So many the world’s injustices. So uneven the struggle. What was it Lenin had said? ‘Away with softness.’ And surely it would be soft to abandon the only truly powerful lever that had ever come within reach of his hand or was ever likely to again? Literally within reach of his hand. He stared up again at the ceiling. Michael had carried it in an ordinary briefcase, sat with it in Billy’s Bar, stood it there on the table in front of them all. You didn’t need Harvard Medical School for a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of meths.
He crossed the loft and unlatched the door to the landing. Peering over the iron balustrade he could see all the way down to the lobby. There was no sound of anyone on the stairs.
46 | Smelling a rat
‘So, wasn’t that amazing?’
Tom Keeley sighed with satisfaction and pulled the sheet up to cover them both before sinking back on the pillow. ‘It quite often is.’
Caroline slapped his hand. ‘I’m talking about the President’s speech.’
‘That was yesterday.’
‘I know when it was. But weren’t you just thrilled?’
Tom rearranged the pillows and sat up in the bed. The house had been a great choice, every room with floor-to-ceiling windows, making it light and cheerful even in winter. ‘It’s more than you could have hoped from any administration, let alone this one.’
‘But?’
‘No, I’m all for it. It’s fantastic. And doable, too. In fact in some ways I wish I was still at CDC. I could get involved in helping to make it all happen.’
‘You could help by writing about it, keeping feet to the fire?’
‘Yeah, that’s going to be needed too down the line, and I’m your man.’
Caroline felt for his hand under the sheets. ‘I can still hear a “but” in there somewhere.’
‘Well, okay then, I can’t help thinking there’s something odd there. Ringing speech from a cracked bell. I mean, isn’t this the same guy who said “the government is not the solution to the problem; the government is the problem”?’
‘In other words, you’ve become a cynical journalist inside of a month. I blame that Delius guy.’
‘Yeah, Bob seems to have taken on my journalistic education. After we all finished up listening to the announcement on C-Span, I was all fired up about it and Bob leans over and says: “Remember, Tom, when a leopard changes its spots a good reporter smells a rat”.’
‘Pleased with himself, was he?’
47 | When shall we five …
There was of course no absolute need for the five to meet again. The dice had been rolled, the gods of the game had smiled, and there was nothing more to be done. Yet Michael Lowell, Hélène Hevré, Seema Mir, Toby Jenks and Stephen Walsh were eventually drawn together again by some magnetic field of emotional necessity, each of the five wanting to be with the others if for no better purpose than that of collectively pinching themselves and raising a glass in each other’s company.
Despite being inundated by the demands being made on his Division, it was Michael who brought them together again. On the evening of 11 March, he called Seema to say he was returning to New York. The following morning he faxed Toby asking if he needed to refresh his memory of the in-flight experience. In his lunch break, he went down to the WHO travel office on the main concourse and arranged an open return ticket from Abidjan to New York in the name of Hélène Hevré, at the same time booking a return ticket for himself and charging both to his personal account. Back at his desk, he wrote a brief note to Stephen, care of the Chelsea Hotel.
This time there was to be no dinner at Billy’s, no meeting in a bar or restaurant where the collective pinching might be inhibited. On the evening of the first day of spring the five came together again in Seema Mir’s loft apartment on West 4th Street. It was one hundred and sixty-nine days after the reunion in Oxford.
Toby, Stephen and Michael arrived within minutes of each other, embracing and gathering round the stove as Seema handed round wine, a Joan Baez record playing quietly in the background. For a strange first few minutes nothing much of consequence was said, as if it would have been wrong to begin before their number was complete. But, just as further small talk was becoming impossible, the buzzer sounded and the little group crowded out on to the landing to cheer Hélène’s slow progress up the four flights of stairs.
Once she had taken off her coat the atmosphere of pseudo-normality collapsed, leaving a suspended moment of silence in which Hélène raised her glass towards Michael. But still no one spoke. And then suddenly Toby was turning away in tears and Hélène had taken his hand and was sitting him down on the couch. Seema too had buried her face in her hands, Michael looking at her in consternation. Only Stephen stood apart, frowning up at the prints on the walls, more affected by the edgy wistfulness of Joan Baez who, in one of those maudlin coincidences that popular music seems to throw up, was embarked on Bobby’s Song. But he, too, eventually raised a glass, staring up into the white space of the loft.
Like these flowers at your door, and scribbled notes about the war, we’re only saying the time is short and there is work to do …
He drank deep of the wine, feeling the buzz almost immediately.
And we’re still marching in the streets, with little victories and big defeats …
When they had all recovered, Hélène sank back on the couch, still holding Toby’s hand. ‘So, for God’s sake, tell us what’s happening, Michael.’
‘Well, I guess it would take the whole weekend. My deputy passed me a note in the middle of a meeting yesterday. “It’s like the whole world’s gone suddenly sane”.’
Toby looked up with red eyes and would have reached for his glass if Hélène had not still been holding his hand.
