Ikon

by Graham Masterton

  At seven o’clock Nadine said, ‘I have to go now. We have a party at the British Embassy. Sir Leonard Grosvenor.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Ikon. He made no attempt to rise from his chair.

  Nadine collected her wrap, and her pocketbook, and the staff saw her out to the elevator. Ikon waited for five minutes before he eventually eased himself up, and walked with a slightly dragging step into the dining room. He went across to the table, and peered into the vine-leaf ashtray, where earlier that evening he had laid the capsule of hydrocyanic acid.

  To his satisfaction, he saw that it was empty.

  Twenty-Three

  Titus, that evening, was in a wolfishly ebullient mood. As a rule, he hated going to the British Embassy. The British speak like they’re carrying their rolled-up cricket socks in their cheeks.’ But he grasped Sir Leonard Grosvenor’s hand as if he were greeting a long-lost buddy from the Class of ‘38, and he bussed Lady Grosvenor on the cheek with an enthusiasm which led the Washington Post’s social correspondent to remark that ‘the special relationship seems to be looking up. Up, I say.’

  Nadine didn’t need to ask Titus why he was feeling so buoyant. She could guess what had happened. During the afternoon, shortly after three o’clock, Marshall Roberts had telephoned Titus at the State Department and reluctantly agreed to postpone RING II ‘certainly for the time being, if not indefinitely’. No announcement had yet been made to the media, but Titus had insisted that the President should quickly make his acquiescence public. The White House press department were working on a statement which would satisfy both Marshall and Titus; and which wouldn’t appear too sudden and too bizarre when announced to the White House press lobby.

  The British Embassy party was alcoholic and fatuous. There was a roar of jingoistic talk about the Falklands; and heaps of fatty roast beef; and two young British actresses with breasts like half-set blancmanges sat on the laps of as many long-suffering middle-aged diplomats as they could and giggled endlessly. At the end of the evening, there was an hour-long demonstration of Morris dancing, which Titus watched with the glazed expression of a man who suddenly wishes that he was at home; in bed; and thinking back on Morris dancing, rather than experiencing it first-hand.

  Sir Leonard Grosvenor leaned over his chair, and said, T must say, Titus old boy, you’ve done such an enormous amount to keep the old je-ne-sais-quoi virgo intacta.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Titus. Then, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fascinating, this Morris dancing,’ Sir Leonard told him. ‘Comes from Moorish dancing, don’t you know. Bells on the ankles, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes,said Titus.

  On the way back to Georgetown, in the sudden frigidity of their air-conditioned Cadillac, Nadine said, ‘You’ve heard from Marshall, haven’t you?’

  Titus, who had been rubbing his eyes, suddenly stared at her. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I have. How did you know?’

  Titus, my dear, you can’t fool me. Up until they started that ridiculous folk-dancing, you were as chipper as fifteen beavers. And only one thing that I can think of could make you feel like that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Titus. ‘Marshall called me mid-afternoon, and conceded. RING II is dead as a doughnut.’

  There was a long silence, and then Nadine said, ‘Titus, I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘Serious talk, Titus. Professional talk.’

  ‘All right. Serious talk. Tell me. What is it, your children are leaving home? That can’t be true. God wouldn’t smile on me twice in one day.’

  Titus, I want you to call Marshall Roberts tonight, tell him it was all a mistake. You know, an error of judgement.’

  ‘You want me to what?’

  ‘I want you to call Marshall Roberts tonight, and - ‘

  ‘You want me to what???’

  Titus, it’s vital.’

  ‘You bet your ass it’s vital. Marshall was just about to concede every last strategic defence we ever had in the European theatre. No neutron bombs, no ALCMs, no third-generation missiles of any kind. Have you read what he wants to do? The guy’s crazy! He wants to open us up like a fucking oyster, all ready for the Soviets to swallow us down!’

  Titus,said Nadine, with extraordinary calmness. Her hair shone intermittently in the light from the passing street-lamps. ‘What would you say if we’d already been swallowed?’

  Titus sniffed, and harrumphed, and stared at her. ‘What are you talking about? What do you mean, already been swallowed?’

