‘This is nonsense,’ Golovanov told her, trying to be authoritative. ‘What kind of torture is this, with a meat-grinder? I have never seen anything so absurd in my whole life! Now, turn it off, and let’s talk some sense!’
‘Three,’ said Inge.
Golovanov said nothing. Inge said, ‘Two.’
‘Inge, listen to me, you know that I am a very powerful man. Very wealthy. If you behave yourself, I will show you my appreciation. I will give you money, a car perhaps, if you want it. A fur coat. But let us for a moment talk sense.’
Inge slowly shook her head, smiling all the time. ‘Russians never talk sense, Timofey, you know that. They are the masters of double-talking. I don’t want sense. I simply want the truth.’
‘Inge—’
But then Inge said, ‘One,’ and lowered the meat-grinder just a little more, so that Golovanov suddenly felt the edges of the rotating screw against the sensitive flesh of his flaccid penis.
‘This is your very last chance,’ Inge told him. Her voice was so neutral and serious that the sweat on Golovanov’s back was chilled, as if somebody had suddenly opened a door behind him. He knew without question that if he didn’t agree to tell her about Operation Byliny, he would never again be able to call himself a man.
‘Well,’ said Inge. ‘Es tut mir leid. We had some good times together, you and I, Timofey, and these will be times which can never happen again.’
She reached out and stroked his forehead and when she did that he was completely convinced both logically and emotionally that she would do it, that she would grind his genitals up and kiss him and caress him while she did so. He said, ‘Stop,’ in the roughest of whispers, and she frowned at him kindly, and said, ‘Are you sure? Do you really want me to?’
‘Stop,’ he said again, a word of aspirate shame.
‘First, tell me,’ she insisted, without taking the Moulinex away.
‘It is – an arrangement—’ he said, although he could scarcely believe that the sound he heard in his ears was his own voice. Was that really him, Marshal T.K. Golovanov, telling this half-naked woman all about Operation Byliny, in some unfamiliar kitchen in West Germany? It didn’t seem real and perhaps that was how he was able to do it. He must have been dreaming. He must have drunk too much Moskovskaya. That was it; he was drunk. He was spending the evening with Commander Zhulikov, and he had drunk too much vodka.
But Inge said, ‘Tell me,’ and when he opened his eyes again she was still there, and the meat-grinder was still poised over his penis.
‘There has been an arrangement made,’ he said. ‘An arrangement.’
‘What arrangement? By whom?’
‘Between the Soviet Union and the United States, with the active participation of the United Kingdom.’
‘Tell me. Quick, before I get impatient.’
‘It was done with the best of all political intentions. You must understand that. It has probably saved the world from nuclear war. We were right on the brink, you know. Right on the edge. The intolerable pressures that had built up over the years were too much for the old system. The world was like an antiquated steam boiler which was just about to burst open its casing.’
Inge said nothing, but switched off the meat-grinder. In the silence that followed, Golovanov spoke slowly and dully, like a tired scholar reciting his history books for the seventh time.
‘It was intolerable for the Soviet Union to live with American cruise missiles on the same continental soil. The threat was too great; the danger too close. It gave to those old men in the Kremlin a terrible black neurosis, a persecution complex. Imagine if you lived in a house, and every time you opened the door, there was a hostile stranger waiting for you outside in your garden with a loaded gun. You would naturally keep a gun yourself, to protect yourself from whatever he might do, but your gun would never diminish your fear. It is hard for those in the West to understand the historical anxiety which causes the Russian people to be so belligerent. But, if you had been standing beside me at Stalingrad, you would know. The Germans invaded us; the Germans destroyed our homes and slaughtered us in thousands. The war for us was more terrible than you can ever imagine.’
Inge said, insistently, ‘I want to know about this arrangement.’