For the next two hours, the talk was of what was happening around the world, Michael retailing the news coming in to the WHO of initiatives being approved and funded, along with requests for training and technical assistance, country missions being hurriedly put together and reports of independent national initiatives. Hélène chipped in with stories from half a dozen West African countries: commitments by heads of state, resolutions approved in parliaments and national assemblies, funds being made available where no funds had been before. Both told of the surge of enthusiasm among the NGOs and grassroots health workers who for so long had staffed the front lines of frustration. To everyone’s surprise, Toby had as much to recount as anybody, having been monitoring the wire services and clipping agencies. Stephen at one point mentioned the dissenting voices raised in the Eastern bloc and by left-wing sources in the West, all of them pointing out that the Third World was again being made to dance to America’s tune, its priorities decided in Washington, its governments bribed and bullied into falling in line. All this was greeted with sober looks, but it had not stopped the wine from flowing or the tensions of the past few weeks from evaporating.
Towards eleven o’clock, Michael, with what he hoped was mock formality, asked for the floor. ‘I just want to say something a little bit more sobering before it’s too late.’
‘’S’already too late, mate.’ On the sofa Toby still had not let go of Hélène’s hand.
‘I just want to point out that nothing ever goes perfectly according to plan. There’s a lot of momentum out there right now, and plenty of people wanting to ride the wave as long and as far as it goes. And it’s true that the US would find it next to impossible to go back on this thing any time soon. All thanks to Toby, we should say …’ From the cane chair, Seema looked at Michael: there was something heartbreaking in his earnestness at times like this and she acknowledged that her own feelings were of an infinite tenderness towards his attempts at lightness of touch, his wish not to sound as if he were making a speech. ‘… But I just wanted to make sure you know the momentum will falter eventually. It always does. Hélène knows this better than anybody … All health interventions face an ever-steepening slope. It just gets harder and harder to reach those you haven’t reached. Plus which this isn�
��t a one-off effort. We’re talking about getting vaccines to hundreds of millions of kids a year, every year. A lot of them in places that aren’t too easy to get to.’ He paused, realizing he had indeed fallen into a speech. ‘Just so long as we all know we won’t see a steady, uninterrupted rise to eighty per cent. If I had to make a guess, I’d say it might get up to sixty or seventy per cent, and then after that we’ll be in difficulties.’
‘Isn’t that why we have a couple of jars in reserve?’ Toby’s question opened a chasm under the sudden seriousness of the proceedings.
‘That was what I thought at first, Toby. Or at least I thought we ought to have the option. But I have to say I don’t think it’s on. We’d have to give it two or three years before we could say the US was backsliding on the deal, and by that time we’ll be facing a possible change of administration. We couldn’t be sure it would work again. We couldn’t even be sure that the virus would still be viable, though we can probably be reasonably confident that Seema won’t want it in her fridge for the next three or four years. So I think we need to accept that this is the end of the line.’
‘So we get rid of the other vials?’
In the silence that followed Seema’s question, all of them except Stephen turned their attention back to Michael.
‘I’ll take care of that this weekend. But there’s something else. Last serious word – I promise. We have to remember that one careless word could still bring the world down around our heads. The hunt hasn’t been called off. Just the opposite. Every network the FBI and CIA can plug into is listening and looking for the slightest whisper of this thing. And I should tell you the guy who’s directing the operation is mad as all hell that the administration “caved in”, as he sees it. I’m pretty sure he could only bring himself to accept it at all because now he’s got all the time in the world to hunt down what he calls “the bastards behind this thing”.’
Toby’s look of gentle happiness had changed to one of amused suspicion. ‘How do you know all this, brother?’
‘I talked to the guy about it.’
Toby turned to Seema. ‘What’s he talking about?’
Seema smiled. ‘You didn’t know Michael was hunting with the hounds as well as running with the hare?’
‘No. I’m afraid you’re quite wrong there, sweetheart. Straight as they come, Michael, always has been.’
For the next few minutes Michael briefly told the story of his recruitment and the meetings at Mohonk Mountain House. Hélène lay back against Toby’s arm on the sofa, looking stunned. ‘You were there? For the whole thing?’
Michael lowered his head. ‘Said as little as possible. Becket Bradie was there. CDC Director. He and I advised on what would need to be done if Toby’s statement hit the media. And of course we had to review the plans for if the virus ever got itself released.’
Stephen leaned forward from the armchair, frowning. ‘How very interesting. So you can tell us what calculus was made?’
‘Political cost-benefit analysis, just as you predicted, Stephen. Ignoring it or toughing it out was on the table. But in the end I think they thought the potential downside was just so much bigger than anything there was to be gained. I also got a distinct feeling that the upside gradually started to take hold.’
Seema had paused in her circulation of the wine bottle. ‘Who was it who first proposed it? Going along I mean.’
Michael smiled up at her and gave a mock sigh of relief. ‘Well, I have to tell you I had a little speech all prepared about why, just maybe, they ought to tentatively consider whether it might not be a possible option to, you know, make a virtue of necessity; remind them it was something the US had signed up to in principle anyway and that there were quite a few positives to be taken out of it. But, boy, was I praying I wouldn’t need to make that speech. Came down to the wire but it was Warren Taylor who tabled it – expertly I have to say.’
