The Ambassador (35 page)
An hour later the work was complete. Winston, his face grim, signed off and put his machine into hibernation. The minidisk nestled in his hand. No bigger than a piece of chocolate. That gave him an idea.
The King, Strether discovered, was in an excited mood. The main dining room was a-glitter with the best porcelain and silver; candles were lit in freshly polished silver candelabra. Some thirty important personages, most of whom Strether recognised, were ranged on four sides of the rectangular table. It meant that the two footmen had to work overtime.
As the dessert was served the King tapped a wine glass. The tinkle brought a degree of order, though at the far end of the table private conversations continued in muted tones over the profiteroles. He had called together various friends, King William said, to pick their brains. The century was drawing to its close, so the New Year festivities would have a special flavour. His own role would be central. What did they think about a spectacular fireworks display over the Thames? A masked ball? A hologrammatic presentation of the 1999 Dome, so derided until it had been blown away, so lamented thereafter? Bingo played on the face of the moon?
The mention of the moon brought the Ambassador down to earth with a crunch. He recalled the day spent shopping with Matt Brewer, and how thrilled the young man had been at reserving a ticket on the space trip. The boy’s eager, honest face flashed into his mind. He would have to visit the shop again, and cancel the reservation – or possibly, since the staffer had grieving family, try to retrieve it for someone else’s pleasure. As a memorial, at least.
It had been impossible to eat. Indeed, he had seriously contemplated backing out of the occasion until he reflected that the King would have been hurt and offended. For what Strether had seen at the morgue had been revolting, though luckily he had been obliged to do little more than view the heads.
The slashes across Matt’s stone-white cheeks looked more like claw-marks than anything inflicted by a human. The gash that had severed Dirk’s cranium from the torso had been a knife-wound, but done with such ferocity that centimetres of sliced flesh had been exposed in a single cut. Dirk’s eyes had been gouged out; the bleeding around the sockets indicated that he had not been dead at the time. Matt’s features were not so mutilated, but when the morgue officer, Dr Cornwell, had begun to describe what had been done to the body Strether had quickly stopped her. What he didn’t hear would hurt less, he had mumbled hurriedly.
Some faint whiff of indifference on the part of the investigating officer had made him pay closer attention. Instead of assuring him that the perpetrators of this wicked and horrific crime would be pursued with all the wiles at their command, the senior inspector seemed to imply that this kind of gross violence was nothing new. Strether, clutching a handkerchief to his mouth and fighting nausea, had contained his temper and begun to ask pointed questions.
The answers enraged him further, but introduced a loud note of alarm. The police officer casually informed him that it was known that the young men had frequented the Toy Shop and had made illicit arrangements with a couple of the women employed there. At least, he had added, the boys had assumed they were the same women. Perhaps they weren’t. Such injuries were not atypical of contacts of this kind.
Strether had wished more than anything that Marty had been around to help him translate the police officer’s elliptical comments. As time ticked on to the moment he had to leave for the palace, he tried a frontal attack.
‘So you’re giving me to understand that these two young men may have believed they were out for the night with a pair of girlfriends, but it could have been lookalikes? That they couldn’t tell?’
The police officer shrugged. ‘If they’re identical, nobody could.’
‘So you must know who we’re talking about?’
Another shrug. ‘Could be tricky to prove. Identical DNA, you know. Could be a score or more the same.’
Strether remembered Lisa’s rebuttal of the clone argument. ‘Not acceptable in a court of law?’ he persisted, his spirits sinking.
‘Difficult. Doesn’t give them immunity, of course.’
Strether felt his brow darken. ‘Wait a minute. You’re not levelling with me. If you think you know who they are, why aren’t they simply arrested? Incarcerated? Kept out of harm’s way? Destroyed, even?’
The police officer blinked twice. ‘We’re talking about human beings, y’know. Can’t just go around arresting people. Gotta have some evidence.’
