Edge of Eternity (112 page)

Tanya was intrigued. She recalled the last conversation they had had before she went to Warsaw. He had claimed to have changed, and grown up. She had felt he needed to show that, not just say it. She had been sure it was just another line of chat intended to get her into bed. Could she have been wrong? She doubted it.

After they had eaten, she asked him how he felt about those royalties piling up in London.

“You should have the money,” he said.

“Don't be silly. You wrote the books.”

“I had little to lose—I was already in Siberia. They couldn't do much more to me, except kill me, and I would have been relieved to die. But you risked everything—your career, your freedom, your life. You deserve the money more than I do.”

“Well, I wouldn't take it, even if you could give it to me.”

“Then it will stay there until I die, probably.”

“You wouldn't be tempted to escape to the West?”

“No.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am sure.”

“Why? You'd be free to write whatever you like, all the time. No more radio serials.”

“I wouldn't go . . . unless you went, too.”

“You don't mean that.”

He shrugged. “I don't expect you to believe me. Why should you? But you're the most important person in my life. You came to Siberia to find me—no one else did. You tried to get me released. You smuggled my work out to the free world. For twenty years, you've been the best friend a person could have.”

She was moved. She had never looked at it that way. “Thank you for saying that,” she said.

“It's no more than the truth. I'm not leaving.” Then he added: “Unless, of course, you go with me.”

She stared at him. Was he making a serious suggestion? She was frightened to ask. She looked out of the window at the snowflakes whirling in the lamplight.

Vasili said: “Twenty years, and we've never even kissed.”

“True.”

“Yet still you think I'm a heartless Casanova.”

In truth she no longer knew what to think. Had he changed? Did people ever really change? She said: “After all this time, it would be a shame to spoil our record.”

“And yet I want to, with all my heart.”

She changed the subject. “Given the chance, would you defect to the West?”

“With you, yes. Not otherwise.”

“I always wanted to make the Soviet Union a better place, not leave it. But after the defeat of Solidarity I find it difficult to believe in a better future. Communism could last a thousand years.”

“It could last longer than me or you, at least.”

Tanya hesitated on the brink. She was surprised by how much she wanted to kiss him. And more: she wanted to stay here, talking to him, on this couch in this warm apartment with those snowflakes falling outside the window, for a long, long time. What a strange feeling that was, she thought. Perhaps it was love.

So she kissed him.

After a while, they went into the bedroom.

•   •   •

Natalya was always first with the news. She came to Dimka's office in the Kremlin on Christmas Eve looking anxious. “Andropov is not going
to be at the Politburo meeting,” she said. “He's too ill to leave the hospital.”

The next Politburo meeting was scheduled for the day after Christmas.

“Damn,” said Dimka. “That's dangerous.”

Strangely, Yuri Andropov had turned out to be a good Soviet leader. For the previous fifteen years he had been the efficient head of a cruel and brutal secret service, the KGB. And now, as general secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, he continued to repress dissidents ruthlessly. But within the party he was astonishingly tolerant of new ideas and reforms. Like a medieval Pope who tortured heretics yet discussed with his cardinals arguments against the existence of God, Andropov talked freely to his inner circle—which included both Dimka and Natalya—about the shortcomings of the Soviet system. And the talk led to action. Gorbachev's brief was extended from agriculture to the entire economy, and he produced a program to decentralize the Soviet economy, taking some of the power of decision away from Moscow and giving it to managers closer to the problems.

Unfortunately Andropov fell ill shortly before Christmas 1983, having been leader for barely a year. This worried Dimka and Natalya. Andropov's stick-in-the-mud rival for the leadership had been Konstantin Chernenko, who was still number two in the hierarchy. Dimka feared that Chernenko would take advantage of Andropov's illness to regain the ascendancy.

Now Natalya said: “Andropov has written a speech to be read out.”

Dimka shook his head. “That's not enough. In Andropov's absence, Chernenko will chair the meeting, and once that happens everyone will accept him as leader-in-waiting. And then the whole country will go backward.” The prospect was too depressing to contemplate.

“Obviously we want Gorbachev to chair the meeting.”

“But Chernenko is number two. I wish he'd go to hospital.”

“He will soon—he's not a well man.”

“But probably not soon enough. Is there any way we can bypass him?”

Natalya considered. “Well, the Politburo must do what Andropov tells it to do.”

“So he could just issue an order saying Gorbachev will chair the meeting?”

“Yes, he could. He's still the boss.”

“He could add a paragraph to his speech.”

“Perfect. I'll call him and suggest it.”

