Edge of Eternity (120 page)

She looked at her watch. It was half past nine. She was not expecting a visitor and she certainly was not dressed to receive one. However, it was probably a neighbor in the same building on some trivial errand, needing to borrow a carton of milk.

She did not merit a full-time bodyguard: she was not important enough to attract terrorists, thank God. All the same her door had a peephole so that she could check before opening up.

She was surprised to see Frederik Bíró outside.

She had mixed feelings. A surprise visit from her lover was a delight—but she looked a perfect fright. At the age of fifty-seven any woman wanted time to prepare before she showed herself to her man.

But she could hardly ask him to wait in the hall while she made up her face and changed her underwear.

She opened the door.

“My darling,” he said, and kissed her.

“I'm pleased to see you, but you've caught me unawares,” she said. “I'm a mess.”

He stepped inside and she closed the door. He held her at arm's
length and studied her. “Tousled hair, glasses, dressing gown, bare feet,” he said. “You look adorable.”

She laughed and led him into the kitchen. “Have you had dinner?” she said. “Shall I make you an omelette?”

“Just some coffee, please. I ate on the plane.”

“What are you doing in Hamburg?”

“My boss sent me.” Fred sat at the table. “Prime Minister Németh is coming to Germany next week to see Chancellor Kohl. He's going to ask Kohl a question. Like all politicians, he wants to know the answer before he asks it.”

“What question?”

“I need to explain.”

She put a cup of coffee in front of Fred. “Go ahead, I've got all night.”

“I'm hoping it won't take that long.” He ran a hand up her leg inside her robe. “I have other plans.” He reached her underwear. “Oh!” he said. “Roomy panties.”

She blushed. “I wasn't expecting you!”

He grinned. “I could get both hands inside there—both arms, maybe.”

She pushed his hands away and moved to the other side of the table. “Tomorrow I'm going to throw out all my old underwear.” She sat opposite him. “Stop embarrassing me and tell me why you're here.”

“Hungary is going to open its border with Austria.”

Rebecca did not think she had heard him right. “What are you talking about?”

“We're going to open our border. Let the fence fall into disrepair. Free our people to go where they want.”

“You can't be serious.”

“It's an economic decision as much as a political one. The fence is collapsing and we can't afford to rebuild it.”

Rebecca was beginning to understand. “But if the Hungarians can get out, so can everyone else. How will you stop Czechs, Yugoslavs, Poles . . .”

“We won't.”

“. . . and East Germans. Oh, my goodness, my family will be able to leave!”

“Yes.”

“It can't happen. The Soviets won't allow it.”

“Németh went to Moscow and told Gorbachev.”

“What did Gorbi say?”

“Nothing. He's not happy, but he won't intervene. He can't afford to renew the fence either.”

“But . . .”

“I was there, at the meeting in the Kremlin. Németh asked him straight out, would the Soviets invade as they did in 1956? His answer was
nyet.
”

“Do you believe him?”

“Yes.”

This was world-changing news. Rebecca had been working for this all her political life, but she could not believe it was really going to happen: her family, able to travel from East to West Germany! Freedom!

Then Fred said: “There is one possible snag.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Gorbachev promised no military intervention, but he did not rule out economic sanctions.”

Rebecca thought that was the least of their problems. “Hungary's economy will become west-facing, and it will grow.”

“That's what we want. But it will take time. People may face hardship. The Kremlin may hope to push us into an economic collapse before the economy has time to adjust. Then there could be a counterrevolution.”

He was right, Rebecca saw. This was a serious danger. “I knew it was too good to be true,” she said despondently.

“Don't despair. We have a solution. That's why I'm here.”

“What's your plan?”

“We need support from the richest country in Europe. If we can have a big line of credit from German banks, we can resist Soviet pressure. Next week, Németh will ask Kohl for a loan. I know you can't authorize such a thing on your own, but I was hoping you could give me a steer. What will Kohl say?”

“I can't imagine he'll say no, if the reward is open borders. Apart from the political gain, think what this could mean to the German economy.”

“We may need a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“Possibly a billion deutschmarks.”

“Don't worry,” Rebecca said. “You've got it.”

•   •   •

The Soviet economy was getting worse and worse, according to the CIA report in front of Congressman George Jakes. Gorbachev's reforms—decentralization, more consumer goods, fewer weapons—were not enough.

There was pressure on the East European satellites to follow the USSR by liberalizing their own economies, but any changes would be minor and gradual, the Agency forecast. If any country rejected Communism outright, then Gorbachev would send in the tanks.

That did not sound right to George, sitting in a meeting of the House intelligence oversight committee. Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia were running ahead of the USSR, moving toward free enterprise and democracy, and Gorbachev was doing nothing to hold them back.

But President Bush and Defense Secretary Cheney believed passionately in the Soviet menace, and as always the CIA was under pressure to tell the president what he wanted to hear.

The meeting left George feeling dissatisfied and anxious. He took the dinky Capitol subway train back to the Cannon House Office Building, where he had a suite of three crowded rooms. The lobby had a reception desk, a couch for waiting visitors, and a round table for meetings. To one side was the administration office, crammed with staff desks and bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the opposite side was George's own room, with a desk and a conference table and a picture of Bobby Kennedy.

He was intrigued to see, on his list of afternoon appointments, a clergyman from Anniston, Alabama, the Reverend Clarence Bowyer, who wanted to talk to him about civil rights.

George would never forget Anniston. It was the town where the Freedom Riders had been attacked by a mob and their bus firebombed. It was the only time someone had tried seriously to kill George.