‘There’s something going on,’ Strether wondered whether to bluster or pull rank. ‘Look, I shall be seeing the Prime Minister tonight. At supper with the King. Shall I raise the matter with him? Would that be a good idea?’
To his surprise the police officer hardly reacted, apart from a slight tilt to the mouth.
‘Prime Minister? That’d be rich. King’s okay, innocent as the day he was tipped out of the test-tube. Sir Lyndon, though. Hardly innocent. But not guilty either.’
And he had refused to say any more, other than to reassure the by now thoroughly bewildered Strether that the matter was in the best hands and would be fully investigated.
As he had left, he had noticed Dr Cornwell watching him, her face impassive.
Across the table the capillaried cheeks of the Prime Minister had taken on the puce tinge that signified a six course meal eaten and a superb wine imbibed. The Ambassador had sat mostly silent, his plate untouched. At last his reticence was noticed.
‘I am so sorry, Your Majesty,’ Strether responded formally. The royal innocent commanded a duty of courtesy, if nothing else. He dropped his voice to spare the King. ‘I had to view the bodies this morning of two of my finest young men. They had been involved in liaisons with women from a club called the Toy Shop. It appears something might have gone dreadfully wrong. All very sordid, I’m afraid.’
As he spoke he stared directly into the florid face of the Prime Minister.
He had his reward. The fleshy mouth dropped open and a gobbet of chocolate pudding dropped out. For a moment Strether thought Sir Lyndon might be choking, as the politician reached for a napkin and pressed it noisily to his face.
But how could the Prime Minister be caught up in such a horrible business?
‘They were handsome young men,’ Sir Lyndon muttered at last.
‘How do you know?’ Strether instantly demanded.
Sir Lyndon took a gulp of wine. In the vicinity the conversation had stilled to a buzz. The Prime Minister waved his napkin in a vague arc. ‘Met them in your embassy. Must have. The red-haired one – bit wild, wasn’t he? Didn’t know the other.’
The King was looking cross that his celebratory schemes were being forgotten. ‘I say, Strether,’ he called down the table, ‘do be a good fellow. What’s your President planning to do on New Year’s Day? We don’t want to appear copycats, do we?’
Copycats? The Ambassador pulled himself together with a massive effort. His men had died. He sensed that if he examined the dreadful episode carefully enough he might figure out how, and why. And why the police had failed to convince him of their concern; and in what manner the belching corpulence of the Prime Minister opposite was involved. He took a deep breath.
‘I suspect, Your Majesty,’ he answered slowly, ‘that, given half a chance, Mr Kennedy would take the day off and go to the moon. It would strike him as sufficiently surreal. In fact, if it’s within my power, I shall ensure that he does.’
By the time Marius arrived at his mother’s apartment he was tired and dishevelled. The disruptions to public transport were enough to drive a man spare, but the hour spent stuck in a stationary express near Luton had been useful for much-needed reflection. The intensive briefings at Milton Keynes had left him reeling. At the same time he felt exhilarated. It was as if a newly discovered will had been read out to him, outlining a rich but unexpected inheritance.
Unexpected, and undeserved. The mantle that Spartacus and Solidarity members wished to lay upon his shoulders demanded strength and qualities of character that Marius sincerely doubted he had. He had not been brought up to leadership. On the contrary, his background imposed restrictions on ambition: a Prince was supposed to behave graciously, be a witty and charming companion, mix easily with strangers of every race and style, and generally not be too thrusting. He wasn’t expected to demonstrate erudition, have original ideas or flaunt his looks or contacts. He was
royal
, first and foremost; and his nobility, however insignificant, conferred on him mostly duties.
Noblesse oblige
.
Yet if anything convinced him that Winston was correct and that he wasn’t what – or who – he had always assumed, it was the vivid excitement in his breast at his new prospects. Somebody in his lineage had liked to lead, had relished responsibility and the exercise of power. It might well have been a forgotten prince or king; with a shrug, Marius accepted that he would be disappointed should he discover he had no royal blood whatsoever. Maybe that made him a snob; if so, he could live with that.
