The Run Around

Chapter Twenty-seven

Permanent State Department officials had, of course, organized the President’s European trip, advance groups liaising with the host countries in each capital months before, but the planning had personally been that of James Bell himself. It was the Secretary of State who had either approved or vetoed every one of Anderson’s public appearances and selected the people whom the man would meet, both publicly and privately. In addition he had insisted upon seeing the drafts and then the finally prepared speeches that Anderson would make at each event and function, determined nothing would be out of place for what he recognized to be the triumphant swan-song of his friend’s presidency. Berlin was as successful as Bell intended the entire trip to be. It began with an impressive arrival ceremony, where Anderson was greeted at Tegel airport by the West German president. Together they inspected a guard of honour to the accompaniment of a full band before the President gave the podium speech at which the theme was struck for every address the man was to make: Clayton Anderson, the man dedicated to peace. In the evening the Chancellor gave a glittering banquet to which Martha Bell wore a shimmering silk gown and once more outshone Janet Anderson, whose husband gave his second speech in which he spelled out more directly that the thrust of his two terms of office had been to mediate and solve intractible international problems and remove forever the threat of war which had divided his host country. In the morning – for internal US consumption – there was the required visit to an American army base to see and talk with troops forming part of the NATO commitment, which once more provided a forum for another speech, Anderson looking forward to the time when tensions between East and West had been swept away to make such a commitment and such an Allied force unnecessary. And an even more required visit to the Berlin Wall. It was the best television and photographic opportunity during this stage of the European trip and Bell had devoted great care to it, even arranging for an elevated platform to be constructed for the cameramen and photographers alongside the observation tower which Anderson mounted to stare grave-faced across the wire and the mines and the automatically triggered machine-guns into a gaunt East Berlin. Here – brilliantly – there was no speech. Anderson was pictured slowly and sadly shaking his head and he shook his head again to shouted questions from journalists demanding his impression, only allowing himself to be pressured at the moment of entering his car to say that the Wall was a testimony that required no words. There were provisions, of course, for private talks between Anderson and the Chancellor and the preceding briefing session was the first opportunity since the conversation aboard Air Force One for the President and the Secretary of State to talk privately and alone.

‘You know what I regret, Jim?’ mused Anderson.

‘What?’

‘That Kennedy got in first with his I am a Berliner speech: that would have gone down well today.’

‘Circumstances have changed, Mr President.’

‘Still a hell of a speech,’ insisted Anderson. ‘Anything new out of Geneva?’

‘Nothing.’

‘False alarm then?’

‘It’s looking more and more like it.’

‘You’ve got a lot of private reassuring to do in Geneva,’ reminded Anderson. ‘I had to lean on Jerusalem more than anyone else to get them to the same conference table as the Palestinians and I don’t want any backlash to pull the Jewish vote at home away from the party.’

‘I understand,’ said Bell.

‘I want you to fix up as many meetings as you can with the Israeli Foreign Minister and anyone else you consider necessary,’ said Anderson. ‘You tell Cohen and anyone else who needs to be told that however it might look publicly that privately we’re still in their corner: always have been and always will be.’

‘I’ll do that,’ promised Bell.

‘You think it would be risky to give an unattributable briefing about that to the important media people?’

‘Yes,’ said Bell, at once. ‘If it were datelined out of Geneva it would be instantly picked up by the Arabs. And I’m not thinking primarily of the Palestinians: I’m thinking of the Syrians and the Jordanians. Don’t forget their Foreign Ministers are going to be there, too.’

‘I’m not forgetting either that there are more Jews in New York State than in the State of Israel and that the Jewish vote – and the Jewish lobby – is goddamned important,’ said Anderson.

‘An accusation of secret deals and secret protocols could wreck the conference,’ said Bell, adamantly. ‘Cause a walk-out.’

The President retreated, at once. ‘OK. But you make sure the Israelis know the score. And make sure, too, if you can, that the right word gets relayed back home – America I mean, not Israel.’

‘There won’t be any misunderstandings or ill feeling,’ assured the Secretary of State.

‘Are there any outstanding requests from Jerusalem?’

‘There are some aid packages, in total something around half a billion,’ remembered Bell. ‘And there are the continuing arms supply agreements: a whole bunch of stuff, missiles, aircraft, things like that.’

‘Nothing is for nothing,’ said Anderson, decisively. ‘You let them know I am grateful for the concessions they’ve made and that they can have what they want; that they’ve my word on it.’

‘The arms supply might be awkward.’

‘How so?’

‘The keynote is peace, right?’ reminded Bell. ‘We’ve got Israeli and Arab at last around a conference table and we’re going to provide the Palestinians with a homeland. Doesn’t it look contradictory to take away the reason for fighting with one hand and maintain Israel’s war machine with the other?’

Anderson sat with his head reflectively forward on his chest, momentarily silent. Then he said: ‘One or two commentators could work up quite a head of steam with that scenario, couldn’t they?’

