Reckless Page 19

  A small intense-looking man greeted André as an old friend.

  ‘André! It’s been too long!’

  ‘Hello, David. How’s Belinda?’

  ‘Very well, very well.’ He stood back to scrutinise Pamela. ‘Who do we have here?’

  André introduced them.

  ‘David Sassoon. A magician.’

  ‘So what do we have in mind?’ said Sassoon, diplomatically including both in his gaze.

  ‘An evening gown,’ said Pamela. ‘André’s having a grand party.’

  ‘Long, simple, pure,’ said André. ‘None of your Oscar de la Renta feathers and frills.’

  David Sassoon pulled a face that said, But of course.

  ‘Have you seen the new line from Valentino Garavani?’

  ‘Too much red,’ said André.

  Sassoon now turned his full attention to Pamela. She felt that he was seeing through her clothes to her naked body beneath.

  ‘What would you like, Miss Pamela?’

  Pamela had an answer, but she wasn’t sure if it was the right kind of thing to say.

  ‘Just a suggestion,’ she said.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’d like to look like Audrey Hepburn at the beginning of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

  ‘Just so,’ said André, approving. ‘Long and black.’

  ‘Hubert de Givenchy,’ said Sassoon. ‘But what I do for you will be better.’

  He drew out a tape measure and flicked it round her with quick practised movements.

  ‘I don’t want to look like anyone else at the party,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Every one of my dresses is unique,’ said Sassoon.

  He finished measuring, and stood back to appraise her as he might a model.

  ‘You have an excellent figure,’ he said. ‘Are you shy?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Pamela.

  Sassoon went to the rails and drew out a long black sleeveless gown. On the hanger it was impossible to judge. He held it up.

  ‘High neck. Close-fitted waist. Full skirt. You would wear it with black gloves above the elbow, black patent leather shoes, high heels.’

  ‘High neck?’ said André.

  ‘Ah, but do you see the material?’

  Sassoon slid his hand inside the dress.

  ‘Silk chiffon.’

  It was transparent.

  ‘And underneath?’ said André.

  ‘Here. A black silk slip. Low neckline, high hem. Two inches above the knee.’

  André turned to Pamela.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘How does she know?’ said Sassoon. ‘Try it on. If she likes it, I can alter it to fit.’

  He took the dress and the slip to a small changing room at the back. Pamela undressed. The slip fitted well. She drew it up until the straps were over her bare shoulders. Then she stepped carefully into the chiffon dress.

  Sassoon was waiting outside to button up the back.

  ‘Not so far off, actually,’ he said, pinching the fabric.

  Pamela presented herself for André’s inspection; then turned to look into a long mirror on the side wall. The gauzy chiffon clung close to her upper body, and then fell away in full gathers to the floor. It was revealing, showing her upper chest and her legs from the knees down, but it shadowed what it revealed. The result was simultaneously formal and sexy.

  ‘Is it all right?’ she said, turning nervously to André.

  ‘Of course it’s all right,’ said Sassoon. ‘You can see for yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I told you,’ said André. ‘He’s a magician.’

  ‘Work still to be done,’ said Sassoon, taking out his pins. ‘Stand still, my dear.’

  He proceeded to tuck and pin the fabric.

  ‘Of course someone will have to see to her hair,’ he said, his mouth full of pins. ‘Take her to Annette.’

  Pamela said nothing. She wanted to cry with happiness.

  ‘When can you have it, David?’ said André.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  As they came out onto Pavilion Road André said, ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Oh, André. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be well repaid,’ he said, ‘when I see you enter my party. Now where can I drop you?’

  ‘Take me to Stephen’s,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go home yet.’

  He drove her to Wimpole Mews, where Stephen Ward had his flat. She offered André her cheek.

  ‘You’ve been such a darling,’ she said.

  ‘Entirely selfish,’ he replied.

  She rang the bell on the flat door, and no one answered. She rang again. At last she heard a patter on the stairs within, and the door opened to reveal a sleepy Christine in pyjamas.

