The first annual session of the United Nations General Assembly was scheduled for the third Tuesday in September. One week before that date a sealed package was delivered to the mail-room of the United Nations. It was marked: ‘Personal and Urgent’ and addressed to the Secretary-General. The customary security check revealed that the package contained a letter, a bulky schedule in typescript and a small box padded with cotton-wool, in which were two sealed glass capsules: one containing a liquid, the other a small quantity of white crystalline powder. The capsules were sent out immediately for laboratory testing. The Chief of Security personally delivered the letter and the schedule into the hands of the Secretary-General. At eight o’clock in the evening he read it aloud to his senior colleagues in the Secretariat:
The symbol which heads this paper represents Proteus, shepherd of the creatures of the sea, custodian of knowledge, the elusive God of many shapes. It is also the symbol of the organisation of which I am the founder, and which, like Proteus, functions in many places and in many disguises.
When you read this letter for the first time, you will be tempted to say: ‘This is the work of a madman.’ I beg you, do not yield to the temptation. As you will see, it contains no proposition to which you and your colleagues do not subscribe, no demand which the United Nations Organisation has not made, over and over again: the liberation of prisoners of conscience, the abolition of torture, the restoration of the rights of free speech, free assembly, fair trial, the right to enjoy life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
That you have made these demands is a matter of history. That you have been unable to enforce them is a matter of universal regret. However, now that they are enforceable, I beg you and your colleagues, in the name of humanity, not to abrogate them.
With this letter you will receive two glass phials. The liquid in one phial is a live culture of Botulinus, Type A. The powder is Botulinus toxin, a deadly poison. Any competent bacteriologist will inform you that both the culture and the toxin can be produced quickly under elementary laboratory conditions and that quite small amounts can contaminate the water supplies of any large city.
My organisation, which exists in all the major countries, possesses cultures, toxin and laboratory facilities and is, therefore, in a position to create, throughout the world, a serial biological disaster, against which there is no adequate remedy.
At this moment, I know, the familiar words will spring to your mind: hijack, blackmail, terrorism. I beg you to reflect on another word: sanction. I am placing in your hands, Mr Secretary-General, the one power you have never had: the power to impose a decision of the United Nations by sanction, by penalty without redress. If you are not prepared to use this power, then I shall use it, and continue to use it, until my and your legitimate demands are met.
With this letter I send you a schedule, necessarily incomplete, of those places of detention, where men and women are confined, interrogated, tortured in defiance of every principle of humanity. I send you lists of prisoners, again incomplete, because secrecy is the weapon of all tyrants. I request and require that these places of detention be opened, their inmates released, and dispersed to their homes within twenty-one days of this date, and that their release and dispersal be supervised and confirmed by observers from international agencies appointed by United Nations.
I further request and require that this demand be made known at the first meeting of the United Nations General Assembly and that the Assembly invite me, on the next day, to plead it before the members.
If and when the prisoners are released, I undertake that all supplies of the cultures and the toxin in the hands of the Proteus organisation will be destroyed forthwith. I shall immediately afterwards, give myself into the custody of that country of which I am a citizen and accept, without contest, all the penalties of its law. If the demand is not met, the serial disaster will begin; and you must be in no doubt of its magnitude and its continuity.
Let me now make a disclosure. I belong to no party, either of the left or the right. I have no affiliation to national causes, only to the cause of those who cannot speak because they are deprived of the right to do so. I have no personal ambition. Once I am in custody I shall have no human future; but this I am happy to accept in order to accomplish what I have set out to do. Immediately after the first session of the General Assembly, I shall telephone your office to hear the decision. If the decision is affirmative, the Assembly must guarantee my immunity from arrest within the confines of the UN building. If the decision is negative, then there is nothing more to be said. Action will follow as certainly as night follows day.
I am, my dear Secretary-General,
With profound respect,
Yours sincerely,
Proteus.
The Secretary-General put down the letter and looked round the circle of his senior colleagues. They were silent and grim. He addressed himself to the Chief of Security.
‘Colonel Malin? Can you sum up for us please?’
‘First, the simple facts. You will remember that this is a preliminary investigation, carried out by UN security staff. The Secretary-General desired that we should not involve outside agencies unless and until it was deemed necessary to do so.’ Colonel Malin was a Fleming, dour and direct. ‘The package was posted in New York. The letter is written on hand-made Japanese paper, and the symbol is a woodblock print. The schedule of persons in detention is typed on an IBM golf-ball machine. The typestyle is called “letter gothic”. The paper is a standard bond, available anywhere in the United States. The phials contain exactly what is described in the letter – live Botulinus culture and crystalline Botulinus toxin . . . I submitted the culture and the toxin to the Chief Bacteriologist at Bellevue Hospital. He confirms substantially what is contained in the letter. The culture is Botulinus Type A. The toxin is lethal. The threat is real. The letter itself is written in an old-fashioned calligraphy, such as was practised by engrossers of legal documents. Certain of the embellishments are characteristic of Japanese calligraphers writing in Roman cursive. It could have been done by a Japanese, in Japan; or it may have been designed to lead us to that conclusion. The information on political prisoners is accurate and more detailed than that possessed by either Amnesty or the Red Cross. We have not had time to cover all organisations dealing with this sort of information. The tone of the letter is carefully a-political. The style is that of a highly literate man . . . I think we must take the threat very seriously indeed . . . If I may be permitted one more observation . . . It is clear that this Proteus is aware of how the United Nations Organisation functions. He writes formally to the Secretary-General who is obliged to bring the matter to the attention of the General Assembly, which alone can consent to his appearance in this place – as it did to the appearance of Yasser Arafat. . .’
