Edge of Eternity (87 page)

“That gives me just enough time,” said Dave. He waved a good-bye at Charlie and said: “Stay by the phone.”

Charlie looked bemused. He was not used to being pushed around. “I'm not going anywhere,” he said.

In the outer office, Miss Pritchard said: “His wife is Susan and his children are Caroline and Edward.”

“Thank you.” Dave closed Charlie's door. “Miss Pritchard, if you ever get fed up with working for Charlie, I need a secretary.”

“I'm fed up now,” she said. “When do I start?”

“Monday.”

“Should I come to the Beverly Hills Hotel at nine?”

“Make it ten.”

The hotel limousine took Dave to LAX. Miss Pritchard had called the airline, and there was a stewardess waiting to take him through the VIP channel, to avoid mob scenes in the departure lounge.

He had had nothing but aspirins for breakfast, so he was glad of the in-flight lunch. As the plane came down toward the flat city by Lake Erie, he ruminated over what he was going to say to Mr. Wharton. This was going to be difficult. But if he handled it well perhaps he could turn Wharton around. That would make up for his earlier cowardice. He longed to tell his sister that he had redeemed himself.

Miss Pritchard's arrangements worked well, and a car was waiting for him at Hopkins International Airport. It took him to a leafy suburb not far away. A few minutes after seven the limousine pulled into the driveway of a large but unostentatious ranch-style house. Dave walked up to the entrance and rang the bell.

He felt nervous.

Wharton himself came to the door in a gray V-neck sweater and slacks. “Dave Williams?” he said. “What the hey . . . ?”

“Good evening, Mr. Wharton,” Dave said. “I'm sorry to intrude, but I'd really like to speak to you.”

When he got over his surprise, Wharton seemed pleased. “Come on in,” he said. “Meet the family.”

Wharton ushered Dave into the dining room. The family appeared to be finishing dinner. Wharton had a pretty wife in her thirties, a daughter of about sixteen, and a spotty son a couple of years younger. “We have a surprise visitor,” Wharton said. “This is Mr. Dave Williams, of Plum Nellie.”

Mrs. Wharton put a small white hand to her mouth and said: “Oh my golly gosh.”

Dave shook hands with her, then turned to the youngsters. “You must be Caroline and Edward.”

Wharton looked pleased that Dave had remembered his children's names.

The kids were awestruck to get a surprise visit from a real pop star they had seen on TV. Edward could hardly speak. Caroline pulled back her shoulders, making her breasts stick out, and gave Dave a look that he had seen before in a thousand teenage girls. It said:
You can do anything you like to me.

Dave pretended not to notice.

Mr. Wharton said: “Sit down, Dave, please. Join us.”

Mrs. Wharton said: “Would you like some dessert? We're having strawberry shortcake.”

“Yes, please,” Dave said. “I'm living in a hotel—some home cooking would be a real treat.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, and she went off to the kitchen.

“Have you come from Los Angeles today?” Wharton asked.

“Yes.”

“Not just to call on me, I'm sure.”

“Actually, yes. I want to talk to you one more time about tonight's show.”

“Okay,” Wharton said dubiously.

Mrs. Wharton returned with the dessert on a platter and began to serve.

Dave wanted the children on his side. He said to them: “In the show that your dad and I made, there's a part where Percy Marquand does a duet with my sister, Evie Williams.”

Edward said: “I saw their movie—it was a blast!”

“At the end of the song, Evie kisses Percy on the cheek.” Dave paused.

Caroline said: “So? Big deal!”

Mrs. Wharton raised a flirtatious eyebrow as she passed Dave a large wedge of strawberry shortcake.

Dave went on: “Mr. Wharton and I talked about whether this would offend our audience—something neither of us wants to do. We decided to leave out the kiss.”

Wharton said: “I think it was a wise choice.”

Dave said: “I've come here to see you today, Mr. Wharton, because I believe that, since we made that decision, the situation has changed.”

“You're talking about the assassination of Martin Luther King.”