  ‘You can’t still be asleep,’ said Pamela.

  ‘I’m not, am I?’ said Christine.

  Stephen was out, in his consulting rooms, as Pamela had assumed. It was Christine she wanted to see.

  ‘André’s buying me a dress for his party.’

  Christine’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘Good work, Pammy!’

  ‘It’s going to be so amazing!’

  Now she allowed all the accumulated excitement to pour out of her. She described the new dress in detail. Christine listened with sleepy pleasure.

  ‘Looks like you hit the jackpot there, girl.’

  ‘He’s so polite, Christine. And he knows so much. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. It’s almost scary.’

  ‘But you like him?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Don’t you think he’s beautiful?’

  ‘So have you slept with him yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Pamela, trying to sound nonchalant, as if this was merely a tactical decision.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Christine. ‘Make them wait. They’re much nicer to you before than after.’

  ‘What are you going to wear on Saturday, Christine?’

  ‘I’ll show you if you like.’

  Christine went into the room that was still known as ‘Christine’s room’, even though she had her own flat in Dolphin Square. She brought out a garment on a hanger that looked like a bright red plastic bag. Pamela stared in disbelief.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a mac. I got it from Bazaar, in the King’s Road. Cost a bloody fortune.’

  ‘What do you wear it with?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Christine. ‘It comes down to here.’

  She indicated a point about halfway down her thigh.

  ‘You’ll look as if you’re undressed!’

  ‘André’s parties are like that,’ said Christine. ‘Anything goes.’

  Pamela pictured Christine making her entrée in the shiny short red mac, her shapely legs bare beneath. She would be the sensation of the party. Her own elegant floor-length black chiffon would look middle-aged by comparison. Unless – she had a sudden idea that made her laugh out loud.

  Do I dare?

  They heard the sound of a key in the front door, and hastily put away the party clothes. It was Stephen, returning with Eugene.

  ‘Lovely ladies!’ cried Eugene, and kissed their hands.

  ‘Pamela’s been to a dressmaker with André,’ said Christine. ‘He’s buying her the most gorgeous frock for his party.’

  ‘These parties of André’s,’ said Eugene to Pamela, ‘they are without rules. You must be prepared.’

  ‘He’s shown me where it’s happening,’ said Pamela. ‘He’s got an empty house in Mayfair.’

  ‘You and I, Stephen,’ said Ivanov, ‘we must protect little Pamela, on Saturday.’

  ‘Do I need protection?’ said Pamela.

  ‘It is the gentleman’s duty to protect the ladies,’ said Ivanov.

  ‘Do shut up, Eugene,’ said Christine. ‘Since when did you have gentlemen in Russia?’

  ‘You must be kind to Eugene,’ said Stephen. ‘He’s in despair over Berlin.’

  ‘T
oo many speeches!’ said Eugene. ‘Why must they all make speeches? For every speech, two audiences. Your own people, and your enemy. Your people cheers, your enemy fears.’

  ‘That’s rather good, Eugene.’

  ‘No more speeches. Our leaders must talk in private. Then we can arrange everything.’

  ‘I have a friend who knows Mountbatten,’ said Pamela.

  Eugene turned to her in astonishment. The change in his manner was gratifying.

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘He works for Mountbatten. He’s some kind of adviser.’

  ‘I must meet him! Can you introduce me?’

  Pamela suddenly felt unsure of her ground. After all, Eugene was known to them all as the ‘Russian spy’.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  ‘There will be no trouble. I hide nothing. I am naval attaché at the Russian Embassy. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, good. I say no more.’

  ‘Eugene believes dialogue helps,’ said Stephen. ‘So do I.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right,’ said Pamela. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  24

  Rupert pulled off his spectacles and wiped them with his pocket handkerchief.

  ‘Are you really steaming up your glasses?’ said John Grimsdale, amused.

  ‘Why not?’ said Rupert. ‘I’m excited.’