‘So, gentlemen.’ The Secretary-General faced the small, silent assembly. ‘A letter of demand from a literate and intelligent man, representing an organisation of unknown dimension and backed by an authentic threat of serial disaster… How do we respond?’
‘They will respond,’ said the Scarecrow Man, ‘by strict adherence to protocol. The Secretary-General will refer the matter to the heads of delegations to the General Assembly. They will advise their respective governments and seek instruction. The Chief of Security will confer with the New York Police Department who have jurisdiction in criminal matters over the UN area. They, in turn, will most probably refer to the FBI, who will seek information from the CIA and other US intelligence agencies.’
‘And then,’ said John Spada, ‘the trail will lead to me. And every police agency in the world will be wanting to have a little chat.’
‘That’s the way you arranged it.’ The Scarecrow Man shrugged. ‘This game of terror is more than half theatre.’
They were sitting in the sunshine in Washington Square, two nondescript fellows, dressed in slacks and sweatshirts, playing checkers. Spada’s hair was cropped en brosse. He wore a three-day growth of stubble, a pair of sunglasses, and a surgical shoe which threw his walk out of kilter and forced him to use a cane. His lodging was two blocks away, in a sleazy, transients’ hotel, where he was registered as Erwin Hengst. To be lodged so badly was, as the Scarecrow Man pointed out, an unnecessary act of masochism; but Spada’s reasoning was simple. No one would expect him to step so far out of character. He could move freely and sleep soundly; and, besides, there was a certain satisfaction in the exercise: a lone wolf learning the lessons of survival in an environment of total indifference. The Scarecrow Man jumped two of his pieces and crowned a black checker. He said placidly:
‘Suppose the General Assembly agrees to your demand, and offers you immunity inside the UN. How will you get there? Outside, remember, you will be arrested on sight.’
‘It seems to me,’ said John Spada, ‘they won’t dare to publicise the affair, before the General Assembly either debates it or reaches a consensus without debate. They’ll do everything possible to avoid a panic. If they consent to receive me under immunity, I’ll land by helicopter, within the precincts of the United Nations area.’
‘And from that moment, you’re in a trap. As soon as you try to leave the area you’ll be arrested.’
‘But you and all our other people will still be free. That’s the core of the situation. I shall no longer be necessary.’
‘You expect to be killed?’
‘They have to get rid of me,’ said John Spada. ‘My own people or someone else. If they bring me to trial, the whole affair becomes public again.’
‘Have you thought,’ asked the Scarecrow Man, ‘that they may prefer to keep you alive and put you under interrogation? You’ve got a lot to tell them – and, in the end, you’ll tell it all.’
‘I’ve thought of that too.’ Spada closed a box trap around the Scarecrow Man’s crowned piece. ‘I remember what they did to Rodo and Teresa. So, I’ve taken precautions. I carry a cyanide capsule always.’
‘It was necessary to be sure.’ The Scarecrow Man nodded approval. ‘I have no intention of joining you in the roll-call of martyrs.’
‘I didn’t expect it.’ Spada grinned.
‘Have you also thought,’ asked the Scarecrow Man, ‘that they will never believe that you can or will withdraw the threat?’
‘Why not?’
‘Once you open Pandora’s box, all the plagues fly out. No one can ever put them back again. This is the kind of threat that can be repeated indefinitely. The name of Proteus can be put to all manner of massacres . . . For myself, I don’t care. I believe man is a self-doomed species. I am simply interested to know how far you have thought through the proposition.’
‘According to the legend,’ said Spada quietly, ‘the one thing left in Pandora’s box was Hope. It’s my hope that once the horror is visible, men will recoil from it . . . If not, then, of course, you’re right. We’re a self-doomed species.’
‘You contradict yourself, my friend.’ The Scarecrow Man gave him a wintry smile. ‘You accept your own execution as inevitable. You carry a death-pill to protect yourself against the torturers. What kind of hope is that?’
‘Not much, I agree. It’s Hobson’s choice: a clean exit or a long slavery.’
‘Like all zealots, my dear Spada, you miss the point. You make a choice too trenchant for normal folk. When Moses led the Israelites out of servitude, were they grateful? Never! They cried for the onions and the flesh-pots of Egypt. Freedom was a luxury they could neither understand nor afford.’
‘So why are you sitting here with me now?’
‘You pay very well,’ said the Scarecrow Man, ‘and besides, it’s like watching a big game at the casino. I know you can’t beat the bank; but I’m fascinated to see how close you’ll get to it.’
The machinery of power began to turn, slowly at first, faster and faster as the hours ticked away. The President of the United States called the Premier of the USSR on the hot-line, to establish, first and foremost, that each nation was as vulnerable as the other and that this was not a trick to cover some military démarche. Each promised to keep the other informed by a daily personal call. There were similar conversations with other heads of state in Europe, in the Middle East and the Orient. It was the British Prime Minister who first uttered the definition which became the keynote of all their later discussions: ‘This Proteus, whoever he is, wants us to play Russian Roulette.’ The President of the United States embroidered the definition in the first discussions at the White House where a briefing had to be framed for the US Ambassador to the United Nations.
