The American Ambassador (7 page)

The driver grumbled, they were late; they had stayed too long. Driving down the dry watercourse, back to the dirt road, North had asked Kleust to translate the Goethe quotation. Kleust shrugged, he couldn't remember. Perhaps they were the poet's last words, “More light!” Come on, North said; they were a dozen words in idiomatic German, spoken so rapidly he could not understand them.

Kleust smiled wanly. Very well, he said. “In English, it is this. ‘The Germans make everything difficult, both for themselves and for everyone else.' ” North smiled and reminded Kleust that he himself was of German extraction. German, and Jewish also. But of course Kleust knew that.

Kleust said, “I think the point he was trying to make about Sylt was that no one ever conquered it because no one ever wanted it.” An excellent point; but one North neglected to make a month later, when he was back in the United States, summoned to explain to the assistant secretary what he was doing riding in an embassy Land-Rover outside the government zone, in an area specifically forbidden to foreign diplomats; he had exceeded instructions. And the fact that he had been almost killed;
that
was an embarrassment. No use explaining that he was traveling with a letter of safe conduct, the letter festooned with seals and signed by the colonel in charge of the district. The men who suddenly appeared at the roadblock had not been told, or did not care, or did not read; probably all three. The driver had been killed right away, and it was due to the skill and nerve of his friend Kleust that they had survived—had, in fact,
won.
That was the truth, but the truth was too simple to be plausible. In any case, it was not a “mature” sequence of events. The assistant secretary prepared a memo for North's file, the salient sentence being “This officer displayed questionable judgment.” The assistant secretary was a humorless diplomat of the old school, his caution a legend on the seventh floor.

But in 1963 caution was not everywhere admired. When North was debriefed at Langley the DDCI had smiled warmly, shaken his hand, and said, “Well done!” In the roundabout way such exchanges were made, the DDCI indicated there was a place for him at Langley should he ever become disenchanted with the Department or, smile, vice versa. North was flattered but declined the offer. He had a weekend of celebrity, and in due course received a note from the attorney general. The attorney general definitely admired daring and implied, without quite saying so, that the President had been informed. Everyone knew the President admired daring. Of course within a few months the President was dead. The attorney general went to the Senate and a few years after that he was dead, and there was a new crowd on the seventh floor; and the assistant secretary's memo was still in North's Department file, an official file five inches thick (though now perhaps on an acorn of microfilm, the Department being fully computerized and interfaced). Preserved in a vault underground, it would endure as long as the government itself, surviving plague or holocaust or scandal, as the paintings on the wall at Altamira outlasted the civilization that produced them. Dossiers were never destroyed; they were part of the permanent record, the institutional memory. “This officer displayed questionable judgment.” Read that: You fucked up, and we knew you fucked up. At Altamira there was a drawing of a bull escaping a lance. The lance was poorly thrown. A sixteen-thousand-year-old fuck-up; a fuck-up from the Ice Age.

The assistant secretary was now retired, though occasionally one saw him walking the halls, a consultant to the Secretariat, always in a hurry, impeccably tailored. He was an influential Old Boy, having retired with the rank of ambassador; everyone knew he had a photographic memory, and never forgot a friend.

“
Shit.
”

On the other hand, he had survived, too; a career minister now, soon to go to Bonn as chargé, running the place while a Sun Belt entrepreneur entertained industrialists and made speeches about the American Way—

“
SHIT!
”

He turned, irritated, his reverie broken. Kleust and Burkhalter, the Land-Rover, the dark green forest, the attorney general, and his own twenty-seven-year-old self feathered away into the darkness, out of reach. He was back in the present moment, in the moody fluorescence of a Washington facility, surly nurses and steel furniture. He looked at the clock: 2:30. He had gotten it all back in twenty-two minutes, his memory on fast forward. Well, not all; it would take another few minutes to get it all. The boy was moving his hand in front of his face, dispelling the disgusting odor. North shifted position to extinguish the cigarette, then changed his mind. The boy irritated him; he did not want company. He wished he were alone in a wooden bed, with the ashtray with the Cinzano logo, talking to the doctor who smelled sourly of wine. He had a hard time believing in the African hospital, in the same way that the missionary doctor had a hard time believing in Kirchner's Berlin; but that was where he wanted to be. And thinking about that, and about Africa, he shivered. He realized suddenly that he was slick with sweat, and trembling; his hands were trembling. He stared at the ceiling, composing himself. He was a fifty-year-old man, he told himself; and Africa was long in the past. Perhaps Elinor could find a Cinzano ashtray, and a poster of a violent African dusk. He said, “What did you say?”

