Promise of Joy (48 page)
Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Assassinations, #Thrillers
Yet surely the lessons of the war could not have been dismissed so cavalierly; surely the hourly evidence of disaster could not be so summarily ignored. The country was still in near chaos, the walking wounded were still moving west in a vast, bloody tide, the ruined cities were hardly beginning to move with life, and the life, such as it was, could only be described as ghastly. Virtually insuperable burdens weighed upon the new government, monumental tasks so great that it could not possibly achieve them without the assistance of the world and a condition of universal peace—and yet, like animals snarling from a cave, Shulatov and his colleagues were busy defying the opinion of the world and the peace of mankind, seeking old, outworn advantages in an old, outworn context that no longer existed except in their own suspicious imaginings.
Nonetheless, of course, they
were
imagining, and they were conducting themselves as though the imaginings were still real. Wrongly but sincerely, they believed. As long as they did, the world had a terrible problem—he had a terrible problem. And he was not at all sure that Lin’s concession, meager and tentative as it was, gave him much to maneuver with.
In a sense the Chinese, too, were living in the old context. They did not appear to be quite as paranoid as the Russians, but almost. As nearly as he and his colleagues had been able to ascertain, the new Peking government was civilian, not military, and that perhaps gave its members some small handhold upon humanity that seemed to be lacking in Moscow. But it was fragile at best, and it was only as a great personal tribute to him that Lin had taken even the small step he had. If it were rejected in Moscow—if there was no answering glimmer of humanity—if no sound of recognition came back across the roiling void—then God help us all, he thought grimly: God help us all. For the time was growing very short and the margin for error was eroding very rapidly away, not only in Cathay and Muscovy, but everywhere.
Already, the intelligence reports disclosed, there was a recrudescence of self-interest, a resurgence of suspicion, a return of greed, a revival of moral and ethical cupidity. France the eternal loner was already secretly at work trying to sell arms to the breakaway satellites along the old Soviet European border. Rumania and Hungary were already indicating interest. Poland and Czechoslovakia, learning of this, were turning in desperation to Britain. Britain had as yet given no answer, but the reports indicated that Her Majesty’s Government might not be averse to the idea. In the Middle East the collapse of the Soviet regime had been followed by revolts in the six Communist Arab oil satellites: West Germany and Japan were helpfully rushing “technicians” and “advisers” to the Gulf. Pious India was secretly moving troops into position all along the disputed Chinese border areas and had already issued secret ultimatums to Nepal and Bhutan which clearly foreshadowed the rapid demise of those tiny remaining Himalayan kingdoms and a probable drive to seize border areas. A Japanese fleet was secretly steaming toward the Kuriles, another toward revolt-torn Taiwan. The Communist government of Cuba had been overthrown and the United States, the CIA reported to him proudly, was secretly preparing to rush arms and aid to the rebel forces. This at least he could handle, and he sent an immediate and toweringly angry order to stop all such plans at once, for it was desperately important that the hands of his own country be clean if he was to continue as peacemaker. Elsewhere in South America, in a sort of weirdly irrational reflex from the terror of the atomic exchange, Brazil had begun to skirmish with Paraguay, and Chile and Argentina were exchanging ultimatums. In eight African countries, governments which heretofore had been to some extent restrained by world opinion were systematically slaughtering every man, woman and child of their minority tribes.
So the time was exceedingly short and getting shorter. It was not only the leaders of Russia who had learned nothing and forgotten nothing: many governments were in the same condition. The peoples of the earth might be sincerely and frantically terrified, sincerely and frantically willing to renounce all the old patterns for the sake of universal peace, but many of their leaders were not. And very soon, if the leaders were permitted the time, they would be able to persuade their peoples to relax, forget, resume their old hatreds, their old fears, their old mistrusts and their old foredoomed ways of dealing with one another.