  ‘Just that. Supposing we had?’

  ‘B-b-b-but by what? By whom? What are you talking about? Damn it, Nadine, what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Titus. You’re drunk. I didn’t mean you to be drunk when I told you.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, I’m drunk? All right, I’m drunk, I admit it, but I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, tell me what the hell you’re talking about.’

  Titus, wait until we get home. Look, we’ll be home in ten minutes.’

  ‘Nadine, what the hell are you talking about -swallowed?’

  ‘Let’s wait until we get home.’

  ‘No, God damn it, we’ll talk about it here. Swallowed, what the hell are you talking about, swallowed? John, stop this goddamn car. Here! That’s right, here! Anywhere! What the hell.’

  The chauffeur pulled the car into the kerb on Constitution Avenue, just across the road from the lake in Constitution Gardens. It was a warm, well-lit night, one of those odd summer nights when sleep seems almost unnecessary, except at dawn, and even though it was nearly twelve o’clock, people were still promenading along the sidewalks, or trying to photograph the floodlit Lincoln Memorial with Kodak Instamatics, or walking their dogs, or smoking and talking as easily as if it were daylight.

  Titus and Nadine walked down to the lake, and stood beside the wind-rippled waters, two or three feet apart, Titus in his tuxedo and black tie, Nadine in a long pleated evening gown of turquoise crepe.

  Nadine said, T knew that I was going to have to tell you this one day. Well - you would have found out anyway, if you were ever elected President. But things have changed. Events are becoming critical. It’s partly your fault, of course, although you weren’t to know. If you hadn’t blackmailed Roberts into postponing his disarmament talks … well, perhaps we could have carried it off. But there doesn’t seem to be very much hope of that now, not unless you agree to back down.’

  ‘Nadine,’ said Titus, in a phlegmy, uncontrolled voice, ‘I want to know what the hell you’re talking about.’

  I’m trying to tell you. I’m trying, Titus. But it’s important for you to understand, as well as listen. Everything you ever imagined to be solid, irrefutable truth; every political and constitutional guideline by which you’ve worked; everything, Titus, that you’ve believed to be real … well, it just isn’t. The world is a completely different place from the one in which you think you’ve been living.’

  Titus glanced behind him. His secret service men had parked their car close up behind the limousine, and were now standing fifteen or twenty feet away, their heads raised as if they were blindly sniffing the air for snipers or explosives, their hands nervously perched inside their coats.

  ‘Nadine,’ Titus said, more soberly now, more gently, ‘did anybody give you anything to snort at that party?’

  Nadine brushed back her hair with her hand. ‘You think I’m high? Is that what you think?’

  ‘I think you’re talking like you’re so spaced out you’re not going to come down till Thanksgiving.’

  ‘Titus,’ she said, ‘it’s absolutely vital that Marshall continues his RING talks.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me why?’

  ‘You want it straight from the shoulder? The reality?’

  ‘Shoot. I’m not standing beside this fucking lake all night.’

  ‘The truth is, Titus, that the United States has been administered for the past twenty years not by Cong
ress, nor by any of its Presidents, but by a committee of Soviet caretakers.’

  She waited to see how Titus would react, but Titus said nothing, just stared at her narrowly with one eye slightly closed, as if he were trying to focus on some very distant landmark.

  ‘In Moscow, the United States of America is actually known as the ACOA, the Autonomous Capitalist Oblast of America. The caretaking committee is made up of thirty senior Communist party officials. You actually know quite a few of them already. Yevgeni Saratov, from the United Nations delegation? Anton Sviridov from the Russian Arts Council? And the chairman of the committee is a one-time friend of Leonid Brezhnev, a man whom the Russians codename Ikon.’

  Again, Nadine hesitated. Titus was giving no indication either that he understood her, or that he believed her. But he said, ‘Go on,’ in a flat, toneless voice, and waited for her to continue.

  ‘Ikon has been governing America for the past twenty

  years,’ said Nadine. ‘Every President, on the evening of his Inauguration Day, has been told exactly what I’m telling you now. He’s been told that the general style of his administration must remain true to his own character, but that everything he does … politically, economically and militarily … must conform to Ikon’s overall plan.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Titus.

