Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Thrillers
“What’s the matter?” she asked with concern. “Do you feel all right?”
“I feel fine,” he said, trying to sound as though he meant it. But the mood in which he had started to address her before the riot, whatever it had been, was gone for now. “I think we’d better try to get on in as soon as we can.”
“All right.” She shivered and drew her coat more tightly about her. “What an awful age we live in,” she said quietly.
He sighed.
“And getting worse.”
South 250 miles, in front of the White House, several hundred pickets carrying similar banners pushed and shoved and tried to block traffic along Pennsylvania Avenue. The police fought them back but more kept coming. By 11 A.M. forty-three were seriously injured and one was dead, a white student from Georgetown University who lost his footing and fell beneath the wheels of a patrol car attempting to herd the mob.
A sense of the world unloosed began to grip America and turn decent men everywhere to a somber and desolate mood.
Such was Walter Dobius’ mood, and it needed no further turning, as he arrived, walking from the East Side Airlines Terminal, at the UN esplanade just as the mounted police were pushing back the last group of rioters who had attacked U.S. headquarters. One quick look at the building with its coating of filth, its shattered windows, and its great scar of flame and smoke, one quick look at the burned limousine being towed away, the littered street, and the little core of picketers who still obligingly waved their banners before banked television cameras on the UN steps, and the reporter’s instinct that never failed hurtled him across the slowly resuming traffic. Out came his pad and pencil as he ran. He was already jotting notes when he arrived at the knot of rioters and reporters who were paying little heed, so fascinated were they by each other’s attentions, to the still arguing, angry police shouting to them to move on.
“LeGage!” he called as he recognized the lithe, tense figure that appeared to be dominating things. “Walter Dobius here. What happened?”
“There’s our friend!” LeGage cried happily. “There’s Mr. Walter Dobius, the man who understands what we’re trying to do this morning, the man who’s against this crazy deal in Gorotoland! Stand back for our friend there, Mr. Walter Dobius!”
There were cheers from the forty or fifty rioters who remained, respectful looks and greetings from many of the reporters. Helen-Anne’s standard advice—don’t let yourself be made to look ridiculous—flashed across his mind, but he instantly rejected it. This was no ridiculous cause, this was literally the cause of world peace. Anything his presence could do to serve it he would contribute. Years of conditioned caution against placing himself too obviously in a partisan position found themselves consumed by his absolutely sincere conviction that it was now or never for the world.
“Thank you,” he said, stepping forward with dignity. (Behind his head as the eager cameras swung in upon him and LeGage Shelby, a white rioter from the Konference on Efforts to Encourage Patriotism held high a tattered but still-legible placard reading DON’T FALL FOR COMMIE TRICKS! NEGOTIATE NOW!—KEEP. And behind that, looming beautifully for all the pictures, the scarred delegation building made a perfect backdrop across the street.)
“I have just arrived,” he said in his most gravely pompous voice to the intent cameras, the hushed and feverishly scribbling reporters, “but it is obvious that there has occurred here this morning a sincere and genuine protest against the irresponsible policies of the present Administration in Africa. I hope it will be noted in Washington. I believe it to be representative of the reactions of most sober and sensible citizens in this period of fearful crisis provoked by President Harley M. Hudson and Secretary of State Orrin Knox.
“America abhors the kind of violent action this Administration has ordered in Gorotoland. America rejects this kind of dangerous gambling with the lives of this nation and all others on the face of the globe. America wants peace, not war.”
He flung out his hand with a sudden vigorous gesture and the cameras obediently swung around to climb the glassy monolith of the UN Secretariat looming above them.
“There is where this issue should be decided,” he said firmly as they swung obediently back. “There in the UN. Not with guns and planes and squadrons of Marines, in violation of all the rules of civilized behavior, but
in the UN!
“I applaud the genuine outpourings of protest that are apparent throughout the nation this morning. They are in the great tradition of a free people. May Washington take heed and bring this matter speedily to a peaceful settlement here in the world organization where it belongs.”
He stopped and again there were shouts of approval, cheers, and applause. LeGage shook his hand fervently, a clever fox-faced girl whom he remembered from Washington cocktail parties as Congressman Hamilton’s wife came forward and did the same while further pictures were taken. He bowed, waved gravely to the crowd, and pushed through the respectfully opening ranks of his fellow journalists. With his steady, trudging gait he moved forward across the broad esplanade toward the doors of the UN. Behind him his older colleagues looked at one another with some skepticism, but his younger assured each other with a genuine excitement that they had seen one of the authentic greats of their profession, brave enough to lay his reputation on the line for what he believed. It was a real inspiration. They assured one another that they would never forget it.
