The American Ambassador (34 page)

Too many questions, too many things seen, all at once.

So it would be later. He had a plan for that also. Bill Jr. put the car in gear and drove away, a little faster than he needed to, not so fast as to attract attention. His eyes were on the rearview mirror, but Volta Place behind him was empty. No one followed. He had not been seen.

 

Mordant messages. Maybe she was listening to rock, maybe to Mahler. Bet on Mahler.
A stranger to the world, I have become.
That one. Oddly, for the alto voice; one would have thought a baritone. But Mahler was always evenhanded. Women got out of joint no less than men, when the world got up and wandered away. Perhaps women did not mind it quite so much, having a more complete inner life. It was hard to imagine a woman lost inside herself.

He crossed his legs, idly watching the tennis players. He touched the postcard in his pocket. A tangible clue, evidence for Carruthers, for Dunphy and the committee, dapper Warren Winston. He could approach them voluntarily. I am an officer of the government, and this is my full disclosure. On 34th Street, Northwest, at four in the afternoon, she was an attractive young woman, enormous sunglasses, slender and chic. Foreign, French from the sound of her accent. A professional approach. If he had neglected to pick up the card, she would have tried again, some other way; or someone else would have. He knew every question they would ask. He was one of them, after all. They thought alike, government men; he had been one his entire working life. He was more a part of them than Elinor was. Elinor had looked at him and said:
Nothing
, give them
nothing.
So the world had wandered away, but he had wandered away, too. Elinor remained where she had always been. And the boy? He was to the back of beyond.

Well, the world was neither coherent nor consistent. You played for time; time was the prize, though not always the prize you wanted.

His vision blurred but he made out, across the park, the young woman in black. Her hour had run its course, and he wondered now what had taken place between her and sensitive Dr. Bixby, the Talleyrand of the female orgasm. Nothing good, from the look of her slow step, arms at her sides, head down; she looked like a priest advancing on the altar, a vivid figure, black against the red and gold of the trees. Probably she too was a child of the Establishment, perhaps consoled by its moral disarray.
What is to be done?
No doubt Bill Jr. had asked the same question, already knowing the answer. He was not interested in the next question,
What is to be done after we do what we have todo?
First things first. Bixby would be a big help. After a glance at the clock, he would lead her back over the difficult terrain of the past, the past imperfect, mommy, daddy, nightmares, daydreams, the shadow of love, the absence of justice, the day the dog died. Christ, it was such a sham. He imagined Bixby leaning forward, so solicitous, staring into her dark eyes as she unraveled. You'll feel better with your clothes off, my dear. By God, she was a good-looking young woman in black. All afternoon, surrounded by young women; and he had not felt the slightest sexual urge. He had no desire. Maybe somewhere in Georgetown there was a female Bixby, who for a hundred dollars an hour could coax him out of his shell. Make yourself comfy, put your feet up. Have a cigarette. Like some warm milk? Tell me your dreams, Bunny.

“Hello, Bill.”

He turned, startled. He shaded his eyes from the sun, burst suddenly through the trees. Turning, he twisted his neck and the pain shot into the small of his back. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. He waited for the pain to ease, and when it didn't he turned away, groaning, gaining time. The tennis players had paused in their game and were watching him. He felt a great rush of gratitude, why he couldn't say; this visit was nothing to be grateful for. He rose slowly and they shook hands. He said, “Hello, Kurt. Take me home.”

K
LEUST SAID
, “The car's over here.”

Standing, lightheaded, he was conscious of a stillness in the park, a cessation of movement. The young woman in black had disappeared, and the tennis players had abruptly finished their match. They were sitting on the grass, breathing hard. One of them was smoking a Gauloise, the unmistakable raw French odor saturating the air. He and Kleust walked in silence to the car, an old black Mercedes sedan with ordinary DC plates. Bill got in, stumbling once, then leaned back against the leather cushions and closed his eyes. The leather gave off a wonderful oily smell, the rotund atmosphere of a gentleman's club. Old Kurt, looking stiff and formal as a line of German script, while he himself felt like a child's hand, erratic, vague, hard to decipher. You have me at a disadvantage, he thought.

He said in German, “What a surprise. The day is full of surprises. How did you know where I'd be?”

