The Ambassador (33 page)

Lisa’s mouth opened as if to reply, but suddenly she pulled her hand away from Marius and lifted it to her face. Her eyes glazed over and she seemed turned to stone.

Marius stood up jerkily and straightened his tunic. His face was working furiously, his expression a mixture of the genuinely outraged and a high-caste NT at his most haughty. He reached for the gun, checked the safety and put it carefully in his pocket.

‘I think this is the point at which I leave.’ His voice grated. ‘Whatever is going on in here, I cannot be part of it.’

He turned to Lisa. ‘Will you come with me? I fear I got you into this. My apologies. Perhaps these good people will be kind enough to let us return unmolested Strether?

But Lisa did not move, and Strether seized his friend’s arm. ‘Sit down, Marius. If what they’ve said is correct, then you are an extraordinary individual. They have not insulted you. But it alters the picture out of all recognition.’

‘Indeed? How, would you say, my dear Bill?’ Marius’s dark eyes were cold fire.

‘Because if these guys have figured out you’re not what you claim, then others can’t be far behind. That means you’re in serious danger. You would find yourself pushed to the fringes – subtly, somehow. You could become not simply a – culprit, as Spartacus said earlier, but a victim. What you hold most precious could vanish tomorrow.’

‘Nonsense. This is entirely speculative. An outrage. I won’t hear any more.’

He took two strides and was outside the door, but then stood uncertainly a few paces off, glancing unhappily in the direction of the dank tunnel from which they had emerged. His back was to them, but they could see his shoulders shaking with tension. He was no longer wrestling with the angel, but with himself.

Then the Prince turned back to Lisa, one hand held out, his expression full of pain.

Lisa gave a little cry, as if she had been touched by electricity. It was impossible for Strether to guess what raced through her mind in that split second, but he did not attempt to stop her as she jumped up and went to join the Prince, without a backward glance.

The door slammed behind her. She ran after Marius and halted him several metres away. Through the glass window the couple could be clearly seen, though their voices were reduced to muffled murmurs. The observers left behind made no pretence but watched them intently: nobody in the stuffy little office dared utter a word.

As in the car park, Strether was riveted by the vivid and tempestuous body language on display. Lisa seemed vociferous and intense, trying hard to convince Marius – of what? Before, she had begged to be allowed to come – insisted, indeed. Strether strained to hear but
caught only snatches. Her hands gesticulated, pointed, jabbed; the Prince’s hung limply at his side, or were held up half-heartedly in protest. Marius was twisting backwards as if to avoid her ferocity, yet he coiled about her as if their bodies independently ached to entwine. Some force beyond their consciousness was drawing them irrevocably into each other’s orbit. Some magic was afoot.

The Ambassador was sure Lisa was determined to get action over the Porton Down disasters. She could be the technical, professional heart of the dissent, its convincing solidity. The Sikh’s objections were broader, drawn more from the nature of society as a whole. She could not lead any revolt herself, as a woman, and an insufficiently important NT, but with Winston’s back-up she could provide the necessary forensic evidence to make any objections stick. In fact she was vital to the future success of Solidarity. She was also young, so beautiful, and healthy. Moreover, as Strether had unwillingly begun to recognise, she was deeply attracted to the good-looking Prince, with whom she seemed to be bargaining fiercely.

And
, he realised, with a dreadful sadness,
Lisa was aware of the attraction
. Neither was it one-sided. It had been there the whole time; the Prince had held her close even back in the tunnel. She was conscious of it and recognised it, and was now turning it selflessly from herself alone to a far greater purpose.

She was trying to persuade Marius. She held his sleeve and tugged it in emphasis. She tapped her breast with both hands and then placed her palms on his shoulders. I am yours, the gesture said, but on one condition. He could have her, and she would support him unquestioningly in the role of leader. But he could not have her alone.

Both. Or neither. It was for the Prince to decide. She would brook no compromise.

