Capable of Honor (22 page)

“There is no other side for most of them,” Raoul said flatly. “Why pretend that they are sophisticated enough to be appealed to? Their minds are closed. If they needed further closing, the President’s action has closed them. It is an exercise in nothing to try to appeal to them on this issue.”

“Except for the historical record,” Lord Maudulayne said thoughtfully. “It pays to make a record, even in these times when all records may be summarily destroyed by the blast of a bomb. Someday there may be a history to be read, of these times. If there is, it will be important to know how the United States came to take the action she has taken, and who it was who provoked her. And how my Government happened to associate itself with her, and the things we believed in.”

“That is assuming that it will be people like us who are there to read the record,” the French Ambassador said dryly. “I consider it rather unlikely.”

“It will be unlikely if we don’t stand together,” Lord Maudulayne agreed. “Where stands France?”

Momentarily the French Ambassador looked genuinely annoyed. Then he spread his hands and shrugged.

“France stands where reason dictates.” He smiled ironically. “It is not always comfortable, but it is intellectually satisfying.”

“If you survive it,” Lord Maudulayne said. “And, of course, in such excellent company”—he gestured in the direction of the Soviet Ambassador, grinning and rocking and making some obviously flattering comment to Walter Dobius—“there is no question that you will.”

Raoul Barre shrugged again.

“To survive in these times one method may be as good as another. The frustrating thing about it is that one may not know for a hundred years if one has chosen the right course. And by then it will be much too late.” He looked thoughtfully at Cullee Hamilton. “Much, much too late.”

“Don’t look at me,” Cullee said. “I haven’t any doubts about our course. If you doubt yours, that’s too bad. But I’m not worried. It had to come sometime.”

“If one accepts the premise that it ‘had’ to,” Raoul agreed, “then perhaps this is best. Not all of us are that positive. In fact, nine-tenths are not.”

“If France would stop fishing in troubled waters and stop trying to pick up adherents in Africa and Asia by playing the anti-American game,” Lafe said calmly, “she might be positive about something—if she had a more positive purpose than mere mischief-making. But I suppose that’s too much to ask of a power that has substituted spite for policy.”

“That I resent,” the French Ambassador said sharply. “That I do resent as an unwarranted attack upon my country.”

“Sometimes the game gets real,” Lafe said laconically. “I’m sorry if it hurts. Are you through, Cullee? I expect we ought to go down to the Delegates’ Lounge and politick a little before Security Council begins. Coming, Claude?”

“Right-ho,” Lord Maudulayne said.

“I shall go and speak to Walter,” Raoul Barre said stiffly.

“Good luck with him,” Cullee said, rising and turning away with scant courtesy. “He’s on your side.…”

“I’m sorry we let ourselves become annoyed, Claude,” Lafe said as they left the table and started for the Lounge, “but every once in a while I get fed up with that damned superior attitude which is nothing but a screen for troublemaking. It gets a little wearing, now and then.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Lord Maudulayne suggested with a smile. “The grandeur goes, but the delusions remain.”

Yet this might have been a somewhat too-cavalier way in which to dismiss the French Ambassador, who was angrily convinced, as he moved toward Walter Dobius through the bowing, greeting nations, that it was impossible to reason with colleagues so bent upon self-destruction as the Americans and the British. He did not mind an occasional slap at his country, certainly he contributed enough of them himself in the opposite direction. But he did resent the accusation that France had no other purpose than troublemaking. He was quite convinced that his government was following the only correct policy in joining the Soviet Union in sponsorship of the resolution demanding U.S. withdrawal from Gorotoland.

Only if American forces were withdrawn could the situation be restored to some semblance of normalcy so that negotiations could be undertaken to create a permanent stability and remove the threat of major war. France’s position, he was convinced, was very practical. He could not always remain patient with the Americans, who were so impatient themselves. France wasn’t siding with the U.S.S.R. all the way. France had a plan, if her friends would just be patient enough to let her achieve it. France always knew what she was doing. He found it hard at times to be properly tolerant of those who could not perceive it.

But here, at any rate, was one who did. His columns on many occasions had reflected his approval of France’s busy anti-American activities—or, at least, if not approval, then a sympathetic understanding so perceptive of French motivations that Paris had justifiably taken it to be approval. Raoul Barre extended his hand cordially as the Soviet Ambassador half rose and gestured to a chair beside him.

