Ikon (21 page)

‘An American car enthusiast, hunh?’ asked Kama, sarcastically. ‘Or perhaps he’s concerned that somebody

might be trying to do to you what you tried to do to Titus Alexander.’

‘An American car enthusiast/ Ikon asserted, without any expression in his voice at all. He didn’t tell Kama that the bodyguard’s walk towards him was a pre-arranged signal which meant that the bodyguard had received direct news on his walkie-talkie from Rockville. A turn to the left would have meant bad news. A turn to the right had meant that everything was satisfactory, and under control.

Nadine must have been able to kill Colleen Petley. Now the horse was answering to a different driver. Ikon turned to Kama, and he was unable to suppress a grandfatherly smile.

Kama said, T came here to suggest that we could come to some arrangement, you and I. The ideological differences between us seem to grow wider every day. But they needn’t. You are old, Nikolai Nekrasov, you have to admit your years. And while I am always respectful of age, and the wisdom that comes with it, I believe that you have been neglecting the natural progress of America towards her inevitable acceptance of what she really is: a Soviet possession.’

‘Well?’ asked Ikon. ‘What is your suggestion?’

‘I suggest your resignation,’ Kama told him. ‘You have achieved tremendous things; but it must be time for you to go. The failure of RINC II shows that gradualism is no longer the answer. But, if you agree to resign, I believe that you should be allowed to stay in the American Capitalist Oblast as a figurehead, as a grand old man to whom the American people can turn in their hour of disillusionment and surprise. We can announce you as the man who has personally taken care of the American republic for over twenty years; the man who took on to his shoulders the enormous burden of preparing America for the day when she would have to be told that the Soviet Union has been in effective control of her government since August 6, 1962. Red Monday.’

Ikon carefully adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and cleared his throat. ‘Is that all?’ he asked. ‘Is that the sum total of your suggestion? Is that why I got myself dressed this afternoon, and came out to the Smithsonian, instead of taking my usual rest?’

‘Nikolai Nekrasov,’ said Kama, more sharply now, ‘you have no hope of staying in control of the Supervisory Committee once Moscow becomes aware that RING II has utterly failed. Even the moderates will ask for faster results; and your failure will feed added fuel to those in the Kremlin who have always opposed your chairmanship and who have always opposed gradualism.’

‘And that is your offer? That I should let you take over complete control of the Autonomous Capitalist Oblast of America, and become nothing more than a national grandparent? A kind of Socialist Father Christmas?’

Kama grimaced. He had little sense of humour, and no time at all for the trappings of Christianity and other such superstitions. In his youth, he had worked doggedly against the continuing presence in Russia of Roman Catholicism and the Russian Orthodox Church in the conviction that any worship of so-called spiritual beings was a direct denial of the reality of the State.

‘Well,’ said Ikon, ‘I am not sure that I want such a job. I am not sure that I am adequately benign.’

‘Somebody has to explain what happened, ‘ Kama insisted. ‘Somebody has to explain how President Kennedy saw that America was defenceless against the missiles on Cuba. Somebody has to tell the American people that he had no choice at all but surrender.’

‘You are talking of destroying some powerful national myths,’ warned Ikon.

‘There isn’t any alternative,’ said Kama. ‘And besides, I believe that the American people will almost be relieved when they understand how many of their national myths were not myths or mysteries at all; but explicable fact. How long have they fretted over Kennedy’s assassination? For twenty years! And after twenty years you will simply be able to tell them the truth: that he tried to go back on his promise of surrender, that he tried to organize a national resistance movement, and that he had to be eliminated to preserve a Socialist peace. The same for his brother, and all those witnesses and other malcontents who knew what had actually happened. Nikolai Nekrasov, you can tell them why they had to go to war in Viet Nam: that it was essential for China’s belief in the hostility between America and the Soviet Union. And you can tell them why they lost, and had to withdraw, because it was always intended that they should. You can explain about Nixon … how Nixon was the only President ever to try to rebel against the Supervisory Committee, and how Watergate was engineered by the KGB to have him disgraced and ousted. The American people will see you as a great leader, as a great demystifier of everything that has confused and worried them in the past twenty years. Why did President Carter cancel the B-l bomber? Why did President Reagan run for office as a hawk, and then become such a somnolent dove? Why did Marshall Roberts fight so hard for the RING talks?’