‘… We are exposed, gentlemen, to an intolerable gamble. We have to face, not a single catastrophe, like the loss of an aircraft full of people, but an almost unending cycle of biological invasions. We all know the scenario. Proteus knows that we know it. So he puts the pistol on the table and invites us to fire it at our own heads or his own. He is, in an absolute sense, invulnerable; because he has no fear of what we may do to him; while what he can do to us is horrible to contemplate . . . First question. Have we any idea who Proteus is and what is the size and nature of his organisation?’
‘About the size and nature of the organisation, we know nothing.’ It was the Director of the FBI who answered. ‘Proteus claims that it exists in many places and in many disguises. I’d accept that he’s telling the truth. About the man himself. Well . . .’ He laid a pair of photostats on the table. ‘This is the symbol which appears on Proteus’s letterhead. This other is a copy of a card found in the wallet of a German terrorist, Gebhardt Semmler, who allegedly committed suicide in Amsterdam.’
‘So, on the face of it, we’re dealing with an existing terrorist organisation?’
‘On the face of it, Mr President, possibly. However, look at the photostats again. How would you describe the symbol in words?’
‘Well. . . it’s a fish, inside an upturned box.’
‘Exactly! A fish in a box.’
‘But it isn’t a box,’ Secretary Hendrick objected. ‘The incomplete square is an antique form of the letter “P”. The initial encloses the fish. Proteus is the protector of sea-creatures. It’s very ingenious.’
‘And irrelevant.’ The Director was tart. ‘Come back to-the President’s description: a-fish-in-a-box.’
‘And where does that take us?’
‘Back to a gaolbreak in Argentina. A man called Rodolfo Vallenilla was sprung. We know that Spada organised the operation. A code message was passed to Vallenilla before the break-out. The text was: “a fish in a box”.’
‘My God! That means . . .’
‘Please!’ The Director cut him off with a peremptory gesture. He held up a copy of the schedule of prisoners and detention areas. ‘This list was prepared by a publishing house, recently founded in New York, to call attention to the plight of prisoners of conscience and the activities of repressive régimes. They collate information from existing organisations like Amnesty and Red Cross and supplement it from their own sources – which, judging by the document, must be very accurate. The publishing house is called Poseidon Press
‘So make your point, please!’ The President was becoming testy.
‘Three points, Mr President.’ The Director was urbane as ever. ‘One: Rodolfo Vallenilla was the son-in-law of John Spada. Two: Gebhardt Semmler murdered Hugo von Kalbach, the German philosopher. John Spada was an eye-witness of the murder and was in Amsterdam at the time of Semmler’s alleged suicide. Three: The Poseidon Press was founded by John Spada. Poseidon was the sea-god who endowed Proteus with his powers. The fish in the box connects all these facts . . . Think of what happened to Spada’s family – and to his successor in the business. They were all murdered. What have you got now?’
‘Motive,’ said Secretary Hendrick. ‘A rich and powerful man driven to desperation.’
‘And a mess of circumstantial evidence which you’ll never sustain in court,’ said the President drily. ‘But stay with it. The idea makes sense. Where is Spada now?’
‘We don’t know, Mr President. We have a date on which he arrived in England and filed an immigration card. After that, no trace.’
‘What about Interpol?’
‘A problem, Mr President. It could be embarrassing for the Administration if we suggest that a US citizen is holding the world to ransom.’
‘It could be a goddam disaster.’ The President was emphatic. ‘For God’s sake play this one close to your chest…’
‘There’s one way to close the whole investigation.’ Secretary Hendrick was equally emphatic.
‘Let’s hear it,’ said the President.
‘Proteus wants to reveal himself, wants to speak, wants to surrender. Why not let him do just that?’
The Director stared at him in disbelief.
‘And let a terrorist dictate ransom terms on the floor of United Nations?’
‘It’s been done before. Yasser Arafat stood there with a gun on his hip and addressed the General Assembly. Proteus is obviously aware of the precedent.’
‘He also poses a greater threat than Arafat.’ The President got up and began pacing restlessly. ‘You see, I’m in sympathy with Proteus. He is pleading a cause that I’ve been urging ever since I came to office. In that, he’s a friend and not an enemy. However, I cannot even appear to approve the criminal means he has adopted. So, here’s the bottom line. How do we vote on the question in the UN? How do we lobby our friends to vote?’
‘I think the question is premature, Mr President.’ The Director challenged him boldly. ‘Today’s Wednesday. We’ve still got a week before the General Assembly convenes. At least give us time to . . .’
‘To do what? Arrest a man you can’t find? Question a suspect who’ll be out on a writ of habeas corpus before you can blink? Force him to make good his threat? You, Mr Secretary! What’s your answer?’
‘Suppose, Mr President – just suppose – this demand for an open hearing were not made under duress, would you be disposed to vote in favour of it?’
‘I just might.’
‘Would the Russians, the Chinese, the Brazilians, the Argentines, the Chileans, the South Africans?’
‘Hell no!’ The President leaned forward, covering his face with his cupped hands, and sat for a few moments, silent and absorbed. Then he faced them again. ‘Every country in the world is faced with a challenge to its sovereignty and security. However . . .’ He pieced out the words slowly and carefully. ‘These are relative words. Not all sovereignties are wholly legitimate, as we have good cause to know because we’ve had a hand in some ramshackle arrangements. Not in all States does the security include the security of the subject. So, balance these relatives against the absolute: that if we refuse Proteus’s demand hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, may die in a serial catastrophe. How do I decide?’
‘How do you decide, Mr President, if one successful blackmail leads to others copying this first episode?’