‘Very well, you shall,’ agreed Golovanov. ‘Just as the Kremlin feels neurotic about American forces on European soil, so the White House feels neurotic about Communist insurgents in Central America. It was therefore suggested two or maybe three years ago at a series of secret meetings that the world should be redivided; that Communist expansionism in the Americas should stop, in return for which all British and American forces should be withdrawn from Western Europe.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Inge.
‘It’s really very simple,’ Golovanov told her. ‘The Soviet Union is to be allowed to take over administrative control of West Germany, Scandinavia, Holland, Belgium, France, and parts of Austria, without any opposition from British or American forces. In return. Communist guerrillas are to withdraw from Central America and cease their insurgent activities in the Third World; Fidel Castro is to resign, and hold free elections; and the Soviet Army is to withdraw over a nine-month period from Afghanistan. Further containment of both capitalism and Communism will be arranged later, once the initial stages of the operation have been successfully completed. But the basic principle is that there should be no Americans in Europe, and no Russians in America. The map of the world redrawn.’
Inge was silent. She set the meat-grinder down on the floor, and stood up. Unconsciously, she covered her bare breasts with her hands.
Golovanov said, ‘Would you…?’ and nodded down towards his exposed penis. Inge hesitated for a moment, and then buttoned him up, as if he were an ageing invalid.
‘It is all for the best, you see,’ Golovanov told her. ‘It will end for all time the fear in which young people like you have grown up. At last, the world will be stable.’
‘And oppressed,’ Inge replied, flatly. ‘Are you planning to administer Germany in the same way that you administer Estonia? No national flags allowed, the national language forbidden, the very roots of culture torn out?’
Golovanov smiled. ‘You have such fervour. You arc so cold, and yet you have such fervour.’
Inge said, ‘When does this operation begin?’
‘It has begun already. At least, all the. preliminary preparations have been completed.’
‘What is its code-name?’
‘Byliny.’
‘And who knows about the details of the political agreement? Who negotiated it for the Soviet Union?’
‘Well, there were several negotiators,’ said Golovanov. ‘We had a team of five. Their leader was Marshal Tolubko. On the American side, there were six or seven negotiators, I believe, including the Deputy Secretary of State and the Under Secretary of Defence for International Security. The British sent three.’
Inge said, ‘Where did these negotiations take place? If they were so high-powered, why did we not get to hear of them?’
Golovanov made a face. ‘Why you did not get to hear of them, I cannot say. You must look to your own efficiency for that. But, I know that they were carried out very secretly, in Copenhagen. Even our own security people were kept in the dark. Even now, even though our Army is ready to occupy Western Europe, only the most senior of our officers are aware of what is happening, and even they believe that we will be taking West Germany only. They do not yet know that we will only stop when we have reached the sea.’
Inge walked across the kitchen and picked up the telephone. She did not put her blouse back on yet: that would have been a signal to Golovanov that he was no longer under threat of torture. She said, quickly, ‘The old bear has come out with some kind of story. If it is true, then Fredrik must know about it at once. No, I have no verification.’
She listened for a moment, and then she said, ‘Who do we have in Copenhagen? Do you have a number? All right, very good.’
&nb
sp; Inge hung up the phone, and stood looking at Golovanov without saying anything.
‘May I have a drink now?’ he asked her.
‘You must tell me more. You must tell me when the Soviet Army intends to cross the frontier.’
‘I have told you all I know. And you must realize that much of what I have told you could be changed, now that you have abducted me. Certainly, the Stavka will have changed the date.’
Inge drew up a kitchen chair, and straddled it. ‘You must tell me more. Very much more.’
Golovanov shook his head.
‘Do you want the meat-grinder again?’
He shook his head again. His throat was crowded with emotion, so that he could scarcely speak. ‘I want only to die with whatever honour is remaining to me.’
Inge touched his cheek. ‘My poor love,’ she said.
Tears rolled down Golovanov’s face, and dropped on to his shirt.
‘Kill me,’ he begged.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
Twenty
Morton Lock was about to leave his office for a lunch appointment with the Secretary of the Army when his intercom flashed. He pressed down the switch and said, ‘I’ve gone to lunch. I’m already drinking my soup.’