  He was testing his latest thinking on his friend and sparring partner from Intelligence.

  ‘Why me?’ said Grimsdale. ‘What have I done to deserve this honour?’

  ‘I know you have no principles of any kind,’ said Rupert. ‘So if what I’m thinking makes sense to you, then maybe I’m on the right track.’

  Rupert did not reveal to his friend the extent of his secret ambition. He was only a lowly adviser. But he did have the ear of the Chief of Defence Staff, and it was said that there was nothing so powerful as an idea whose time had come.

  ‘The heart of the Cold War,’ he explained, ‘is not weapons, but intentions. The fear isn’t generated by the bombs and the missiles. It’s generated by the presumed intention to use them. Manage the intentions and we reduce the fear. Reduce the fear and we reduce the danger.’

  John Grimsdale was unimpressed.

  ‘Manage our enemy’s intentions?’ he said, peering at the writings on Rupert’s walls. ‘I’m all for that. Let’s manage him so he gives up all this Communist nonsense and goes shopping.’

  ‘Of course I know intentions are complex,’ said Rupert, too eager to pursue his line of thought to respond to his friend’s mockery. ‘In fact, that’s part of my idea. If you take a power like the Soviet Union, you have to deal with three forms of intention. You’ve got its true intention, whatever that is. You’ve got its presented intention, which is what it wants us to believe it’ll do. And you’ve got its perceived intention, which is what we think it’ll do. These can all be different. And that’s where it gets dangerous.’

  ‘Look, Rupert,’ said Grimsdale. ‘It’s not difficult. We don’t know for sure what the bastards might do, and we’re never going to know. So we plan for the worst possible scenario.’

  ‘There!’ cried Rupert, banging his hands on his desk. ‘Exactly! You’ve said it!’

  ‘So I’m right?’

  ‘No! You’re so wrong!’

  ‘I rather thought I might be.’

  ‘Your way of thinking creates a spiral of fear. My way of thinking creates a spiral of trust.’

  ‘Oh, well. Let’s by all means have a spiral of trust. I think your spectacles are steaming up again.’

  ‘All I’m saying,’ said Rupert, ‘is that instead of putting all our intelligence effort into counting their missiles we should focus on understanding what’s going on inside their heads.’

  ‘It’s a whole lot easier to count missiles.’

  ‘Come on, John. Take me seriously here.’

  ‘All right,’ said Grimsdale. ‘I’ll take you seriously. Yes, we do need to understand Soviet intentions. And what tools do we have for reading their minds? We have their words, and we have their deeds. We listen to their rhetoric. “Communism will bury capitalism,” says Khrushchev. They arm our enemies in South East Asia. In the Congo. In Cuba. What are we supposed to think they’re up to?’

  ‘This is all business as usual. This is standard big power rivalry. We’ve been dealing with this sort of jostling for the last three hundred years. But SIOP? Three thousand two hundred and sixty-seven warheads? That’s the end of the world. Is that really what we want? Do we really believe it’s what they want?’

  ‘No,’ said Grimsdale. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what on earth is going on?’

  Grimsdale looked at his watch. He’d lingered too long.

  ‘All right, Rupert. I take your point. But it’s not me you need to convince. What does Dickie say to all this?’

  ‘I haven’t tried it on him yet. And anyway, I know what he’d say. He’d say, “Tell the Americans. Don’t talk to the monkey, talk to the organ-grinder.”’

  Grimsdale chuckled at that.

  ‘Nobody does national humiliation quite as well as we do,’ he said, and headed off down the corridor.

  *

  The other problem with Mountbatten, Rupert reflected, was that he had difficulty with ideas. He was a practical man above all, a details man. At the monthly meeting of the Defence Ministry chiefs, which was attended by the Cabinet Secretary, all he could talk about was retaliation procedures.