Seema was the only one who instantly knew the name. ‘The President’s National Security Adviser?’ She had perched on the edge of the Bikaner and forgotten all about pouring wine. Toby removed the bottle from her hand.
Michael told them a little more about the handling of the affair by the Chief of Staff. At half past eleven, Toby raised his glass to his friend.
‘Your weekends are a lot more fun than mine, mate.’
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Michael managed a word with Seema on the landing as the others were descending towards the street.
‘You’d like those things out of the apartment, wouldn’t you?’
She nodded happily, looking into his eyes, knowing that she would be silhouetted against the light of her own room.
‘Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?’
The abruptness took her by surprise. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Bring the flasks with you. Just as they are in their plastic bags. They’re safe. Then you can leave it to me.’
‘You’re sure that’s okay?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
‘Okay.’
‘Top of the Tower, Beekman? At, say, 6.30, and we’ll have a drink first? I’ll have worked out what to do by then.’
She rested a hand on his arm and continued to look up at him on the landing, sure that he would kiss her goodnight. He bent and brushed his lips against her cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.’
48 | Finding cold air
Seema had given up any pretence of not being extra careful with her make-up. She had also taken the afternoon off in favour of a rare shopping expedition for the outfit she was now wearing. So far there had only been meetings. This, she had decided, was a date.
She checked herself in the mirror. Surely tonight, with the great shadow lifted, it would be possible to talk of other things. Of themselves. And perhaps of the future. If there was to be a future.
She took the soft leather shoulder bag from the back of the door and carried it over to the spiral staircase. Not since the day it was installed had she as much as touched the tiny fridge. Kneeling, she tugged at the chromium door handle. The rubber seal gave a little gasp as it opened. With exaggerated care she removed the first of the two plastic bags, semi-opaque now, its folds rimed with frost. She placed it gently on the floorboards, the plastic crackling slightly with cold. The second bag lay further back than she had remembered. Crouching lower, she reached deeper inside. Her fingers found only cold air.
Three minutes later, she was running along West 4th, raising a hand to the oncoming traffic.
‘Beekman Tower, 49th and First.’
49 | To love you or hate you
The Beekman Tower, John Mead Howell’s art-deco masterpiece, had originally been built to provide female-only accommodation for the increasing numbers of single sorority women flooding into New York City to find work in the inter-war years. The single woman now entering the black marble lobby was making an effort to remain calm as she waited by the doors of the express elevator, holding a shoulder bag in her arms.
Two minutes later she was stepping out into the 26th-floor lobby, forcing herself to take the few remaining stairs at a pace suitable for someone heading towards a pre-dinner drink. It was slightly before 6.30 when she entered the Top of the Tower bar that looked out on one of the most spectacular views in Manhattan.
Michael was already there, sitting at a table in the narrow, glassed-in conservatory running around the parapet under the spotlit crown of the tower itself. He rose to meet her, signalling to the waiter before she could stop him.
‘Mineral water, please.’ Her voice sounded utterly unlike her own.
Michael took his time looking down the list of wines as the waiter placed menus before them. She glanced over the low wall to see First Avenue, three hundred feet below, as Michael ordered a glass of Chablis.
He was about to say something as the inner glass door closed behind the waiter but was halted by the look on Seema’s face.
‘Michael, one of the jars is missing. Stephen has it. He’s the only person wh
o’s been alone in the apartment. I left him for a few minutes when he came to tell me the news.’
Michael looked up towards the astonishing view, the lights beginning to come on all over Midtown. ‘I wonder why he didn’t take them both.’
Seema looked at him in disbelief. ‘Michael, his metre’s turned so high there’s no telling what he might be planning. We’ve got to go to … to the authorities. It doesn’t matter now what happens to us.’
The glass door opened again and the waiter reappeared to apply a cigarette lighter to the candle. The evening was becoming cool, spring only just beginning to lay the lightest of hands on the city. Without asking, Michael ordered another glass of the Chablis for Seema. When they were alone again, he looked up from the table, seeing the tears of worry in her eyes against the backdrop of a million lights.
‘You’ve got the other jar?’
‘Yes.’ She touched the strap of her shoulder bag, now hanging from the back of the chair.
The waiter reappeared with the second glass and two small bowls of salted crackers. Taking an age, he refilled both water glasses. ‘Little cool out here tonight, folks – sure you and the lady wouldn’t prefer inside? Table for two by the window on the west side?’
‘Hold it for us? We’re good here for another fifteen.’
When the waiter had gone back into the restaurant, Michael stood, removing his jacket and circling the little table to place it around her shoulders. Returning to his seat, he lifted her bag from the back of the chair. Unzipping it, he reached inside for the plastic food bag. It was now clear of frost. Seema stared as he tore open the damp plastic and took out the thermos. In the candlelight, the hammered metal shimmered slightly as he unscrewed the cup. Other tables, other candles, were reflected in the glass behind, along with the lights of the city, as he took hold of the inner stopper and began to twist.
The Kennedy Moment Page 28