The Ambassador (36 page)
Strether suspected that it was more than a simple change in taste, compared, say, to the twentieth century. Then, many people had been dissatisfied and distrustful of governments. The press had responded by putting presidents in the dock; reputations could be made or destroyed (and rightly) at the flick of an eyebrow. Once governments in Europe had learned how to provide more effectively for their voters’ physical and emotional needs – and to convince them in advance that such was exactly what they wanted – elections had become predictable, and the media utterly bland and non-confrontational. Since the channels fed off each other anyway, and little fresh ‘news’ was allowed to reach the airwaves, the similarity of output was hardly surprising. Even the local version of CNN was mostly about the beautiful hotels in which it could be viewed.
It suited the audience. It suited everybody. Maybe that acquiescent tendency Winston had alluded to had been brought in subtly on other genetic introductions over the decades without anyone noticing. A contented people – who could complain? If pap thrived on the wall-screens, who objected? Nobody, except lunatic outsiders like himself. Even he, he had
to admit, had scarcely been an avid follower of analytical documentaries prior to his entry into politics. Only in their absence had he realised what was missing.
He was certain, however, that he was now under systematic observation. In itself that was nothing remarkable, though it was disconcerting. The ubiquitous cameras squinted endlessly at him, as they did at everyone. Only in the embassy, and in Winston’s cubicle, where by some trickery the clerk seemed to have disabled his, and in the underground car park where neglect left the eye riveted on the entrance, had he felt briefly free. As a foreign national, albeit from a supposedly friendly nation, he took for granted some curiosity about his contacts. Surveillance was a habit even in free countries – FBI files of a century before were a
Who’s Who
of show business and literary celebrities, many of whom were so open about their leanings that the Feds had been wasting their time; a perusal of their published
oeuvres
would have sufficed. But Strether was a diplomat and should have been protected from intrusion. Or perhaps, given his clandestine activities, he had simply grown more aware of what had been there before.
The vidphone he had long treated as an open line; the ragged calls from protest cells continued, but less frequently, perhaps because Solidarity did not need to use it with him. It was a constant precaution to consider whether private conversation was being taped – but, then, he was broadly circumspect in his speech. What had become far more painful were the faces at gatherings and in the street.
When he entered a room, a reception at another embassy, for example, faces turned away. First their bland whiteness was there, tinged with mild interest in the newcomer, then it wasn’t. Instead, the backs of well-barbered necks above dark tunics were presented resolutely to him. He was not ignored entirely – nothing as obvious as that. But by such signals he understood that he was not privy to the inner circles of the Union. Other European diplomats airily promised invitations for private suppers that never materialised. The King had required his presence, along with two dozen others, solely to test a package of personal fantasies for the End of the Century celebrations. He was being quietly but rigidly isolated.
Yet other faces – one or two – would slide out from behind pillars, or stare openly at him: a barman here, a security guard there, a receptionist, her blonde hair in ringlets, her blue eyes piercing. At times he wondered if he was being trailed, or whether somebody prying on him was warning others up ahead. Living cold eyes followed him. It was unsettling. And was probably intended to be: it was his nerves they were after.
It was almost a compliment. He was seen as a threat, albeit, surely, a small one. What could one man do? He led no military. He was the advocate of no secret philosophy; his position precluded any such involvement. Knowing what Marius was up to – and approving of it, indeed, having willed him on – was not the same as active membership. It was not his job to undermine the Union; nor did he wish to see Europe weakened. If that happened it would work mainly to the benefit of the enemies of the free world.
Change, however, was desperately needed, the quicker the better. The enemies were not merely at the gate, they were close by and in the highest places. Again Strether ran his fingers over his pate and swore at the fine hairs that sprinkled his palm. Stress was making him literally tear his hair out. The Énarchy, the senior NTs, they did not lose their hair, though the fashion was to trim it close to the scalp to give a disciplined, ascetic style. They did not see themselves as enemies of society. On the contrary: given a chance no doubt
they’d have declared themselves its saviours, and would claim that future generations would praise them. And that was unarguable: for those future generations would be their own creation, and would probably be thoroughly programmed to praise those who had begot them.