“Have you seen this quote on the news ticker from Walter Dobius at the UN?” the President asked half an hour later when the Secretary of State entered his oval office in the west wing of the White House. “Walter’s taking himself seriously indeed.”
“Do you still want to go to his luncheon on Thursday?” the Secretary’s wife asked when she talked to him fifteen minutes later after hearing about it on the hourly news roundup.
“Hell, yes, I want to go,” Orrin snapped. “It’s time somebody pinned his ears back.”
“Right now,” Beth said thoughtfully, “I’d say he’s the one who’s doing the pinning.”
And so he believed himself, as he stood just within the entrance to the Delegates’ Dining Room waiting for Vasily Tashikov, while the multicolored garbs and faces of the peoples of earth went by. Many recognized his stocky, determined figure and proud, self-confident air, frequently he was flattered with their polite and respectful greetings.
“Walter!” Krishna Khaleel said, bowing low and shaking his hand vigorously. “We are honored by your presence, dear friend. You will be here for the Security Council debate this afternoon?”
“I will indeed. What do you think will happen, K.K.?”
The Indian Ambassador frowned.
“It does not look good for America, I am afraid,” he said sadly. “These are difficult times. I think the President and Orrin have”—he sucked in his breath and shook his head with a worried air. “I do not know exactly what they
have
done, goodness gracious!”
“Gone to war, I think,” Walter said grimly. Krishna Khaleel nodded quickly.
“I read your column. I thought it magnificent.”
“Will we be ordered out, do you think?”
“I do not see how it can be otherwise,” the Indian Ambassador said.
“I hope so. I hope we are forced to leave at once.”
“Of course,” K.K. noted with a wistful delicacy, “there is just one thing, you know. We can order, but … if you do not want to go … what then?”
“I cannot conceive of an American Administration so brutal and so unresponsive to world opinion as to do such a thing!” Walter Dobius said, and the Indian Ambassador could see that he was genuinely shocked at the concept.
“Possibly not,” he said gently, “But Orrin and Harley, you know … would it surprise you?”
“They would destroy themselves politically,” Walter said somberly. “They would destroy the United States in the eyes of the world. I cannot conceive of it. I simply cannot conceive of it.”
“Well,” K.K. said with a worried frown, “I hope for all our sakes you are right, dear Walter. We shall see as events develop. You have a luncheon companion?”
“Vasily Tashikov has invited me to be his guest. It seemed to be a worthwhile invitation to accept. Although I did not know when he called me yesterday that we would have quite so many things to talk about.”
“My, yes,” the Indian Ambassador said. “I am waiting for the delegate of Brazil.”
“How does he feel?”
“Our governments are quite agreed, I think.”
“I doubt that we have a friend in the world,” Walter said, and was aware as he spoke of a cheerful presence coming up to him out of the throng of arriving delegates.
“I heard that!” Lafe Smith said, giving his arm a jocular squeeze. “I heard it! Shame on you, Walter, you old warmonger. We’ve got millions. Literally millions.”
“I don’t think the occasion is one for levity, if you’ll forgive me,” Walter said coldly, disengaging his arm.
“O.K.,” Lafe said, matching his mood instantly with obvious relish. “I think that was the God-damnedest column you’ve ever written this morning, and I think that was the God-damnedest stupidest performance you ever put on, out there in the street. I think it was close to treason, if you want my frank opinion.”
“My goodness,” Krishna Khaleel said in an alarmed tone. “My goodness, Lafe, what are you saying!”
“What he always says,” Walter said through lips compressed with anger. “The most fatuous nonsense in the United States Senate.”
“You’re getting too big for your breeches, boy,” Lafe told him with the same infuriating air of enjoyment, while a number of delegates, seeing their expressions and hearing the tones of their voices, drifted nearer with attentive faces. “You think you run this whole country, don’t you? Maybe you’re wrong.”
“We’ll see who’s wrong, after this little episode in Gorotoland,” Walter said harshly. “If you’ll excuse me, I see my host. Goodbye!” But he found his way blocked by the giant frame of the chief American delegate, who was holding a copy of the
Daily Mirror
in his hand.
“Before you go,” Cullee said softly, “just one little word with you, Walter. Do you realize what happened out there this morning before you came along and gave it your grand endorsement? Take a look. You see that burned car? I was riding in that car, with Sarah Johnson and a driver. We got out just in time, Walter, while your grand, democratic, liberty-loving friends were rioting against your country. Would it have made you happy if we’d been killed?”
For a long moment Walter Dobius stared up at him with a look of studied contempt. When he finally spoke it was in his most clipped and heavy tones, biting off the words as though he would spit out each one.