Ikon listened to Kama with studied politeness. Then he pointed towards a public bench, and said, ‘I think I’d like to sit down. Your offer has almost overwhelmed me.’

Kama hesitated, and looked around him. It was a nervousness born of years of political brinkmanship. He sat down, though, and Ikon sat beside him, two men on a seat in the stippled sunlight of a Washington lunchtime; two men who could have been anybody at all; a lawyer and his clerk; a father and his wayward son; an advertising executive and his brightest young copywriter.

The truth was, though, that they were the two most powerful men in the entire Western hemisphere. Between them, they could control the lives and the destinies of nearly a thousand million people.

Ikon took out a Dristan nasal spray and squirted it vigorously up each nostril. ‘I have to be careful, ever since they started poisoning Tylenol and God knows what else. It might give somebody on the Supervisory Committee a bright idea.’

‘You know that’s not the way I want this to be,’ said Kama. “The old techniques, the killings, that’s not the way to run an Oblast like America.’

‘We found Marilyn Monroe, you know,said Ikon, with some satisfaction. ‘Twenty years we’ve been looking for her. Twenty years! And all the time she was living in Arizona.’

‘Kolpasev told me. Impressive. That was Henry Friend, wasn’t it?’

‘Henry Friend, yes. Well, you know it was. You called him back straight away to blow up that unfortunate police chief for you. I sent you a critical memorandum about that. Did you read it?’

‘I only used him because he was the best available.’

‘Still, it wasn’t wise. I considered recommending to Moscow that you shouldn’t be permitted to sanction any kind of termination at all.’

‘He was the best; and it was essential that her body was taken away as quickly as possible. Friend should have had instructions to remove it before.’

‘You really think so?’ asked Ikon. His tone was altogether too bland for Kama’s liking. He sounded as if he were discussing a rather dull dinner party, instead of violent assassinations and power struggles, and the fate of the entire Oblast of America.

‘Of course I think so,’ said Kama. ‘Supposing the autopsy had revealed that she was Marilyn Monroe?’

‘It wouldn’t have done. Well, the chances that it would were very slim. It was necessary to remove the head, of course. Dental identification; and the risk that somebody might have recognized her picture if it were published in the newspapers. But all of this cowboys-and-Indians business to snatch her body from the Phoenix morgue…’

‘I have the authority/ said Kama, coldly.

‘Of course. But you also have the responsibility. And in my view you deliberately and irresponsibly instructed your agents to run amok in Phoenix in order to stir up trouble. It’s a pity for you that the American media are so resolutely dense. Not one single newspaper asked the questions you wanted them to ask: was this police chief’s

death a conspiracy? If so, who were the conspirators? That was your aim, wasn’t it, as it’s always been? To have the conquest of America discovered by the media, so that you don’t have to explain to Moscow why you personally decided to announce it?’

Ikon adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles, and looked upwards. An American Airlines jet was turning noisily over the city, its silver body sparkling in the sunlight.

‘You have consistently over-reached yourself, Comrade Kama/ said Ikon. ‘You have tried again and again to usurp my authority; and again and again to trigger a revelation in the Press that America may not be the democratic country that its inhabitants believe it to be. I have to say that I don’t like you at all and that I like your henchmen on the Supervisory Committee almost as little. As for the human rodents your agencies employ to carry out your verminous missions … I think the less I say about them, the better. I was given a full report on that bombing in Phoenix, and also on what happened afterwards, when a girl reporter was kidnapped. Those were your men, weren’t they? Rats, from the National Security Agency. More fuss, more trouble; more cowboys-and-Indians. Well, Comrade Kama, that is not the way in which a great Oblast can be run. An Oblast is a province of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics; and in time this Oblast will take its place as one of those Republics. Not as a conglomeration of greedy and misguided capitalists, run by brutal and criminal socialist gangsters; no, not even with me as a figurehead. But as a proud and productive member of a worldwide socialist community; a community which at last can drop all vestiges of war and antagonism, real and pretended, and live in genuine global peace.’

Kama said, ‘You’re not addressing the Central Committee, Comrade Nekrasov.’

‘No,said Ikon, with some dignity, ‘I’m not. I’m addressing you.’

