Third World War (34 page)

'And why so?' persisted Lizzie, watching a smile spread over Meenakshi's face with a glacial slowness.

'A touch too arrogant, for a start.'

'I rather like him,' said Newman, laughing.

'Doesn't mean I have to.' She turned her smile into a captivating grin, then dropped it immediately and returned to the fire.

'But it doesn't stop you from fancying him,' teased Lizzie.

'Now that's different,' replied Meenakshi, who at first seemed to be focused entirely on the flames, then was struck by another thought altogether. 'Mary, how come Jamie Song doesn't have anyone with him?'

Newman shrugged. 'Jamie probably knows America better than he does China. I suspect he feels more relaxed when he's not being watched by one of his own staff.' She tore a sheet off the pad and handed it to Lizzie. 'What do you think? Casual and rough enough for our distinguished guests?'

Lizzie quickly read through, glanced in surprise at Newman who raised her eyebrows and nodded. Both women burst out laughing.

'Dad asked you to do this?' gasped Lizzie.

'He did. But I'm not too familiar with his tastes.'

Lizzie read out loud. 'Pumpkin soup; pan-fried veal in red wine sauce; boiled new potatoes with asparagus tips, and soft Camembert cheese souffle for dessert. Apart from the cheese souffle that sounds like Jim West through and through.'

'Should I change it?' asked Newman tapping her pen against her chin.

Lizzie shook her head and handed the list back to Newman. 'No way. He asked you. You deliver. Mum was always at him to widen his culinary tastes. But she never dared go against him.'

Silently, Newman folded the notepaper. As she was contemplating her forthcoming role as presidential hostess, the telephone rang. Reluctantly, she picked it up.

'Secretary of State,' she said.

'Mary, it's Pete. Can I drop by?'

'Sure,' said Newman with breezy sarcasm. 'This is what down-time is all about.'*

*****

Not until the cheese souffle had been finished, praised and cleared away, a coffee pot brought out with a cheeseboard, crackers, a bowl of fruit, and a trolley of liqueurs, brandy, vodka and whiskies offered around, did Jim West carefully turn the conversation by asking Vasant Mehta when Meenakshi would be out of her wheelchair.

It was an odd-looking dinner table, with West at one end and Newman at the other. The President had Caroline on his left and Andrei Kozlov on his right. Next to Kozlov was Stuart Nolan, then Peter Brock, with Toru Sato on Newman's left. Jamie Song faced Stuart Nolan across the middle of the table with Caroline on his right and Vasant Mehta on his left.

Chris Pierce had intended to be there, but was working on intelligence coming in on Patton's bioterror sweep. So there was an extra place on Song's side. When West spoke, therefore, it was right down the table to Mehta, a question thrown out in such a way that the side conversations between Brock and Sato and Song and Caroline tailed to a halt.

'Thankfully, she'll make a full recovery,' said Mehta. 'They managed to put a tourniquet on the artery, and get out most of the shrapnel.' He didn't mention that it was Campbell who had applied the tourniquet as his daughter's blood turned the back lawn from green to red.

Mehta said no more, and West looked silently down the table, straight past Newman and through the window beyond, chewing cheese and a cracker. He was throwing open the floor to whoever wanted to take it. This is why they were all there, and a daughter's injury was as good a starting point as any.

'Perhaps, Mr President,' said Kozlov formally, 'I can contribute.' He shrugged and sipped his vodka. 'Let me say this: Russia is resting now. You, all of you,' he waved his hand around the table as if the host and guests were a family of adolescents, 'you have decisions to make that Russia has made over the past few centuries - and mainly got wrong - which is why we have chosen during this cycle of global change to take a break.'

