The American Ambassador by Ward Just Page B

wired,” North said.
    â€œIt’s a hell of a thing to accuse someone of, a colleague,” Carruthers said. “It’s important that we have mutual trust here. We are on the same side. We are in the same boat, and it’s important that we have our ducks in a row. You don’t want to be surprised, I don’t want to be surprised. We want no embarrassments, not you, not the Department, not the under secretary. And when we’re up there in front of the television lights, Winston and Dunphy on the high dais, if that’s what it comes to, we’ve not only got to be clean. We’ve got to be seen to be clean, doesn’t that make sense? Don’t you think, Bill? Isn’t that wise? Because otherwise we get our clocks cleaned, and there’s just a hell of a lot of embarrassment all the way around. So let’s have no more talk about wires. Let’s concentrate on the main thing. And the main thing’s the committee, what it has and what it doesn’t have.”
    North listened, nodding, distracted. As Hartnett said, everything was personal; to think, after all these years, Warren Winston, back in his life. The last time he had seen him, almost ten years ago, they had reminisced about being young in Washington. A favorite pastime of the middle-aged in the capital. The nature of things in ’61—’62, and how the town had changed, how contemporary it had become. Winston seemed not to have aged, proving once again that appearances are not always deceptive. He was turned out in a fawn-colored suit, his hair blow-dried, his eyes clear as window glass, his skin as tight and rugged as a mountain climber’s. Jogging and Nautilus. He drank soda water and spoke frequently of “cognition.” North remembered feeling disappointed, Winston seemed a parody of a modern politician. He had the smile and manner of a talk-show host, as slippery and cold as ice. In the old days he’d imitated the President, altogether a more attractive model. What are you doing now? Winston had asked, and North replied that he was political counselor in Bonn, but was shortly to leave to become ambassador in central Africa. That right? Winston had said with a show of interest; but he had not asked which country, and his eyes continued to roam. Presently he excused himself, took a colleague by the arm, and went off into a corner; the senator was not interested in reprising the old days. Watching Winston, North was aware of a paradox; as the city had become more cosmopolitan, it had also become more self-centered. It was like Paris, except there was no École Polytechnique; instead, there was television.
    North looked at Carruthers. “Didn’t you work in the Justice Department in the old days?”
    â€œFor about a minute and a half.”
    â€œCivil rights?”
    â€œAntitrust,” Carruthers said. “But I wasn’t much of a trustbuster, and I always wanted to be at State. I wanted to be a diplomat, like you. An ambassador, or an assistant secretary. But I didn’t want to do the Foreign Service drill, counsel in Ciudad Juarez or wherever. So I went to the Pentagon for a year, and then back to the White House. And then, two years after Dallas, back to my old firm.” He laughed. “Except it wasn’t mine anymore. When I got back there were fifty partners, the kids’d taken over. My name was on the door, but that was it. So I stayed a couple of years to find my feet, and then took the three best young ones and the two really good old ones, and formed another firm. Amazing, how many contacts you keep; in Washington, there are only a hundred people and they all know each other. But I got bored so I came back inside. I had more money than I could ever spend. That was five years ago. I like the government, so I came back to it. I like it on the inside.”
    â€œI knew Winston, back then.”
    â€œEveryone knew Warren Winston. That house he shared