“Dr. King was killed, but America is still bleeding.” That
sentence came into Dave's head from nowhere, the way song lyrics sometimes did.

Wharton shook his head, and his mouth set in a stubborn line. Dave's optimism lost its fizz. Wharton said ponderously: “I have more than a thousand employees—many of them Negroes, by the way. If sales of Foam plummet because we offended viewers, some of those people will lose their jobs. I can't risk that.”

“We would both be taking a risk,” Dave said. “My own popularity is also at stake. But I want to do something to help this country heal.”

Wharton smiled indulgently, as he might have if one of his children said something hopelessly idealistic. “And you think a kiss can do that?”

Dave made his voice lower and harsher. “It's Saturday night, Albert. Picture this: all over America, young black men are wondering whether to go out tonight and start fires and smash windows, or kick back and stay out of trouble. Before making up their minds, a lot of them will watch
Dave Williams and Friends,
just because it's hosted by a rock star. How do you want them feeling at the end of the show?”

“Well, obviously—”

“Think of how we built that set for Percy and Evie. Everything about the scene says that white and black have to be kept apart: their costumes, the roles they're playing, and the counter between them.”

“That was the intention,” said Wharton.

“We emphasized their separateness, and I don't want to throw that in black people's faces, especially not tonight, when their great hero has been murdered. But Evie's kiss, right at the end, undermines the whole setup. The kiss says we don't have to exploit one another and beat one another and murder one another. It says we
can
touch one another. That shouldn't be a big thing, but it is.”

Dave held his breath. In truth he was not sure the kiss was going to stop many riots. He wanted the kiss left in just because it stood for right against wrong. But he thought maybe this argument might convince Wharton.

Caroline said: “Dave's so right, Dad. You really ought to do it.”

“Yeah,” said Edward.

Wharton was not much moved by his children's opinions, but he turned to his wife, somewhat to Dave's surprise, and asked: “What do you think, dear?”

“I wouldn't tell you to do anything that would harm the company,” she said. “You know that. But I think this could even benefit National Soap. If you're criticized, tell them you did it because of Martin Luther King. You could end up a hero.”

Dave said: “It's seven forty-five, Mr. Wharton. Charlie Lacklow is waiting by the phone. If you call him in the next five minutes, he'll have time to switch the tapes. The decision is yours.”

The room went quiet. Wharton thought for a minute. Then he got up. “Heck, I think you might be right,” he said.

He went out into the hall.

They all heard him dialing. Dave bit his lip. “Mr. Lacklow, please . . . Hello, Charlie . . . Yes, he's here, having dessert with us . . . We've had a long discussion about it, and I'm calling to ask you to put the kiss back in the show . . . Yes, that's what I said. Thank you, Charlie. Good night.”

Dave heard the sound of the phone being cradled, and allowed a warm sense of triumph to suffuse him.

Mr. Wharton came back into the room. “Well, it's done,” he said.

Dave said: “Thank you, Mr. Wharton.”

•   •   •

“The kiss got huge publicity, nearly all of it good,” Dave said to Evie over lunch in the Polo Lounge on Tuesday.

“So National Soap benefited?”

“That's what my new friend Mr. Wharton tells me. Sales of Foam have gone up, not down.”

“And the show?”

“Also a success. They have already commissioned a season.”

“And all because you did the right thing.”

“My solo career is off to a great start. Not bad for a kid who failed all his exams.”

Charlie Lacklow joined them at their table. “Sorry I'm late,” he said insincerely. “I've been working on a joint press release with National Soap. A bit late, three days after the show, but they want to capitalize on the good publicity.” He handed two sheets of paper to Dave.

Evie said: “May I see?” She knew Dave had trouble reading. He handed the papers to her. After a minute she said: “Dave! They have you saying: ‘I wish to pay tribute to the managing director of National Soap,
Mr. Albert Wharton, for his courage and vision in insisting that the show be broadcast including the controversial kiss.' The nerve!”

Dave took back the paper.

Charlie handed him a ballpoint pen.

