushed. It would be the wine; it really was superb.

  ‘Why don’t Elke and I clear away and make some more coffee for the garden while you and Otto go upstairs and look at the book … or rather rought draft?’ encouraged Ida.

  Before Kissel could think of any avoidance Reimann said: ‘Why don’t we do just that: top up our glasses and go upstairs and have a look!’

  Which is what they did, glasses in hand, the reluctant Kissel in the lead. On their way up Reimann noted the further signs of impoverishment: the frayed, sometimes cheaply repaired stair-carpet, chipped paint everywhere, heavy, permanently draped velvet curtains that would have collapsed if there had been an attempt to draw them, faded wallpaper so sun-bleached it was hard – sometimes impossible – to distinguish any original design or motif. The bedroom was neatly tidy— no discarded clothes, the bed properly made, the coverlet taut, without creases – but just as it was outside, the overall aura was of shabbiness. The only exception to the attempted neatness was Kissel’s put-you-up, baize-topped table. It was a chaotic jumble of disordered papers and pencils and pens and writing paraphernalia: paper-clips and rubber bands and a stapler and a metal-framed, three-decked file holder from which more papers were suspended, jammed from being completely disgorged by those which had escaped and built up below, creating a frozen paper waterfall.