Kama stood up, and buttoned his coat. ‘A fine speech. You could save some of it for your valedictory address.’

‘I’m not resigning/ said Ikon, hoarsely - so hoarsely that Kama scarcely caught what he said.

Kama said, ‘What?’

‘I said, I’m not resigning. Only death will force me to give up the chairmanship. Certainly not you.’

‘Nikolai Nekrasov, RING II is dead; and that means that you’re dead.’

Ikon shook his head, so that his jowls wobbled. The only person who is dead, Comrade Kama, is Colleen Petley.’

Kama stared at him. A woman walking her poodle caught sight of his grotesque expression, and actually stopped to gawp. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she asked Kama, and when he failed to answer, she touched Ikon on the shoulder and said, ‘Is your friend all right?’

Ikon smiled out of one side of his mouth. ‘He’s very well, thank you. Better than most. He’s just … meditating.’

The woman stared at Kama for a few moments more, and then said, ‘If that’s meditating, Jesus.’

Kama said, ‘You’d better be joking, Nikolai Nekrasov.’

Ikon shook his head again. ‘No jokes, Comrade Kama. Colleen Petley is dead.’

‘There are tapes. Videotapes.’

‘I have all of them.’

‘Nadiana Voroshilova,’ said Kama.

‘Well, you could be right,’ agreed Ikon.

‘Nadiana Voroshilova,’ Kama repeated, with such hysterical annoyance that he was almost laughing.‘Nadiana Voroshilova!’

‘It was your gamble, Comrade Kama. You wanted to twist Nadiana into your little blackmail too, I suppose? Well, you took the gamble, and you lost. Nadiana is no amateur. Neither am I. I’m sorry for you. Sorrow is a good Russian emotion. Here, take my hand if you want to. Sob on my shoulder. But whatever you do, believe me, RING II will go ahead. And after RING II is completed, there will be trade agreements, and increasing

detente, and in the fullness of time, a great socialist amalgamation.’

‘Nadiana Voroshilova,’ whispered Kama.

Ikon coughed, and coughed again. ‘I have to get back to Pennsylvania Avenue, he said. ‘I like a little fresh air … but not too much.’

Kama ignored him, and pressed his hand to his forehead. He was doing his best to keep himself under control, to suppress his anger. Tonight, he would go back to his apartment in Arlington and drink himself into a blind stupor with Polish Pure Spirit. Then he would probably break something; a vase, a table, a set of glasses. Not hysterically, but with all the frigid calculated fury of a man who cannot bear to be bested. His maid would sweep up.

He closed his eyes; and when he opened them again, Ikon had gone.

Twenty-Seven

Lieutenant Lindblad said, ‘Somebody called me on August 1, 1962, that was the Wednesday previous to the Sunday that Marilyn was supposed to have died. They said they represented the White House and they required some local assistance in a difficult situation.’

‘Did you believe them?’ asked Kathy.

‘I don’t know. I guess I just believed them. The Kennedys had been buzzing in and out of Los Angeles quite a lot in those days, so it wasn’t a total surprise.’

‘Why did they call you, in particular? Surely there were plenty of superior officers who could have helped them better.’

‘I never really found out. I was young then, newly promoted; and I’d had my picture in the papers a couple of times. I guess the Kennedys just thought that I was their style. They were anxious they didn’t make too many waves, too, and I guess that a superior officer would have felt himself obliged to report the matter higher on up, to the Commissioner, or the Mayor. That was the last thing they wanted.’

Daniel stayed by the window while Lieutenant Lindblad talked. The smog that had blurred Los Angeles for most of the day had thickened again, without clearing, and the sun was hovering over the Santa Monica Mountains like the dying crimson fireball of an exploded nuclear bomb. There was a strange sense of doom about the landscape: tacky Spanish-style houses, forested with TV antennae, under a sky like something by William Blake. Children played in the surrounding yards, and their cries of laughter could just as easily have been cries of desperation.

Lieutenant Lindblad drank more beer and gave himself a white foam moustache. They told me that it was essential that I should meet their representative at The Brown Derby on Thursday night. I said that wasn’t a particularly clever place to meet, because by 1962 The Brown Derby wasn’t a fashionable place to eat any more, and the chances were that me and this representative would be the only people there. So in the end they agreed on Di-no’s, on Sunset. At least it was dark.’