He pushed back his chair so that it was apart from the others, clasped his hands together and stretched them cracking his knuckles. 'Each nation, as it develops, has choices. It is torn between the inner soul of its villages and the riches outside its borders. In eighteenth-century Russia, Peter the Great turned his back on the east and chose St Petersburg as the capital to force our country out of its stagnation and embrace western culture. We became a nation where we only spoke Russian to our servants, and spoke French among ourselves. Not like you, Vasant,' he stressed, waving a finger at Mehta. 'You had a language imposed upon you by a colonizing power. No, we decided that our own language should be deemed socially inferior. So what happened? It created huge resistance flowing from the intellectuals and the artists down to the villages. No wonder Alexander Pushkin sought out the Russian village life. No wonder Ivan Shishkin ended up despising his foreign teachers in Europe, and only felt artistic freedom when he returned home to Russia. No wonder, on finishing with their universities, thousands of students abandoned St Petersburg and Moscow and headed deep into the countryside - and no wonder they were disappointed, as they discovered that despite their idealism, the reality of village life was a small-minded brutality, and that the poverty was endless.' Kozlov paused for a moment, allowing his thoughts to be absorbed. Then he lowered his voice and spoke more slowly. 'They discovered that finding Utopia is never easy, just as this evening we will find that politics are never tidy. Jim West has brought us together in midwinter in an idyllic mountain setting. Our minds may be clear, but the way through is not.'

Kozlov, the stubborn intellectual, had turned up unshaven for dinner, openly telling all that he had spent the afternoon drinking with his soulmate Alexander Yushchuk. He took centre stage now as the man who had endured years of condemnation by family and colleagues, a man who published his bank statement in the Russian press each month to avoid allegations of corruption, whose past gave him the credentials to hold the floor. He stood up, walked to the end of the table, stepped past Newman and poured himself another vodka from the trolley.

'Vladimir Putin took the same gamble as Peter the Great,' said Kozlov, walking back to his chair and sitting down heavily. 'There was resistance. My election has been the result. I happen to believe that Russia's future does lie in empowering the villagers, freeing the serfs if you like, and not in embracing NATO, the IMF, Hollywood and all your American values. If our love-in with America over the past twenty years had managed to seep wealth deep into the countryside, then perhaps I would not now be in office. But it didn't. Perhaps, after so much suffering, the Russian people are too impatient. Perhaps they know I will return a little bit of their own soul to them. They don't want tsarism. Nor do they want Marxism, but they want to feel they can create their own way and not copy that of another country. Of all of you here, I am the most neutral. Russia at this time is neither empire-building nor are we vulnerable and lashing out. We are here because of a series of terrible events. None of us planned them, I am sure. But each of us has chosen a career which means that we must decide how we will deal with them for the sake of humanity.'

Kozlov drained his vodka and stood up again, steadying himself on the back of his chair. He stepped round, putting both his hands on West's shoulders, then took them off, shaking his head. 'No,' he said, laughing to himself. 'I will leave you until last.'

Mehta looked up to see Kozlov heading towards him. But Kozlov ignored him. He gave Newman a wide berth, rested a hand on Caroline's shoulders, brushed passed Jamie Song, then stopped behind Sato, who remained rock steady, his face unreadable. Caroline glanced across the table at Newman, then back again to West, who was watching, fascinated at the Russian President's mix of drunkenness and insight. The Japanese Prime Minister flinched as Kozlov's clumsy hand rested on and squeezed his shoulder.

'Prime Minister Sato, you are an old warrior, indeed,' said Kozlov. 'In the evening of your political life, you find the younger generations restless. Uncle Sam defeated you and recreated you, but has never allowed you to forge your own path.' He pointed across the table to Jamie Song, who returned Kozlov's look quizzically with a thin, amused smile. 'Now, the Dragon awakes and threatens. If you leave things as they are, Japan will shrink in stature. How can it do anything else? So what do you do, Prime Minister?' he challenged, slapping Sato on the back. 'Preside over your nation's decline or fight for its future?'

Kozlov poured himself another vodka, drained the glass and left it in front of Sato, then walked round to Song, who turned round in his chair to face Kozlov. 'And what of the Dragon himself, who has so cleverly taken in McDonald's and American Express, but retained his authoritarian and Confucian way of life? You, Mr Dragon President,' he emphasized, jabbing his finger playfully at Song, 'are the envy of the developing world. The talk in the markets of Delhi and Moscow is "How can we do what China did? What is the formula? Will it work for us?" Your success is your own. Your vision is understood. Why should you stop? Would we if we were in your position?'

