Then Gorbachev said one Russian word: ‘
Nyet
.’ No.
Németh looked like a man whose death sentence has been repealed.
Gorbachev added: ‘At least, not as long as I’m sitting in this chair.’
Németh laughed. He did not think Gorbachev was in danger of being deposed.
He was wrong. The Kremlin always presented a united front to the world, but it was never as harmonious as it pretended. People had no idea how shaky was Gorbachev’s grip. Németh was satisfied to know what Gorbachev’s own intentions were, but Dimka knew better.
However, Németh was not finished. He had won from Gorbachev a huge concession – a promise that the USSR would not intervene to prevent the overthrow of Communism in Hungary! Yet now, with surprising audacity, Németh pressed for a further guarantee. ‘The fence is dilapidated,’ he said. ‘It has to be either renewed or abandoned.’
Dimka knew what Németh was talking about. The border between Communist Hungary and capitalist Austria was secured by a stainless steel electric fence one hundred and fifty miles long. It was naturally very expensive to maintain. To renew the whole thing would cost millions.
Gorbachev said: ‘If it needs renewing, then renew it.’
‘No,’ said Németh. He might be nervous, but he was determined. Dimka admired his guts. ‘I don’t have the money, and I don’t need the fence,’ Németh went on. ‘It’s a Warsaw Pact installation. If you want it, you should renew it.’
‘That isn’t going to happen,’ said Gorbachev. ‘The Soviet Union no longer has that kind of money. A decade ago, oil was forty dollars a barrel and we could do anything. Now it’s what, nine dollars? We’re broke.’
‘Let me make sure we understand one another,’ said Németh. He was perspiring, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘If you do not pay, we will not renew the fence, and it will cease to operate as an effective barrier. People will be able to go to Austria, and we will not stop them.’
There was another pregnant silence. Then at last Gorbachev sighed and said: ‘So be it.’
That was the end of the meeting. The farewell courtesies were perfunctory. The Hungarians could not get away quickly enough. They had got everything they asked for. They shook hands with Gorbachev and left the room at a fast walk. It was as if they wanted to get back on the plane before Gorbachev had time to change his mind.
Dimka returned to his own office in a reflective mood. Gorbachev had surprised him twice: first by being unexpectedly hostile to Németh’s reforms, and second by offering no real resistance to them.
Would the Hungarians abandon the fence? It was an essential part of the Iron Curtain. If suddenly people were allowed to walk over the border and into the West, that could be a change even more momentous than free elections.
But Filipov and the conservatives had not yet surrendered. They were on the alert for the least sign of weakness in Gorbachev. Dimka did not doubt that they had contingency plans for a coup.
He was looking thoughtfully at the large revolutionary picture on his office wall when Natalya called. ‘You know what a Lance missile is, don’t you?’ she said without preamble.
‘A short-range surface-to-surface tactical nuclear weapon,’ he replied. ‘The Americans have about seven hundred in Germany. Fortunately their range is only about seventy-five miles.’
‘Not any longer,’ she said. ‘President Bush wants to upgrade them. The new ones will fly two hundred and eighty miles.’
‘Hell.’ This was what Dimka feared and Filipov had predicted. ‘But this is illogical. It’s not that long ago that Reagan and Gorbachev
withdrew
intermediate-range ballistic missiles.’
‘Bush thinks Reagan went too far with disarmament.’
‘How definite is this plan?’
‘Bush has surrounded himself with Cold-War hawks, according to the KGB station in Washington. Defense Secretary Cheney is gung-ho. So is Scowcroft.’ Brent Scowcroft was the National Security Advisor. ‘And there’s a woman called Condoleeza Rice who is just as bad.’
Dimka despaired. ‘Filipov is going to say: “I told you so”.’
‘Filipov and others. It’s a dangerous development for Gorbachev.’
‘What’s the Americans’ timetable?’
‘They’re going to put pressure on the West Europeans at the NATO meeting in May.’
‘Shit,’ said Dimka. ‘Now we’re in trouble.’