The Director of the FBI sat back and waited while the President digested his challenge. The reply, when it came, was mild but curiously final, like the last stroke of midnight chimed by a mantel clock.
‘I have to decide, gentlemen, on the basis of that which is, not that which may be. Proteus has pre-empted us. I say we vote for him to speak. We lobby our friends in the Assembly to vote with us.’
‘And if the vote fails?’
‘Then there is nothing to prevent this – this Black Death.’
Out of the silence that followed, Hendrick asked shakily:
‘Something else has to be faced, Mr President. What about the press?’
‘That’s a decision for the United Nations. For my part, I am in favour of disclosure. The people have the right to know. Maybe they’ll have more to tell us than we have to tell them.’
On the Friday evening, Maury Feldman received a telephone call at his apartment. The caller identified himself as Mr Mullet and requested an urgent meeting to discuss a contract. At ten o’clock, Maury Feldman sat with John Spada in a grimy cellar bar on Bleeker Street. His opening remark was an expression of disgust.
‘My God! You look like a bum!’
Spada chuckled.
‘I’m learning how the other half lives. Did you get the package I sent you from Tokyo?’
‘Yes. It’s in my safe.’
‘How’s Kitty?’
‘Fine. Except she’s had visitors, as I have. The New York Police and the FBI are very interested in your whereabouts.’
‘Did they say why?’
‘No. Care to tell me?’
‘That’s why I got you down here.’
Maury Feldman heard him out in silence. Then he sat a long moment staring into the dregs of his liquor. Finally, he shook his head, as if to clear away the last cobwebs of a nightmare. He said sombrely:
‘You’re a dead man, John.’
‘The certificate isn’t signed yet, Maury. The General Assembly doesn’t meet till Tuesday. The patient is still alive and living in hope.’
‘What hope?’
‘That the water will part and God’s people will march dry-shod into the Promised Land.’
‘As I remember, Moses never got there.’
‘But he still delivered the law – graven on the tablets.’
‘And no man knows where he’s buried. What do you want from me, lover?’
Spada unbuttoned his shirt and took off the gold chain with the Proteus key on the end of it. He laid it in Feldman’s palm.
‘It’s yours now, Maury.’
‘After this, what am I supposed to do with it? When we first set up the organisation it was to build bridges of benevolence. Now you’ve blown them all!’
‘Do you really believe that, Maury?’
‘For Christ’s sake, John! Can’t you see . . .’
‘I’ll tell you what I see and what you know! Comes a time when benevolence is not enough. Comes a time when you stand on the crags of Masada and say: “You’ve pushed us far enough. Here we stand and die.” And maybe, just maybe, you don’t die and the legions fall back in retreat. The man who blew up the King David Hotel is now the Prime Minister of Israel. That’s history, Maury! If you die, you’re a criminal, and they plough your land with salt. If you survive, you’re a hero, and a statesman! Don’t fail me now, Maury.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you want!’
‘My day in court. And I want you there with me.’
‘If they give it to you . . .’
‘If they don’t, then all bets are off. You don’t have me as a client any more. You walk away clean.’
‘While you bring down the plague on innocent people!’
‘Half your taxes are paying for a new holocaust, Maury; and you’re voting for bigger and better bonfires every year! Don’t go soft on me now, please!’
‘Soft! I think I’m going crazy! Besides, what can I do?’
‘What does any good lawyer do? Mediate, interpret, plead! . . . And don’t tell me we have no case! Remember Yad Vashem and all the millions who died because there was no one to plead their cause and because the fight began too late!’
‘I have to think about it.’
‘Fine! I’ll call you after the vote in the General Assembly.’
‘I wish to God I could explain you to myself!’
‘It’s simple enough, Maury. I’m a stripped-down man. I’ve got nothing to lose except my life . . . Let’s go, eh?’
He paid the score. They stood up and walked out into the chill autumn air. At the corner they shook hands and parted. Maury Feldman stood on the kerb and watched him walk away, limping like Jacob after his wrestle with the Angel. He felt very near to tears, not knowing whether he loved or hated him.
The first disclosure was made, according to protocol, by the Secretary-General to a plenary conference of correspondents accredited to United Nations. The conference took place at nine in the morning, New York time, on the Monday before the third Tuesday in September. The date had been decided to give time for at least a preliminary test of world opinion before the vote in the General Assembly. The Secretary-General’s announcement was sedulously calm. Each correspondent received a copy of the letter of demand, the schedule of camps and inmates, a photograph of the phials containing the lethal material. The Secretary-General deposed briefly:
‘Ladies and gentlemen! The documents in your hands speak for themselves. The material has been inspected by experts and has been identified as a culture and a toxin, capable of wide dissemination and lethal results. Faced with this threat, all delegates to the United Nations have been instructed by their governments to vote in the General Assembly, which will commence at ten tomorrow morning. The purpose of this session is to hear the views of all member nations and to determine, by vote, whether the person who calls himself Proteus shall be admitted to address the Assembly or whether we shall refuse to receive him – with all the consequences that may entail. I have only brief comments to make. We accept the threat as genuine and not a hoax. We believe that Proteus has the means to carry it out. His identity is suspected; but, in default of final proof, we cannot at this moment publish it. We do not know, nor can we speculate, on the location or the method of disseminating the lethal material.’
They were normally restless and aggressive. Now they were quiet and abashed. The news had taken them unawares. Their usual tactics were now trivial and tasteless. The first question came from the Tass man:
‘This Proteus, whose identity is known, but may not be stated, is he an American citizen?’