“No, it would not have made me happy if you had been killed. How infantile can you be? As for my grand, democratic, liberty-loving friends, as you call them, I was happy to endorse their protest against the irresponsible, inexcusable act of a war-mad Administration. I would do it again. I
will
do it again, in my column and in everything else I say. Is that clear?”
From his compact height, Cullee looked down with an equal contempt. Again he spoke softly, while all around the watching nations goggled and stared.
“What you overlook, Walter, dear, is the fact that some thirty-five or forty people have been killed, that American property has been destroyed, that honorable American rights guaranteed by honorable arrangement with a legal government have been violated.…It’s always the same, with you and your crowd, isn’t it? You always succeed in turning everything upside down so that you get the whole world arguing about what the United States has done—instead of about what has been done to the United States. Ignoring, of course, very conveniently, the fact that if nothing had been done to us—we wouldn’t be doing anything. I swear to God I don’t see how you people can do it with a clear conscience. I swear I don’t.”
“Well, now, Cullee,” Krishna Khaleel said nervously. “It is not only ‘Walter and his crowd,’ as you put it, who feel the great measure of concern about what the United States is doing. It is all of us. It is because of your greater power and your greater potential to do damage to the world. We are all concerned.”
“I can understand you,” Cullee said, making his voice less contemptuous with an obvious effort. “But”—and the contempt came back—“I can’t understand him and his friends. They’re beyond me and they always have been. Now go have lunch with your pal, Walter. Who is it, Tashikov?”
“Yes!” Walter spat out.
“That figures,” Cullee said in a tired tone. “That sure as hell figures. Come on, Lafe.”
“Dear me,” Krishna Khaleel said to no one in particular as three angry Americans strode away toward their respective tables. “
Mercy!
”
***
Chapter 5
For quite a few moments after he and his host had claimed their table and ordered drinks, America’s leading philosopher-statesman found it almost impossible to think coherently, so angered and embittered was he by the degrading and inexcusable humiliation to which he had been subjected by his countrymen before the avidly interested eyes of the nations. If anything had been needed to alienate Walter Dobius permanently and implacably from the Hudson administration and its present course of action in Africa, his public tongue-lashing by Congressman Hamilton and Senator Smith would have done it. Everything was now in place, all things were clear, his own course was finally and completely justified. Behind Cullee and Lafe, as vividly as though they had actually stood there, he could see the figures of the incompetent President and the irresponsible Secretary of State, the warmakers who were challenging all the principles of civilized and orderly international behavior to whose strengthening Walter and his friends had devoted themselves in all the difficult years since the end of World War II. Their policies were so violently contrary to those Walter knew in his heart to be right, their attitude toward him personally so mocking and disrespectful, that he was convinced now that he had been absolutely sound in his column, absolutely correct in the statement he had made after the riot, absolutely justified in everything he was doing and intended to do to hinder, defeat, and discredit permanently if he could, the present policies of Washington and the men responsible for them.
Despite this righteous certainty, however, it was not until the drinks arrived—the Soviet Ambassador had ordered Dubonnet on the rocks and Walter in spite of his whirling anger had retained enough caution to do the same, for he was not about to engage in any conversation with Vasily Tashikov half-drunk—that he finally calmed down enough to be able to pay attention to the comments with which his host was setting the stage for their discussion.
He was pleased but not surprised to find that Tashikov was stating opinions exactly paralleling his own concerning the painful episode in which he had found Walter involved when he stepped off the escalator into the dining room.
“It is disgraceful,” the Soviet Ambassador said. “Disgraceful, for your countrymen to make of their greatest journalist such a cruel public spectacle! It is typical,” he added matter-of-factly, “of those who have gone mad in the pursuit of their imperialist ambitions.”
“It was not pleasant,” Walter admitted, taking a long swallow of Dubonnet and stilling the last erratic thumpings of his heart by a sheer effort of will. “But,” he added grimly, “I think events will prove who is right.”
“They will prove it is you who is right. There is no doubt of it, for I ask you, how could they do otherwise? You
are
right! The United States is engaged in insanity, as you said in your column this morning. Civilized peoples everywhere regard it so. The world, I think, will show the United States what happens to neo-colonialist warmongers!”
“I would hope the Administration could be forced to withdraw,” Walter said, ignoring the anti-American rhetoric, they always felt they had to use that, and anyway it was more important to have them opposing the Administration than it was to quibble over words. “I should think that would be sufficient to place the matter back on a reasonable basis on which the UN might then consider the merits of Prince Obifumatta’s complaint versus ours.”
