The Ambassador (17 page)

Strether never knew quite what made him say the next few words. He had linked her arm in his in an old-fashioned gesture. But now a surge of emotion touched his heart.

‘It saddens me to see you upset. Lisa, d’you realise how fond I am becoming of you? I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

A hesitant smile lit up her face and the dimples reappeared briefly. 

‘And I don’t mean as a colleague. Or a daughter,’ he added hastily.

‘No, that much was obvious,’ Lisa murmured. ‘We’re pretty direct here, Bill. Am I to take it you think of me as a friend – or even, as a lover?’

But he was too tongue-tied to answer that. Instead he led her away towards the buggy, arm in arm, a lightness in his step, and spoke once more.

‘Now, did you mention lunch? I’m hungry. But do me a favour. Can we avoid red meat, just this once?’

He looked a new man. Staff at the embassy remarked to each other that their ambassador seemed to have a freshness, a spring in his step. Never unkempt, he was paying far more attention to his appearance. One attaché had seen him emerge from Harrods in Abbey Square accompanied by Prince Marius Vronsky, the two giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys, laden with packages. Another had inquired at his behest about riding schools in Hampstead; he would, he said self-deprecatingly, enjoy the feel of a saddle again, and it would help combat a too-evident middle-aged spread.

It was the chauffeur, Peter, who confirmed it. One morning, as he polished the gleaming blue metalwork of the electric car in his basement lair, he was not surprised to be visited by Matt Brewer.

‘I suppose we must keep those things, but it’s an expense we could save,’ was Matt’s opening gambit, with a gesture towards the car. The chauffeur’s scowl halted him. ‘I didn’t mean you, Peter. You have many talents. Aren’t you a qualified engineer?’

The chauffeur kept his head down. Inside the garage it was hot. Beads of sweat stood out on his lips and forehead as he rubbed at an imaginary mark on the bonnet.

‘It has been in use a lot more lately, though,’ Matt continued hopefully.

The chauffeur paused in his rubbing. ‘It has that. But then, you can’t go canoodling on the tube. Not when you’re a distinguished public figure, can you?’

‘Canoodling? What do you mean? Who’s canoodling?’

They both knew the answer. Peter grinned wickedly, fetched a can of chrome polish and started on the bumper, which was already spotless. The vehicle was a copy of a
mid-twentieth
century tail-finned Dodge, a previous incumbent’s choice. What went on under the hood, however, was pure
fin-de-siècle
, the latest V20 300-horsepower reversed four-cam unit, powered by rechargeable lightweight NiCd batteries packed in circular formation around the Wankel engine itself to give maximum thrust. Range 300 kilometres, ideal for city driving. Exhaust, nil.

‘Of course, we could change the car,’ Peter agreed, reluctantly. ‘If the boss doesn’t like it. Or keep the bodywork – it’s beautiful, though I say so myself – and install a fuel cell instead. The trunk’s big enough for the liquid hydrogen and oxygen tanks. The exhaust’s only water-vapour – that goes mostly into the air-conditioning.’

‘But water-vapour’s a factor in global warming as you well know, Peter, so this electric one’s more eco-friendly. You didn’t answer my question.’

Peter chuckled. ‘Him. That’s who. Got a lady friend. Pretty thing – dark-haired and a smashing figure. Great legs.’

‘You’ve been ogling them through the mirror, Peter. For shame,’ said Matt sternly, but both men were pink with amusement.

‘She’s all right, I reckon,’ Peter went on. ‘He treats her real gentlemanly, not like some men I could mention. No hanky-panky; just out to a restaurant, and I’m asked to come back a couple of hours later. Then back to … I suppose it must be her apartment, though from the conversation she lives near Porton Down. She’s a scientist.’

‘She is,’ Matt confirmed. ‘We had her checked out – security. In case. No problems, from what we could establish. So, what happens at the apartment? Are you told to come back 
in a couple of hours then, too?’

‘Indeed I am not,’ the chauffeur replied firmly. ‘Far be it from me to gossip, Mr Brewer. I’ve gone too far as it is.’

‘Don’t leave me in suspense!’ Matt pleaded. ‘We need to know, for his safety. And yours, come to that.’

Peter sniffed. ‘Nah. He doesn’t get up to nothing. He puts the glass divider up and I close my ears. But it all looks chaste to me – a quick kiss or two, and then she’s away.’

‘He’s not said a word to anybody. I can’t tell whether that makes it more serious, or less.’

‘Oh, it’s serious,’ the chauffeur nodded knowingly. ‘He looks so wistful when she’s gone. I think he’s a bit lonely. He sits and watches her door for several minutes before telling me to drive on. Then we come straight home.’