Dave wrote: “OK” at the top of the sheet, then signed it and handed it to Charlie.

Evie was apoplectic. “It's outrageous!” she said.

“Of course it is,” said Dave. “That's show business.”

O
n the day Dimka's divorce became final, there was a meeting of top Kremlin aides to discuss the crisis in Czechoslovakia.

Dimka was bucked. He longed to marry Natalya, and now one major obstacle was out of the way. He could hardly wait to tell her the news, but when he arrived at the Nina Onilova Room several other aides were already there, and he had to wait.

When she came in, with her curly hair falling around her face in the way he found so enchanting, he gave her a big smile. She did not know what it was for, but she smiled back happily.

Dimka was almost as happy about Czechoslovakia. The new leader in Prague, Alexander Dubcek, had turned out to be a reformer after Dimka's own heart. For the first time since Dimka had been working in the Kremlin, a Soviet satellite had announced that its version of Communism might not be exactly the same as the Soviet model. On April 5 Dubcek had announced an action program that included freedom of speech, the right to travel to the West, an end to arbitrary arrests, and greater independence for industrial enterprises.

And if it worked in Czechoslovakia it might work in the USSR too.

Dimka had always thought that Communism could be reformed—unlike his sister and the dissidents, who believed it should be scrapped.

The meeting began, and Yevgeny Filipov presented a KGB report that said bourgeois elements were attempting to undermine the Czech revolution.

Dimka sighed heavily. This was typical of the Kremlin under Brezhnev. When people resisted their authority, they never asked whether there were legitimate reasons, but always looked for—or invented—malign motives.

Dimka's response was scornful. “I doubt if there are many bourgeois
elements left in Czechoslovakia, after twenty years of Communism,” he said.

As evidence Filipov produced two pieces of paper. One was a letter from Simon Wiesenthal, director of the Jewish Documentation Center in Vienna, praising the work of Zionist colleagues in Prague. The other was a leaflet printed in Czechoslovakia calling for Ukraine to secede from the USSR.

Across the table, Natalya Smotrov was derisive. “These documents are such obvious forgeries as to be laughable! It's not remotely plausible that Simon Wiesenthal is organizing a counterrevolution in Prague. Surely the KGB can do better than this?”

Filipov said angrily: “Dubcek has turned out to be a snake in the grass!”

There was a grain of truth in that. When the previous Czech leader became unpopular, Dubcek had been approved by Brezhnev as a replacement because he seemed dull and reliable. His radicalism had come as a nasty shock to Kremlin conservatives.

Filipov went on. “Dubcek has allowed newspapers to attack Communist leaders!” he said indignantly.

Filipov was on weak ground here. Dubcek's predecessor, Antonín Novotný, had been a crook. Now Dimka said: “The newly liberated newspapers revealed that Novotný was using government import licenses to buy Jaguar cars that he then sold to his party colleagues at a huge profit.” He pretended incredulity. “Do you really want to protect such men, Comrade Filipov?”

“I want Communist countries to be governed in a disciplined and rigorous way,” Filipov replied. “Subversive newspapers will soon start demanding Western-style so-called democracy, in which political parties representing rival bourgeois factions create the illusion of choice but unite to repress the working class.”

“Nobody wants that,” said Natalya. “But we do want Czechoslovakia to be a culturally advanced country attractive to Western tourists. If we crack down and tourism declines, the Soviet Union will be forced to pay out even more money to support the Czech economy.”

Filipov sneered: “Is that the Foreign Ministry view?”

“The Foreign Ministry wants a negotiation with Dubcek to ensure that the country remains Communist, not a crude intervention that will alienate capitalist and Communist countries alike.”

In the end the economic arguments prevailed with the majority around the table. The aides recommended to the Politburo that Dubcek be questioned by other Warsaw Pact members at their next meeting in Dresden, East Germany. Dimka was exultant: the threat of a hard-line purge had been warded off, at least for the moment. The thrilling Czech experiment in reformed Communism could continue.

Outside the room, Dimka said to Natalya: “My divorce has come through. I am no longer married to Nina, and that's official.”