“The smoke. It stinks.”

“Sorry. I thought you were asleep.” He put the cigarette out. He looked at the ashtray and saw three cigarette ends; he had been chain smoking.

“It woke me up.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You don't know what it's like.”

“No, I don't.” He closed his eyes.

“It's a son of a bitch,” the boy said. “And you were talking to yourself. I couldn't make out what it was,” the boy complained.

“Just as well,” North said.

“My neck itches.”

“Shall I call the nurse?”

“No.”

The boy fell silent and North turned over, fluffing the pillow. The cotton was cool on its underside. Elinor had brought the good linen. He closed his eyes, listening for sounds in the corridor. He was half in, half out, of Africa. That Kleust, what a Fritzie piece of work. They had been friends for more than twenty years, following each other around the world, one posting to another, always of equivalent rank, usually embassies in the Third World, until Kleust got a Class A embassy five years ago. Kleust was more popular in his Foreign Ministry than North was in his. North had sent him a congratulatory cable in German, Goethe's quotation. Kleust had been in Ottawa, and now was back in Bonn, a director at the Foreign Ministry. He had been hoping for Washington, perhaps as minister. Bonn was hypnotized by Washington, the American connection so fraught, Bonn always nervously deferential, worried that in its frenzied obsession with the Evil Empire the U.S.A. would forget the ally on the Evil Empire's western doorstep, the first cat to be kicked. And the neurotics who conducted the nation's business in Washington! Playboys, megalomaniacs, felons, Baptist preachers, film stars. To be a minister in such a capital! And Kleust loved the embasssy building on MacArthur Boulevard, a great hulk of glass and hardwood; its Wagnerian superstructure bore a resemblance to the Gneisenau.

“I really hate it here,” the boy said.

So he wanted to talk. Bye-bye, Kurt. North said, “They said you're lucky to be alive, and that you'll be all right, good as new. No spinal damage, and your head's all right.” One of the pleasures of the Foreign Service was staying in touch with friends, and he and Kurt could have quite a run in Bonn, until the administration selected a Sun Belt banker or entertainment lawyer to show the flag. North's was an interim appointment, and when the new man arrived he would drop a rank. It did not make a great difference, though; he would run the embassy, more than likely. As Kurt would run the Foreign Ministry.

He said, “No, it isn't.”

North came back again. “What happened on the motorcycle?”

“Gravel. I spun out.”

“Christ,” North said, turning away. He had given Bill Jr. a trail bike when he was fifteen and on the second day he owned it he had run into a ravine and broken two fingers, and given himself a concussion. Elinor was furious and refused to speak to him for a week. Had refused, in fact, to speak to both of them.

“My girlfriend was killed.”

“Christ, I'm sorry.”

“She was a savage all right.” The boy didn't say anything more for a moment. North closed his eyes again. He said, “I took the curve too fast. I'd never been on that road before. She was holding on. It didn't seem fast at the time, but it was.”

“I'm very sorry,” North said. He was listening now.

“Thank you,” the boy said, “But it's all shit. Shit as far as the eye can see.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he said. “I'm not even from here. I'm from Worcester, Mass. I don't know what the hell I'm doing here anyway. It was her idea, she wanted to go to the concert. So we climbed on the bike and rode down here, ten hours.”

He slipped away again, thinking about Kleust. He hadn't heard from Kleust for a while.

“I'd rather be home, to tell you the truth.”

“Worcester's a nice town,” he lied.

“You're from Mass,” the boy said. “I'd guess Boston. I can tell by the accent, though there's a lot around that accent. Like, it's a band with too much acoustic guitar. The bass line gets lost and you don't know where you are, jazz or R and B or rock or what. It's true what they say about people who can't see, their hearing improves. I've got dynamite hearing. You must've lived a lot of places, though Boston's still there somewhere.”