“Mr. Dobius!” Vasily Tashikov said in a disbelieving tone. “Mr. Dobius! Surely you do not believe the imperialist warmongers in Washington have a case in Gorotoland? Your writings do not indicate this.”
“I believe there is some merit,” Walter said carefully, for by now he was calm enough to be on guard against what he knew from long experience with Communist diplomats in Washington could easily turn into an attempt to entrap him into saying things he didn’t mean, “in the argument that missionaries working peaceably in a country have a right to be unmolested. I also believe—although,” he said with a smile indicating that in this he and his host were probably close to agreement, “I feel that one may legitimately be suspicious of American commercial enterprises in underdeveloped lands—that once a company has entered into a legal arrangement with a government, it has some right to just recompense if it is dispossessed or damaged.”
“Legal arrangement with a government?” Vasily Tashikov demanded, his squat little body swiveling indignantly in its chair, his sharp-featured face with its gold pince-nez peering angrily across at his guest, while at the next table the delegates of Nicaragua, Honduras, Ghana, and Mali pretended a casual inattention as they did their best to overhear, and farther away the two United States delegates, the British Ambassador, and the French Ambassador stopped eating for a moment to give them a speculative glance. “Now, Mr. Dobius, you are not being consistent with your recent columns. Surely you do not consider an arrangement of the illegitimate colonialist lackey Terry to be legitimate. Mr.
Dobius!”
“I don’t agree with Prince Terry’s policies, no,” Walter said calmly, now curious to see what he could provoke, “but he is the legitimate government. You cannot deny that.”
“Can I not?” the Soviet Ambassador cried. “But I am! I do! It is accomplished, my denial! What then?”
“Please do not excite yourself,” Walter said coldly, feeling it time to bring the conversation down to earth. “I agree as you know with your opposition to the basic United States position in Gorotoland. Certainly you are aware I agree 100 percent with your opposition to our latest action there. There is no point in confusing our understanding of each other with semantics.”
“Ah!” Tashikov said with a sudden smile. “Semantics! Now you touch upon one of the great difficulties in bridging the gap between the two worlds, Mr. Dobius. Your use of words in the West is so foreign to us. It is so contrary to the way we use them. Democracy and freedom to us are perfectly clear and understandable terms. But we have learned to know that when the United States and the West uses them they mean imperialism, exploitation, dictatorship over helpless peoples, and tyranny. It took us many years to realize this. But we know it now.”
“Well, Mr. Ambassador,” Walter said dryly, “you know perfectly well that I cannot accept that. It seems to me we are getting far afield. I repeat, I trust the Security Council this afternoon will order American forces withdrawn from Gorotoland. After that, the issue can be discussed on its merits free from the threat of war.”
“It is not only the threat, at this moment,” the Ambassador said. “As you have written, it is war.”
“Then I surely hope it will be condemned as such,” Walter said firmly. “The Administration deserves no less.”
“Mr. Dobius,” Tashikov said with a sudden embracing smile, “you are an inspiration and a strength to those of us who oppose your government’s fatal neo-colonialist policies. It is so comforting to know that America’s greatest journalist and his friends are on our side in the endless battle to defeat America’s imperialist aggressions all over the world.”
“America’s greatest journalist,” Walter said calmly, for it did no good to become angry with them, it only got you lost in competing rhetoric, and anyway, he was America’s greatest journalist, “is interested above all things in helping to preserve peace in the world. I believe you will find if you examine my writings that there have been occasions on which I have condemned Soviet aggressions, too.”
“I can remember nothing as devastating as your column this morning, Mr. Dobius,” the Soviet Ambassador said cheerfully. “And may we thank Lenin for that! Shall we order?”
After they had done so, Tashikov requesting a filet mignon and Walter scallops in a wine and curry sauce he remembered fondly from his last visit to the UN, the Soviet Ambassador leaned forward confidentially.
“For your information in writing about events here, Mr. Dobius”—and Walter was pleased that he was doing this, it was the sort of inside information he was seeking and he was gratified that Tashikov was volunteering it, it showed a real confidence in his integrity as a reporter, which Walter prized above all else—“for your information, I understand that your government will offer an amendment to the resolution of condemnation this afternoon. This amendment will attempt to bring condemnation of the People’s Free Republic of Gorotoland. We will veto it. Then the resolution condemning your government will come to a vote. Your government, the United Kingdom, and the alleged representative of the illegal Government of Taiwan, as is customary in such cases, will abstain. The Council will then proceed to approve the resolution of condemnation and your government will then stand convicted before the world, as it should be, for its unprovoked imperialist invasion of an innocent country. That will be the procedure we will follow today.”