‘No comment.’
‘Sir. Do you have any reaction from the major powers?’
‘None that I can disclose. Only their delegates are briefed to speak on their behalf.’
‘Sir . . .’ The woman from UP raised a respectful hand. ‘What would be the death-toll from a biological contamination of the water-supply of a city like New York?’
‘I have no figures, madam. I am told it would constitute a major catastrophe.’
The man from the Washington Post asked:
‘What measures are being taken to track down this Proteus and his associates and locate the toxic material?’
‘These measures are under the jurisdiction of the governments concerned. I can give you no details, because I do not have them. One presumes all are committed to a maximum effort.’
‘What is your own disposition, sir? Would you invite a blackmailer on to the floor of the Assembly?’
‘My own disposition? I have none that is relevant in this crisis.’
‘Have you any comment on the situation?’
‘I have a question.’ The Secretary-General was suddenly hard as granite. ‘A question which you may feel disposed to put to your readers and viewers. If you sit where we shall sit very soon, how would you choose? Would you treat with the blackmailer, or thrust him into confinement while you watch men and cities perish? . . . You must excuse me now. I know no more than I have told you. I cannot guess beyond the next two days.’
Everywhere, the authorities had expected a panic. There was none. It was as if mankind were satiated with horror, drunk and numb after an orgy of violent images thrust at it hour after hour without respite. There was no place to hide. There was no board on which they could read the odds for or against their personal survival. There was no enemy to provoke their fury – not even Proteus himself, because the very magnitude of his challenge touched some chord of elation, of desperate sympathy, deep within them. The issues of good and evil were too closely entwined to distinguish them clearly. There was no appeal to the law because the law was plainly impotent against this thunderbolt intervention in human affairs.
The one image which stuck in everyone’s mind was the metaphor of Russian Roulette; the pistol with one bullet and five empty chambers, passed from hand to hand at a drunken party. Click! . . . The hammer strikes an empty chamber. Thank God I’m still alive. Click! Click! Click! Thank God they are still alive. Bang! . . . He’s dead! Well, it was his own fault, poor clown! People shouldn’t play with loaded guns. It was only afterwards, and much too late, that anyone dared to ask: ‘What were we doing there, anyway; how did we arrive at that moment of lunacy; why didn’t someone stop us before we got too drunk to reason?’
After the first welter of sensational headlines and hastily prepared commentary, a tone of cool, if desperate, sanity began to make itself heard. The end proposed by Proteus was good. It was not beyond human accomplishment. It had been urged for years by wise and compassionate people – yea, by us too, of the Fourth Estate. If our urgings went unheard, it was because – and here the reasonings became diffuse and contradictory – a mélange of the philosophy of law, the sovereignty of States, commercial considerations, political expediencies.
Still, if the end was good, could not a good means be found to attain it? Proteus was wrong to hold the world to ransom like a highwayman . . . They had not dropped the emotive words: terrorist, blackmail, hijack; but at least, in response either to instinct or directive, they had begun to introduce qualifications that admitted some possible goodwill . . . No editor was prepared to admit that his hand was being guided; but when anyone fished out photographs of victims of random epidemics and said: ‘Let’s print those. Maybe that will stop the bastard,’ there was a howl of protest… ‘What do you want? Mobs inside United Nations . . .’
In the end, it was the fear of the hostile mobs that swayed the vote. At three in the afternoon, by a narrow majority, the General Assembly voted that: ‘In the hope of a speedy removal of a monstrous threat to humanity, we agree to invite the person called Proteus, under guarantees of immunity, to address members of this Assembly in an extraordinary session and to permit full news coverage of the occasion by all the media.’
At five, John Spada telephoned the Secretary-General and received news of the decision. At ten the next morning, he landed by helicopter within the precincts of the UN and was escorted with Maury Feldman to the Secretary-General’s office. Those who saw him remarked that, trimmed, barbered and dressed in a five-hundred-dollar suit, he made a most unlikely terrorist. To which one cynical wit answered: ‘Don’t you know all undertakers are well-dressed.’
The Secretary-General was polite, if less than cordial.
‘You will both be accommodated in the building until all this is over. Your immunity is guaranteed but, all the time you are here, you will be restricted to your own quarters. The press and possibly some delegates will wish to see you.’
‘No, sir!’ John Spada refused flatly. ‘I go on the record once and once only, in the Assembly itself. I shall make my speech, respond to delegates’ questions if they have any, then return to my quarters to await the outcome. I hope you will not have me on your hands too long.’
‘I hope so too, Mr Spada.’ He said it like a prayer. ‘In the event that the outcome is favourable, I presume you will wish to contact your – er – associates.’
‘That will not be necessary, sir. They are instructed how to act in either event. The only danger is that if any country – and I mean any country – imposes a blackout on news, my colleagues will be out of communication. In that case, they will distribute the contaminants to a fixed time schedule.’
‘My God!’
‘It must have occurred to you, sir, that certain governments would attempt to blackout or edit the news, as indeed they have done these last few days. It would be wise to tell them what will happen if they do it tomorrow.’
‘But you are setting them up for judgment by their own populace; they will not accept that.’
‘Then they will accept the consequence.’
The Secretary-General looked at Maury Feldman, who shrugged helplessly.
‘I’m sorry. This is Spada’s brief, not mine.’
‘A question, sir.’ Spada addressed the Secretary-General. ‘In the event that consent is given to my demands, are your observers ready to move? Remember the commencement date for release is a fixed feast, not a movable one.’
