The collected stories (84 page)

And of course there was my other subject, the Storm Trooper from 4C with his thumping jackboots at the oddest hours. I decided at last that wimpy little Wigley (as I now thought of him) had become friendly with him, perhaps ratted on me and told him that I disliked him.

Wigley worked at Post Office Headquarters, at St Martin's-le-Grand, taking the train to Victoria and then the tube to St Paul's. I sometimes saw him entering or leaving Battersea Park Station while I was at the bus stop. Occasionally, we walked together to or from Overstrand Mansions, speaking of the weather.

One day, he said, 'I might be moving soon.'

I felt certain he was getting married. I did not ask.

'Are you sick of Overstrand Mansions?'

'I need a bigger place.'

He was definitely getting married.

I had the large balcony apartment in front. Wigley had a two-room apartment just behind me. The motorcyclist's place I had never seen.

'I wish it were the Storm Trooper who was leaving, and not you.'

He was familiar with my name for the motorcyclist.

'Oh, well,' he said, and walked away.

Might be moving, he had said. It sounded pretty vague. But the following Friday he was gone. I heard noise and saw the moving van in front on Prince of Wales Drive. Bumps and curses echoed on the stairs. I didn't stir - too embarrassing to put him on the spot, especially as I had knocked on his door that morning, hoping

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

for the last time to get him to join me in a protest against the Storm Trooper. I'm sure he saw me through his spy-hole in the door - Wigley, I mean. But he didn't open. So he didn't care about the awful racket the previous night - boots, bangs, several screams. Wigley was bailing out and leaving me to deal with it.

He went without a word. Then I realized he had sneaked away. He had not said good-bye; I had never met his girl friend; he was getting married - maybe already married. British neighbors!

I wasn't angry with him, but I was furious with the Storm Trooper, who had created a misunderstanding between Wigley and me. Wigley had tolerated the noise and I had hated it and said so. The Storm Trooper had made me seem like a brute!

But I no longer needed Wigley's signature on a complaint. Now there were only two of us here. I could go in and tell him exactly what I thought of him. I could play the obnoxious American. Wigley's going gave me unexpected courage. I banged on his door and shook it, hoping that I was waking him up. There was no answer that day or any day. And there was no more noise, no Storm Trooper, no motorcycle, from the day Wigley left.

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

'There's been a shooting,' he told me solemnly. 'Stay inside and keep away from the windows. Those are orders. It might be Arabs. That was Horton on the phone.'

'It was right down there,' I said, pointing into the mews.

'You're a witness.'

'I didn't see anything,' I said.

Scaduto said, 'I'm glad they didn't give me Rome. It's worse there.'

While he phoned his wife I tried to determine what the police were doing with their chalk marks on the surface of the mews. It looked like the beginning of a children's game.

'I'm not kidding, honey. I heard the shots,' he was saying. 'Hey, I'm glad they didn't give me that Rome job. It's an everyday thing there. Sure, it's terrorists! No, don't worry. I can take care of myself.'

He looked pleased, even smug, when he hung up. 'How about a drink?' he said. 'Someone's bound to have the poop on this downstairs.'

The bar-restaurant in the Embassy basement had no windows, and it was perhaps this and the semidarkness that suggested a hide-out or bomb shelter to me. It was full of huddled, whispering Embassy employees rather enjoying their fear.

'Reminds me of when I was in Rawalpindi,' Scaduto said, still looking pleased. He went for two beers and returned with the name of the man who had been fired upon - Dwight Yorty, a relatively new man in Regional Projects, whom I had never met.

'I shouldn't laugh,' Scaduto said.

But near-disasters, especially when an intended victim seems to have been miraculously reprieved, are often the occasions for lively gossip.

'Yorty!' Scaduto said. 'A month or so ago, he told me the most amazing story. He hit his wife over the head. She fell down, wham, flat on the floor. Go ahead, ask me what he hit her with.'

'What was the weapon, Vic?'

'A cucumber,' he said, pressing his teeth against his smile. 'Isn't that incredible? You'd think he'd use something sensible, like a sledgehammer. But they were having an argument about cucumbers at the time. He had it in his hand, then he hauled off and belted her with it/

'You can't do much damage with a cucumber,' I said.