Strether shivered. He hated what he knew. He would a million times rather not have uncovered the sinister trends in the programme, never have visited Milton Keynes. An idiot would make a better fist of the role of Ambassador of the USA.
His Bible-bashing compatriots flitted through his mind, squawking platitudes at him, like so many fat crows in those black gowns that flapped about their well-stuffed forms. They were in control at home and regarded scientific progress as the devil’s work. They would say he should not have tasted of the fruit of the tree of knowledge: his unease, and the danger he found himself in, were the price he must pay.
Danger
?
That had not properly occurred to him before. Was he himself in serious danger? Might somebody try to dispose of him? Scare him, yes. Panic him into abandoning his post, or at any rate into no longer pursuing his inquiries with the same tenacity. But it was too late for that. He had bitten deeply into the forbidden fruit and it tasted foul. And further ahead the harvest of the coming century would ooze poison. Unless it could be destroyed.
He half rose in his seat. He would do all he could. He would utilise every bit of influence at his command, and whatever modest power was available to him. He had warned his President. If necessary he would go public and utter words of outright condemnation, in the name of thinking citizens everywhere. He would become a rallying point for intelligent and effective criticism.
Across the room his image in the mirror caught his eye and he subsided, sighing. A greying, balding cattleman with middle-aged spread, who at the first challenge had lost his girlfriend to a younger man, would be leading no crusade. That was not his task: that was for the likes of Marius, Lisa, Spartacus and the rest, whoever they were.
But they had his support, and he would do his best. He could not say better than that.
The Army and Navy Club had been moved from its regal headquarters in Pall Mall soon after the Hyde Park underpass had become irremediably flooded. The committee, old buffers to the last, had delayed the decision until the river water was seeping through the stone walls; an alternative, a small dock for river taxis, had been interminably discussed, though few members ever travelled other than by private car. Eventually sounder counsels prevailed, though downright hostility to the left-wing nuances of Hampstead had resulted in a transfer to the edge of Richmond Park. Here, it was felt, a retired general might doze off the excesses of lunch within sight of green trees, much as his predecessors had in days of yore.
Colonel Thompson and his guest, the Prime Minister, were not sleeping. Had they been tempted, the stern gaze of the Duke of Wellington, in a gloomy life-size portrait opposite, would have kept them at full attention. The Iron Duke’s haughty manner and aristocratic bearing were of particular significance to the Colonel, as his own genetic blueprint included references to the Wellesleys. It was like sitting at the feet of Grandpa, he mused. The reflection gave him confidence.
‘Just coffee, if you don’t mind,’ he said. They were seated in the deep, buttoned armchairs of the lounge, the sole occupants. Buried in the basement was the famous smoking room, which at this hour would be fuggy and full. He had considered whether to offer his
guest the opportunity of a visit, but his objective was business, not amusement.
Sir Lyndon Everidge accepted a large port. ‘Quinto do Noval 2067,’ he murmured appreciatively. ‘A rare drop. Legend has it that a few cases were found in the basement of Number Ten when it was moved from old Parliament Square. Didn’t last long.’
The Colonel smiled grimly. That didn’t surprise him. The invitation was plain: he could join the serried ranks of metropolitan butterballs any time he chose. Life in the city was soft and seductive. The indulgence grated; he itched to return to active duty – even Kashi and the desert were sweeter than this.
‘I need my responsibilities here spelled out, sir. I’ve read my instructions, of course. But I thought’ – he indicated the plush furnishings, the Wilton carpet, the gilt-framed portraits of past heroes –’it might be easier to talk in salubrious surroundings.’
Sir Lyndon puffed out his cheeks as if exhaling a cigar. He may wish he were downstairs, but that’s too bad, Thompson reflected silently. He had seen the Prime Minister over-indulge on numerous occasions during his stint at Buckingham Palace but had not taken much notice. Now, however, he began to examine the man more carefully, with a growing sense of dislike, though it was hard for the moment to put his finger on why.