“Walter,” Raoul said, “it is good to see you. May I—?”

“Please do,” Vasily Tashikov said. “I have been explaining to our friend the strategy that will be followed in the Security Council this afternoon.”

“Does he approve?”

Walter nodded.

“I do,” he said in his most judiciously contemplative voice. “While I could wish that certain details might be handled differently, still the basic purpose of removing the American forces so that stability may be restored to Gorotoland seems to me perfectly justified and indeed imperative if a full-scale war is to be avoided.”

“So it seems to us,” the French Ambassador said. “It is good to know that we may expect further commentaries by you which will help your countrymen to understand why the decision of the Administration must be reversed at once.”

“I shall certainly continue to write against it until it is reversed,” Walter said. “And speak against it, too.”

“Yes,” Raoul said. “I have been pleased to receive from Patsy Labaiya an invitation to attend your banquet Friday night.”

“I, too,” said Tashikov. “It should be an interesting occasion.”

“I hope to make it so,” Walter said with a tight little smile. “There is much to talk about.”

“Including, no doubt,” the French Ambassador said, “some discussion of possible presidential candidates and how the present crisis will affect the coming campaign.”

“It would appear to be a logical subject of comment,” Walter said, his smile a little less humorless. “I intend to go into it.”

“Why has Governor Jason not commented?” Raoul inquired. “I should think it would provide him with his opportunity.”

“I really do not know,” Walter confessed. “I’m puzzled, quite frankly. I haven’t talked to him yet, as I’ve been assuming that at any moment the news would come. But so far—”

“Possibly he is going to support the President,” the Soviet Ambassador suggested. “Stranger political things have happened, in your country.”

“I don’t see how he possibly can,” Walter said. “It would be counter to everything he believes.”

“I repeat,” Tashikov said, “stranger things.…But perhaps in your speech Friday night you will be able to persuade him.”

“I have no doubt whatsoever,” Walter said firmly, “that long before Friday night he will have made his position clear. Events are moving too fast for him not to.”

“Let us hope so,” Tashikov said. “His support would be helpful.”

“It also,” Raoul Barre suggested, “might be decisive in helping him become President. In which case a more sane and responsible policy might be followed by the White House hereafter.”

“If this ends in a week or two,” Walter said slowly, “it probably will not affect the campaign. If it drags, it will. If we are still involved six months from now, or even two months from now, the effect may be decisive.”

“Then I would think the Governor would have no choice,” Raoul said.

Walter smiled.

“If he hasn’t gone on record by Friday night, I hope to make it clear to him in my speech that he has no choice.”

“It is amazing, your influence in the United States,” Vasily Tashikov said in an admiring tone, his eyes briefly meeting the French Ambassador’s. “Absolutely amazing.”

“And so deserved,” Raoul Barre agreed smoothly. “It is of inestimable help in persuading the American people to support a sound and constructive policy.”

“It is a
great
help in the fight for peace and justice everywhere,” the Soviet Ambassador said solemnly.

“A major weapon in the cause of sane and rational international behavior,” Raoul affirmed. “Indispensable!”

“Except,” Walter said with a wry expression, “that sometimes in the White House, where it is most needed, it is totally ignored.”

“But you have the last word, Walter,” Raoul said soothingly. “You journalists always have the last word.”

Walter Dobius looked solemn.

“I have devoted my working life to being worthy of the responsibility.”

“And have succeeded brilliantly,” Tashikov assured him.

“Thank you,” Walter said gravely. “I do my best.…By the way,” he said abruptly as the waitress brought the bill and they prepared to leave, “what do either of you hear about Felix Labaiya?”

It seemed to him that for a split second the Soviet Ambassador looked knowledgeable about something, but as quickly the expression vanished; and he could sense that Raoul Barre knew nothing. He said as much, in a puzzled tone.

“I do not know, except that he departed abruptly last night for Panama. I was not aware of any crisis down there. It seems odd, on the eve of the Security Council meeting, though I suppose his deputy will represent him.”

