been on the right track. There would be a few days of delay in putting that suggestion to work, while Schlott’s idea of going public could have happened tomorrow. But did they have a day or two to prepare for a Kremlin meeting? The assassinations could hit any time. And yet, his hope was still the same—the hope that Farrago had started his journey to safety before the Politburo could be confronted. Everything depended on that: the charges made by the United States would not hold up if there was no Farrago as witness to their truth. Farrago and truth? Ironical.
Yet, as a Communist, he believed that truth was whatever was good for Communism, just as a lie was anything that was bad for it. And he obviously saw now that world chaos would not—in the long run—be good for Communism. Conquests were not successful or long-lasting if they had only ruins to dominate. A new Dark Ages, that’s what he was afraid of; and weren’t we all? It took Europe almost a thousand years to climb back to sanity and civilisation once Roman law and inventions and culture had been ravaged by hordes of barbarians. In a new Dark Ages, we’d all be lost—Communists along with the rest of us. It took centuries to put civilisation together again once it had been smashed.
Yes, everything depended on Farrago’s escape—including Karen Cornell’s own security. We’ll get the FBI to keep a close watch over her, Bristow decided grimly, and even if that most independent lady didn’t like it, he wouldn’t be too far away, either. He had still two weeks’ leave due him this year. Once this crisis was over—no one would drag his feet on this Kremlin meeting—once the threat was obliterated, he would have every logical excuse to take a couple of weeks off the chain and concentrate on Karen’s safety.
He walked smartly into the hall, met two unexpected escorts to accompany him through the miles of corridors to that safest of safes. They weren’t Secret Service, just two from his own unit: Denis Shaw and Wallace Fairbairn.
“Hey!” Fairbairn said, noting Bristow’s face. “Ease up, old boy.” To Shaw he said, “He’s probably hungry.” It was almost eight o’clock. “A good meeting?”
“The usual talk. Words, words and more words.”
Shaw’s eyes widened with excitement. In a whisper he asked, “Was it really about Guatemala?”
“It’s in one hell of a mess.”
“Isn’t everywhere?” Fairbairn asked. “Where do we go for dinner?”
Bristow looked at Fairbairn’s face, handsome as always, but too expectant as he waited for acceptance. Damned nonsense, Bristow told himself—since when did he start guarding his answers to someone who was an old friend? Since that old friend had seen him together with Karen last Saturday and never even cracked a joke about it? “Not tonight. What about tomorrow?” And no evening stretching before him now, with questions coming at him like bazooka shells from Shaw.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Fairbairn said with resignation. “Okay. Denis and I can take a hint. See you in the slave pen in the morning.”
“See you.” Bristow walked on. Their departure had been abrupt; his fault, he blamed himself. Too edgy, too quick to question small reactions that were as innocent as they always had been. If he had dinner with anyone tonight, he would have opted for Karen Cornell. She would be the right companion for the end of this day.
8
Ten o’clock on Monday morning, and Karen Cornell was waiting at her desk in the Spectator’s staff room, ready for her command appearance in Schleeman’s office. He was there but on the telephone. A call from Italy, his secretary told Karen; please wait. Twenty minutes later, he had another call. And another. This time she was given the message: Mr. Schleeman has several scheduled appointments, and he is running late; he would like to see you at five o’clock. “Of course,” Karen had said to his white-haired secretary, overweight by fifty
Yet, as a Communist, he believed that truth was whatever was good for Communism, just as a lie was anything that was bad for it. And he obviously saw now that world chaos would not—in the long run—be good for Communism. Conquests were not successful or long-lasting if they had only ruins to dominate. A new Dark Ages, that’s what he was afraid of; and weren’t we all? It took Europe almost a thousand years to climb back to sanity and civilisation once Roman law and inventions and culture had been ravaged by hordes of barbarians. In a new Dark Ages, we’d all be lost—Communists along with the rest of us. It took centuries to put civilisation together again once it had been smashed.
Yes, everything depended on Farrago’s escape—including Karen Cornell’s own security. We’ll get the FBI to keep a close watch over her, Bristow decided grimly, and even if that most independent lady didn’t like it, he wouldn’t be too far away, either. He had still two weeks’ leave due him this year. Once this crisis was over—no one would drag his feet on this Kremlin meeting—once the threat was obliterated, he would have every logical excuse to take a couple of weeks off the chain and concentrate on Karen’s safety.
He walked smartly into the hall, met two unexpected escorts to accompany him through the miles of corridors to that safest of safes. They weren’t Secret Service, just two from his own unit: Denis Shaw and Wallace Fairbairn.
“Hey!” Fairbairn said, noting Bristow’s face. “Ease up, old boy.” To Shaw he said, “He’s probably hungry.” It was almost eight o’clock. “A good meeting?”
“The usual talk. Words, words and more words.”
Shaw’s eyes widened with excitement. In a whisper he asked, “Was it really about Guatemala?”
“It’s in one hell of a mess.”
“Isn’t everywhere?” Fairbairn asked. “Where do we go for dinner?”
Bristow looked at Fairbairn’s face, handsome as always, but too expectant as he waited for acceptance. Damned nonsense, Bristow told himself—since when did he start guarding his answers to someone who was an old friend? Since that old friend had seen him together with Karen last Saturday and never even cracked a joke about it? “Not tonight. What about tomorrow?” And no evening stretching before him now, with questions coming at him like bazooka shells from Shaw.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Fairbairn said with resignation. “Okay. Denis and I can take a hint. See you in the slave pen in the morning.”
“See you.” Bristow walked on. Their departure had been abrupt; his fault, he blamed himself. Too edgy, too quick to question small reactions that were as innocent as they always had been. If he had dinner with anyone tonight, he would have opted for Karen Cornell. She would be the right companion for the end of this day.
8
Ten o’clock on Monday morning, and Karen Cornell was waiting at her desk in the Spectator’s staff room, ready for her command appearance in Schleeman’s office. He was there but on the telephone. A call from Italy, his secretary told Karen; please wait. Twenty minutes later, he had another call. And another. This time she was given the message: Mr. Schleeman has several scheduled appointments, and he is running late; he would like to see you at five o’clock. “Of course,” Karen had said to his white-haired secretary, overweight by fifty
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