The Story of Henri Tod by William F. Buckley Page B

hung up. The requisite message was transmitted, and specified contingency arrangements were triggered.
    Next he went to the cobwebby little window of the room, and peered out over the street. He did this for a full half hour, only then letting himself out the door. He walked down not into his own apartment on the third floor, but all the way down, and out the principal door. At the corner was a restaurant-bar. He stopped and, at the counter, ordered a beer. While it was being fetched up he went to the telephone and rang a different number, which answered instantly. He said, “Anything for Jerome?” A voice answered, “Nothing spotted in the area. You are under friendly observation front and rear. The usual signals will apply.” He returned to the bar, drank half the beer, left change, bought a newspaper, and went back to his apartment. Inside, he walked to the bathroom and carefully examined the medicine cabinet before withdrawing the letter. He sat down on the toilet and opened the envelope, careful not to mutilate it. The letter was typewritten:
    â€œDear Mr. Oakes:
    â€œI am a very reasonable man, you will discover. And I like very much to expedite, so to speak, the desires of different parties. What I have to offer you and Henri is Clementa Tod. Yes, she is alive. I enclose a picture of her, on the back of which she has penned a note to her brother. She advises me that no further proof of her survival is necessary. I am willing to do what I can to contrive her liberation. But it will be very expensive, in every sense of the word. You are deputized to act as intermediary between me, repeat me, and Clementa on the one hand, and her brother on the other. If you wish to pursue this discussion, bring fifty thousand marks (no tricks, please: Clementa would be terminally disappointed, and other important plans would be frustrated). Come alone with the money to East Berlin to Arnswalder Platz at the corner of Pasteur and Hans-Otto-Strasse at 1605 hours on Thursday, day after tomorrow, and begin walking northwest, on the sidewalk, as close as you can to the curb. You will accept the offer of a ride from the person who, from the car, addresses you as ‘Mr. Jerome.’ It would be, I repeat, a most awful pity if these arrangements were embarrassed. The sum of money is not negotiable, so be so good as not to appear with a lesser amount. Yours truly,”
    The letter was signed, simply, “F.”
    The color photograph was of a girl severely garbed in a gray pants suit. Her expression was serious, her figure trim, her eyes downcast. She was very beautiful. Blackford turned the photograph around, and read in German, “I long to see Your Majesty.” It was signed, “C.”

10
    It seemed to the President to be over only moments after it had begun, though he knew that, before the century was finished, historians would probably write whole books about the events that began on May 30, 1961, and ended on June 6. Interesting point: end of the century. There was a sense in which the question whether the century would end was affected by the events of that week. Curious question: What happens to a century if there is no one around to record its passage? There was all that business Professor Strausshaven used to talk about—was it Hume? Berkeley? One of those things-don’t-exist-unless-you-can-feel-them types. Empiricists. Right. The ones who said that a tree in the forest that falls makes no noise unless someone is there to hear it. Neat point. Provided you have an appetite for neat points of that sort. Not the kind of thing he would discuss with Paul Butler the next time they had a conversation about the electoral vote in Wisconsin. Though come to think of it, he’d have a point that might interest old Paul, who was something of an intellectual in his own politically obsessed way. A vote is, or is not, a vote if the voter doesn’t actually record that vote? Isn’t that related in