For a few precious seconds out of mankind’s long and twisting history—which he no longer thought of as peaks and valleys, but rather a long, sinuous, sidewise progression that moved from here to there along an almost level plain, never sinking very much, never rising very much, just managing to go from point to point erratically as greed and passion directed—there was a chance for genuine peace. The greatest chance there had ever been, born out of the greatest terror. But it would not last—it would not last. Unless it was seized now, it would vanish forever and the world would turn back again into the dark and dreadful night from which it very likely would never be able to emerge again.
He sighed, a lonely and desolate sound. The three bright cylinders with their hopeful cargo hurtled on through the night, back across devastated Russia to Moscow again. How could he make men
see?
3
“Well?” Shulatov inquired, and all down the table the members of his government leaned forward with a politeness as attentive and bland as his. “What news do you bring us from Peking, Mr. President?”
“I bring you, as you know,” he said quietly, “a disarmament agreement. It has been signed in hope and good will by the President of the United Chinese Republic and the President of the United States of America. We hope it will speedily receive the signature of the President of the United States of Russia.”
“What are its details?”
“You do not know,” he said pleasantly. Shulatov gave him bland look for bland look, and shrugged.
“Hints—speculation—newspaper reports. Nothing official. We have been waiting for you, Mr. President, to tell us.”
“So I shall,” he agreed, still pleasantly. “So I shall.” He pushed a copy across the table. “The standard preliminaries, as you see, including the sentence, which I believe to be true, that
‘The signatories recognize that this may in all likelihood be the last chance the world will ever have to achieve a lasting peace.’
Then into the gist of it, which is essentially: the agreement of China, Russia and the United States to meet in Geneva in one week to begin work on reducing all armaments by at least one-half within six months; at least two-thirds by a year from now; and to small defense forces only, thereafter. All such reductions to be accomplished under full and unrestricted United Nations supervision. All excess armaments, where not destroyed outright, to be turned over to the United Nations for an international peace-keeping force in which all three signatories pledge themselves to participate fully whenever and wherever needed. Final details to be worked out at the conference.”
“Is that all?” Shulatov asked with a little smile.
Outwardly perfectly calm and perfectly amicable, the President returned the smile.
“It is quite enough if all of us will abide in good faith by its provisions. Does the United States of Russia intend to?”
“Mr. President!” Shulatov exclaimed, with another smile and that bland shrugging motion the President had come to dislike intensely. “Give us time, give us time! We have not even signed it yet. We have barely even
read
it yet. We need time to study, to consider, to analyze, to prepare ourselves for this great, revolutionary change in the world’s way of doing things. We need time, Mr. President,
time!”
“The President of China and I signed in half an hour,” he remarked, and down his side of the table his colleagues stared at the Russians with a bland skepticism of their own. This apparently rankled, for there was an uneasy stirring and Shulatov responded with a sudden sharpness.
“I do not care what the President of China did!” he snapped. “I am the President of Russia and it is Russia I am concerned with!”
“As I am concerned with America,” Orrin said in a tone that grated, “and he is concerned with China. Yet with both these great concerns we were still able to master our suspicions and our fears and do what we believed best for our own countries and the world. Why is this difficult for you, Mr. President? Are you afraid of something?”
Shulatov gave him a sudden sharp glance.
“I am afraid of the secret alliance the United States has apparently made against us with the new government of China.”
“There is no alliance!” the President exclaimed angrily.
“There is no alliance.”
“So you say,” Shulatov remarked with an insolent politeness.
“So I say,” he agreed, mastering his annoyance with a great effort and speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. “So, Mr. President, if you will please affix your signature, we will move on with preparations for the Geneva conference. In the meantime I have been authorized by the Secretary-General, who telephoned me in Peking last night just before I left, to lay before you his insistence that both the International Relief Commission and the international peace-keeping force be permitted
at once
to operate freely and independently in your country in order to do the jobs the world wants them to do.”
“Did you convey this to the President of the new imperialist regime in China?” Shulatov inquired, and again it was all the President could do to keep his temper. But somehow he managed to speak calmly, though the Russian’s choice of words had sent a shiver down the American side of the table.
“I did indeed,” he said.
A shrewd little gleam came into Shulatov’s eyes.