And Marius had his palms up, in protestation, half in surrender, as if waving away an undeserved gift; but he was gazing at her as if he wanted to melt into those brilliant
honey-flecked
eyes. Strether, too, had gazed, often, and found her impossible to deny. The Prince’s mocking manner had vanished completely. Instead his face was suffused with anguish, and something so akin to love that it made Strether’s heart turn over.

Strether did not want, at this extraordinary instant, to believe that the woman he had loved could have deceived him. It was the other way round: he had been the guilty party. She had been so angry about Marty, but then contrite, and had reminded him that he, Strether, was a free agent. Her response to his offer to take her home to America had been lukewarm; no obligation survived. And, knowing Marius – or, it had to be said, the
old
Marius – Strether would not have put it past him to pursue Lisa behind his back. The Prince would have regarded her as fair game. Maybe something had happened between them before today, though what exactly it might have been was irrelevant. Far more important were the biblical trials of strength in the hangar, nakedly visible to the silent watchers: Marius with Spartacus, Marius with himself, now, finally, Marius with Lisa. It was a struggle towards an irrevocable decision. It could end in triumph and freedom: or in disaster for every one of them.

Strether forced himself to breathe in and out, very slowly. The sight of the two people who had become more dear to him than any other Europeans arguing intensely with each other brought one fact home to him forcefully: he was not included in their considerations. Nobody had said, ‘
but what about Bill
?’

Strether could understand the Prince’s quandary. Even if he were not what he had seemed – if he had no entitlement to the printout with freckles, if his conception somehow
involved a conundrum, or a lie – Marius was wily enough to cope. The facts would probably never be revealed. And if they were known to a handful of key personnel, what would be the outcome? Again, in all likelihood, nothing. Parliament, including the Prince’s beloved second chamber, was a place of pomp without power. The controls had shifted into other hands many ages since.

What about Bill
?

Lisa and Marius had moved from the window. Their voices could no longer be distinctly heard. Then Marius strode away and was hidden as Lisa stood, still speaking rapidly, face flushed, her lips mouthing words Strether could not grasp.

Then Marius reappeared, seized the girl in his arms and held her tightly, rocking backwards and forwards. Strether shut his eyes.

He had lost her.

They were a pair. Their bodies were as close as if they had been made for each other, and had always expected this moment to come.

Bill Strether’s spirit wept. But his generous nature saw that his sorrow was solely for himself. For he had witnessed the best outcome. Both Marius and Lisa had once defended the genetic programme. Their acceptance of its ethical vacuity had saddened him even as it showed unarguably why the Union was so far ahead of his own country. If sophisticates like the Prince and honest minds like the young doctor’s could go along with it, he had felt the more a hick for his fumbling criticisms. Now they were all on the same side, lined up with objectors such as himself, and committed to exposing its failings. It was some kind of consolation, and made him feel almost serene.

There they were, the two of them, together in the shadowy light of the underground hall as if they had never been apart, radiating courage and hope, facing a future that could be filled with dreadful dangers. His breast stirred. They needed each other, but they did not need him, neither Lisa nor Marius. He had seen their unification. They would be a formidable partnership. And he, a stranger, relegated once more to mere acquaintance, would pledge to do everything he could to help.

The door reopened. On the threshold stood the Prince, his face haggard and wet with tears, his arm round Lisa whom he hugged protectively to him.

‘God in heaven, I must be mad,’ he muttered. ‘But you can count me in, from right now. What exactly do you want me to do?’

Lisa had returned to Porton Down. It had been agreed that she should take care not to draw further attention to herself; she should ask James Churchill for lighter duties, avoid any more reference to her missing files, and keep her eyes peeled. Meanwhile Strether was invited to tour the Bunker, and tactfully left the new leader and his mentor together. He would rejoin them later.

For Spartacus it was an essential opportunity to introduce the Prince to the principles and strategy of the organisation. Marius frowned as their secretive structure was explained to him. Nobody knew the names of more than a small band, no meetings were ever held with more than four present. Despite the paucity of their numbers and the constant risk of betrayal, secrecy had been maintained so far.