North smiled, “Back Bay.”

“I figured,” the boy said. “All you guys sound alike.”

“I haven't lived there for over twenty-five years.”

“Your wife has a nice voice, quiet.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But she's not from Mass.”

“No, Chicago. From around Chicago.”

“No kidding,” he said. “My sister lives in Chicago. But she still talks like Mass.”

“You never lose it completely,” North said.

“You got any kids?”

“One,” he said.

“He hasn't been around,” the boy said.

“He's out of the country,” North said. He fingered a cigarette out of the package on the night table, then put it down. “He's a—student.”

“What's he studying?”

North thought a moment, then said, “Law. He's studying law.”

The boy grunted. “My dad's a lawyer.” He didn't say anything for a moment; the atmosphere was suddenly charged. “They all talk the same. They all talk as if there's some secret room somewhere and they're the only ones who have a key, and you've got to pay them to get it. Then they talk at you, talk talk talk. And then they let you watch while they open the door and say some mumbo-jumbo.”

North laughed.

“And it only costs a hundred dollars an hour.”

Maybe in Worcester, North thought.

“If you're lucky,” the boy said.

“Go back to sleep,” North said.

“I'm wide awake now.”

“You need your sleep.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“We can talk tomorrow.”

“What's wrong with now? You woke me up.”

“Well, I'm tired.”

“They're all shit,” the boy said.

North said nothing.

“So your kid's going to be a lawyer.”

“That's what he says,” North said. That's what happened when you told an innocent lie, a story meant less to deceive then to deflect. You got Watergate. It made him uncomfortable, and he wished now that he'd said he wasn't sure, which, while not precisely truthful, was not a complete lie, either.

“They're great, the lawyers. They're terrific with people, their relatives especially. They've got a real human touch. That's why my old man hasn't come down to see me, or telephoned either. Probably afraid I'd die of a heart attack if I heard his voice.”

North said nothing to that.

“His secretary checks with the doctor every morning, though.”

“Well,” North said.

“But maybe your kid'll be different. Maybe he's a great guy and'll make a great lawyer.”

“I'm not counting on it.” North said.

“Maybe it'll be cool,” the boy said.

“Maybe,” North said.

“I suppose he's telephoned.”

“No,” North said.

“Well, he's in the great tradition, then.”

“Look,” North said, then paused.

“Sorry,” the boy said, “I didn't mean to piss you off.”

“He's not studying to be a lawyer. He's in Europe, that's all.”

“Sounds like fun,” the boy said.

North closed his eyes, feeling drowsy. He knew that sleep was near. “I suppose so,” he said.

“I've never been to Europe.”

“Well, you're young.”

“You're sure he isn't a lawyer?”

“I'm sure,” North said.

“He sure sounds like one,” the boy said.

T
HEY WERE PUNCTUAL
, Hartnett and Carruthers, arriving within minutes of each other, cool and tidy from their air-conditioned cars. And they were cordial, shaking hands and talking about Sunday's game. Carruthers and Hartnett were great football fans; it was only the exhibition season and they were already full of opinions. North introduced them to Richard, Hartnett his personal lawyer, Carruthers a lawyer for the Department of State; Richard nodded his head but did not speak. He was certain to be smiling, though. The most desirable of all of Washington's locked rooms was RFK Stadium on a Sunday, and the mumbo-jumbo was superb.

North put on a white terry-cloth robe and slippers and they walked down the hall to the solarium. Two women were leaving as they walked in, and he made way to let them pass; they moved painfully, shuffling, and did not return his smile. There were three empty chairs in the corner and a small table with a child's checkerboard. Carruthers put the checkerboard to one side and took out a sheaf of papers and began sorting, wetting his thumb to separate the sheets. North and Hartnett said nothing, waiting for Carruthers to begin. It was his meeting, arranged at his request. The call had come that morning, a bit too casual it seemed to North. He had known Carruthers for years, and heard something odd in his tone. Carruthers concluded the conversation by suggesting that Dick Hartnett might join them. Carruthers knew that Hartnett was North's lawyer and, as it happened, an occasional consultant to the Department of State. This will save time, Carruthers had said.