  Nadine crossed her arms over her breasts, as if she were cold. Quietly, she said, ‘Ikon, whatever you think of his Marxist beliefs, is a wise and sensitive man. He’s been doing his utmost to convert America gradually towards complete social democracy, without sacrificing any of the spirit of self-determination that made America what it is. Or, what it was, before Ikon took power.

  ‘One thing that Ikon’s always argued against is a sudden public revelation that America is a conquered nation. He argued against announcing it in 1962 and he’s still arguing against it. His idea is that America should be allowed to prosper and grow in her own way; and that the appearance of international conflict between East and West should be kept up. That is all part of his fundamental thirty-year plan. He’s a socialist, you see; but he’s also a social realist, and a humanitarian. “You must never take the struggle out of people’s lives,” that’s what he says. “Once you take away the necessity to struggle, you take away the reason to live.” ‘

  Titus turned towards the lake, and grimaced at it, as if he were facing an ocean, rather than a still ornamental pond.

  Nadine said, ‘Everything you believe about the cause-and-effect of US policy over the whole of the past two decades, in every area of government, is wrong. Ikon controls it all. And every policy that Ikon implements is aimed towards the gradual acceptance by the American people that they are world citizens, that the Soviet people are their friends and their comrades, and that Communism is the only way in which men can be free. All men, not just a grotesquely wealthy elite.’

  ‘I see,’ said Titus, with preternatural self-control. ‘And

  how has Ikon been working this social and political miracle?’

  ‘Through the US economy, mostly,’ said Nadine. Ikon’s been using Russia’s influence on the Middle-Eastern oil-producing countries, as well as Russia’s leverage in the world banking system, to force the economy of the United States into a false decline. His aim has been to eat away the power-base of the capitalist system and to encourage the American working-man to start turning towards new political alternatives. A man can sometimes only accept the truth when he needs to.’

  ‘And where does RINC come in?’ Cold, colder, colder still.

  Nadine said, ‘RINC is one of the last of Ikon’s long-term measures to go for nuclear disarmament. He drafted all of the SALT agreements and was pleased with them, but RINC was his special pride, especially since it won the support of so many of Europe’s politicians and military men - even General Rogers, the Supreme Allied Commander for Europe. RINC, when it’s ratified, will mean the end of what NATO calls the “flexible response”, the notion that the West might strike with nuclear weapons first. It will also mark the beginning of unopposed Soviet superiority in Europe. And peace, too, in time.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing any of this,’ said Titus.

  ‘I know it’s difficult,’ said Nadine. ‘But you have to listen and you have to make an effort to understand, because it’s crucial. You made it more crucial yourself, by your own belligerence. Ikon is old now, and very ill. He may not survive six months. At least two other committee members want to see him ousted, and most of the committee already believe that America should be openly declared a subject people of the USSR. Ikon wanted to preserve the United States, to keep her traditions and her folklore and her colour, not to mention her sanity. But Kama in particular, the Commissar in charge of National Security, is hungry to see the Red Flag flying over Washington, and all the trappings of capitalism swept

  away in a tide of scarlet. Kama’s the leader of the Peredoviki, the innovators, the revolutionaries.’

  Nadine went on, ‘If RING succeeds, the American pub-be may gradually be brought to believe that true mutual disarmament is not only possible but imminent. Can you imagine the feeling of relief, after thirty years of cold war? The hope that people will feel, if they realize that all nuclear -.veapons are at last going to be dismantled? Moscow has been impatient with Ikon on more than one occasion. They’ve pushed him to assert an overt Communist rule over the ACOA at almost twice the historic speed at which he first planned it. He’s managed by the skin of his teeth to keep control; he’s managed to assure the Kremlin that RINC I and RING II can be ratified, and that along with all his other measures, America can be safely Sovietized within the next decade.’

  ‘But?’ demanded Titus.