‘But surely, some flexibility . . .’
‘No, sir. I am familiar with the tactics used in dealing with terrorist groups – delay, discussion, new terms, new conditions. This situation precludes them.’
‘You must have very good nerves, Mr Spada.’
‘I assure you, sir, that I have. May I ask a service of you? I need a secretary to type up the final draft of my speech and run off copies for distribution.’
‘That can be arranged. Is there anything else?’
‘One matter only. I have instructed Mr Feldman here to draw a deed dedicating a part of my personal fortune, estimated at some ten million dollars, to a trust fund to be administered by United Nations. This fund will be used for the rehabilitation of released prisoners and their families. I shall sign the deed after the amnesty has begun.’
‘And if there is no amnesty?’
‘Then, I fear the money will have little value. It’s a curious commodity: an expression of confidence in the human condition. Once that confidence goes, you might just as well use it to light your pipe . . .’
‘Do you believe in God, Mr Spada?’
‘At the moment, sir, God is absent from me. I have prayed to find him again in this place.’
‘I pray with you, Mr Spada,’ said the Secretary-General. ‘The absence has been too long already.’
In the great chamber of the General Assembly, John Spada faced the delegates of the nations, the press of the world, the privileged audience of the potent who filled the public galleries. They were silent, grim-faced, clearly hostile to this interloper in their midst. They had not come to hear testimony but to look on the man who was to give it, to measure his strength, his resolution, his nerve as a gambler. So be it then. He himself must prove them: whether they would know a truth when they heard it, stand for or against a right when they saw it plain. But he must look beyond them, speak over them, to the world outside, where his image and his words would reach hundreds of millions who, even if they could not enforce them yet, would make their own judgments on the witness he was about to give.
The Secretary-General stood on the rostrum. His introduction was brief and bleak.
‘… We are here under duress and under protest. The man who will address you has no right to be in this place. Nevertheless, we have granted him immunity, guaranteed his security, while he is among us. In a forum held to ransom, we will grant him a free hearing. Ladies and Gentlemen. The man who calls himself Proteus . . . Mr John Spada.’
As he stepped down from the rostrum they applauded him. When John Spada took his place, the applause died instantly to an eerie silence. Spada arranged his papers on the lectern, adjusted the microphone and began to speak, calmly and persuasively.
‘… It is true that you are here under duress; but you are here, in comfort, in your own place, free to come and go at will, to debate openly, to eat well, to demand immunities in your persons and your houses. There are others, tens of thousands of others, in prisons, in detention camps, in torture-rooms, in psychiatric institutions, who are not free, whose simplest human rights have been abrogated. It is for them that I have come to speak. It is for them that I have, temporarily and very mildly, abridged your very great freedom. I remind you that, in a public document, I have permanently surrendered my own…’
They had expected something else – threats, exhortations, a tirade perhaps. They were not disarmed yet, but yes, they would listen. He began now to reason with them.
‘I stand before you, one man, alone. You are many. Behind you there is the serried might of nations, great and small, their wealth, their armies, navies, air forces, their police, civil and secret. You have, in short, a mandate of enormous potency. I, it would appear, have none.
‘I claim that I have. It is a mandate from the silent, to speak for them, from the imprisoned to plead for them, from the tortured to proclaim their wrongs, from the dead to write at least a decent epitaph. This is the meaning of the name I assumed: Proteus, the shepherd of those who live in an alien element; Proteus of the many shapes. When you look at me I want you to see many other shapes and faces: the schoolgirl raped and bleeding on a table, a great scholar reduced by drugs to mumbling lunacy, a journalist beaten to a bloody pulp, a long line of detainees, inadequately fed, inadequately clothed, working in sub-zero weather . . . You ask who gave me my mandate. They did. The hands that first offered it to me were the hands of my own daughter, tortured to extremity in Argentina. Then my wife, my daughter and my daughter’s husband were murdered . . . What more motive is needed for the action I have taken? . . . Is your own patent of authority so sound? Should you not accept mine, as I do yours, de facto; and ask, not how it was come by, but what use, good or bad, is made of it?
‘I will not insult you with any of the catchwords of politics: the right, the left, the centre, capitalist, communist, revolutionary, deviationist, dissident . . . You have heard them all, too many times, in this place and elsewhere. These are labels, hung on mannequins. I will use other words: man, woman, child; and I will show you what was done to this man, that woman, their child.’ . . . He sensed their restiveness and he challenged them sharply: ‘You are bored – or embarrassed? You know it already? Then why have you not risen in revolt against it? You did not do it? OF course not! There are always vicars, deputies, surrogates to do the filthy work and leave you free in conscience afterwards. You will sit! You will be silent! You will listen! . . .’
He read the catalogue, country by country, figure by figure, detail by sordid detail, until he had cowed them again into silence. Then he tossed the papers on the floor of the chamber with a gesture of contempt.
‘Challenge it, if you dare! Refute it, if you can! Prove me a liar. I would welcome it! . . . You cannot. You know it. So what do you do? You say: we are delegates only, puppet voices, puppet figures! Blame our masters, not us! I blame them – dear loving God, how I blame them! But I blame you too, because you hide behind their skirts like lap-dogs, whimpering at their anger! And this is why I threaten you, put you under duress: to show you that, for every monster there is a mirror image, for every terror there is a response of terror, throughout all ages of ages. Amen!’
His voice was a thunder, rolling through the domed chamber. After the thunder came a silence, and after the silence, a passionate plea.