“And what was his response?”
“He said he would wait and see what you decided to do.”
“And I,” Shulatov said with a sudden grim satisfaction, “will wait to see what
he
decides to do. So it appears we must
all
wait awhile on those two issues, does it not, Mr. President?”
And along his side of the table his colleagues nodded brightly and chuckled agreement with one another.
For a long moment Orrin studied them, while through his whole being there rushed a wave of dismay and disgust so great that he thought for a second it might physically paralyze him. The Russians were so mistaken—so utterly, eternally, forever-and-ever Doomsday-mistaken—that he wondered how he could ever get through to their closed and terrifying minds.
Perhaps he could not. But he knew he must make one last try. It had worked, not much but enough to keep hope alive, in Peking. It might—just might—work here. If it did, he might yet be able to build upon it.
“Mr. President,” he said slowly, keeping his voice calm, his manner relaxed but earnest, “you and Lin Kung-chow and I, quite literally, I believe, hold the fate of the world in our hands. Up to now when men have said this or been told this it has been a cliché. But at this moment, with atomic war having occurred, with its terrible consequences still ravaging your two countries as they will for many months, with the whole world waiting petrified to see whether it too must be drawn in if hostilities resume, the cliché is no longer cliché but reality.
“Upon me, and upon Lin Kung-chow, this fact imposes a great responsibility which we are trying, however falteringly and imperfectly, to live up to.
He
has great doubts,
I
have great doubts. But we are trying.
“Both of us recognize that it will be many weeks, possibly months, possibly years, before all the obstacles to a permanent peace can be removed. But we must try. We must begin.
“The same responsibility, Mr. President, rests upon you.
“These three issues are the start. All are fundamental. If they are solved, all else will fall into place. The International Relief Commission
must
be allowed to move freely, to distribute its aid independently of either your government or the Chinese government; otherwise it becomes no more than a political arm of those governments. The international peace-keeping force
must
operate independently in a buffer zone between you; otherwise it will lose all effectiveness in preventing further war should either of you be so unwise as to start it. Disarmament
must
be accomplished, and very drastically, if war is not to recur. And it
must
be done with complete and open inspection and control by the United Nations, because that is the only way to guarantee that it will be done honestly and effectively.
“There is no way around these three propositions, Mr. President, unless it is to go around them and straight back to war, devastation, chaos, the final ending of the world. You are an intelligent man, your colleagues are intelligent men. Surely you see that.
“Why, then, will you not join President Lin and me in making the effort? It is true it requires great courage. It is true it requires great faith. It is true it requires patriotism—not just patriotism to our own countries, which is easy, but the most difficult patriotism of all, which is patriotism to the Idea of Man. We must keep alive humanity, Mr. President. Our own countries will get along all right if we do that.
“President Lin and I have made a small beginning. We beg you to join us. The whole world begs you to join us. Can you not find somewhere in the heart of Mother Russia the courage and the faith that will let you do it, and so save us all?”
While he spoke, the faces across the table were a study in impassive politeness, showing nothing, giving nothing, yielding nothing. When he concluded there was a lengthy moment during which the expressions did not change. Then Shulatov leaned forward and spoke with a controlled but implacable fury that was instantly echoed in the frowns and theatric glares of his colleagues.
“Mr. President! Do not come here and appeal to Mother Russia! Do not come here and seek to confuse us with fine words and false appeals! We know the reality of it, Mr. President, we know how the world is.
We
must guard Mother Russia, Mr. President, not you.
We
must protect our people, not you. We will take care of Russia, Mr. President. You and the Chinese gangster may worry about the rest of the world, if you like: we pity you, for you will lose your own countries in the process. We will never lose Russia!
Never!”
Again, and for the last time, their eyes held in an angry, unwavering, unyielding grip. Then Orrin broke the furious silence, managing somehow to speak quietly despite the whirling fire-storm of emotions that raked his being.