The details Spartacus had given him remained sketchy. He had referred to similar groups on the continent yet had been unforthcoming about their numbers. Communication was difficult and an open invitation to spies. Face-to-face contacts were necessarily limited; Marius wondered which of his many acquaintances he would eventually discover to be conspirators like himself. Who were the leaders in the various regions? Where were the gaps? Might it be worthwhile to arrange an event – a royal birthday party, perhaps – to which the key figures could be invited, in all innocence? Was there a sign – a lop-sided handshake, a way of styling the hair or wiping the nose – which could be developed in secret, so that they could know each other without discovery?
He felt keenly the obligations of leadership. He must put his own stamp on the organisation, and quickly. Its amateurish enthusiasm must be converted into practical action as quickly as possible and new recruits obtained. He began to consider possible names, then resolutely put the issue from his mind. His errand tonight was of a different order. It was his own name with which he was concerned.
It was late. Princess Io might have retired. Yet the most intimate of conversations between mother and son was in the offing. Her formidable Highness might, in such circumstances, momentarily drop her guard.
Marius had not devoted much introspection to his mother over the years, though he had assiduously, and with pleasure, observed the courtesies. As a child he had been closer to his father, the vague, shallow man with craggy good looks who had regaled him with sagas of Hungarian knights, princesses, heroes and deeds of derring-do. Mostly the Hungarians had won the battle but lost the war. Their bouts of self-rule over the centuries had been brief.
Their magnificently Gothic Parliament on the Danube was a ridiculous copy of the Palace of Westminster, but its renovation had been paid for with Communist gold. After flirting with a restored monarchy, the expense and pointlessness of it had brought peaceful abolition after a plebiscite. By then the republic was a confirmed member of the Union, its independence seceded for ever. And Marius, still a boy, had learned from his father the manners of an exile, who being neither rich nor poor must ensure he is eternally welcome.
The Princess was by far the tougher personality of the marriage. Marius smiled to himself as he spoke into the voice recognition grille at her door. On her arrival in Budapest she had been already an
arriviste
, a tiny, exotic humming-bird of a woman who had captivated his father. Her delicate appearance was utterly deceptive: beneath the fragile exterior Princess Io was forged of tempered steel.
The two, mother and son, had developed an easy relationship of mutual respect and affection. It dawned on the Prince, however, that when his mother died she would leave a black hole in his life – greater than his father had. Given her age, that date could not be postponed for ever. He felt slightly ashamed, not for thinking about her demise but for not having dwelt on it before: it meant he had to hurry, if he wanted to know her better and to love her properly. Family mattered. Especially now that he might be starting a family of his own. If Lisa had meant the words she had thrown at him in the bunker; if she would have him.
The catch clicked open and he entered. The fragrance of lily-of-the-valley, fresh and oddly girlish, filled the warm air. A high voice called from the elevated platform of her boudoir. ‘Marius? Darling boy. So late. Come up and talk to me.’
Marius pottered about for a moment. ‘Can I get you something? No? May I help myself?’ With a large vodka and ice he climbed the thickly carpeted stairs and seated himself on a stool at the bedside.
She was propped up in bed, her hands frail on the rose-pink counterpane, the cashmere bed-jacket modestly tied at the thin neck with pink ribbons to match. Glossy magazines, still produced for wealthy women, were scattered about. The wall vidscreen flickered, the sound turned down.
‘I can’t tell you what was on,’ she murmured, though he had not inquired as he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Some romantic movie. Melanie Streisand, I think. I gave up trying to improve my taste in my twenties, dear. Don’t look so disapproving.’
The Prince sipped his drink and smiled. ‘I am not. Your style is a source of constant wonder and delight, Mother.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘If you were not here I should miss you dreadfully. I have realised that you have been a far more positive influence on me than I have ever given you credit for.’