‘We don’t like it, but it works,’ Spartacus commented. ‘You will only ever meet your own cell, even as overall leader. You could find yourself in a roomful of distinguished men and women and be quite unaware that several are our operatives. They would not be able to identify each other either, though one or two might. If you remain under cover, most would be ignorant of your status also.’

‘But what about our methods?’ Marius asked quietly. The afternoon was drawing on. He and his guide were relaxed in an inner sitting room where battered sofas and a low table provided a modicum of comfort. A bottle of J&B rare whisky had appeared; the Prince found it soothed his edgy nerves while heightening his sensitivities.

‘We have debated such tactics as blowing up Parliament or putting bombs under the vehicles of MPs, if that’s what you mean, and so far have decided against,’ Spartacus replied carefully. ‘The argument goes both ways. History suggests that that might be counterproductive. It could set the nation against us, gives us the label terrorists – which we are not. We have genuine grievances which we want addressed. Yet direct action is gaining adherents, especially when so little else makes an impact.’

Marius swilled the whisky round and took a gulp. ‘You should know that I will not be associated with any unit, covert or otherwise, that starts killing innocent people. I witnessed the shoot-out involving the police on July the fourth. Was that us?’

Spartacus played moodily with his glass. ‘Nobody was supposed to get shot. They were cornered. It was an attempt to liberate the news media, for an hour or two at least. To highlight the appalling censorship we suffer. I might try to justify it, Prince, by telling you that the dead police officer was a brutal man who had been involved in treachery and murder. If he was picked out as a target I can’t say I’m sorry.’

Marius felt himself being tested, like a barefoot man instructed to walk on broken glass, as if to prove his mettle. He forced Spartacus to meet his eyes, then, only half mollified, grunted in reply. The Sikh adopted a softer tone. ‘A campaign of civil disobedience is more effective, in my view, though some of our activists strongly disagree. It draws attention without hurting anyone. It irritates the government and provokes overreaction. That, skilfully handled, can help the cause.’

The model was not the Marxist-inspired liberation armies of the previous century, therefore, but closer to early Gandhi, Marius suggested. The Sikh, delighted that the Indian reference had been recognised, nodded enthusiastically.

‘But Gandhi was a master of publicity,’ the Prince pointed out. ‘He made sure, right from the beginning, that whenever the British Raj beat up unarmed civilians – especially women – a top press reporter was present.’

A cloud crossed Spartacus’s face. ‘I think,’ he answered slowly, ‘that this will have to be one of your priorities as leader. At present the European media are too tightly controlled. The Énarchy have it down to a fine art. Key media owners seem to have their own reasons for misreporting, or not reporting the truth at all: the relationship is almost incestuous. We may have to seek help from beyond these shores. Much of Gandhi’s most vigorous support came from Americans, remember. Our friend Mr Strether, perhaps?’

‘But he’s a diplomat. And inexperienced – he hasn’t served a year yet. He may not be able to make a fuss.’

‘He could on his return. Or via his own press. His President might not be averse to taking a stance.’

They left it at that, aware that Strether was about to join them.

Marius brooded. It was not settled whether, or how, he should announce his conversion or his new position. Those decisions were up to him. Spartacus himself was completely under cover: his family believed he was on a secret posting outside western Europe and largely incommunicado. But if the Prince were to become the public face of dissent, the platform needed careful preparation.

The Ambassador settled gratefully into the remaining armchair, filled glass in hand. He was tired; he saw that, until a moment before, he himself had been a topic of discussion. In an effort to lighten the atmosphere, he turned politely to the Sikh. ‘How did you get involved? And why?’

The man rubbed his injured thigh. ‘It wasn’t a sudden conversion, if that’s what you’re asking. A number of things. It’s hard to talk about it without sounding pompous or self-righteous.’