“Mr. President, you are a fool and your government is a fool. I will not say, ‘May God help you,’ because you do not deserve it and I believe He knows you do not deserve it. I will simply say that my colleagues and I pity you as we have never pitied men in all our lives, because you are signing your death warrant. And the thing that makes it so utterly horrible is that you are very likely signing the death warrant of the world as well.…” He stood up abruptly, pushed back his chair. His friends did the same. “Now,” he said, breathing heavily but managing to keep his voice steady, “I shall go and talk to the press.”
“Talk to them, then!” Shulatov cried, leaping to his feet in a blind rage which was echoed by the shouts, groans and furious murmurs of his equally athletic colleagues, who jumped up all around him. “Tell them your lies, damned American, and see if we care!
See if we care!
We despise your lies! We
despise
them!”
But the world cared, even if the Russians did not; and very shortly men and women everywhere were in the grip of a fear made even more terrible by the fact that for just a little while they had seen in Orrin Knox’s mission the gleaming hope that fear might be conquered at last.
U.S.-Russian talks end in “complete disagreement.” New Russ government scorns Knox disarmament plea, remains adamant in refusal to permit international aid, peace-keeping force. Peace hopes fade as world fears new war. President to return to Peking for further “urgent consultations” with Chinese.
Plague spreading into Siberia.
“Orrin,” William Abbott said quietly, shaking him out of his quick, exhausted nap at the American Embassy before takeoff for Peking, “the Chinese are calling.”
“Yes?” he said, instantly awake. Faint and wavering but distinct enough to be understood, a tiny voice said in broken English, “Mr. President?”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “What is it?”
“This is the Foreign Minister. President Lin wishes me to tell you that he does not wish to see you.”
“You tell President Lin,” he said with all the authority of a very tired but very determined man, “that I will arrive in Peking tomorrow morning and that I will come to the Presidential palace at ten a.m. to see him. I shall be accompanied by the world press. If he wishes to turn me away at that point, he may do so. But I will be there. Good day to you.”
And without waiting for response he replaced the receiver with a decisive emphasis that probably hurt the Foreign Minister’s ears even over that distance.
“Is he running out, too?” Bill Abbott asked quietly.
The President sighed.
“We’re getting boxed, Bill. I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”
“Keep trying,” the ex-President suggested.
“Oh, yes,” the President said.
The face was very still, expressionless, completely frozen, completely closed. They talked alone for the last time, without preliminaries or pretense.
“Why are you here?” Lin asked.
“You know why,” he said.
“He would not agree.”
“He would not agree.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because our two countries must continue to seek peace, regardless.”
“We cannot, as long as Russia remains an active threat on our borders.”
“We must.”
“We cannot.”
“Mr. President,” he said, “I come back to what I said before. The fate of the world demands that we do. We have no alternative. It does not matter that the Russians will not join us. We have the world behind us. We need no more.”
For a moment the frozen mask broke, a human face looked out. A sudden piercing glance came his way.
“Why do we not join together,” Lin suggested softly, “and destroy Russia, you and I, while she is weak and unable to withstand the two of us?”
“No!”
he said with a horrified revulsion he made no attempt to conceal.
“No!”
The mask closed again, the human aspect disappeared.
“Very well. It is
‘No!’
for us, also.”
“That is your final word?”
“That is our final word.” Very suddenly the mask cracked again. “Why would they not—?” Lin cried with a naked anguish. “Why would they not—why can’t the world—why—?”
The mask re-formed as abruptly as it had shattered and again he said in a cold and distant whisper:
“That is our final word.”
“Very well,” Orrin said with a dragging sigh that seemed to come from depths below depths. “Very well.”
“What will you do?” Lin whispered.
“I will go home to America,” he said with an infinite tiredness. “I will go home.”
But of course, being himself, and being the President, he did substantially more than that.
Knox asks urgent session of United Nations as peace journey ends in failure. Moscow, Peking adamant in rejecting all negotiation attempts.
President to confer with U.S. military chiefs in Hawaii on way home. Abbott, top congress leaders join him in call for immediate ten-billon-dollar increase in defense funds.