* * *
Rebecca Held was at her apartment in Hamburg, late in the evening, working, with papers spread over the round table in the kitchen. On the counter were a dirty coffee cup and a plate with the crumbs of the ham sandwich she had eaten for supper. She had taken off her smart working clothes, removed her make-up, showered, and put on baggy old underwear and an ancient silk wrap.
She was preparing for her first visit to the United States. She was going with her boss, Hans-Dietrich Genscher, who was Vice-Chancellor of Germany, Foreign Minister, and head of the Free Democratic Party to which she belonged. Their mission was to explain to the Americans why they did not want any more nuclear weapons. The Soviet Union was becoming less threatening under Gorbachev. Upgraded nukes were not merely unnecessary: they might actually be counterproductive, undermining Gorbachev’s peace moves and strengthening the hand of hawks in Moscow.
She was reading a German intelligence appraisal of the power struggle in the Kremlin when the doorbell rang.
She looked at her watch. It was half past nine. She was not expecting a visitor and she certainly was not dressed to receive one. However, it was probably a neighbour in the same building on some trivial errand, needing to borrow a carton of milk.
She did not merit a full-time bodyguard: she was not important enough to attract terrorists, thank God. All the same, her door had a peephole so that she could check before opening up.
She was surprised to see Frederik Bíró outside.
She had mixed feelings. A surprise visit from her lover was a delight – but she looked a perfect fright. At the age of fifty-seven any woman wanted time to prepare before she showed herself to her man.
But she could hardly ask him to wait in the hall while she made up her face and changed her underwear.
She opened the door.
‘My darling,’ he said, and kissed her.
‘I’m pleased to see you, but you’ve caught me unawares,’ she said. ‘I’m a mess.’
He stepped inside and she closed the door. He held her at arm’s length and studied her. ‘Tousled hair, glasses, dressing gown, bare feet,’ he said. ‘You look adorable.’
She laughed and led him into the kitchen. ‘Have you had dinner?’ she said. ‘Shall I make you an omelette?’
‘Just some coffee, please. I ate on the plane.’
‘What are you doing in Hamburg?’
‘My boss sent me.’ Fred sat at the table. ‘Prime Minister Németh is coming to Germany next week to see Chancellor Kohl. He’s going to ask Kohl a question. Like all politicians, he wants to know the answer before he asks it.’
‘What question?’
‘I need to explain.’
She put a cup of coffee in front of Fred. ‘Go ahead, I’ve got all night.’
‘I’m hoping it won’t take that long.’ He ran a hand up her leg inside her robe. ‘I have other plans.’ He reached her underwear. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Roomy panties.’
She blushed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you!’
He grinned. ‘I could get both hands inside there – both arms, maybe.’
She pushed his hands away and moved to the other side of the table. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to throw out all my old underwear.’ She sat opposite him. ‘Stop embarrassing me and tell me why you’re here.’
‘Hungary is going to open its border with Austria.’
Rebecca did not think she had heard him aright. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’re going to open our border. Let the fence fall into disrepair. Free our people to go where they want.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘It’s an economic decision as much as a political one. The fence is collapsing and we can’t afford to rebuild it.’
Rebecca was beginning to understand. ‘But if the Hungarians can get out, so can everyone else. How will you stop Czechs, Yugoslavs, Poles . . .’
‘We won’t.’
‘. . . and East Germans. Oh, my goodness, my family will be able to leave!’
‘Yes.’
‘It can’t happen. The Soviets won’t allow it.’
‘Németh went to Moscow and told Gorbachev.’
‘What did Gorbi say?’
‘Nothing. He’s not happy, but he won’t intervene. He can’t afford to renew the fence either.’
‘But . . .’
‘I was there, at the meeting in the Kremlin. Németh asked him straight out, would the Soviets invade as they did in 1956? His answer was
nyet
.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Yes.’
This was world-changing news. Rebecca had been working for this all her political life, but she could not believe it was really going to happen: her family, able to travel from East to West Germany! Freedom!
Then Fred said: ‘There is one possible snag.’
‘I was afraid of that.’
‘Gorbachev promised no military intervention, but he did not rule out economic sanctions.’
Rebecca thought that was the least of their problems. ‘Hungary’s economy will become West-facing, and it will grow.’