The flat Harvard tones of his assistant Frank Jones said, ‘It’s Mr Lewis, sir, from the Washington Post.’
‘In that case, not only am I having lunch, I’m having lunch in Hawaii.’
‘He’s not on the telephone, sir. He’s here, in person.’
Morton breathed, ‘Damn it,’ in exasperation. The trouble was, it had always been the President’s policy that his administration should be ‘warm and constructive’ to the media, from the White House Press office right down to the Minority Business Development Agency. If Cal Lewis had taken it upon himself to visit Morton in person, there was no way in which Morton could decline to talk to him; not without incurring the President’s annoyance, which could be considerable, for all of his public talk of fair play and tolerance and Christian forgiveness.
Frank Jones said, ‘Mr Lewis says he’s pretty sure that you’ll want to talk to him, sir.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘He says it’s something to do with GRINGO, whatever that means.’
Morton frowned at the intercom as if it had unexpectedly relayed a message from another planet. ‘What does he know about GRINGO?’ he demanded.
‘That’s what he’s come here to talk to you about, sir.’ He could hear Frank confirming it with Cal Lewis, out in the reception area.
‘Very well,’ said Morton. ‘You’d better show him in. And call the Montpellier, tell them I’m going to be late.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cal Lewis appeared, smiling a broad smile. He was heavily-built, fiftyish, with crinkled grey hair and a crumpled but expensive grey suit. ‘Good of you to see me, Morton,’ he said, looking around unimpressed at Morton’s wood-panelled office, with its photographs of Florida sunsets. Morton had always fancied himself as a photographer, and all the prints were his. They betrayed an incurable taste for the exotic and the lurid, a visual and emotional obviousness that characterized more than one member of the President’s administration.
‘Have a seat,’ Morton offered. Still smiling. Cal Lewis sat down, and crossed his legs. He smelled of cigars, but he didn’t ask if he could smoke.
‘Where did you get to hear about GRINGO?’ asked Morton, coming straight to the point.
‘Oh, here and there,’ said Cal. ‘You know, sources.’
‘Have you talked to Ken Maxwell?’ Ken Maxwell was the White House Press Secretary.
Cal nodded. ‘Ken Maxwell was not at all helpful. In fact, Ken Maxwell denied any knowledge of GRINGO. He asked me if it was a remake of Pancho Villa.’
‘So why come to me?’
‘Because somebody knows about GRINGO: and considering what kind of an operation GRINGO happens to be, then that somebody would seem to me to be you.’
Morton slowly and over-precisely rearranged the papers on his desk. He didn’t look Cal Lewis in the eyes, not once, and Cal Lewis noticed it.
‘It’s very difficult for me to make any comment unless I know who told you about GRINGO and how much you know,’ said Morton, without expression.
‘I can’t reveal sources,’ Cal told him. All I can tell you is that my information has come from somebody very reputable. Somebody whose word is normally taken as true.’
‘If you’re talking about a certain junior senator, then he may not be as reputable as you think.’
Cal kept on smiling. ‘I didn’t say anything about a certain junior senator.’
‘I know that, but if you are.’ Morton paused, and then demanded still without raising his eyes, ‘Are you?’
Cal shrugged. ‘I guess if you know already, there’s no harm in admitting it.’
‘Well, I thought so,’ said Morton. ‘Our security people have had a tag on this certain junior senator for quite some weeks now. He’s been involved in some pretty unpleasant vice business; as well as the leaking of highly classified information, You can take it from me that what, he says is very rarely trustworthy.’
‘So GRINGO isn’t what he says it is?’
Morton brushed imaginary dust from his desk; nervous, fastidious. ‘That depends on what he says it is.’
‘We’re fencing here, Morton,’ said Cal.