‘The most self-righteous noises come from the likes of Graf von Richthofen and Sir Robin Butler-Armstrong,’ Marius remarked. ‘Go on.’

‘My brother, first. Ten years ago. He had three daughters and wanted a son. They decided to go the whole hog. He and my sister-in-law badgered everybody in sight until they got a permit for a top-grade NT. Which, of course, we’re not ourselves. And personally, I have no desire to be. My own children are – normal.’

Strether waited. He wondered if he could guess what was coming.

‘When the baby was born, he was the most adorable infant you ever saw. No question about that! His mother was ecstatic. Only, forgive me if this seems strange to you, he was almost white. Quite different from his parents. Don’t misunderstand me, he was obviously their son – his bone structure, the shape of his head are exactly like my brother’s. He’s a sweet kid and the apple of his parents’ eye. Smarter than anyone else in the family – that’s what they requested. But the skin colour, to me, was an insult.’

‘Did his parents think so?’

‘I could never get them to admit it. I’m the eldest, and the strictest in the faith. I’ve seen that as my role in the family. When I took my brother on one side and asked him whether a white child was what he ordered, he became a bit evasive. I admit I shouted at him – we were estranged for a while. But my guess is no. It was as much a surprise to them as to
me.’

‘It must have made you uneasy?’ Strether had become an inquisitor, but he sensed that Spartacus needed to talk if trust between the three men was to be established.

‘I can’t put into words exactly what it did to me, seeing that child like an incubus in our midst. But what can it mean? Is somebody trying to eliminate some of our racial characteristics? Why shouldn’t we be coloured?’

Marius snorted. ‘My parents demanded that I shouldn’t look Japanese. In their view that would have been a disadvantage in Europe. But at least that was their choice.’

The Sikh glanced quizzically at the Prince and did not respond to the point. Instead he continued, ‘That raised my hackles. The whole system had lost, for me, the benefit of the doubt. Whenever we were told that the government knew best, I suspected the opposite, that the politicians were operating entirely in their own interests.’ (‘That used to be a widespread belief,’ Marius interjected, with a hint of his old cynicism.) ‘No, I’d been happy with the rubric. And if their interests and ours coincided, it didn’t matter. But what happens if they start wanting something for themselves and not for the rest of us? What then?’

‘It used to be money. Or mistresses. Or nubile boys. Nothing new about that,’ Marius chuckled.

‘But power over our genes? That’s a power only God should have. I began to see oddities at every turn. Repeat copies, for example – they’re supposed to be illegal, but apart from insignificant details, they’re everywhere. Sports personalities – the star footballers conform to only four main types, we’re losing natural variation. The rules of the game were altered to suit them – they’re fast but have no stamina, so matches were shortened. Young actors and actresses: their faces have precise symmetry, because that’s what we humans perceive as beauty. Skin colour – goes without saying. And far too many of the workforce in a place like Milton Keynes look as if they’re multiple twins. It gets hair-raising here at times, I tell you.’

Some of the examples were familiar to his listeners. ‘But you came back abruptly, didn’t you, from your last posting? Did something happen in particular?’

‘I served at Kashi, on the border. Horrible dump. One of my duties was to supervise the guarding of the prison.’

Strether sat up sharply. He reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. For a few moments Spartacus described the site; his listeners let him proceed without mentioning that they had also been there, rather more recently than the Sikh himself.

‘Two elements – I’ll describe them briefly. The politicals was one. I hadn’t realised, idiot that I was, that a society like the Union might incarcerate citizens for their political beliefs. I’d swallowed whole the line that the convicts were untouchables, wicked men, urban guerrillas or some such. It was true that they’d been caught, mostly, up to no good, though chunks of evidence were planted, I am now convinced. You don’t think DNA can be faked? Sure it can, especially when the expert witness is a high-up NT. I wasn’t supposed to fraternise with inmates, so I pretended to my superiors I was trying to get them to recant. They filled me in on the genetic programme and got me to see that it wasn’t haphazard but a great plan – a huge, evil conspiracy. We had plenty of time to chat – most of them were lifers. They weren’t going anywhere, not least because of the PKU.’