FIGHTING TALK

'It paralyzed her!' Scaduto was tipping forward in his chair, trying nor to laugh. 'That's what she said - she couldn't move. An ambulance came to take her away on a stretcher. The stretcher wouldn't fit through the kitchen door. She had to get up and walk into the hallway and lie down on it. That's the funny part.'

I said, 'That's not the only funny part.'

'Exactly,' he said. 'Ask me what happened to the cucumber.'

'You'll tell me anyway.'

'He ate it!' Scaduto said. 'That's what they were arguing about. She didn't want him to eat the cucumber, so he whacked her over the head with it and then he ate it. He didn't count on her faking brain damage. You don't believe this, do you?'

'It sounds a little far-fetched.'

'If you were married you'd believe it,' he said. 'You'd think it was an understatement. This kind of thing happens all the time to married people.'

'But shootings don't,' I said. 'Someone just tried to kill Yorty. Maybe it was his wife.'

'No. His wife left him - she's in the States. Poor guy.' Now Scaduto looked contrite. 'I shouldn't have told you that cucumber story. But that's all I know about him.'

The next morning, Ambassador Noyes gave the senior officers a briefing.

The cruder ones among us called him 'No-Yes.' He was a tall white-faced man with thin pale hair and the stiffness and exaggerated sense of decorum that you often associate with people of low intelligence. He often said he liked gold an awful lot. He had the shoulders and the plodding gait of a golfer. He had no interest in politics and had never before held a diplomatic post. But he was a personal friend of the President, and this post of US Ambassador to Britain was regarded by many people as membership in the ultimate country club. It was expensive, but it offered real status. It also proved that money could buy practically anything.

Ambassador Noyes had another trait I had noticed in many slow-witted people: he was tremendously interested in philosophy.

'I guess you've all heard about the shooting,' he was saying. 'As far as I'm concerned, this is just about the most serious thing that's happened since I took up this post.'

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

Although he was nervous and rather new, he did not find his a difficult job. His number two man, Everett Horton, was a career diplomat who had been in London ten years and had wonderful sources. And of course the eight hundred of us at the London Embassy were each working toward the same end: to prop up the Ambassador and put him in the know. I could think of twenty people who were directly responsible to the Ambassador. There was Horton, Brickhouse, Kneedler and Roscoe, besides Scaduto, Sanger and Jeeps. There was Pomeroy, MacWeeney, Geach, Bask-ies, Pryczinski and Frezza, Schoonmaker, Kelly, Kountz and Toomajian, Shinebald and Oberlander. There was me. There were the boys on the third floor. And that was just the inner circle. We were at his service; we were his eyes and ears; we were the best, most of us overqualified for the jobs we were doing. How could he fail?

'I'm determined to get to the bottom of it,' he went on. 'I want to show these people - whoever they are - that we are not afraid of anyone, and that we are, if provoked, quite able to hit back.'

He was a reasonable man. He was also a multimillionaire. How he had made his fortune was a mystery to me, but it was no mystery to me how he had kept it. He was unprejudiced and fair; he gave everyone a hearing; he was also unsentimental. I suspected he was strong. He was certainly practical, and I knew from the way he lived that he was a simple soul. He knew how to delegate power and how to take decisions. I was sure he knew his weaknesses -if he hadn't, he would not have been so successful.

All this is necessary background - I mean, the reasonableness of his character - because his next words were very fierce indeed.

'When I find out who did this, I can promise you that it'll be the last time they try it. We're going to jump on them hard. Our flag will not be insulted.'

The mention of 'flag' put me in mind of Dwight Yorty and the cucumber, and I lowered my eyes as I listened to Ambassador Noyes's tremulous voice.

l I spoke to the President last night and he assured me that he will support us to the hilt. I don't have to tell you gentlemen that we are more than a match tor anyone who takes up arms against us.'

