Reckless (16 page)

‘Ditto the Soviet Union,’ interjected Shipman. ‘Russia’s a wasteland.’

‘A wasteland,’ said Lovell, ‘with a hundred nuclear missiles in hand. And what do they do with them? They target the rich West. They demand aid for Russia, and refuse aid to the stricken US. Under threat of annihilation, the West rebuilds Russia. Within thirty years, the Soviet Union dominates the planet. The United States is history.’

‘And the UK?’ said John Grimsdale, smiling because he knew the answer.

‘Wiped out.’ Ted Lovell made a contemptuous gesture with one hand. ‘To the Soviets we’re just another American missile base. We’re the first to go.’

No one dissented. It was one of the curiosities of JIGSAW that they all took for granted their own nation’s impotence and irrelevance.

‘Not bad, Ted,’ said Edgar Anstey, the Home Office psychologist. ‘I think you may have come up with an original wrinkle.’

At this point the tea trolley came clinking into the conference room. A polite scuffle ensued over the chocolate Bourbons. Alan McDonald poured the tea. Ted Lovell looked pleased with himself.

‘What do you think, Rupert?’ he said.

Rupert spoke the least on the committee, but was known to have Mountbatten’s ear. It was also understood that Rupert had retained the ability to see the wood for the trees.

‘There’s only one part of your scenario that interests me,’ he said.

‘The partial retaliation trick?’

‘I’m interested in your assumption that any attack must be answered by a similar or greater attack. You say not to respond is to show weakness. If you’re right, the rest follows, and we’re all doomed. But I don’t believe you are right.’

‘You think the West can afford to appear weak?’

‘To whom?’ said Rupert. ‘Who is this display of power designed to impress? Khrushchev already knows how many bombs we’ve got.’

‘But does he know,’ said Grimsdale, ‘that we’ve got the balls to use them?’

‘Or that we’ve got the balls not to use them,’ said Rupert.

‘Come on, Rupert,’ said Shaw. ‘We’re all highly educated products of generations of soft living. Khrushchev is a peasant who’s clawed his way to the top. He’ll do whatever he has to do to win.’

‘But what does it mean to Khrushchev to win?’ said Rupert.

‘World domination,’ said Grimsdale.

‘Not that old chestnut!’ exclaimed Rupert.

Suddenly he remembered the young Russian officer in the Great Hall at Cliveden, earnestly telling him, ‘We want much the same as you.’ What was it he had itemised? Eating. Dancing. Talking late into the night.

‘No, you listen to me,’ Grimsdale was saying, nettled. ‘That’s not some right-wing crankery. The Soviet Union is explicitly committed to the global triumph of Communism.’

‘You know perfectly well—’

‘Don’t tell me what I know. Our enemy is a millenarian cult. Do you deny it?’

‘Of course I deny it! It’s utter nonsense!’

‘These are people who believe the ends justify the means,’ said Grimsdale, now pink in the face. ‘These are people who believe history is on their side.’

‘They’re just whistling in the dark,’ said Rupert, ‘to keep their spirits up.’

‘These are people,’ retorted Grimsdale, ‘who have not hesitated to sacrifice millions of lives in what they conceive to be their cause. It’s our absolute duty to assume they will not shrink from sacrificing us. To think anything else is irresponsible.’

‘Sacrificing us!’ said Rupert. ‘I know it excites you to play end-of-the-world games. But this is all a paranoid fantasy.’

‘Paranoid fantasy!’

Grimsdale started to splutter.

‘Can’t you see?’ Rupert pressed on. ‘Assume the worst and you make it happen! Jesus, why can’t you see that?’

In his mind’s eye he saw three young men on the terrace at Cliveden, the Russian, the American and himself, their hands clasped in shared hope. ‘No more wars.’

Where was that dream now?

He gave an awkward shrug. He was aware that he had allowed himself to become emotional.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand what it is you’re arguing for, Rupert,’ said Ted Lovell, speaking in reasonable tones. ‘Are you suggesting that if we showed weakness, it would somehow benefit us?’