Later that afternoon Dimka got a message summoning him to Natalya's office. When he got there he saw that her eyes were gleaming with excitement and triumph. With her was Arkady Volsky, Andropov's personal aide. Andropov had summoned Volsky to the hospital and had given him a handwritten addendum to the speech. Volsky now gave it to Dimka.

The last paragraph read:

For reasons which you understand, I will not be able to chair meetings of the Politburo and Secretariat in the near future. I would therefore request members of the central committee to examine the question of entrusting the leadership of the Politburo and secretariat to Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.

It was expressed as a suggestion, but in the Kremlin a suggestion from the leader was the same thing as a direct order.

“This is dynamite,” said Dimka. “They can't possibly disobey.”

“What should I do with it?” said Volsky.

Dimka said: “First, make several photocopies, so that there's no point in anyone tearing it up. Then . . .” Dimka hesitated.

Natalya said: “Don't tell anyone. Just give it to Bogolyubov.” Klavdii Bogolyubov was in charge of preparing the papers for Politburo meetings. “Be low-key. Just tell him to add the extra material to the red folder containing Andropov's speech.”

They agreed that was the best plan.

Christmas Day was not a big festival. The Communists disliked its religious nature. They changed Santa Claus to Father Frost and the Virgin Mary to the Snow Maiden, and moved the celebration to New Year. That was when the children would get their gifts. Grisha, who was now twenty, was getting a cassette player, and Katya, fourteen, a new dress. Dimka and Natalya, as senior Communist politicians, did not
dream of celebrating Christmas, regardless of their personal beliefs. Both went to work as usual.

The day after, Dimka went to the Presidium Room for the Politburo meeting. He was met at the door by Natalya, who had got there earlier. She looked distraught. She was holding open the red folder containing Andropov's speech. “They left it out!” she said. “They left out the last paragraph!”

Dimka sat down heavily. “I never imagined Chernenko would have the guts,” he said.

There was nothing they could do, he realized. Andropov was in hospital. If he had stormed into the room and yelled at everyone, his authority would have been reasserted; but he could not. Chernenko had correctly estimated Andropov's weakness.

“They've won, haven't they?” said Natalya.

“Yes,” said Dimka. “The Age of Stagnation begins again.”

G
eorge Jakes went to the opening of an exhibition of African American art in downtown Washington. He was not very interested in art, but a black congressman had to support such things. Most of his work as a congressman was more important.

President Reagan had enormously increased government spending on the military, but who was going to pay? Not the wealthy, who had received big a tax cut.

There was a joke that George often repeated. A reporter asked Reagan how he was going to reduce tax and increase spending at the same time. “I'm going to keep two sets of books,” was the answer.

In reality Reagan's plan was to cut Social Security and Medicare. If he had his way, unemployed men and welfare mothers would lose out to finance the boom in the defense industry. The idea made George mad with rage. However, George and others in Congress were struggling to prevent this, and so far they had succeeded.

The upshot was a rise in government borrowing. Reagan had increased the deficit. All those shiny new weapons for the Pentagon would be paid for by future generations.

George took a glass of white wine from a tray held by a waiter and looked around the exhibits, then spoke briefly to a reporter. He did not have much time. Verena needed to go out tonight, to a Georgetown political dinner, so he would be in charge of their son, Jack, who was now four. They had a nanny—they had to, for they both had demanding jobs—but one of them was always on duty as backup in case the nanny should fail to show up.

He set his glass down untasted. Free wine was never worth drinking. He put on his coat and left. A cold rain had started, and he held the exhibition catalogue over his head as he hurried to his car. His elegant old Mercedes was long gone: a politician had to drive an American vehicle. He now had a silver Lincoln Town Car.

He got in, switched on the windshield wipers, and set off for Prince George's County. He crossed the South Capitol Street Bridge and took Suitland Parkway east. He cursed when he saw how heavy the traffic was: he was going to be late.

When he got home, Verena's red Jaguar stood in the driveway, nose out, ready to go. The car had been a present from her father on her fortieth birthday. George parked next to it and walked into the house, carrying a briefcase full of papers, his evening's work.

Verena was in the hallway, looking spectacularly glamorous in a black cocktail dress and patent high-heeled pumps. She was as mad as a polecat. “You're late!” she yelled.

“I'm really sorry,” George said. “The traffic on Suitland Parkway is crazy today.”

“This dinner party is really important to me—three members of Reagan's cabinet will be there, and I'm going to be late!”

George understood her irritation. For a lobbyist, the chance to meet powerful people socially was priceless. “I'm here now,” he said.

“I am not the maid! When we make an arrangement you have to keep it!”

This tirade was not unusual. She often got angry and screamed at him. He always tried to take it calmly. “Is Nanny Tiffany here?”