‘We are facing grave difficulties, I will not conceal that from you,’ the Prime Minister said, in a low voice. He looked around furtively to confirm they had the lounge to themselves. ‘You will have seen the disruption – may have experienced it yourself. We think several groups may be operating independently, though we’ve infiltrated only two, the main ones, naturally – the rest are insignificant.’ He outlined to the Colonel the current state of play, but without names.
‘I see,’ the Colonel responded, in a tone that implied he didn’t. ‘But surely these are matters for the security services. The Union Bureau of Investigation, Interpol, the like. They’re the specialists. And the domestic police. Where does the Army come in?’
‘You remember your orders. To provide support in cases of civil unrest.’ Everidge took another gulp of port.
His lips were wetly red, his eyes pink-veined but hooded and alert.
‘Oh, emergency fire trucks and the like – you want us to run the fire engines, man the railway stations if there are strikes, is that it? My men won’t take kindly to strike-breaking, sir. I must put that on record.’
‘They’ll do as they’re told,’ the Prime Minister retorted. ‘You’ll have the back-up of private security services – Rottweiler are training up fresh guys now. Good Lord, Colonel, there has to be somebody who’ll remain loyal to the civilian authorities.’
Thompson’s face became a mask. ‘Thank you for making that clear, sir. If that’s the sum total of what we’re required to do, I’m sure we can manage.’
‘It isn’t. You’ve been stuck out at the back of beyond, haven’t you? Been cut off from the gossip. I’m afraid that’s pretty obvious, Colonel.’
Thompson bridled but kept his mouth shut. He began to formulate in his mind exactly why he found this important man so offensive.
The Prime Minister leaned forward confidentially. ‘We think there may be a rebellion of some sort. Open confrontation in the streets. And that’s where your units will come in. If it happens – God forbid, but it might, they’re fool enough – then it’ll have to be suppressed pretty quickly. ‘That way we can keep news of it under wraps. But not if it drags on for days
or weeks.’
‘So let me get this right.’ The Colonel lifted his coffee cup, sipped and put it down, setting it precisely in its saucer. ‘I may have to instruct my men to open fire on their fellow citizens?’
‘You might.’ The Prime Minister nodded vigorously. ‘And clean up the mess, pronto. Those fire engines of yours – the Green Goddesses – will come in handy. Wash the evidence away. Everything squeaky clean the morning after. On the other hand, it may never happen, in which case you can resume active duty. Or I can fix up something cushier: old Morrison the MD Perm Sec is looking for a senior desk officer. Might suit you down to the ground, Colonel. Either way, I shouldn’t worry about it.’
Thompson exhaled and sat back. ‘I’d rather use the machines as water cannon, sir,’ he said gruffly. That way nobody’d get hurt. Then you could arrest the perpetrators and put them on trial for sedition, or some such charge.’
‘And give ’em a chance to spout their propaganda from the witness box? Not bloody likely.’ The Prime Minister glanced at the Colonel. ‘You look a bit peaky. You all right? I was advised to choose you because I was told you’re a proper soldier, loyal, brave, that sort of thing. You’ve got the stomach for it.’
‘I have been well-trained, yes,’ Thompson replied, holding his temper in tow. He fixed the Prime Minister with an icy stare. ‘The whole point is to get rid of any objectors, once and for all? And leave no traces.’
‘More or less – as if it had never occurred. Got it now?’
Bill Strether paid off the electric taxi with a feeling akin to relief. He was sufficiently a regular at the Toy Shop not to have to brave the fire-eaters at the entrance; now he could step discreetly up to door seven and press a bell, to be admitted with a gracious ‘Good evening, Ambassador.’ It made life tolerable in the midst of all the pressures. At least Marty did not seem to mind the receding hairline.
Once he had no longer felt encumbered by the link to Lisa, something within had been liberated. It was not just sex, though that was magical. It was also the sheer pleasure of conversation with Marty, a woman close to his own age, whose untutored intelligence was the mirror of his own and whose practical nature was impatient with introspection. With her, he did not feel excluded or inferior or helpless. She was, by contrast, the most normal person he met in any week and he relished her company. Even if it was becoming a very expensive pastime.