‘I’m saying strategies based on worst fears can never make us secure.’

‘So what can?’

‘We have to change the terms of the debate. The threat facing us isn’t an attack by an enemy, but the outbreak of war itself. Our allies are as potentially dangerous to us as our opponents. If there’s a war, we all lose together. That’s never happened before in history. We simply can’t go on thinking in the old adversarial terms.’

‘So what exactly are we to think, Rupert?’ said Grimsdale.

‘I’m working on that.’

*

It was all very frustrating. He felt so close to seeing the answer, but it eluded him. He was convinced that the way forward lay in the manipulation of ideas, not stockpiles of weapons. In its way a nuclear bomb was only an idea. To be effective, the weapon required the intention to arm and use it.

Are you suggesting that if we showed weakness, it would somehow benefit us?

A fair question.

What if the answer is yes? How could a display of weakness deliver a benefit?

It could reduce fear.

He could hear the objection coming back loud and clear. Weakness invites aggression: the lesson of Munich. The dread of appeasement hangs over us all. But surely that lesson has been overlearned.

Imagine you’re the Soviet Union. What do you really want? You’ve recently endured the most devastating war in history, in which twenty million of your people perished. What you want is security. You want invulnerable borders. You want to know it can’t ever happen again.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and jotted down his thoughts in note order.

1. Each side has reason to fear the other.

2. In the pursuit of invulnerability, both sides increase their stockpile of weapons.

3. The more we arm, the more fear we create.

4. The pursuit of invulnerability thus renders both sides more vulnerable.

5. Therefore we must accept some level of vulnerability.

He stared at the page. How do you sell that to an electorate in a democracy? All it takes is some new demagogue whipping up the people’s fears, and you’re back in maximum-aggression mode.

Fear is a ghost. How do you fight a ghost?

With a spirit.

Rupert felt a prickling of his skin, the sensation that for him
was always the prelude to an intellectual breakthrough. Maybe there was a way to reframe the debate after all.

6. The Cold War can be understood as a spiritual conflict. Communism makes messianic claims. America is the self-proclaimed crusader, the defender of freedom.

7. In a spiritual conflict, there is a higher goal than victory on the field of battle.

8. The nuclear arms race threatens the destruction of the world.

9. Our higher goal is to save the world.

Rupert stared at the sheet of paper. Here was a way to combine national prestige with military restraint. There’s only one game that trumps fighting and winning a war. And that’s playing God.

Great power allied to infinite mercy. The Christian revolution.

*

Ronnie Brockman came in waving a sheet of paper.

‘Dickie’s memo,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘“Aim for the West”. He asked me to get you a copy.’

Rupert had entirely forgotten.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, typical Dickie stuff. Very big picture. Let’s all find something to believe in, and so on.’

Rupert took the paper and read its first sentence.

‘Was this circulated?’

‘Only to immediate staff.’

‘Was there any response?’

‘Not really. What can you say?’

Ronnie Brockman left him to his musings. He read further.

The memo then discussed four options: Religion, Western Democracy, Way of Life and Anti-Communism. It dismissed each in turn. The last line ran:

Walking briskly across the park on his way home, Rupert found himself looking out for the girl on the bench. There was no reason why she should be there. Just because she had chosen to sit in the park at this time of day on one occasion did not mean that it was her regular habit. Coming in view of the bridge, his first impression was that she was not there, because there were three people by the bench. They were nuns, dressed in black habits. Then as he came closer he saw that only two were nuns, both standing, and between them, seated on the bench as before, was the young woman in the grey coat and the headscarf.

It seemed the nuns were speaking sharply to her. She had her head down, her hands clasped.

Nearer now, Rupert could make out the voices.

‘Come along now, Mary. That’s enough of this foolishness. You know you can’t sit all day in the park.’

As he approached, the young woman looked up and saw him. In the same instant, she recognised him. Her frightened eyes transmitted to him a mute appeal.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she said to the nuns, speaking with a strong Irish accent. ‘Here’s my cousin Frankie come to meet me.’

Rupert came to a stop. Both nuns turned round to stare at him in surprise.