‘Of course we’re fencing You believe you have some important classified information, albeit from a dubious source, and you want to know whether it’s true or not. Well, I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t have to tell you if GRINGO exists or not, or what it is, or even what it isn’t. I am the President’s National Security Adviser and my task is to protect the interests of this nation of ours – not to comment on unreliable gossip. But, I can’t even begin to comment on any gossip at all unless I know what that gossip amounts to. It’s up to you. Cal, you can tell me, or not tell me. I don’t give a damn which.’
Cal Lewis said, ‘Supposing I run a “What Is GRINGO?” story – along with an editorial about the evasiveness of this administration on matters of national security?’
Morton replied, ‘Supposing you don’t?’
‘I hope that doesn’t amount to some kind of threat?’ Cal asked Morton, gently.
‘That’s not a threat, that’s a request,’ Morton told him.
‘A polite request or a forceful request?’
‘A request, damn it, that’s all. Supposing you don’t say anything about GRINGO to anybody. Do any of your staff know anything about it?’
Cal shook his head. ‘I wanted to confirm it for myself, before I started discussing it with anybody else. Contrary to what you seem to think, I do care about this country’s security, just as much as you do.’
‘But you care about your exclusive story first.’
‘GRINGO, from what I can gather, involves the withdrawal of some of our forces from Western Germany. Now, that’s a big story. You can’t very well ask me to sit on it. Come on, Morton, it affects the future of the world. The electorate have a right to know about it.’
‘The electorate have a right to know squat,’ snapped Morton.
‘Can I quote you on that?’ Cal asked him, smoothly, still smiling.
Morton stood up, and thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked across the room to admire Dawn Over the Doral, 1977. More quietly, he said, ‘Let me tell you this. Cal, what you’ve heard about GRINGO is partly true, but not entirely true. It’s a theory, rather than an actual exercise. A way of rearranging the military budget that may or may not be brought into operation. We won’t really have any firm news about it until the Secretary of Defence makes his Programme Budget Decisions next November. So – what I’m suggesting is – why don’t you wait until then?’
Cal Lewis thought for a moment or two, then suddenly stood up, and extended his hand. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said.
‘We’re agreed, then?’ asked Morton.
No, sir
,’ said Cal. ‘In Monday’s Post, I’m going to run a very substantial piece about GRINGO, as much as I can dig up, and I’m going to run a publisher’s comment alongside it. I’m going to say that the way in which this whole issue has been kept under wraps is further incontrovertible evidence of the way in which this administration is becoming increasingly dictatorial.’
‘Cal—’ Morton began, but Cal lifted both hands.
‘Don’t even begin to say it, Morton. That’s what I’m going to do. That’s unless you feel the urge to issue a full statement about GRINGO right now.’
Morton hesitated, and then said, ‘Okay, Cal, you run what you want to run. It’s a free country. But don’t blame me if this boomerangs back on you. You can’t start picking up hot potatoes without burning your fingers.’
Cal squeezed Morton’s shoulder. ‘Do they send you people to a special school, to learn how to mix metaphors?’
After Cal had gone, Morton called Frank Jones and asked him to have his limousine brought around to the front of the building. Then he picked up his own private line, and dialled the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on 9th Street. When the switchboard answered, he said, ‘Ten seventy-five,’ and waited until the extension was picked up.
‘D’Annunzio,’ said a harsh voice, like cold water washing over gravel.
‘Ernest?’ asked Morton. ‘It’s Morton Lock.’
‘Good morning,’ said D’Annunzio. ‘How are your shin splints today?’
Morton wasted no time on formalities.
‘Ernest, we have a serious difficulty with the matter in hand. Yes. It seems that Daniels spoke to Cal Lewis some time this week about our business in Europe. That’s right. Well, Lewis was round here a few minutes ago, and he’s threatening to run a major news story about it. He says Monday. Yes. But I’m concerned that he’s going to go straight back to his office and discuss it with his editorial staff. No, they don’t know yet; at least he says they don’t. Well, no guarantees, of course.’
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