‘Look! Listen! Take heed, I beg you! These are your brothers and sisters! Their blood is your blood, crying not for vengeance, but for an end of this long iniquity. What are you? Savages, dancing round the fire, chanting while your victims burn? Mediaeval inquisitors wrenching irrelevancies from dying men? If you are, then the terror which I hold over you is less than you deserve. If you are not, then, in the name of whatever Gods you worship, make an end of this monstrosity! Remember, time runs out!’
He stood for one silent moment, dominating them, waiting for the questions they dared not ask. Then he walked out of the chamber to the room they had provided for him, threw himself on the bed and lay like a cataleptic, staring at the white ceiling.
A long time later, a long lifetime later, Maury Feldman came and sat on the edge of the bed, patted his head and said quietly:
‘Brother, little brother, you did well.’
‘Did it all go out?’
‘Here and in Europe, yes, it all went out. What they did with it in other places, how they edited it – too early to know.’
‘What’s the reaction?’
‘Among the delegates? They’re sobered – and impressed.’
‘The press?’
‘They say they’ve got the speech of the century.’
‘Which means what?’
‘What it always means, Johnny boy! The man’s great; now let’s cut his tripes out and see what’s written inside his gut… How do you feel?’
‘Empty.’
‘You’d have made a great advocate.’
‘From you, that’s high praise . . . What will they do now?’
‘What they always do: confer, confabulate, in the end, dilute.’
‘Can they?’
‘Sure they can. All they have to do is put a “but” at the end of every sentence: “A noble plea, but… A splendid piece of rhetoric, but… An impressive summary of evidence but . . . ”’
‘But what, Maury?’
‘But they can’t let you get away with it – no way, no how!’
‘What can they say? It’s all in the record. What can they do?’
‘Wear you down. There’s fourteen days before the amnesty has to begin. That’s a long time. They’ll make you sweat every hour of it.’
‘Stay around! Please, Maury!’
‘Sure; but sometimes I have to sleep, go to the can, make phone calls. That’s when they’ll come at you. Can you take it?’
‘I have to take it. Did you call Kitty?’
‘Yes. She’s coming to see you.’
‘How does she feel?’
‘Proud. Disturbed about some things, but proud, yes.’
‘I’d love a drink.’
‘I’ll try to find you a bottle. I mistrust the bar service.’
‘Do you think they’d try to poison me?’
‘No; but I’d like to break the seals myself.’
‘Thanks, Maury.’
‘Thank you. You almost restored my faith in human nature; but I still wouldn’t gamble too much on it. Let me go find that bottle.’
His next visitor was the Secretary-General, polite as always, but, this time, much more cordial.
‘My compliments, Mr Spada. I have heard many fine speeches in my time; yours was the most moving.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now, can you tell me what it has achieved?’
‘Too early for that, Mr Spada. It’s not the reaction in the chamber that counts, but the delayed one, when the delegates write their cables and respond to their inquisitors at home . . . I will tell you something though: I hope with all my heart your bluff works.’
Again Spada felt the cold fingers tightening round his heart. He waited until the spasm had passed and then said:
‘It was not, is not, a bluff.’
‘I had hoped it was. You did much tonight, Mr Spada; more than we have been able to do in ten years on this issue. We could hold the good you have won for us. I should hate to see it lost by – by untimely action.’
‘Not untimely; timed to the second, in fact. Don’t deceive yourself. Don’t let your colleagues betray you into illusion.’
‘I see.’ The Secretary-General was immediately formal. ‘Well, rest easy, Mr Spada. We shall do what we can. Mr Feldman tells me Ms Kitty Cowan would like to visit you. I’ve arranged for her immediate admission.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One other matter. Ambassador Kolchak from Washington would like to see you. May I send him in?’
‘Do you know what he wants?’
‘I have not asked him.’
‘Send him in then.’
Anatoly Kolchak and Maury Feldman arrived at the same moment. Spada made the introductions. Maury Feldman poured the drinks. Kolchak opened the play in his studious style.
‘You were very impressive tonight, Mr Spada.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ambassador.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘But tell me something, Mr Ambassador: was Mr Spada’s address televised in Moscow?’
‘Most of it, yes.’
‘What do you mean, most of it?’
Anatoly Kolchak had his answer ready.
‘The schedule of crimes and victims was edited out, as it was, I believe, in other places. Instead, there was what we call a “dialectical analysis of the occasion”. I didn’t see it, obviously; so I can’t tell you how good it was. However, the rest of the transmission was intact.’
‘How many people saw it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anatoly Kolchak. ‘I would guess everyone who has a television set. Of course, we must not forget the vast radio audience. The excised portions were made available to a more select group: the Praesidium, the KGB, our monitors in Moscow. I’ll probably have their assessments tomorrow.’
John Spada lay back on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘I hope they get their sums right.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ said Anatoly Kolchak evenly. ‘The mathematics are not complicated. We have a population of between two hundred and fifty and two hundred and eighty million people. An estimate has been made that in a city of half a million, contaminated by Botulinus, we might expect a ten per cent casualty rate before control measures become effective. That makes point nothing nothing three or point nothing nothing four per cent of the population. Multiply it by ten, twenty, it is still a minimal figure, Mr Spada. Compared with our wartime losses, our predicted losses in the event of a new war, it is – how do you say it? – peanuts!’
‘And if your wife, or your son, were one of the peanuts?’