‘Merciful Lord. What can I say? Thank you, Marius.’ The old lady’s eyes grew misty.
‘No, I mean it. I will spend a little more time with you, if I may. I have neglected you, and I am sorry.’
‘Now you’re talking poppycock,’ the Princess said sharply. ‘What’s up? What have you really come for – at this strange hour, too?’
Marius swirled the drink in his glass then took a gulp. He paused while the vodka burned his throat. ‘Mother, I think I have found my future wife. I believe we will make our lives together.’ He waved away his mother’s rapid litany of congratulations and queries. ‘You
have met her. Dr Lisa Pasteur. She was at that lunch on the terrace of the Commons.’
‘An attractive young woman, I recall,’ his mother said diplomatically. ‘Wasn’t she a scientist? Heavens, Marius, you’re going to marry a bluestocking! Is she a commoner? Is that wise?’
Marius relaxed with a chuckle. ‘I feared for a second you were about to ask whether I couldn’t find anything better, Mother,’ he answered. ‘Lisa is splendid. A true help-meet, and a lovely woman.’
The Princess fixed him with a stare. ‘There’s more. I can feel it. You didn’t come here solely to tell me that, or you would have come together.’
Marius let a quietness descend. Then he spoke. ‘Yes. If Lisa and I are to have children then there is something I must ask you.’
The old lady composed her face and folded her hands, one over the other, on the counterpane. One finger, as if independent of its owner, twiddled a ring. ‘Go on.’
‘Mother, who am I?’
‘What? Do you want me to recite the royal lineages of Europe – and of Japan, come to that? What do you mean?’
‘I think you know what I mean. I am not – I am not the person whose DNA printout I received on my eleventh birthday, am I?’
The silence sang and was tangible. Marius held his breath, as if to move an iota would crush the unblinking china doll of his mother into pieces. He tried again.
‘Don’t tell me it’s nonsense, Mother. I’m sure of this, at least – that I’m not who everyone says I am. It doesn’t seem to matter as much as I thought it would. But what I need to be told – for practical reasons if nothing else – is this: if I’m not Prince Marius, son of ex-King Hendrick of Hungary and Princess Io of the Japanese royal family, then who the hell am I?’
Her head rocked slowly from side to side. ‘No, no,’ she appeared to be saying, but Marius could barely catch the sound. He rose and stood over the old woman, his expression grave.
‘Am I at least royal? Or a foundling off the street?’
Her hand rose and shook, as if wafting away ghosts that threatened to enter the room. Then the trembling fingers indicated to him that he should sit.
‘
Who told you
?’ came in a cracked whisper.
‘Nobody.’ Marius made his voice matter-of-fact. ‘Not for certain, anyway. But my printout and my looks and character don’t match – I’ve had expert opinion on that. It’s okay, Mother, don’t get upset. I am exploring my new self and quite like what I find. But please, won’t you tell me? Whose son am I?’
‘I can’t answer that for sure.’ The Princess spoke so low he had to strain to catch the words. ‘You had been ordered. To be the next king. To rule in our palace, the Budavári Palota. It was the year 2059. I chose to carry you myself – I so wanted my own baby. I had a maid, a Romanian girl, a bit gypsy-looking but sweet-natured. She and I were pregnant at the same time. Then I lost mine, at twenty weeks.’
She opened her eyes wide. ‘Do you understand how devastating that is, to lose a child? A living, breathing creature who has kicked and swelled inside you? No, of course you can’t grasp it. Only another woman would. I was devastated. Hysterical. Suicidal. I wanted to
jump off the Chain Bridge. I wept enough tears to fill the Danube by myself. Then Ilona – the girl – came to the rescue.’
Marius sat very still, hiding even the movement of the drink’s surface. The old lady’s febrile hands seemed to be doing the talking, fluttering like little birds about her face and body.
