say the least.”
She was stunned.
“Disloyal? For God’s sake, Ted, you were suicidal when you left here. I would have done anything to help you — even strangle Tony Thatcher with my bare hands. I don’t see why you’re not overjoyed that my father actually has the power to help us….”
Her voice trailed off as she began to realize how furious he was.
“Sara, you shouldn’t have done this without asking me. I mean, am I or am I not the man in the family?”
“What the hell does this have to do with gender? Do you want to go down in flames just to preserve your masculine ego?”
Ted exploded. “Goddamn you, Sara!” And slammed his beer bottle so violently on the kitchen counter that it shattered.
Before either of them could speak, frightened sobs and shouts of “Mommy!” began to emanate from little Ted’s bedroom.
For another moment they just glared at each other. Finally she whispered, “I’d better go to him.”
It took Sara nearly twenty minutes to lull her fearful six-year-old back to sleep. When she returned to the kitchen she saw that Ted had cleaned up and disposed of the broken glass. She walked into the living room. He was seated, facing the fire, a glass of scotch in his hand. He did not turn when he heard her approach.
“Do you want to talk?” she asked calmly.
Still with his back to her, he said tersely, “I gave Jastrow a C.”
By now she had guessed as much. And knew she had to suppress — or at least postpone — her anger.
“Ted,” she began softly, “it was for you to decide. I just wish you’d trusted me enough to share the pain of compromise.”
He sat like a statue, unresponsive.
“Look, I said I’d stick by you. And if staying at Canterbury means that much to you, we’ll pay the price. We can be happy anywhere as long as we keep together.”
“You think I was a coward, don’t you?” he murmured.
“No, Ted,” she answered. “I was just as scared as you. I shouldn’t have tried to make you into some Sophoclean hero. I mean, life is full of compromises, and what you did is pretty minuscule in the scheme of things.”
He still did not turn. She walked up behind him and placed her hands gently at the base of his neck. Her touch brought a surge of comfort.
“Sara,” he whispered, “I sat there all evening wondering what the hell to do about it. And then something said to me that bucking the system would be like King Lear raging against the winds. It would have meant risking everything we worked for, everything we want to do.…”
“It’s over now, Ted,” she said softly, “so just forget it.”
“You know I can’t. I never will.” He paused, then added, “And you won’t either.”
Inwardly she knew that he was right.
The National Security Council had existed, at least in name, since 1947. But it was only after 1969 — when Richard Nixon named Henry A. Kissinger to lead this advisory group — that it began to impinge upon and gradually usurp some of the powers of the Department of State.
Most of this was attributable to Kissinger’s brilliance and resourcefulness. But he also benefited from what, in geopolitical terms, might be called first-strike capability at access to the President.
The Secretary of State has his headquarters in an imposing building on Twenty-first Street and Virginia Avenue, but the head of the NSC works out of a windowless warren in the bowels of the White House itself. Thus, though William Rogers may have had the cabinet post and trappings of office, Henry Kissinger had the President’s ear.
To assist in building a power base in the National Security Council, Henry had brought along several of his Harvard students, many of whom he had long been grooming. Of these, George Keller was by far the most gifted. And, paradoxically, had the hardest time being cleared for security.
No Kafka victim was ever grilled as relentlessly as George was questioned by the FBI. It was all polite, of course. But, as the agents kept emphasizing, when you are checking someone for the highest security level, the fate of the nation lies in your thoroughness.
First he had filled out an exhaustive written questionnaire asking his name, any former names, and all the addresses he had ever lived at since he was born. Also the sources of all the income he had ever earned. Moreover, they demanded as many names as possible of Americans who could testify to his loyalty. George offered Kissinger, Professor Finley, and Andrew Eliot. All of whom, he later learned, were personally visited by the Bureau.
But during his oral interview, when questions were repeated again and again by the two agents, he began to grow upset.
“Gentlemen, I must have told you a dozen times. I can’t be sure that I didn’t live in one place or another when I was two years old. I hope you can appreciate that.”
“We do, sir,” the senior FBI man said tonelessly. “But I hope you appreciate the sensitive position you’re in. When a candidate still has relatives back there the possibility for blackmail can’t be ignored. And you still have — what, Dr. Keller, — a father —?”
“And a sister,” George quickly repeated for the millionth time. “And as I told you gentlemen, I haven’t seen them since October 1956.”
“Still, you are aware that your father is a high official in the Hungarian People’s Government, are you not?”
“I only know what I read in the papers,” George replied. “And that, gentlemen, is part of my duties as an East European area expert. Yes, it’s true that Istvan Kolozsdi” (he was unable to pronounce the words
“And yet he is, after all, a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Party,” countered the senior agent.
George laughed derisively. “You could be too, sir. In Hungary they hand that title around like candy.”
“Then what you’re saying is that your father is not that important. Is that so, Dr. Keller?”
“Precisely. He’s what you might call a successful failure.”
Some of the queries were not unexpected.
“What do you think of communism?” gave George the opportunity for an eloquent tirade against the various Marxist regimes of Eastern Europe. A speech that, he sensed, considerably impressed his interviewers.
And yet, even after an entire day of talking, one question startled him.
“Do you love your father, Dr. Keller?”
George suddenly grew tense. Inexplicably, he was at a loss for words.
“Do you love your father?” the agent repeated.
George groped for a suitable response: “He stands for a repressive political system, one which I have dedicated my life to opposing. I cannot but loathe such an individual.”
The FBI men shifted impatiently in their chairs. The senior officer then commented, “Dr. Keller, we asked you a personal question and you gave us a political answer. Now I know it’s getting late and we’ve been here a long time. But if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to hear you address yourself to that question again. Do you love your father?”
Why was he having such trouble giving them a simple “no”?
“Look,” he said in a confidential tone, “can I say something off the record?”
“Please feel free, sir.”
“The truth is, I hate that man. He treated me like a dog from the day I was born. I detest Istvan Kolozsdi as a human being. Now, if I can answer on the record — please. I have no affection whatsoever for my father. Is that clear enough for you, gentlemen?”
