The Master's bleary baggy eyes lit up suddenly. He had decayed to a fat blotched grub of a man who moved in slow motion and occasionally missed his mouth with a forkful of food, but he remembered thirty glorious years of academic and political intrigue as one of Whitehall's top scientific advisors. A whiff of conspiracy was like cannon smoke to an old war-horse.
'But do you believe you can achieve anything significant, I mean really significant, without the imprimatur of our Big Brothers in Washington?'
'I think,' Tyler said carefully, 'that it isn't so much a question of whether we can, but that we're going to have to.'
'They've come to thinking that, have they? De Gaulle really must be grinning in his grave. So you think the Americans are going to retreat from Europe? – or let their forces come down below – what do you call it?'
'The hostage level.'
'Ah yes. Do you believe that?'
'Let me put it this way. Master. Ten years ago it would have been unbelievable. But the last ten years of American policy, in the White House particularly, have been unbelievable. Now nobody's sure about what can be believed any more.'
After a time, the Master said vaguely: 'Yes, I suppose it has come to that. But you're going to need the French, John. Of course, you get on well with them. They don't respect anybody who doesn't speak their language properly. And who isn't a bit of a gangster besides.' He shook with wet, almost silent, laughter. 'I suppose you'll be looking for a common nuclear targetting policy. Do you have anything to offer Paris on that?'
Tyler's smile was quick, almost defensive. How, in this great collapsing grub of a man could there still be a small bright worm of intelligence gnawing its way to the heart of every question?
He put his knife and fork down very precisely. 'I think it matters less what we can offer than that we can get them to accept the principle of joint targetting. We can always change the targets later.'
'Do you think they're ready for it?'
'I think they may be. They haven't had a really coherent nuclear policy since de Gaulle, and some of their Force de Dissuasion is getting a little tired by now – it was never very long-ranged anyway. Their Murage IV's are all of fifteen years old, you know.'
'Ummm.' The Master rang a small handbell, then got up very slowly and carefully, tiptoeing along the edge of pain. 'We'll have coffee by the fire, shall we? Will you take port? The Mad Doctor says I mustn't touch it any more. And a cigar?'
He gave orders over his shoulder to the expressionless maid, who collected the dishes and went out. Tyler stared after her, trying – for no good reason – to guess at her age.
'Don't seduce this one, will you, John?' the Master called from the fireplace. 'It's so difficult to find a maid who's even half way competent, no matter what you pay them.' He lowered himself into a stiff wing chair. 'Have you met them yet?'
'No, but we're trying to arrange a little get-together. With somebody from Bonn as well.'
'In the hope that they'll pay for it all.'
'That's perhaps too much to hope for, Master. But West Germany has to accept that she is really a nuclear power already, with those thousands of tactical warheads stored on her soil and sheltering behind the American atomic sword ever since NATO began.'
'You aren't proposing that the Germans get their own nuclear weapons, are you?'
'No, Master. Not this year.'
The Master made a long reflective humming noise. The maid came back with a coffee tray, a decanter of port and a box of Jamaican cigars. They had been Havanas when the Master still smoked. She poured coffee for them both, then the Master waved her away with a hand that went on nodding like a forgotten metronome.
'You'll help yourself to anything you want, John? And you know where to find the whisky.' He sipped plain black coffee. 'It isn't being forbidden things that's really so bothersome, it's discovering that you don't want them any more. I'm not sure what would be a vice, at my age. I suppose if I were still a believer I'd have the consolations of blasphemy… Are you going to propose anything specific to our Parisian targeteers?'
'I have one or two ideas that we've been discussing in committee and with the chiefs of staff. Nothing I've published, but I've been thinking along these lines for some time now…' Tyler selected a cigar, the end was already cut. 'The problem is to find something that the Russians will believe in. I don't think they're going to believe that we can inflict damage of quantity on them. We have to find a way to inflict damage of quality.'
'Ce n'est pas la quantitй qui compte, mais la qualitй… It translates well.' He hummed tunelessly for a time. 'But you're getting into muddy waters, John.'
'We're small fish now, Master. It's the pike who likes a clear stream.'
The Master said nothing more, so Tyler went and poured himself a glass of port. Before he sat down again, he lifted one of the heavy green velvet curtains at the window. The sky had cleared to a hard star-sparkled black, as clear as the desert night in the old days… Below, the small court was filled with rich deep snow under the blue lamplight. Just a single track of footprints went diagonally across it, and he felt a shiver of fear, but then decided it must be some young don exercising his new rights to get his feet wet across the lawn. He let the curtain fall again.
'It's going to be a cold night, Master.'
'I'm sure you're right. And none of this has gone before the Cabinet, I assume?'
'I don't think targetting policy has ever been a Cabinet affair. But it's been raised at the Cabinet committee on defence, so I understand.'
'Where you don't get any missionaries from Education or Social Services.' He put his coffee cup down very carefully. 'And you say it's fifteen years.'
'What was, Master?'
'Since the French formed their first nuclear strike force.'
'More than that.'
'Nothing happens and yet it all goes by so quickly. When I was up as an undergraduate, in a single term you could fall in and out of love, discover a new poet and change your political views completely… all in eight weeks… John, I suppose you want me to keep this to myself?'
'We'd prefer the meeting not to be mentioned, but if we do get a targetting policy, we'll have to let it get out for it to have any deterrent effect.'
'So I'm just a leaky old pump that you're priming.' The great body quivered with his own joke. 'Take some more coffee, John. What do they say is behind this business of that Czech girl defector?'
On the south coast, the snow lay thinner and patchier, but the wind came off the grey sea like a frozen scythe. Maxim and Chris tramped the pebble bank at the top of the beach, their feet shifting and sliding, stopping to pick up the smoothest stones and fling them into the waves. Hunger, sex and throwing stones into water were the three primitive drives that had made the human race what it is, Maxim decided.
At ten years old, Chris had grown sideways as much as upwards: he was now a miniature Welsh fly-half. Indeed, there was something of the original Celts about his long dark hair and his pale skin – but the eyes, when he turned a sudden direct stare on you, were the golden-dark of Jenny's.
And he mustn't know, Maxim thought. I must see only him in his own eyes, nobody else.
'Daddy,' Chris asked, 'when are you going back to London?'
'When somebody rings up. When they want me.'
'Is it very secret, what you're doing?'
'Not very, no,' Maxim said glibly. 'I'm there to answer military questions – if I can. And all military things are at least partly secret.'
'Do you see the Prime Minister all the time?'
'Not to speak to. He's around, but I usually work to one of his private secretaries, George Harbinger. I don't think you'd better mention his name around school, by the way.'
'Of course I won't.' Chris hunched his shoulders~ in the inevitable plastic rally jacket – and trudged on, frowning over what he would say next. 'Daddy – what sort of aeroplane was Mummy in when she crashed?'
'A Short Skyvan. Very square-shaped, twin engines, twin tails, high wing, fixed undercarriage… don't you know it?'
Chris nodded; he could identify most modern aircraft from the swamp of books and magazines in his bedroom.