“No, she's not, she went home sick, that's why I had to wait for you.”

“Where's Jack?”

“Watching TV in the den.”

“Okay, I'll go and sit with him now. You go on out.”

She made a furious noise and stalked off.

He kind of envied whoever was going to sit next to her at dinner. She was still the sexiest woman he had ever met. However, he now knew that being her long-distance lover, as he had for many years, was better than being her husband. In the old days they had had sex more times in a weekend than they did now in a month. Since they got married their
frequent and furious rows, usually about child care, had eroded their affection for one another like a slow drip of strong vitriol. They lived together, they took care of their son, and they pursued their careers. Did they love one another? George no longer knew.

He went into the den. Jack was on the couch in front of the TV. The boy was George's great consolation. He sat next to him and put his arm around his small shoulders. Jack snuggled up.

The show featured a group of high school pupils involved in some kind of adventure. “What are you watching?” George asked.

“
Whiz Kids.
It's great.”

“What's it about?”

“They catch crooks with their computers.”

One of the child geniuses was black, George noticed, and he thought: How the world turns.

•   •   •

“We're really lucky to be invited to this dinner,” said Cam Dewar to his wife, Lidka, as their cab pulled up outside a grand mansion on R Street near the Georgetown Library. “I want us both to make a good impression.”

Lidka was scornful. “You are an important person in the secret police,” she said. “I think
they
need to impress
you.
”

Lidka did not understand how America worked. “The CIA is not the secret police,” Cam said. “And I'm not a very important person by the standards of these people.”

Cam was not exactly a nobody, all the same. Because of his past experience in the White House, he was now the CIA's liaison man with the Reagan administration. He was thrilled to have the job.

He had got over his disappointment with Reagan's failure in Poland. He put that down to inexperience. Reagan had been president for less than a year when Solidarity was crushed.

In the back of Cam's mind, a devil's advocate said that a president ought to be smart enough and knowledgeable enough to make confident decisions from the moment he takes office. He recalled Nixon saying: “Reagan is a nice guy, but he doesn't know what the Christ is going on in foreign policy.”

But Reagan's heart was in the right place, that was the main thing. He was passionately anti-Communist.

Lidka said: “And your grandfather was a senator!”

That did not count for much either. Gus Dewar was in his nineties. After Grandmama died he had moved from Buffalo to San Francisco to be near Woody, Beep, and his great-grandson, John Lee. He was long retired from politics. Besides, he was a Democrat, and by Reaganite standards an extreme liberal.

Cam and Lidka walked up a short flight of steps to a red-brick house that looked like a small French château, with dormer windows in the slate roof and a white stone entrance topped by a small Greek pediment. This was the home of Frank and Marybell Lindeman, heavyweight donors to Reagan's campaign funds and multimillion-dollar beneficiaries of his tax cut. Marybell was one of half a dozen women who dominated Washington social life. She entertained the men who ran America. That was why Cam felt lucky to be here.

Although the Lindemans were Republicans, Marybell's dinners were cross-party affairs, and Cam was expecting to see senior men from both sides here tonight.

A butler took their coats. Looking around the grand hall, Lidka said: “Why do they have these terrible paintings?”

“It's called Western art,” Cam said. “That's a Remington—very valuable.”

“If I had all that money, I wouldn't buy pictures of cowboys and Indians.”

“They're making a point. The impressionists were not necessarily the best painters ever. American artists are just as good.”

“No, they're not—everyone knows that.”

“Matter of opinion.”

Lidka shrugged: another mystery of American life.

The butler showed them into a wide drawing room. It looked like an eighteenth-century salon, with a Chinese dragon carpet and a scatter of spindly chairs upholstered in yellow silk. Cam realized they were the first guests to arrive. A moment later, Marybell appeared through another door. She was a statuesque woman with a mass of red hair that might or might not have been its natural color. She was wearing a
necklace of what looked, to Cam, like unusually large diamonds. “How kind of you to come early!” she said.

Cam knew this was a reproof, but Lidka was oblivious. “I couldn't wait to see your wonderful house,” she gushed.

“And how do you like living in America?” Marybell asked her. “Tell me, what is the best thing about this country, in your opinion?”

Lidka thought for a moment. “You have all these black people,” she said.

Cam suppressed a groan. What the hell was she saying?

Marybell was surprised into silence.

Lidka waved a hand to indicate the waiter holding a tray of champagne flutes, the maid bringing canapés, and the butler, all of whom were African American. “They do everything, like opening doors and serving drinks and sweeping the floor. In Poland we have no one to do that work—everyone has to do it themselves!”