Kleust said, “I guessed. It wasn't hard. They told me you took a walk in the afternoon.”

He opened one eye, and looked at Kleust. They?

Kleust said, “You look half dead.”

“And everyone says how well I'm getting on.”

Kleust smiled. “They're lying.” Then, “We have to talk, Bill. I don't have much time.”

“Are they yours, the Hitler youth on the courts?”

“Two boys from the embassy. They play every afternoon.”

He said, “Christ.”

“They're nice boys,” Kleust said.

“The woman in black?”

He said, “Bill,” reprovingly.

“The dish in the limo?” It was parked up the street, the chauffeur leaning against the hood smoking a cigarette. While they watched, he flipped the cigarette into the street, got into the car, and pulled away. Kleust laughed, and put the key into the ignition. He started the car and let it idle, the engine quieter by far than the Beethoven quartet on the cassette. After a moment, Kleust cleared his throat and put his hand on Bill's arm. “Look,” he began, but Bill shook his head. Later, when they were at home, when Elinor could join them. When he had taken a pill, and had a drink in his hand, and was in his own house, safe.

“You might want to hear this first, old friend.”

“No,” he said.

Kleust looked closely at him. “God almighty. What did they do to you?”

“Cut my neck,” he said. Then, smiling: “Successfully.”

“Shrapnel?”

“That's what they said.”

“If that was a success, I'd like to see one of their failures.”

He laughed. Old Kurt, he had a great bedside manner. “Well, fuck you, too.” Christ, he was tired; tired and slow, moving as if he were under water.

Kleust said tentatively, “Bill—”

“Funny thing, I was just thinking about him.”

“Who?”

“Bill Jr. That's why you've come, isn't it?”

Kleust put the car in gear.

“Well, then. Let's go home.” They rode in silence to O Street, where, miraculously, there was a parking space in front of the house.

Elinor was downstairs. When she saw him, so obviously out of it, she gave a little cry. When Kurt came in the door behind him, she recoiled; there was none of the usual banter of the unexpected visit. Where had he come from? One look at the two of them told her it was bad news, and when Kurt held out his hand and kissed her on the cheek, she pulled away in confusion. They stood awkwardly in the vestibule, embarrassed as if they had a secret between them. Bill asked her gently to bring in a drinks tray. She listened for a signal but his voice was neutral, perhaps with fatigue. He and Kleust went into the study.

He took a pill. The house was cool after the heat of the park. He noticed that Kleust was wearing a tweed suit, and sweating freely; probably he had just gotten off the plane. Elinor came in with the drinks tray and some peanuts and cheese. She poured Scotch for them and Coke for herself. Then, on second thought, she added rum to the Coke. Her hand was shaking but she was certain they didn't notice, they were so caught up with each other, and whatever secret they were sharing.

Bill took a long drink and felt better at once. “You just got off the plane?”

Kurt nodded. “From Frankfurt.”

Bill smiled sadly at Elinor, then said, “I've got about thirty minutes of concentration.”

Elinor said quickly, “Do you want to stay for dinner? We have plenty, I'd just have to set another place.” She knew what was coming and didn't want to hear it. She pulled both legs up under her on the chair, both hands around the glass in her lap.

“I've probably got to get to the embassy.”

She caught the ambiguity in his voice and nodded. They could decide later.

Kleust looked at each of them in turn. “We have word about Bill Jr.”

She murmured, “Thank God,” and put her face in her hands, the glass cold against her cheek. “Thank God, thank God.” She reached across the table and took Bill's hand. “I thought he was dead. I thought Kurt had come to tell us he was dead. All this week I've thought, ‘He's dead.' Something kept pushing at me, telling me that he was dead in Europe. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. Every time the telephone rang—” She put the glass down.

“No,” Kleust said. “He's alive. He's in Germany.”

She turned away, her glance falling on the photographs in the bookcase. The three of them ten years ago, Bill and the boy demarcating her, like a picture frame. They towered over her, though Bill Jr. had yet to reach his full height. They looked so young; they looked like the product of Picasso's early years, a family portrait before the Blue Period, before Cubism, before things got so fantastically complicated. She turned to Bill, staring silently into his drink. She said, “How do they know where he is?”