Again, Kozlov walked around to the other side of the table, stopping briefly behind Nolan, who paused in the packing of his pipe: 'And what about me, Andrei? Am I an old warhorse like Mr Sato?'

'Yes, both you, Stuart, and your nation,' said Kozlov. 'Britain is like Russia. We have fought, conquered and retreated. You now happily play under the umbrella of Uncle Sam. Having created America, there is no shame for you in its success. And those of us still out in the cold find your history comforting.'

'Bravo,' mumbled Nolan, looking back and squeezing the Russian's hand, as Kozlov walked unsteadily back round to settle on Mehta. He leant lightly on the table, between the Indian Prime Minister and Newman, looking at her as much as Mehta when he spoke. 'And you, Vasant, are bruised. Your nation is strong, yet it feels it is a victim. What has India done wrong? It has retained its democratic institutions. It allows its citizens to vote. It does not send people to labour camps. It gives us literature, films, music, software technology and chicken tikka masala. Of all of us, India is the most complete society. Yet also, perhaps, it is the most innocent. Who is to blame for what has happened to you? Your finger might point to Jim West for negligence; to Stuart Nolan for the sins of his colonial ancestors; to the uninvited Qureshi, dictator of a country whose regimes have kept you weak over the past half-century. But of those of us at the table, your finger points to Jamie Song for supporting your enemy and ensuring he survives. You could walk into Pakistan tomorrow. You could bomb it into oblivion, as Jim West's predecessors did to Toru Sato's predecessors. But the rising Dragon will do all it can to protect Pakistan and to ensure the failure of your mission.'

He stepped back, steadying himself with the back of Song's chair, and tapping a finger lightly on the Chinese President's shoulder. 'Yet we are here tonight to tell India to hold back. Do not attack. Become a victim again. All right, you say, I won't attack, but neutralize my enemy, once and for all. And on hearing that, we retreat, don't we, afraid of the monumental task you have set us?'

As he walked slowly back to his own seat, Kozlov's mottled face arranged itself into a bemused smile all of its own. Nolan lit his pipe. The smoke, pulled by a draught from the window, drifted across the table. Kozlov examined the glasses in front of him and chose the one with mineral water. 'And, Jim,' he said slowly, 'you are also a victim, having buried fifty-eight of your citizens from the tragedy at Yokata. Like Vasant, you would dearly like to march into North Korea. And who do you blame, apart from yourself? The Soviet Union, of course, but it is a generation since it was defeated. No, Jamie Song is where your finger also points, and it is Jamie who is telling you to be restrained and not attack, for it is China, and China only, which holds the power to do that. So what do you do to create the face of your great nation for the next generation? Do you take charge, yet again, or do you take note of the backlash against you from Iraq and the War on Terror, and hand the mantle to China - or, dare I mention, Japan - and do what Britain did last century?'

Kozlov leant forward on the table, his head lowered, tapping the tablecloth with a single finger. 'You, Jim,' he said softly. 'The shots are yours to call.'

West leant across and laid his hand on Kozlov's elbow. 'Brilliantly put, Andrei. Brilliantly put,' he said, his fingers toying with the base of a wine glass. The lighting around the table was dim enough to get a sense of the night outside, where snow had stopped falling and a small half-moon had risen into view, surrounded by ragged clouds.

'Vasant,' said West, looking over to Mehta. 'As Andrei said, you're the victim. Tell us what you want, and we'll see if we can do it.'

Mehta looked up with a sharp, sombre expression. His face was weathered and tired, and he spoke with his fingers entwined, resting on the table. 'I am tired with argument. I said what I had to say at the United Nations. Either of you, and I don't care which, must end Pakistan's terror. What you did with Musharraf was a joke,' he said accusingly to West before turning his eyes just as fiercely to Song. 'And you, Jamie, you gave them the bomb, and don't you dare deny it around this table. Now it's your responsibility to take it away from them. Or get Jim West to do it. Or I'm going to do it. Pakistan needs to be dismembered as a nation and put back together again. Nothing less will suffice.'