“Nor do I know of any crisis down there,” Walter said, “which is exactly why I wonder if perhaps there isn’t one. What do you hear, Mr. Ambassador?”

But Vasily Tashikov was ready for him. He shrugged.

“The comings and goings of the Ambassador of Panama,” he said with a bland smile, “are almost as unexpected and unexplainable as those of his wife, the surprising Patsy. I do not know. I am puzzled, too.”

They were still discussing the mystifying nature of Felix’s sudden flight home when they caught up with the Indian Ambassador, and with him walked slowly along to the Delegates’ Lounge, a-buzz as always with the greetings, gossip, and rumors that comprise 75 percent of the UN’s business on any given day.

The subject of Felix was of interest in Washington, too, where, among all the other business of the onrushing crisis—the notification of the arrival of the first American ships off Tanzania, the landing of the first squadron of fighter-bombers in Leopoldville, the crash of a Marine transport on takeoff from Libya, with fifteen killed—(U.S. GOROTOLAND TRAGEDY, the afternoon newspapers cried with triumphant headlines and news stories that dwelt with loving attention on America’s shortcomings. OWN PLANES CROWDED US, SURVIVOR SAYS)—the President still had time to check with the Secretary of State on what was going on in Panama. He received from him a puzzled but intuitive guess. Helen-Anne Carrew, equally intuitive, was at that same moment going right to the source.

“Patsy, love,” she was saying as she leaned confidentially over Patsy’s shoulder in the closing moments of the special luncheon the Women’s National Press Club was giving for the First Lady at the Mayflower, “what’s this I hear about your hubby dashing home? My sources tell me Panama may explode at any minute. Is it true?”

“Helen-
Anne,”
Patsy began in an annoyed tone and then hastily modified it—“darling—I don’t know WHERE you pick up all these silly rumors you peddle all the time. Really, I don’t. I told Walter last night and I’ll tell you today that Felix has gone to ‘Suerte,’ the family estate down there. I believe there’s some problem with the workmen. His mother and grandmother are too old to tend to it, so he’s gone home for a day or two. He’ll be right back, for heaven’s sake. What is everybody so worried about?”

“I didn’t know anybody was, except Walter and me,” Helen-Anne said, giving a dutifully cordial nod to the First Lady, four seats beyond Patsy at the head table. She emitted her sardonic snort. “If we are, I can assure you the whole world soon will be. But if you say he’ll be back, I suppose he’ll be back.”

“He WILL be back. Before you can even print it. So why bother?”

“I don’t know,” Helen-Anne said with a speculative look in her eyes. “I still heard something funny last night at the Indonesian Embassy.”

“Indonesia?” Patsy said with a sniff. “What do they know about anything?”

“They’re experts on Australia,” Helen-Anne said with a wry chuckle. “You ought to hear them rave. Well, O.K., sweetie, if that’s all you’ll tell Auntie Helen, I guess it’s all you’ll tell her. Don’t let Felix make a liar of you, now! I’d hate to have to drag the whole stinking mess into the open.”

“Oh, Helen-Anne!” Patsy said as she turned back to the Ambassadress of Guinea on her left. “You do run on so.”

“Maybe,” Helen-Anne agreed. “But it usually adds up to something, sooner or later.”

But what it would add up to this time, the small, neat, dark-haired, dark-visaged figure standing on the terrace at “Suerte” and gazing far down the valley between the mountains was not quite sure at the moment. Don Felix Labaiya-Sofra, oligarch of Panama, son of a President, his country’s Ambassador to Washington and the United Nations, generator of many plans, focus of many discontents, had been home twelve hours, and out of them no clear picture as yet emerged.

To his mother and to ancient Doña Anna his grandmother, huddled away in their far corners of the rambling old
estancia,
he had said merely that he had felt it was time to check on the work of the estate now that spring was almost here. Doña Anna had received this with the inattention of age, his mother with a certain silent skepticism that annoyed him but which he did not feel he need expend the energy to combat. They had retired together to their rooms and, as far as he knew, had not been aware of the steady stream of visitors who had come furtively through the night from Panama City to the brooding acres at the foot of Chiriqui. Or if they had been aware they had not emerged to say so, and so he had felt free to proceed without reference to the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that of course they would not approve, could they know what he was undertaking.