Her response was muted. “Good,” she said, but she looked anxious.

Dimka had been living apart from Nina and little Grigor for a year. He had his own small place, where he and Natalya snatched a few hours of togetherness once or twice a week. It was unsatisfactory to both of them. “I want to marry you,” he said.

“I want the same.”

“Will you talk to Nik?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Soon.”

“What are you scared of?”

“I'm not frightened for myself,” she said. “I don't care what he does to me.” Dimka winced, remembering her split lip. “It's you I'm worried about,” she went on. “Remember the tape recorder man.”

Dimka remembered. The black market trader who had cheated Natalya had been so badly beaten that he ended up in hospital. Natalya's implication was that the same might happen to Dimka if she asked Nik for a divorce.

Dimka did not believe this. “I'm not some lowlife criminal, I'm right-hand man to the premier. Nik can't touch me.” He was 99 percent sure of this.

“I don't know,” Natalya said unhappily. “Nik has high-up contacts too.”

Dimka spoke more quietly. “Do you still have sex with him?”

“Not often. He has other girls.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“No!”

“Does he?”

“Not much.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“His pride. He'll be angry to think I could prefer another man.”

“I'm not afraid of his anger.”

“I am. But I will talk to him. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Dimka lowered his voice to a whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Dimka returned to his office and summarized the aides' meeting for his boss, Alexei Kosygin.

“I don't believe the KGB, either,” Kosygin said. “Andropov wants to suppress Dubcek's reforms, and he's fabricating evidence to support that move.” Yuri Andropov was the new head of the KGB, and a fanatical hard-liner. Kosygin went on: “But I need reliable intelligence from Czechoslovakia. If the KGB is untrustworthy, who can I turn to?”

“Send my sister there,” said Dimka. “She's a reporter for TASS. In the Cuban missile crisis she sent Khrushchev superb intelligence from Havana via the Red Army telegraph. She can do the same for you from Prague.

“Good idea,” said Kosygin. “Organize it, will you?”

•   •   •

Dimka did not see Natalya the next day, but the day after that she phoned just as he was leaving the office at seven.

“Did you talk to Nik?” he asked her.

“Not yet.” Before Dimka could express his disappointment she went on: “But something else happened. Filipov came to see him.”

“Filipov?” Dimka was astonished. “What does a Defense Ministry official want with your husband?”

“Mischief. I think he told Nik about you and me.”

“Why would he do that? I know we're always clashing in meetings, but still . . .”

“There's something I haven't told you. Filipov made a pass at me.”

“The stupid prick. When?”

“Two months ago, at the Riverside Bar. You were away with Kosygin.”

“Incredible. He thought you might go to bed with him just because I was out of town?”

“Something like that. It was embarrassing. I told him I wouldn't
sleep with him if he were the last man in Moscow. I probably should have been gentler.”

“You think he talked to Nik for revenge?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“What did Nik say to you?”

“Nothing. That's what worries me. I wish he'd bust my lip again.”

“Don't say that.”

“I'm afraid for you.”

“I'll be fine, don't worry.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“Don't walk home, drive.”

“I always do.”

They said good-bye and hung up. Dimka put on his heavy coat and fur hat and left the building. His Moskvitch 408 was in the Kremlin car park, so he was safe there. He drove home, wondering whether Nik would have the nerve to ram his car, but nothing happened.

He reached his building and parked on the street a block away. This was the moment of greatest vulnerability. He had to walk from the car door to the building door under the streetlights. If they were going to beat him up they might do it here.

There was no one in sight, but they might be hiding.

Nik himself would not be the one to carry out the attack, Dimka presumed. He would send some of his thugs. Dimka wondered how many. Should he fight back? Against two he might have a chance: he was no pussy. If there were three or more he might as well lie down and take it.

He got out of the car and locked it.

He walked along the pavement. Would they burst out of the back of that parked van? Come around the corner of the next building? Be lurking in this doorway?

He reached his building and went inside. Perhaps they would be in the lobby.