Marybell looked a little frantic. Such talk was incorrect even in Reagan's Washington. Then she looked over Lidka's shoulder and saw another guest hovering. “Karim, darling!” she screeched. She embraced a handsome dark-skinned man in an immaculate pin-striped suit. “Meet Cam Dewar and his wife, Lidka. This is Karim Abdullah, from the Saudi embassy.”

Karim shook hands. “I've heard of you, Cam,” he said. “I work closely with some of your colleagues in Langley.”

Karim was letting Cam know he was in Saudi intelligence.

Karim turned to Lidka. She was looking startled. Cam knew why. She had not expected to see someone as dark as Karim at Marybell's party.

However, Karim charmed her. “I have been told that Polish women are the most beautiful in the world,” he said. “But I didn't believe it—until this moment.” He kissed her hand.

Lidka could take any amount of that sort of bullshit.

“I heard what you were saying about black people,” Karim said. “I agree with you. We have none in Saudi Arabia—so we have to import them from India!”

Cam could see that Lidka was bewildered by the fine distinctions of Karim's racism. To him, Indians were black but Arabs were not. Fortunately, Lidka knew when to shut up and listen to a man.

More guests came in. Karim lowered his voice. “However,” he said conspiratorially, “we must be careful what we say—some of the guests may be liberals.”

As if to illustrate his point, a tall, athletic-looking man with thick fair hair came in. He looked like a movie star. It was Jasper Murray.

Cam was not pleased. He had hated Jasper since they were teenagers. Then Jasper had become an investigative reporter and had helped to bring President Nixon down. His book about Nixon,
Tricky Dick,
had been a bestseller and a successful movie. He had been relatively quiet during the Carter administration, but had returned to the attack as soon as Reagan took over. He was now one of the most popular figures on television, up there with Peter Jennings and Barbara Walters. Only last night his show,
This Day,
had devoted half an hour to the American-backed military dictatorship in El Salvador. Murray had repeated claims by human rights groups that government death squads there had murdered thirty thousand people.

The network that broadcast
This Day
was owned by Frank Lindeman, Marybell's husband; so Jasper had probably felt unable to decline the invitation to dinner. The White House had put pressure on Frank to get rid of Jasper, but so far Frank had refused. Although he held a majority of shares, he had a board to answer to, and investors who could make trouble if he fired one of his biggest stars.

Marybell seemed to be anxiously waiting for something. Then one more guest arrived, rather late. She was a stunningly glamorous black woman lobbyist called Verena Marquand. Cam had not met her, but recognized her from photographs.

The butler announced dinner and they all moved through a double doorway to the dining room. The women made appreciative noises when they saw the long table decked with gleaming glassware and silver bowls of yellow hothouse roses. Cam saw that Lidka was wide-eyed. This outdid all the photographs in her home decorating magazines, he guessed. She had surely never seen or even imagined anything so lavish.

There were eighteen people around the table, but the conversation was immediately dominated by one person. She was Suzy Cannon, a vituperative gossip reporter. Half of what she wrote turned out to be untrue, but she had a jackal's nose for weakness. She was conservative,
but more interested in scandal than politics. Nothing was private to her. Cam prayed that Lidka would keep her mouth shut. Anything said tonight might appear in tomorrow's newspaper.

But Suzy turned her gimlet eyes on Cam, to his surprise. “I believe you and Jasper know each other,” she said.

“Not really,” said Cam. “We met in London many years ago.”

“But I hear that you both fell in love with the same girl.”

How the hell did she know that? “I was fifteen, Suzy,” Cam said. “I probably fell in love with half the girls in London.”

Suzy turned to Jasper. “How about you? Do you remember this rivalry?”

Jasper had been deep in conversation with Verena Marquand, sitting next to him. Now he looked irritated. “If you're planning to write an article about teenage romances that took place more than twenty years ago, and call it news, Suzy, all I can say is you must be sleeping with your editor.”

Everyone laughed: Suzy was in fact married to the news editor of her paper.

Cam noticed that Suzy's laugh was forced, and her eyes glared hatred at Jasper. He recalled that Suzy as a young journalist had been fired from
This Day
after a series of wildly inaccurate reports.

Now she said: “You must have been interested to watch Jasper's show on TV last night, Cam.”

Cam said: “Not interested so much as dismayed. The president and the CIA are trying to support the anti-Communist government in El Salvador.”

Suzy said: “And Jasper seems to be on the other side, doesn't he?”

Jasper said: “I'm on the side of truth, Suzy. I know this is hard for you to grasp.” Cam noticed that no trace of his British accent remained.

Cam said: “I was sorry to see such propaganda on a major network.”