  ‘But, if RINC fails, the Peredoviki will almost certainly take control. Kama and Ilyushkin will force Marshall Roberts to announce that America is an administrative oblast directly answerable to the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. And then, all hell will break out. I promise you, Titus, all hell. We will see the H-bombs dropped yet. America will certainly melt.’

  Titus hunkered down on the grass and stared for a very long time at the wavering reflections of the passing pro-rnenaders, and the Lincoln Memorial. One of his security men came a little closer, not too close, and called politely, ‘Whenever you’re ready to leave, Mr Secretary. We’re kind of nervous about the security aspects around here.’

  Titus stood up again, and cocked his head towards Nadine. Then he said, ‘We’re leaving now. Directly. Come along, Nadine. Let’s finish this little discussion at home.’

  They drove back to Georgetown in silence. Titus drummed his fingers on the grey hide of the Cadillac’s interior, and coughed from time to time, sharp, barking coughs, but he didn’t look once at Nadine, and wouldn’t respond to her even when she said, Titus? Are you okay?’

  In the living-room, Carl and Samantha had spread their record albums all over the floor, and were playing the soundtrack from Fame at a volume which made the Water-ford crystal chandeliers jingle in horror. Titus stalked into the room and said, Turn off that goddamned noise and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tight, I can’t hear you too good,’ said Carl. This music’s too loud.’

  Turn off the goddamned noise!’

  ‘Aw, come on, Tight, the loudest noise I can hear in here is you.’

  Titus skirted around the coffee-table at the speed of a head-waiter who has suddenly caught sight of a customer trying to duck under the velvet rope. He hefted the Trio record-player up off the English walnut sideboard on which it was kept, and there was a ripping blurt of noise as the stylus slid sideways across the record. Then Titus wrenched out the wires which connected the record-player to the amplifier, and hurled it clear across the room. It struck the marble mantelpiece, knocking the head off a Staffordshire shepherdess and smashing part of the gilded mirror behind it.

  ‘Now get out of here,’ quaked Titus, his eyes protuberant with anger. ‘Get out of here before I do the same to you.’

  Ca
rl and Samantha sheepishly gathered up their records, and left the room in uncertain silence. They left the door ajar, until Titus yelled, ‘Door!’

  Nadine said, ‘I’m going to bed. I’m not going to put up with your ridiculous bursts of temper. I’ve risked my life tonight to tell you the truth, and all you can do is rant and rave like a petty-minded drill sergeant.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ snapped Titus. He went to the liquor cabinet, slammed open the doors, and found the bottle of Glenmorangie malt whiskey, ten years old.

  ‘If you’re going to start drinking - ‘

  ‘Don’t - ‘ roared Titus, jabbing his finger at her, ‘ -lecture to me!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Nadine. ‘Since you’re there, you can pour me a Campari-soda.’

  “You’re sure you don’t want a Stolichnaya?’ 1 am Russian, if that’s what you’re trying to suggest.’ ‘Oh, you’re Russian, are you? And I suppose Carl and Samantha are Russian, and the dogs are Russian, and the servants are Russian, and all this time I’ve never suspected it. Nadine, for Christ’s sake, I’m the Secretary of State. I’m the goddamned Secretary of State.’

  He sat down heavily in his favourite chintz armchair, crossed his legs, and took two or three furious swallows of whiskey. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he kept saying.

  Xadine sat on the rug opposite him, her hands in her ^p. Her expression when she looked at him was very sorrowful.

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t see any other way out of it.’ “You couldn’t see any other way out of what?’ Titus, I had a choice. Either I told you everything, and convinced you to withdraw your opposition to the RING talks, or else I killed Colleen Petley.’ ‘Mow I know you’re bananas,’ said Titus. Titus, please, you have to understand that I - ‘ 1 understand already! I understand perfectly! I understand that my loyal, supportive wife is prepared to come with some obscene and unpatriotic bullshit just to try and •ake me feel guilty about stopping Marshall Roberts going ahead with those disarmament discussions! Come on, Nadine, I’m not utterly stupid. I know an allegory when I hear one. An allegory, that’s what it was, wasn’t ” An Aesop’s fable, about America. A story to make me feel that I was selling out on tomorrow’s hope of a bomb-free world.’