Kleust said, “We have reliable information.” He put his hands out, palms up.

Bill said, “His name is Duer.”

“Well, who's Duer? I don't know any Duer.”

Kleust said, “He's one of our people, Elinor. He's very reliable.”

She turned to her husband. “Do you know him?”

“I met him in Africa, remember? I told you about him, Herr Duer. He was the one who had the photographs, Bill Jr. and the girl in Hamburg. I didn't like him.”

“I don't know him,” she said firmly. “I don't remember Herr Duer.”

Kleust leaned forward, speaking quietly as if fearful he would be overheard. “They have been tracking Bill Jr., and his group. One of them, a young woman, flew from Hamburg to Munich to Rome. And from Rome to Montreal. By train from Montreal to Burlington, Vermont. And by air from Burlington to Washington. They are very thorough. That was last week. She disappeared in Washington, so easy to do despite the assets we control. It is easier to disappear in Washington, D.C., than in the Amazon Basin. Your government does not control its own borders! We are certain she was here yesterday, but perhaps she has flown away again.”

Elinor said, irrelevantly, “All that travel. It costs a lot of money.”

“Yes,” Kleust agreed.

“Where did she get the money, Kurt?” Bill wanted to get back to specifics.

Kleust smiled. “They kidnaped a child in Munich.”

Bill raised his eyebrows.

“A banker's daughter. The banker paid, immediately. A half a million Deutschmarks, cheap at the price. And the banker actually got her back, which isn't usual.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No, she wasn't hurt. She was hysterical, but not harmed. They told her to say nothing, or they would return and mutilate her. They made her believe it. They were very persuasive. The entire transaction was over in twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Bill said. “And what else?”

“That's where the money comes from,” Kleust said.

“I know that,” Bill said.

Kleust looked at his drink, picked it up, and took a sip. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “The question is, Why is she here? What does she want? The evidence that we have is not a hundred percent conclusive. But we believe she is here because of you. She wants to make contact. She is carrying a message, to be delivered privately. A message to be delivered to you alone. They would suspect a telephone tap, and suspect a mail cover; so it would not be a phone call or a letter. We believe.
Herr Duer
believes. They want to arrange a meeting.” He had been moving his eyes back and forth between Bill and Elinor. Now he looked only at Bill.

He said, “She has been in Washington a week?”

Kleust said, “Yes.”

“But you think she may have gone?”

“Only if she has made the contact.”

Bill was silent.

“Has she?”

Elinor put her hand on Bill's arm. “A meeting. For what purpose?”

“We are not sure,” he said evasively. Then, “But they killed a man in Berlin. Bill Jr. and his girlfriend did.”

Elinor said, “I don't believe it.”

“Who was he?” Bill said.

“I don't believe it,” Elinor said again. “Were there witnesses?”

Kleust looked at Bill. “There is evidence.”

“Who was he?” Bill asked again.

“We're not sure.”

“
Kurt
,” Bill said.

The German looked up with sudden understanding. “It wasn't an American. No one connected with your government. Or ours.” He added, “I'm not at liberty to say who it was. We are still waiting for positive identification. I have instructions. I am going by my instructions.”

“This is an official visit, then.”

Kleust said, “No, Bill. There will be one, no doubt. But this isn't it. This is private.”

Elinor began to speak. She was looking at the portrait, suddenly rearranged in her vision. Bill and Bill Jr. looked misshapen to her. She was trying to connect then to now, but it was all now. She realized she was incoherent and shut up. Bill listened a moment, then rose and went to the window. O Street was brilliant in the fading yellow light; it was almost dusk. He looked without seeing, imagining the girl somewhere nearby, perhaps the park or on the crowded Wisconsin Avenue sidewalks; perhaps she was in a singles bar, listening to the chatter. It would encourage her, evidence of decay from within; Marx confirmed in Clyde's. But it was a large city, she could be almost anywhere. No doubt she had already left, as Kleust suspected. Bill knew now that it was important to betray nothing. He looked left and right at the people in the street, his neighbors returning home from work. Then he stood by Elinor's chair, listening. The postcard was in his pocket, and he restrained an impulse to touch it; to check on it, as one would check on a sleeping infant.