‘It would break my heart,’ said Anatoly Kolchak. ‘But states have no heart, only people. I tell you this, not to mock you, simply to show you the odds against which you gamble. I happen to believe you are right; so I am doing my best… I fear it may not be enough.’
‘Then tell your people this, Mr Ambassador. In Russia, six cities will be hit in sequence! Moscow will be one of them!’
‘I believe you. In Moscow they may not. But thank you for telling me.’
He finished his drink at a gulp and walked out. Maury Feldman said drily:
‘There goes an honest man.’
So are they all, all honourable men!’
‘Not all, johnny boy! There are some right royal bastards, and you’re going to meet some of them very soon.’
That night, although he was brutally tired, he slept shallowly, his dreams haunted by debates and arguments of which the thread always eluded him. In the morning he rose early, forced himself to do fifteen minutes of floor exercises, then bathed, shaved and dressed, he knocked on Maury Feldman’s door. Maury was pouring coffee for two very formal fellows who looked like lawyers practising to be judges. Maury presented them casually.
‘Mr Adams, Mr Jewison . . . My client, John Spada. These gentlemen are attached to the US delegation here. They wanted to talk to you. Wisely they decided to see me first.’
‘Mind if I have some coffee?’
‘Help yourself. I’ll call for some more.’
Spada settled himself in a corner of the settee and asked:
‘Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
‘We’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Forget the questions,’ said Feldman. ‘I’d have to advise him not to answer them. We’ll probably get further if you tell Mr Spada what you’ve just been telling me.’
‘Any way you want it.’ Mr Adams was surprisingly relaxed. ‘You’re probably aware, Mr Spada, that the UN is jealous of its independence and its immunities. There would be much resentment if US agencies began intruding on its premises or its business. We’re accredited here; so we’re functioning as – shall we say – intermediaries. We’d like to discuss your offer to surrender yourself at the end of these proceedings.’
‘Yes?’
‘You realise what that surrender entails?’
‘Of course. I’ll be arrested.’
‘You are probably also aware that, pending your trial on criminal charges, you would be held in custody without bail.’
‘That’s probable, but not certain,’ said Maury Feldman. ‘Since we cannot pre-empt legal decisions.’
‘We also cannot pre-empt certain risks to Mr Spada while he is in custody. The word is already around that quite a lot of people want him dead, and prisons are notoriously unsafe places for unpopular people. So . . . we’d suggest there is the basis of a deal.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘The kind that’s been made before, with co-operative subjects: an arranged escape, a new identity, the chance to begin a new life elsewhere.’
‘Amnesty, in fact,’ said Feldman drily.
‘Yes, you could call it that.’
‘And what kind of co-operation would be expected of me?’
‘Names and places. Where the toxins are made, who’s handling them . . . that sort of thing.’
‘In short, a sell-out,’ said John Spada. ‘Let me ask you a question, Mr Adams. Why would you amnesty a self-confessed criminal rather than hundreds and thousands of innocent people who are, at present, in confinement?’
‘Because,’ said Mr Adams, ‘there are hundreds of thousands of other innocent people whom you threaten with a painful and miserable death, if your demands are not met.’
‘So, meet the demands and the threat is removed. Amnesty can be given at the stroke of a pen. Why wait for the avenging angel to write it in blood ?’
Adams gave him a long, searching look and asked:
‘Is that how you see yourself, Mr Spada – as an avenging angel?’
‘No, Mr Adams. I’ve simply changed the balance of power a little. I’ve introduced enough authority to make possible a negotiation which no one would have considered before.’
‘So you would negotiate?’ Mr Adams was a fraction too eager. Before Spada had a chance to answer, Maury Feldman cut in:
‘What the hell do you think this is all about? Spada’s not peddling chestnuts. He’s not trying to make himself King or Pope. He’s demanding a human right for those who have been deprived of it. He says simply, if you don’t give back the right, he’ll try to force you to do it and he has the means at hand. Now that’s one side of the negotiating table. There has to be a response from the other: yes, no or maybe!’
‘Fair enough, Counsellor. It gives me a small something to go back with; but I need more. Where are the supplies of toxin made and located, Mr Spada?’
‘No dice!’ Spada shook his head. ‘I stand where I stood at the beginning. You give me live bodies, I’ll give you the toxin.’
‘Before we finish,’ said Mr Adams quietly, ‘understand this! We’re the only people who can offer you half a chance of staying alive. You think about that, Mr Spada.’
‘I have thought about it, Mr Adams. I wish I could say it was important to me. It isn’t. Besides,’ he added a final wry comment, ‘you forget the Proteus story: You have to hold the god and bind him before he disgorges his secrets. Just when you think you have him, he changes shape…’
Mr Adams opened his mouth to reply but Maury Feldman silenced him with a gesture.
‘It seems to me, Mr Adams, that you’re on the wrong track. You object – and rightly – to the fact that my client is holding a threat over the nations. But you yourself are holding a similar threat over him. Isn’t that precisely what has brought us to this pass? There cannot be one law for the State and another for the individual citizen.’
Mr Adams had the grace to concede the point. He shrugged resignedly.
‘That’s the name of the game, isn’t it? It always has been. It always will be.’
‘If you believe that,’ said John Spada, ‘why should you care how many people die? The planet’s over-populated anyway.’
‘I guess it’s a question of scale.’ For the first time Mr Jewison found voice. ‘It’s in the Bible, isn’t it? It is expedient that one man should die for the people.’
‘I’ve already volunteered,’ said John Spada. ‘All you have to do is pick up the contract.’