This was fighting talk. We muttered our approval, and there was

FIGHTING TALK

I little burst of appreciative handclapping. But I could tell that the response was mixed. The older men seemed very pleased at the prospect of kicking someone's teeth in. The younger men and all the women were clearly irked by the threats. Most of us judged the Ambassador to be uncharacteristically credulous. Perhaps he was trying to make an impression by swearing revenge. I wondered how it would sound after it was leaked to the press.

Everett Horton spoke next. At times like this he was captain of the team rather than coach. He was correct, modest, loyal, and deferential. He gave a good imitation of controlled anger - I doubted that he had been angry at all. His voice expressed intense indignation.

'The Ambassador has been forthright - and with reason. This is the sixth terrorist incident involving American Embassy personnel in the past two months. It is the first one we've had in London. Obviously, there's a movement afoot in Europe to frighten us.' He paused and said, 'I'm not frightened, but I'm kind of mad.'

Ambassador Noyes smiled in agreement at this, and some of us shuffled our feet in embarrassment.

'One American has been killed, and another wounded - both in Paris,' Horton said. 'Three incidents have been kept out of the papers, as you know. But the Ambassador has decided, and I agree, that this attempt on the life of one of our serving officers should be given maximum publicity.'

He then read us the press release, with the details of the shooting: At approximately fifteen-thirty hours . . . Dwight A. Yorty fired upon . . . unknown assailant. . . believed to be political. He showed us a street map of the Embassy neighborhood, and as he took us through it step by step, he looked more and more like a quarterback explaining a game plan that had gone wrong.

'Any questions?'

No hands went up, perhaps because the Ambassador was in the room, standing behind Horton with his arms folded, ready for battle.

I decided to risk a question. I stood up and said, 'Everett, you called it a terrorist incident. Have we any proof of that?'

Before Horton could speak, the Ambassador stepped forward. 'A man was terrorized - shot at,' he said. 'There's only one sort of person who does that. Everett?'

'I think we're in total agreement, Mr Ambassador,' Horton said.

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (il): THE LONDON EMBASSY

I was still standing. I said, 'What I meant was, has any group like the IRA or the PLO or Black September - or anyone - claimed credit for it?'

My question exasperated the Ambassador. He sighed and stepped away, seeing me as an obstruction. He said, Til let you field that one, Everett.'

'No terrorist group has come forward,' Horton said. 'In one of the Paris shootings the same pattern was followed - an unknown assailant. But it wasn't robbery in either of the incidents. It's got to be political.'

Now Oberlander was on his feet. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'but isn't it somewhat premature to call this shooting political?'

'No,' Horton said, 'because we've got a good description of the man. Dark hair, dark eyes, swarthy features, a slight build, about five-foot-six. Arab. He may be the same man who was responsible for those Paris incidents. We're sure they're linked. And frankly' - Horton made a half-turn toward the Ambassador - 'I'd love to nail him.'

Al Sanger said, 'What about the guy who was picked up right after the shooting?'

This was news to me.

'He was released,' Horton said. 'He didn't fit Yorty's description.'

'I hope you won't find this question malicious,' Erroll Jeeps said, 'but how was it the guy took six or seven shots at point-blank range and missed?'

'Five shots,' I said.

Horton said, 'We haven't found any of the cartridges, so we don't know how many shots. Maybe it was one. Apparently he missed because Yorty was parking his car at the time - in the staff garage.'

'Instead of looking for cartridges,' Sanger said, 'why not look for the slugs?'

'That is up to the British police, who, so far, have done a superb job,' Horton said.

Horton repeated that we would not give in to intimidation, and the Ambassador refolded his arms in defiant emphasis. And he fixed his jaw and nodded stiffly as Horton advised us to take all necessary precautions. If any of us had reason to think we were under threat, he said, we could apply tor police protection.

FIGHTING TALK

Erroll Jeeps said, 'These British cops don't have guns but they got some real loud whistles/

'We'll ignore that remark, Mr Jeeps,' Horton said. 'In the meantime, remember, the best defense is a good offense. Thank you, gentlemen.'

And then, unexpectedly, I was asked to leak it to the British press. I had been very doubtful about the whole affair, but what made my nagging questions the more urgent was the Ambassador's request, relayed by Horton, for me to see a reliable journalist on the Telegraph or The Times and spell it out.