‘Your cousin Frankie?’

Rupert looked back in silence. He was suddenly aware that this was one of those moments on which lives turn.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s me.’

Then, to the young woman on the bench, ‘Hello, Mary. Sorry I’m late. I got held up at work.’

The young woman called Mary kept a perfectly straight face.

‘You promised you’d take me to Fortnum & Mason,’ she said.

‘And so I will,’ Rupert heard himself say. ‘We’ll have to hurry, or they’ll be closed.’

Mary jumped up from the bench. Rupert gave her his arm. The nuns stared.

‘You’ll not be late, Mary,’ said the older one. ‘Supper at seven.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said Mary, giving a half-bob of a curtsy. ‘Come along, Frankie.’

Off they went across the park towards the Mall. Rupert, trembling, amazed at himself, said nothing. The young woman called Mary had created this situation. He would let her explain.

They walked briskly. She turned once, to look back and satisfy herself that the nuns were out of earshot. Then she let go of Rupert’s arm.

‘Well!’ she said. ‘Aren’t you the knight in shining armour!’

‘How did you know I’d play along?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You have seen me before. Do you remember?’

‘Of course,’ she said. Then, ‘I suppose you think I’m a poor mad woman.’

‘Possibly,’ said Rupert. ‘I shall reserve judgement.’

‘They watch me like cats. I shouldn’t be surprised if they follow us to Fortnum’s.’

‘Oh, are we really going to Fortnum’s?’

‘Cousin Frankie!’ Her voice rose in mock surprise. ‘You promised!’

Crossing the Mall they looked back into the park once more.

‘They’re not following us,’ Rupert said.

He looked round and there she was, gazing up at him, half laughing, half desperate. She had the most perfect face he had ever seen. White skin, faintly freckled. Green-brown eyes. Pale lips. A tilted chin.

‘I can’t explain,’ she said. ‘So don’t ask.’

‘All right,’ said Rupert.

‘You were the best.’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do the Irish accent.’

‘There really is a cousin Frankie,’ she said, ‘but he’s got ginger hair and lives in Dublin.’

‘And he never promised to take you to Fortnum’s.’

‘No. That was me. Only I’ve no money.’

‘Then I’d better pay, hadn’t I?’

He spoke lightly, but his heart was hammering. The mystery, the secrecy, the childlike quality of her trust in him, the sweetness of her face, the charm of helping one who was so evidently in need of help, all combined to astonish and delight him.

‘Why do you want to go to Fortnum’s?’

‘To have a Knickerbocker Glory, of course,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t that why everyone goes there?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

So they made their way to the Jermyn Street entrance of the soda fountain at Fortnum & Mason, and sat side by side on high stools at the bar, and Rupert ordered her a Knickerbocker Glory. She didn’t remove her shapeless grey coat, or her headscarf.

‘Aren’t you going to have anything?’ she said.

‘I’ll have the pleasure of watching you,’ he said.

‘Is it horribly expensive?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

It arrived in a tall glass, all pink and white and creamy, with a straw and a long-handled spoon. Mary gazed at it in a kind of ecstasy.

‘You can’t imagine,’ she said.

She sucked on the straw and closed her eyes.

‘Heaven,’ she said.

He let her drink in silence. Then when she had finished, ‘You must feel ill now, surely?’

‘Only a little.’

She gave him a smile that was so filled with gratitude that he blushed and looked away. In her presence he felt old and undeserving.

‘So what’s your name?’ she said.

‘Rupert. Rupert Blundell.’

‘I’m Mary Brennan.’

She held out her hand and he shook it. Her hand was cold.

‘Are you training to be a nun?’ he said.

This was the furthest he had got in solving the puzzle she presented.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just live with them, at the convent in Queen Anne’s Gate. They’re very good to me. They give me a little room of my own, and all my meals.’

‘But you don’t like living with them?’

‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ she said simply.

‘Are you a fallen woman?’

‘A fallen woman? Oh!’ She blushed as she understood, then she laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘If I was a fallen woman I’d have some money, wouldn’t I? From the falling.’