CHAPTER 29

There were just the two of them. They were served a simple dinner. She sat at the table, he, to one side on a sofa close enough to allow him to reach over to his plate on the table. He was reading a book, she, a magazine. He sipped from his glass of wine, but put it down hastily to allow himself to laugh. His glasses were well down his nose; his thumb held open the paperback.

“You’ve got to hear this. But I won’t say anything to give the plot away.”

“You can’t read and eat your dessert at the same time. Apple cobbler takes two hands. Come on, honey. What is it about?”

Ronald Reagan folded the page and put the book down on the coffee table. “It’s Graham Greene. Our—” he grabbed the book to remind himself of the title—“Our Man in Havana. It’s the craziest plot I’ve ever read, and the funniest. This middle-aged Brit who lives in Havana is at his usual bar and starts talking with a younger Brit, just come in from London. Our guy is just a little loony. He’s been in Cuba ten years, a tiny business selling vacuum cleaners. The young guy starts to talk to him and pretty soon, after two or three drinks, says there is a great need for the Brits to beef up their intelligence service in Cuba, talks about how London needs to be warned in case the Reds take over.

“No. No coffee, thanks.

“Well, the older Brit says sure, he’ll cooperate, but these things take money. The young guy says of course these things take money. We need, for instance, somebody in Cienfuegos to keep an eye on what’s going on there. The older guy says, I have a little outlet in Cienfuegos and I know just the guy to line up.”

Reagan’s eyes were rounded in mirth.

“So this whole thing goes on—I haven’t finished the book—and MI6 is pouring money in there to our guy, who makes up funny reports. What’s about to happen is that a professional guy from Britain is coming in, and, to save money, he’ll board with our guy. Why couldn’t Graham Greene just write comic novels?”

Nancy nodded. “I saw his name in the story on the conference going on in Moscow.”

“Oh sure. Graham Greene will fall in with that whole peacenik set, and Gorbachev will play to them. You know I was pushing for the treaty we signed in December, and I’m pushing for confirmation right now in the Senate—while that gang gasses on about how the U.S. is engaged in a new arms race.”

“Jesse Helms is opposing the treaty.”

“Jesse would oppose a treaty with the Soviets banning poison ivy. But Jesse’s on our side, and he can be useful—though George Shultz doesn’t think so.”

Nancy Reagan raised her hand. “But does Jesse have a point?—about the Soviet Union, under the treaty, having to junk intermediate-range missiles? Only, Jesse maintains, there’s no way for us to verify that they’re actually doing so.”

“That’s always a problem, and Jesse had a nice line on that point.”

“If it’s a nice line, I’ll bet you’ve memorized it.”

He laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have. Jesse said, ‘Old Soviet warheads never die, they are just retargeted on the United States.’ That’s in part true, but—listen, Nancy. We can junk our intermediate nuclear weapons in Europe, and anything the Soviet Union started up we could wham them just as decisively with our submarine fleet. Did you see that Klaus Fuchs died?”

Yes, she had seen that, Nancy said.

“He managed to get the atom bomb to Stalin years ahead. Our guys got on to him, too late of course, but we did track down the Rosenbergs. They fried.

“No more cobbler, thanks. But it’s really good.”

“What about George Bush! Beating Jack Kemp in Michigan yesterday.”

“My guess is George will get the nomination.”

“Is Bob Dole a factor?”

“Well yes, he’s a factor. But I’m still guessing it will be George.”

“Well, a lot of people will say: If Ronald Reagan picked George Bush for two terms as vice president, he’s got to be—the next best man.”

Reagan blew her a kiss. Then, picking up the novel, “You’ve really got to read this book. Makes you almost forgive Graham Greene.”