  ‘Who has the sole authority to launch a nuclear retaliation, should we be attacked? The prime minister, advised by myself, as Chief of Defence Staff. What arrangements are there for contacts to be established with the prime minister or myself at the critical period, when every minute will count? None! In the event of a bolt out of the blue attack I’m told we will receive four minutes’ warning, and that only when Fylingdales becomes operational sometime next year. This is madness!’

  Norman Brook did his best to calm him down.

  ‘The JIC takes the view that an unprovoked strike by the Soviets is highly unlikely. And since as you say, Dickie, we’d have no warning of a missile strike at all, not until the early warning system is up and running – well, really there’s not a lot of point worrying about it, is there?’

  ‘Please, Norman,’ said Mountbatten, gripping the Cabinet Secretary by the arm, ‘let’s not be too relaxed about this. In the event of a strike taking out the PM and myself, there must be an agreed procedure for the authorisation, or not, of our retaliation.’

  ‘But it’s not really there to be used. It’s there to deter.’

  ‘Suppose Harold’s dead. Suppose I’m dead. Can anyone else push the button?’

  ‘Well, there has to be a chain of command. You know that.’

  ‘It’s Bomber Command, isn’t it? It’s bloody Bing Cross.’

  ‘These are very extreme hypotheses,’ said Brook.

  ‘In my extreme hypothesis,’ said Mountbatten, ‘a Soviet attack on London causes a military officer, an unelected leader, to retaliate against Russia, and so trigger a global nuclear holocaust. That is simply not acceptable.’

  Norman Brook turned to Frank Mottershead, the Deputy Secretary concerned with such matters at the Ministry of Defence.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘I’m inclined to think there is a cause for concern here,’ said Mottershead. ‘As matters stand, C-in-C Bomber Command does have the delegated authority, under exceptional circumstances, to use his own judgement.’

  ‘And what counts as exceptional circumstances?’ said Mountbatten.

  ‘If the PM can’t be reached. If an attack is understood to have been launched.’

  ‘If the PM can’t be reached! So if Harold takes a nap, Bing Cross can scramble the V-force!’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir.’

  ‘What arrangements do we currently have for communicating with the PM when he’s out of his office?’

  ‘Well
, by phone, sir.’

  ‘And when he’s in his car?’

  ‘The PM’s car has a radio which can receive messages via the AA’s radio network.’

  ‘Scrambled messages?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So anyone can hear them?’

  ‘The radio message would be no more than an alert to the driver to proceed at once to the nearest phone box.’

  ‘And put four pennies in the slot, and press Button A?’

  Mottershead looked at his hands.

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘Ronnie. Make a note. All the PM’s drivers are to be issued with four pennies forthwith.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed Norman Brook impatiently. ‘The driver can reverse the charges! You dial one hundred, and the operator asks the person at the other end to accept payment.’

  ‘Excellent!’ cried Mountbatten. ‘After all, he does have a whole four minutes before the bombs go off!’

  A silence fell.

  ‘All right, Dickie,’ said Norman Brook at last. ‘You’ve made your point. We’ll look into it.’

  After the meeting, alone with Ronnie and Rupert, Mountbatten said, ‘I’m not just being an old woman, am I?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Rupert. ‘I remain convinced that the greatest threat of nuclear holocaust lies in human error.’

  ‘By God, yes! Have you read The Guns of August?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Rupert.

  ‘It should be required reading. The First World War wouldn’t have happened but for the mobilisation plans. One side began to mobilise, the other side had to follow suit. The fear of attack mounted to the point where the momentum was unstoppable. Once that machine started rolling, there was nothing anyone could do. Apparently the Kaiser had tears in his eyes. He begged his General Staff. But they told him it was too late. That’s what I dread. Kenneth Cross launches his bombers because if he leaves them on the ground they’re vulnerable. So off they go, each with their target in the Soviet Union. Who calls them back?’

  ‘You have to be at the MoD by five, sir,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Oh, damn! What’s that about?’

  ‘The CENTO meeting in Karachi.’

  Mountbatten sighed.