“That is very interesting, Mr. Ambassador,” Walter said solemnly, though he had already heard the same prediction from his sources in the State Department and none of it was news to him. “I appreciate your confidence. The only thing I question is whether it will be quite so easy to defeat the United States amendment criticizing Prince Obi’s government.”
“I have told you,” Tashikov said with a shrug. “The U.S.S.R. will veto it. Then, Mr. Dobius, the world will turn upon the United States, as you invited it to do in your column this morning, and punish it for its insane crime against civilized humanity.”
Again Walter decided not to challenge this interpretation. He was anxious to learn other things.
“Suppose the United States refuses to withdraw even though the resolution is passed by the Security Council?”
“Then the United States will also stand convicted by the world’s opinion as the destroyer of the United Nations!” Tashikov said promptly.
“Even though the Communist powers have similarly ignored resolutions of the Security Council?” Walter could not help suggesting blandly. The Soviet Ambassador gave him a look equally bland.
“Communist powers do not act in violation of the civilized rules of mankind, as the United States is doing. Therefore Communist powers do not recognize condemnation by anyone. It is not pertinent. It is not worthy of recognition. Communist powers act for freedom and justice, Mr. Dobius. They do not act for war and imperialist conquest. The world is aware of that.”
“I am glad to hear you explain the difference.”
“I did not think I would have to,” Tashikov said with a humorously chiding air, “after your magnificent column this morning, Mr. Dobius. It appeared to me as I read it that you thoroughly understood the difference! So has it appeared to all of us here in this house. I think you will find your position almost universally applauded here. America’s greatest journalist—perhaps the world’s greatest journalist—having the courage to criticize his own country because he loves peace and justice. It is an inspiring thing, Mr. Dobius. We are all inspired!”
“Thank you,” Walter said, even as he told himself again that he must avoid traps. “Providing the Security Council action today saves the peace and lays the groundwork for reasonable UN discussion of the situation in Gorotoland, I shall be content.”
“I think you may be assured that there will be ample discussion of the situation in Gorotoland.” Tashikov gave his short, barking laugh. “Ample, Mr. Dobius! Ample!”
“I’m glad everything’s funny over there,” Lafe observed from across the room where he was starting dessert in the company of Cullee, the French Ambassador, Raoul Barre, and the British Ambassador, Lord Claude Maudulayne. “I wonder who’s doing what to whom?”
“I think,” Raoul Barre said, “that Vasily is congratulating Walter on saving the world and Walter is congratulating Vasily on the same thing.”
“With the assistance of France, as I understand it,” Lord Maudulayne suggested. The French Ambassador nodded matter-of-factly.
“Certainly. My government feels it has no choice but to join the U.S.S.R, in this resolution of condemnation. We cannot possibly support the good Harley and his industrious colleague, Orrin, in their little enterprise. The risks are too great.”
“And the possibility of assisting the United States too great,” Cullee suggested dryly.
“And the possibility of hurting her too attractive,” Lafe added.
Raoul Barre smiled and shrugged.
“You take it personally. You Americans always take it personally. It is quite impersonal, I assure you. My government simply does not agree with these tactics of pressure and invasion. Have we not a right to express ourselves?”
“No one challenges your right,” Cullee said slowly. “It’s just that in recent years it always seems to be expressed against us.”
“Someone must argue for sanity,” the French Ambassador said. “Someone must try to stand in the middle.” Lord Maudulayne chuckled.
“And who better equipped, eh? Certainly not we, God knows, who find ourselves with no choice now but to support the United States.”
“Would you not if you had the choice?” Lafe asked. “Just what would you do, Claude?”
“Absolutely what you are doing, I suspect,” Lord Maudulayne said. “But with a little more feeling that it was our own idea, possibly.”
“I don’t think the President could have waited,” Cullee said. “In a case like that I think the decisive act is worth any number of battles.”
“You will get,” Raoul predicted calmly, “any number of battles before this is finished, I think, my friend. May they all go as decisively as the opening act—though I think they may not.…I understand the United States intends to introduce an amendment to the French-Soviet resolution which would condemn Prince Obifumatta’s government. You do not expect it to pass, of course.”
“No,” Lafe said with a glance that flicked across Cullee’s for a second. “We do not expect it to pass.”
“It will be vetoed,” Raoul said. “We can rely upon Vasily for that.”
“But it will serve a purpose,” Lord Maudulayne suggested, “as things in the UN do serve a purpose in these days of dissolution—the same purpose. Propaganda—headlines—attention to a problem, even though nothing comes of it—possibly a little delay before things rush on toward wherever they are going, in this odd world of ours. At least it will remind some of our friends in Africa and Asia that there is another side to this.”