‘I think it’s a positive danger.’

Anderson beamed a smile across his hotel suite and said: ‘I think making you Secretary of State was the best appointment I managed in seven long years of office.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bell.

‘I tell you what to do,’ decided Anderson. ‘Play the arms supply real close: don’t say they can’t have them and don’t say they can, either. Just leave the impression that existing contracts and arrangements will go on uninterrupted. It’s something that can be negotiated when the other agreements are hard and fast and can’t be reneged on.’

‘I think that would be best,’ said Bell.

‘Janet tells me you and Martha are taking a vacation, after Venice?’

‘Just a short one,’ confirmed Bell. ‘Paris and then London: maybe ten days.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ announced Anderson. ‘Why don’t we try something private in Venice? With the existing schedule it won’t be easy, I know, but something. Breakfast maybe?’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘Still wish to hell I was coming to Geneva.’

‘There’d be nothing wrong with a different sort of unattributable background briefing, setting out how Geneva was conceived and became a reality,’ suggested Bell.

Anderson smiled once more. ‘I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, getting you on board was the best goddamned decision I ever made. You have a good time in Geneva, you hear. And tell Martha what we’re going to do in Venice.’

Bell did, as the State Department plane lifted off for the flight to Switzerland.

‘What shall I wear?’ she demanded, at once.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe I’ll buy something in Geneva: they’ll have couturière houses there, won’t they?’

‘I would imagine so,’ said Bell.

Martha gazed momentarily out of the window, clearly able to see the Wall. Then she turned back into the aircraft and said: ‘Do you think Anderson really appreciates all that you’ve done for him?’

‘I know he does,’ said the Secretary of State.

The American plane was the last scheduled to land at Geneva’s Cointrin airport that day of those bringing the leaders of every delegation to the Middle East conference. The Syrian delegation were the first to arrive, from Damascus, followed by the Jordanian group, from Amman. The Palestinians, personally led by Yasser Arafat, who predictably wore his combat tiger suit, flew in on a Libyan aircraft from Tripoli. All had cleared the airport before the Israeli plane landed, from Tel Aviv.

There was continuous television coverage throughout the day, but Charlie Muffin ignored it, staring instead at the stacked files provided by David Levy.

‘Jesus!’ he said aloud, daunted by the self-imposed task. Then he remembered the source of the dossiers and realized he was calling upon the wrong deity.

Giles had left early, while Barbara was still in bed, and she remained there, remembering how she had thought of bed when she was a little girl, as a nest in which she could huddle and be safe from any danger or difficulty. Last night had been difficult, although not as she’d thought it might be. She actually believed Roger had been relieved when she’d said she did not want immediately to make love, as nervous about it as she had been. Which he need not have been because she knew he could have made love: she’d felt his arousal almost as soon as he’d put his arms around her and finally kissed her. She wished, almost, that he’d tried. She certainly wouldn’t have protested or made to stop him because when they had been close together in the bed she’d wanted to as well but had not been able to tell him.

When she finally got up Barbara wandered, still in her nightdress, into the living room. The room service trolley had been collected the previous night but the single rose had been left in its slim vase on a side table. Already it was wilting. Barbara took it from the container and carried it with her to the window, standing with the flower between both hands and cupped just beneath her chin. Pale winter sunight was silvering the lake, broken in several places by bustling, self-important ferries. Maybe, she thought, she’d take a pleasure trip while Roger had to work. But not today: today she had other more important things to do, like organizing their vacation.

She went towards the bathroom still carrying the rose, deciding always to keep it, as the important souvenir it was: she’d press it, like her mother had pressed flowers as mementoes of special occasions. Use it maybe as a frontispiece for the album of photographs of the trip they’d make up. But then again, maybe not. Maybe she’d keep the rose separate, as a private reminder to herself.

She showered and dressed and from the suite telephoned the Hertz and Avis and Budget car rental agencies to get comparable quotes, before going downstairs to the coffee shop for breakfast. After she’d eaten she got the addresses of the six best travel agencies from the concierge and patiently toured all of them, collecting brochures and catalogues. From the last she obtained the location of the tourist offices for Germany and Italy and France and went to each of those, as well, to pick up official guide books and maps. She lunched contentedly alone in a café near the Promenade du Lac, flicking through some of the brochures and trying to devise an itinerary. She liked the idea of driving south into Italy and then along the coast into France. From there they could either drive right up to Paris and fly directly home or detour earlier into Germany.

Barbara returned to the hotel by mid-afternoon and for an hour wrote out different suggestions and routes, each of which she neatly annotated alongside the appropriate page so that it would be easily found when she discussed it later with Roger.

She actually felt quite tired when she finished, stretching up and going again to the window with its view of the lake. Everything was so beautiful, so wonderful: she decided she’d been right in thinking what she had at Dulles airport. She had never been so happy, not even on her wedding day. Somehow getting back together seemed better than getting married.