‘That’s what we want. But it will take time. People may face hardship. The Kremlin may hope to push us into an economic collapse before the economy has time to adjust. Then there could be a counter-revolution.’
He was right, Rebecca saw. This was a serious danger. ‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ she said despondently.
‘Don’t despair. We have a solution. That’s why I’m here.’
‘What’s your plan?’
‘We need support from the richest country in Europe. If we can have a big line of credit from German banks, we can resist Soviet pressure. Next week, Németh will ask Kohl for a loan. I know you can’t authorize such a thing on your own, but I was hoping you could give me a steer. What will Kohl say?’
‘I can’t imagine he’ll say no, if the reward is open borders. Apart from the political gain, think what this could mean to the German economy.’
‘We may need a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
‘Possibly a billion deutschmarks.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Rebecca said. ‘You’ve got it.’
* * *
The Soviet economy was getting worse and worse, according to the CIA report in front of Congressman George Jakes. Gorbachev’s reforms – decentralization, more consumer goods, fewer weapons – were not enough.
There was pressure on the East European satellites to follow the USSR by liberalizing their own economies, but any changes would be minor and gradual, the Agency forecast. If any country rejected Communism outright, then Gorbachev would send in the tanks.
That did not sound right to George, sitting in a meeting of the House Intelligence Oversight Committee. Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia were running ahead of the USSR, moving towards free enterprise and democracy, and Gorbachev was doing nothing to hold them back.
But President Bush and Defense Secretary Cheney believed passionately in the Soviet menace, and as always the CIA was under pressure to tell the President what he wanted to hear.
The meeting left George feeling dissatisfied and anxious. He took the dinky Capitol subway train back to the Cannon House Office Building, where he had a suite of three crowded rooms. The lobby had a reception desk, a couch for waiting visitors, and a round table for meetings. To one side was the administration office, crammed with staff desks and bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the opposite side was George’s own room, with a desk and a conference table and a picture of Bobby Kennedy.
He was intrigued to see, on his list of afternoon appointments, a clergyman from Anniston, Alabama, the Reverend Clarence Bowyer, who wanted to talk to him about civil rights.
George would never forget Anniston. It was the town where the Freedom Riders had been attacked by a mob and their bus firebombed. It was the only time someone had tried seriously to kill George.
He must have said yes to the man’s request for a meeting, though he could not now remember why. He assumed that a preacher from Alabama who wanted to see him would be African American, and he was startled when his assistant ushered in a white man. The Reverend Bowyer was about George’s age, dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt and a dark tie, but wearing trainers, perhaps because he had to do a lot of walking in Washington. He had large front teeth and a receding chin, and salt-and-pepper hair that accentuated the resemblance to a red squirrel. There was something vaguely familiar about him. With him was a teenage boy who looked just like him.
‘I try to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to soldiers and others working at the Anniston Army Depot,’ Bowyer said, introducing himself. ‘Many of my congregation are African Americans.’
Bowyer was sincere, George thought; and he had a mixed-race church, which was unusual. ‘What’s your interest in civil rights, Reverend?’
‘Well, sir, I was a segregationist as a young man.’
‘Many people were,’ George said. ‘We’ve all learned a lot.’
‘I’ve done more than learn,’ said Bowyer. ‘I have spent decades in deep repentance.’
That seemed a little strong. Some of the people who asked for meetings with congressmen were more or less crazy. George’s staff did their best to filter out the lunatics, but now and again one would slip through the net. However, Bowyer struck George as pretty sane. ‘Repentance,’ George repeated, playing for time.
‘Congressman Jakes,’ said Bowyer solemnly, ‘I have come here to apologize to you.’
‘What for, exactly?’
‘In 1961 I hit you with a crowbar. I believe I broke your arm.’
In a flash George understood why the man looked familiar. He had been in the mob at Anniston. He had tried to hit Maria, but George had put his arm in the way. It still hurt in cold weather. George stared in astonishment at this earnest clergyman. ‘So that was you,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. I don’t have any excuses to offer. I knew what I was doing, and I did wrong. But I have never forgotten you. I just would like you to know how sorry I am, and I wanted my son, Clam, to witness my confession of evildoing.’