‘Ah,’ came the measured response. Strether felt it wise not to reveal too much of what
he had already heard. ‘Can you get hold of a monograph on how that works? It intrigues me.’

Spartacus tilted his glass. ‘No problem. It’s simple, but effective. A convicted man is given a radioactive concoction that destroys his body’s ability to produce a certain enzyme: PAH is the name, though I can’t tell you what it stands for. He has no say, of course – politicals lose their civil rights under the code. He becomes PAH-deficient from there on. Then the prisoner’s daily diet includes the necessary pharmaceuticals. If he tries to escape, his gut can’t cope. Ordinary protein lodges in the brain and starts to poison him.’

Strether needed to clarify. ‘They put something in the water?’

‘No. That would affect everybody. A pinch of green powder in the politicals’ food. That’s enough. Kept under lock and key – only the Commandant has access.’

‘You know,’ Marius mused, ‘I don’t recall this was ever agreed in Parliament. I doubt if either House would find it easy to pass such legislation.’

‘They would if they had to. But you’re the master mind on that, Prince. If you wanted to change the law in secret, there must be ways?’ The Sikh’s voice was sombre.

‘Yes. Executive action, for a start. I bet it’s buried in some sub-clause of a prisoners’ welfare bill from years ago. Is that why you quit?’

‘Partly. I found that disgusting. Then one of the prisoners died.’

‘Was he beaten up?’

‘No, nothing like that. He got an infection and developed septicaemia. His whole system collapsed. The authorities made half-hearted efforts to save him, to no avail. But I’d got to like him and I was upset. I made inquiries. I discovered that they’d been removing a kidney. As a donation.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Marius frowned.

‘Think about it. We have artificial organs, we can grow disease-free tissue in culture. Perfect matches, or engineered to match. That’s what the genetic programme should be doing, not churning out little white clones. But the best transplant is still a person-to-person living donor. And I’m damned sure he was not a willing participant.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’d have told me. We had become – quite close.’

Strether felt his head begin to swim, whether from the alcohol or from the avalanche of extraordinary information he could not tell. He passed his hand over his eyes. After a pause Spartacus continued, ‘I had to be careful. But soon afterwards his sister contacted me in secret. She was in touch with Solidarity. By then I was seething. I was so angry I was putting myself at risk as well as my informants. Soon after, when I was involved in an accident, I was medivacked out and wangled a year’s leave. I’ve devoted myself full time to the movement ever since.’

For a moment no one spoke. Then Strether asked, ‘You said you have to return. Do you mean that?’

Spartacus’s shoulders sagged. ‘My family think I’m off on a spying trip and my unit think I’m recovering from a multiple fracture of the thigh-bone. The endless deceptions are getting me down. But the Prince is the leader now. He will decide.’

Marius half smiled. He offered round the rest of the bottle but opted out himself. Strether glanced at him and could almost read his thoughts.

The day had been arduous; the journey they had made may have started at entrance 7-14
of the underground car park, but it was unclear where it would end. Yet for Marius the effect was obviously liberating; he had come into an inheritance that must fill him with fearful anticipation, but also fitted his nature. He should not rush. There was too much to think about, and too much knowledge to absorb. Not least, the Ambassador reflected, there was the nagging requirement for the Prince to burrow into his own background, to discover who he really was. Far too many others seemed to know more than he did.

The visitors rose and Marius pulled on his jacket. He brushed it with his hand; it still carried the stains of the tunnels. ‘You will show us a more convenient exit, I hope?’

The three men smiled at each other. ‘Certainly, Prince. This way.’

Marius paused at the door. ‘I suppose I ought to have some sort of codename too. Any ideas?’

The Sikh laughed softly. ‘If you announce yourself in the next few weeks it won’t be necessary. But there was another prince who was not what he seemed. What would be your reaction to – “Moses”?’