‘She offered me her baby when it was born. A son, a fine healthy child. Black-haired, like me, quick and bright – all the birth signs were excellent. She would help me care for him, and would be delighted to see him brought up a prince. We squared it with the doctors – an expensive business. But when we left Hungary she decided to go back to her own village. To give us the best chance, she said, our son especially. We were stateless refugees, of course. Perhaps she felt we had no prospects, but I cannot think ill of her. She wrote for a while, then contact ceased.’
‘Might she still be alive?’
‘No. She died. When you were about twenty, I think.’
It was not the end of the story. Marius drank the remainder of the vodka. ‘And who was the father?’
His mother sighed, a soft exhalation, as if her soul hovered on her thin lips. She twisted her head and gazed at Marius.
‘She would never say. But the older you get, darling boy, the more you resemble … physically, at least – the man I married.’
‘
The King
? My father?’
‘Ah, yes. Your father.’ A faint smile lingered on her features and those delicate fingers touched her wedding-ring. Then she looked full at the Prince, her eyes luminous as he had never before seen them.
‘I did not pry. I was in no fit state to do so – and I was so happy to have this beautiful little boy put into my arms. You have always made me happy, Marius. And proud. You are not about to start making me weep, are you?’
‘Oh,
Mother
,’ he answered, and bent his head over the bed and buried his face in the perfumed counterpane. But she did weep, and so did he, and they spoke together of the dead and the living, deep into the darkest hours of the night.
To Ambassador Strether, by personal courier, from the Office of the President of the United States. Your messages received and understood. We are testing the surviving boat people for PKU condition, according to your last communication. The remains of the dead are also under investigation. Coastguards have been issued with a supply of intravenous PAH for emergency treatment – we do not know yet if it works. Your query about lost kidneys is confirmed; two of the dead had had a kidney surgically removed, one had only half a pancreas. We have no further data at this time. Not all the arrivals were tattooed – perhaps it is only certain prisoners. All those still alive have been offered refugee status and that will be the practice from here on. Under wraps for the moment. Thank you for your efforts.
There was a postscript, handwritten:
‘I’ve sent personal condolences to the Brewer and Cameron families. Terrible business. Is it connected, do you think? What a mess. Take care. JFK.’
Strether stared at the flimsy paper then pushed it away. He ran his hand through his hair. It was thinning, goddamn it. Less than a year spent surrounded by the economic and scientific miracles of the European Union, and the heavy fair hair of which he had been somewhat vain was the first bastion to fall, the most visible evidence of the strains he worked under, though not the only one.
Several members of the embassy staff were off ill, too. One through stress, a close friend of the two murdered boys. Two, irritatingly, with colds and flu-like symptoms; Strether wondered whether the mild infections might be linked to the rubbish which piled up in the streets near their homes. Had the garbage collectors’ strike taken effect near the embassy he might have been tempted to pull strings with his underground comrades to have it removed. But the strikes were sporadic, and the junk would vanish as quickly as it appeared; and he could not be sure that every episode emanated from Solidarity. Since the clearance operation was linked to additional overtime payments for the operatives it might be nothing to do with political protest. In the confusion, without reliable news media, it was increasingly difficult to identify the truth.
The news, or rather the lack of it, frustrated and alarmed him. With thousands of channels digitalised around the world it should be possible to pick up some scraps of unbiased information. CNN reported fires and floods throughout the world but shied away from interviewing controversial politicians. The other English-speaking networks produced game shows and soaps, but seemed unaware of what genuine news values might be. The BBC still existed, though in an etiolated form; ‘public service broadcasting’ had come to mean putting out whatever government departments required, which suited both sides. The citizens’ modern distaste for interrogatory questioning, linked with high approval ratings for the administration over the years, had made many journalists redundant. The remainder had learned their lesson and taken courses in what used to be called spin-doctoring. Or they had sought employment with the commercial operators who made clear that their customers came first; entertainment, not brain-exercise, was required.