He had to wait a long time for the elevator.

When it arrived and the doors closed he wondered if they would be in his apartment.

He unlocked his front door. The place was silent and still. He looked into the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom.

The place was empty.

He bolted the door.

•   •   •

For two weeks Dimka walked around fearing he could be attacked at any minute. Eventually he decided it was not going to happen. Perhaps Nik did not care that his wife was having an affair; or perhaps he was too wise to make an enemy of someone who worked in the Kremlin. Either way, Dimka began to feel safer.

He still wondered at the spite of Yevgeny Filipov. How could the man even have been surprised that Natalya rejected him? He was dull and conservative and homely-looking and badly dressed: what did he imagine he had to tempt an attractive woman who already had a lover as well as a husband? But clearly Filipov's feelings had been deeply wounded. However, his revenge seemed not to have worked.

But the main thing on Dimka's mind was the Czech reform movement that was being called the Prague Spring. It had caused the most bitter Kremlin split since the Cuban missile crisis. Dimka's boss, Soviet premier Alexei Kosygin, was the leader of the optimists, who hoped the Czechs could find a way out of the bog of inefficiency and waste that was the typical Communist economy. Muting their enthusiasm for tactical reasons, they proposed that Dubcek be watched carefully, but that confrontation should be avoided if possible. However, conservatives such as Filipov's boss, Defense Minister Andrei Grechko, and KGB chief Andropov were unnerved by Prague. They feared that radical ideas would undermine their authority, infect other countries, and subvert the Warsaw Pact military alliance. They wanted to send in the tanks, depose Dubcek, and install a rigid Communist regime slavishly loyal to Moscow.

The real boss, Leonid Brezhnev, was sitting on the fence, as he so often did, waiting for a consensus to emerge.

Despite being some of the most powerful people in the world, the top men in the Kremlin were scared of stepping out of line. Marxism-Leninism answered all questions, so the eventual decision would be
infallibly correct. Anyone who had argued for a different outcome was therefore revealed to be culpably out of touch with orthodox thinking. Dimka sometimes wondered if it was this bad in the Vatican.

Because no one wanted to be the first to express an opinion on the record, as always they had to get their aides to thrash things out informally ahead of any Politburo meeting.

“It's not just Dubcek's revisionist ideas about freedom of the press,” said Yevgeny Filipov to Dimka one afternoon in the broad corridor outside the Presidium Room. “He's a Slovak who wants to give more rights to the oppressed minority he comes from. Imagine if
that
idea starts to get around places such as Ukraine and Belarus.”

As always, Filipov looked ten years out of date. Nowadays almost everyone was wearing their hair longer, but he still had an army crop. Dimka tried to forget for a moment that he was a malicious troublemaking bastard. “These dangers are remote,” Dimka argued. “There's no immediate threat to the Soviet Union—certainly nothing to justify ham-fisted military intervention.”

“Dubcek has undermined the KGB. He's expelled several agents from Prague and authorized an investigation into the death of the old foreign minister Jan Masaryk.”

“Is the KGB entitled to murder ministers in friendly governments?” Dimka asked. “Is that the message you want to send to Hungary and East Germany? That would make the KGB worse than the CIA. At least the Americans only murder people in enemy countries such as Cuba.”

Filipov became petulant. “What is to be gained by allowing this foolishness in Prague?”

“If we invade Czechoslovakia, there will be a diplomatic freeze—you know that.”

“So what?”

“It will damage our relations with the West. We're trying to reduce tension with the United States, so that we can spend less on our military. That whole effort could be sabotaged. An invasion might even help Richard Nixon get elected president—and he could
increase
American defense spending. Think what that could cost us!”

Filipov tried to interrupt, but Dimka overrode him. “The invasion will also shock the Third World. We're trying to strengthen our ties with
nonaligned countries in the face of rivalry from China, which wants to replace us as leader of global Communism. That's why we're organizing the World Communist Conference in November. That conference could become a humiliating failure if we invade Czechoslovakia.”