He must have said yes to the man's request for a meeting, though he could not now remember why. He assumed that a preacher from Alabama who wanted to see him would be African American, and he was startled when his assistant ushered in a white man. The Reverend Bowyer was about George's age, dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and a dark tie, but wearing trainers, perhaps because he had to do a lot of walking in Washington. He had large front teeth and a receding chin, and salt-and-pepper hair that accentuated the resemblance to a red squirrel. There was something vaguely familiar about him. With him was a teenage boy who looked just like him.

“I try to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to soldiers and others working at the Anniston army depot,” Bowyer said, introducing himself. “Many of my congregation are African Americans.”

Bowyer was sincere, George thought; and he had a mixed-race church, which was unusual. “What's your interest in civil rights, Reverend?”

“Well, sir, I was a segregationist as a young man.”

“Many people were,” George said. “We've all learned a lot.”

“I've done more than learn,” said Bowyer. “I have spent decades in deep repentance.”

That seemed a little strong. Some of the people who asked for meetings with congressmen were more or less crazy. George's staff did their best to filter out the lunatics, but now and again one would slip through the net. However, Bowyer struck George as pretty sane. “Repentance,” George repeated, playing for time.

“Congressman Jakes,” said Bowyer solemnly, “I have come here to apologize to you.”

“What for, exactly?”

“In 1961 I hit you with a crowbar. I believe I broke your arm.”

In a flash George understood why the man looked familiar. He had been in the mob at Anniston. He had tried to hit Maria, but George had put his arm in the way. It still hurt in cold weather. George stared in astonishment at this earnest clergyman. “So that was you,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I don't have any excuses to offer. I knew what I was doing, and I did wrong. But I have never forgotten you. I just would like you to
know how sorry I am, and I wanted my son, Clam, to witness my confession of evildoing.”

George was nonplussed. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. “So you became a preacher,” he said.

“At first I became a drinker. Because of whisky, I lost my job and my home and my car. Then one Sunday the Lord led my footsteps to a little mission in a shack in a poor neighborhood. The preacher, who happened to be black, took as his text the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew's gospel, especially verse forty: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'”

George had heard more than one sermon on that verse. Its message was that a wrong done to anyone was a wrong done to Jesus. African Americans, who had more wrongs done to them than most citizens, gained strong consolation from that notion. The verse was even quoted on the Wales Window at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.

Bowyer said: “I went into that church to mock, and I came out saved.”

George said: “I'm glad to hear of your change of heart, Reverend.”

“I do not deserve your forgiveness, Congressman, but I hope for God's.” Bowyer stood up. “I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you.”

George stood too. He felt that he had not responded adequately to a man in the grip of powerful emotion. “Before you go,” he said, “let us shake hands.” He took Bowyer's hand in both of his. “If God can forgive you, Clarence, I guess I should too.”

Bowyer choked up. Tears came to his eyes as he shook George's hand.

On impulse, George embraced him. The man was shaking with sobs.

After a minute, George broke the hug and stepped back. Bowyer tried to speak but was unable to. Weeping, he turned and left the room.

His son shook George's hand. “Thank you, Congressman,” the boy said in a shaky voice. “I can't express how much your forgiveness means to my father. You are a great man, sir.” He followed Bowyer out of the room.

George sat back down, feeling dazed. Well, he thought, how about that?

•   •   •

He told Maria about it that evening.

Her reaction was unsympathetic. “I guess you're entitled to forgive them, it was your arm that got broken,” she said. “Me, I'm not big on mercy for segregationists. I'd like to see Reverend Bowyer serve a couple of years in jail, or maybe on a chain gang.
Then
perhaps I'd accept his apology. All those corrupt judges and brutal cops and bomb makers are still walking around free, you know. They've never been brought to justice for what they did. Some are probably drawing their damn pensions. And they want forgiveness, too? I'm not going to help them feel comfortable. If their guilt makes them miserable, I'm glad. It's the least they deserve.”

George smiled. Maria was getting feistier in her fifties. She was one of the most senior people in the State Department, respected by Republicans and Democrats alike. She carried herself with confidence and authority.

They were in her apartment, and she was making dinner, sea bass stuffed with herbs, while George laid the table. A delicate aroma filled the room, making George's mouth water. Maria topped up his glass of Lynmar Chardonnay, then put broccoli into a steamer. She was a little heavier than she had used to be, and she was trying to adopt George's lean cuisine tastes.

After dinner they took their coffee to the couch. Maria was in a mellow mood. “I want to be able to look back and say that the world was a safer place when I left the State Department than when I arrived,” she said. “I want my nephews and nieces, and my godson, Jack, to raise their children without the threat of a superpower holocaust hanging over them. Then I'll be able to say that my life was well spent.”

“I understand how you feel,” said George. “But it seems like a pipe dream. Is it possible?”

“Maybe. The Soviet bloc is nearer to collapse than at any time since the Second World War. Our ambassador to Moscow believes that the Brezhnev Doctrine is dead.”

The Brezhnev Doctrine said that the Soviet Union controlled Eastern Europe, just as the Monroe Doctrine gave the same rights to the USA in South America.

George nodded. “If Gorbachev no longer wants to boss the Communist empire, that's a huge geopolitical gain for the USA.”

“And we should be doing everything we can to help Gorbachev stay in power. But we're not, because President Bush believes the whole thing is a confidence trick by Gorbachev. So he's actually planning to
increase
our nuclear weapons in Europe.”

“Which is guaranteed to undermine Gorbachev and encourage the hawks in the Kremlin.”

“Exactly. Anyway, I have a bunch of Germans coming tomorrow to try and set him straight.”

“Good luck with that,” George said skeptically.

“Yeah.”

George finished his coffee but he did not want to go. He felt comfortable, full of good food and wine, and he always enjoyed talking to Maria. “You know something?” he said. “Aside from my son and my mother, I like you better than anyone else in the world.”