Stained Glass (32 page)

It was in that proprietary sweep of
his
chapel (that was his most private vanity, though sometimes in a redistributionist excess he would think of it as his and Meister Gerard's chapel) that he spotted the man sitting at the east end of the pew, one row ahead of him. Blackford had laid eyes on him only once before—at the White House, he thought back, when Blackford was a young, anonymous escort to the pretty girl he eventually married. Allen Dulles had grown much much older in eleven years, but he was unmistakably himself. And, seated where he was, removed from the dignitaries' section, clearly he had not given his identity, else he'd have been placed, even though retired as Director of Central Intelligence, in the transept with the notables.

Blackford was inclined to ignore him as, the solemn pontifical mass ended, the congregation filed out, the boys' voices hitting the high notes in the exultant harmonies of a final chorale.

But it was not his way. Blackford observed him. No one in the throng was there to escort him, or even to notice him. The old man made his way silently, unobtrusively, through the somber crowd, turned to watch the recessional out of the chapel.

Again the altar boys and the archbishop, followed by the priests. These now were followed by the monks, and after them, walking by himself, head erect, angular limbs in uneasy rhythm with the clergy, dressed in a morning coat that made him look like an emissary from Eton College, the sun catching his light hair as he stepped down from the porch, was Count Rudolph Wintergrin, followed at a modest distance by a cluster of family and friends. His bearing was manly, but not martial; his step firm, but not obstreperous. There was a resolution and a tenderness there—the unique blend of his father; and as he looked at him Blackford's eyes were moist. But he turned quickly and had no difficulty in relocating his quarry, who, all alone, was making his way to the parking area, just short of the castle where fifty cars, with special passes on their windshields, squatted around the tall, leafless elm trees.

Blackford waited until the old man unlocked the door at the driver's end and entered his car. He knocked on the window opposite and, surprised, but without hesitation, the old man reached over and tripped open the door handle. Blackford opened the door, got in, and closed it. Instinct led Allen Dulles, from his end, to open his door slightly. Sitting with his hands on the steering wheel, he turned his head.

Blackford did not extend his hand. He said, simply, I'm Blackford Oakes.”

“I see.” Allen Dulles did not go through the formality of introducing himself.

There was a pause.

“Well, Mr. Dulles, did we do the right thing in 1952?”

“Mr. Oakes, the question you ask I do not permit. Not under any circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“Because in this world, if you let them, the ambiguists will kill you.”

“The ambiguists, as you call them, were dead right about Count Wintergrin.”

“You are asking me to break my rule.”

“Excuse me, sir, but is your goddamned rule more important than Wintergrin and his cause?”

“Actually,” said Dulles, “it is. Or if you prefer, put it this way, Oakes: I have no alternative than to believe it is. And I hope you will understand, because if you do it will be easier; if you do not, you are still too inexperienced to discuss these matters with me.”

“I don't want it to be easier for me.” Oakes turned now to look directly at the man whose will had governed Blackford's own for ten years. He found himself raising his voice—something he never did. “
Wintergrin was the great hope for the West. The great opportunity. The incarnation of Western hope
. You made me …” He stopped, already ashamed of a formulation that stripped him of his manhood. Nobody
forced
Blackford to lead Axel to the execution chamber. He changed, as quickly as possible, the arrangement. “You lost the great chance.”

Dulles was now aroused. He lit his pipe with jagged movements of his hands.

“I believe you are right. I believe Wintergrin was right. The Russians—I believe—would not in fact have moved. But do you want to know something I
don't
believe, Oakes?” His voice was strained.

Blackford was silent.

“I
don't
believe the lesson to draw is that we
must not
act because, in acting, we may
prove
to be wrong. And
I
know”—his eyes turned to meet Blackford's—“
that you know that Axel Wintergrin thought so too.
”

For ten years Blackford had wondered if Adjunct Professor of Russian Erika Chadinoff of the University of Geneva had confided to anyone the contents of Axel's note, and, if so, to whom. Dulles hadn't told him in so many words. But Blackford knew now whom Erika had finally turned to, whom she was talking to. That much, at least, had been accomplished by their awful experience.

There was nothing more to say. Impulsively, Blackford extended his hand, and Dulles took it.

Notes and Acknowledgments

I am indebted to many friends who read the manuscript and gave me valuable suggestions. I desist from giving their names lest they should be thought responsible for any surviving unperfections, assuming there are any. But I must mention gratefully the laborious reading given to the book, and the splendid advice, of my old friend Sophie Wilkins, and my brother F. Reid Buckley. Mr. Alfred Aya of San Francisco is the gifted—and clearly dangerous—electrical architect, to whom I owe my thanks. Mr. Samuel S. Vaughan, president of Doubleday Publishing Company, has got to be the best editor in the world, as well as—running away—the most amiable. Joseph Isola, as usual, read the galleys with patience and precision. And my very special thanks to Countess Nona von Oeynhausen, who not only read the manuscript but took me to Westphalia, over hill and dale, poking in and out of castles and eateries and antique chapels, providing me with whatever insight into the German question is here.

W
.
F
.
B
.

Stamford, Connecticut

January 1978

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1978 by William F. Buckley, Jr.

Cover design by Barbara Brown

Cover illustration by Karl Kotas

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1850-0

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