‘We await developments.’

‘We do. Mind, I think it’ll have to be her that makes a move. Bit forward, young women today. Won’t do him no harm. Now, was there anything else? ’Cause if you don’t mind, I have to get on.’

The Europeans celebrated anniversaries at the drop of a hat, and there were plenty of them. Strether had been warned not to miss the Bastille Day bash on 14 July at the French embassy. The St Patrick’s Day event at Dublin House was legendary. Every single one among the forty-two former European countries (a couple of which had split, including Scotland from the UK, to make forty-six regions) had its national day, usually commemorating some bloody event whose outcome of self-government had vanished long since in membership of the Union, or some half-mythical saint of scant interest to the largely secular population. In addition each commemorated Union Day, 9 May, which this year had produced the extended Grand Celebration in Brussels. If he’d heard Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’ sung to Beethoven’s tune once he’d heard it a thousand times.

In response, the 4 July Independence Day party at the United States embassy was to be a far bigger affair than in previous summers. The acceptance list totalled almost two thousand. Strether had arranged for beef from his own herds to be shipped over for the hamburgers and T-bone steaks, and wines in quantity from northern vineyards. A container full of temptations not on sale in Europe – root beer, Hershey bars, peanut butter cups and the most lurid sugar and gum confectionery he could lay hands on – had docked that morning. Stars of Barnum and Bailey’s Circus (humans, not animals) would perform. It was a pity that numbers were too great to use the Residence and its garden; there, it would have been possible with a squeeze to have laid on a mini-rodeo with his cowhands from Colorado. Maybe he’d hold that in reserve for another year.

On the morning of the party Strether strolled around the embassy halls. To his regret, the US ambassador of half a century before (when the building had been moved from Grosvenor Square) had tastes both dull and mean. Precious little had been spent since. The building, though spacious, did not have voice controls; swipe cards, an unreliable technology, were still required for staff. The atmospheric monitoring was ramshackle – in high season it could be as searingly hot inside the offices as outside. The vidphones were ancient and creaking. Facilities for DNA testing for passports were rudimentary and meant long queues. 
It was like living in a third-world country at times and irked Strether. The gibes he had wilted under at Buckingham Palace were all too true.

It came down to money. In world terms, America played third fiddle to the European Union and China; its days as lynchpin of the United Nations were history. So its Foreign Service was kept on short rations by Congress. The 4 July celebrations, however, were his to order, especially as he was subsidising them himself.

‘Morning, sir.’ The young staffer twisted precariously on his ladder. Matt Brewer was hammering a vast American flag to the wall as high as he could get it. At the far end, hot-dog, hamburger, spare-rib, popcorn and ice-cream stalls were being set up: Union food-hygiene laws, Strether had dictated, did not apply since this was foreign soil. A ten-metre screen would relay parades from around the States via CNN. The lobby was to be a Manhattan-style club bar serving a bewildering array of powerful cocktails, and in an adjoining room Dixie jazz was in rehearsal; discordant snatches of music could be heard, along with the panted shouts of New York’s finest, the women police baton twirlers’ formation team in practice. The Air Force marching band had been banished to the backyard since nobody could hear himself speak within fifty metres of them. If nothing else, it would be a raucous night.

‘How are you getting on, Matt?’ Strether asked. Of all his staff, Matt Brewer was the one he liked best. The crew-cut young man gave the nail one last wallop then shinned down the ladder.

‘That’s the last, sir. In here, anyway. Looks grand, don’t it?’

‘I guess so. Should be quite a party.’

‘Yessir. And, sir, on behalf of the staff may I say how much we appreciate it? We haven’t celebrated July Fourth on this scale in years. We think it’s great.’

Strether did not conceal his delight. ‘Thank you for that. We like to indulge in a real hoe-down out west.’ He helped Matt fold the ladder.

‘Sir, your way is fine by us. In fact…’ The young man hesitated. ‘Forgive me if I speak out of turn, sir, but it’s about time you knew. You’re a big improvement on recent holders of your post, and that’s the general view in the embassy. You’re more … normal. Less stuffy. You listen, and you take notice of what we say. You don’t waste our time. You make it a pleasure to work for you – and an honour.’

‘Just doing my best, Matt.’ Strether clasped his hands behind his back in what he hoped was a dignified stance. He had seen Prince Marius do it several times. He wondered what Matt was getting at.

The staffer dropped his voice. ‘You see, most of our bosses are content to go along with whatever the smart guys in the Union tell them. They report back to Washington and the reports are all the same; I could write them in my sleep. “
Our great ally is doing fine, their technical edge over us is slight but nothing to worry about, their social attitudes are a bit strange, but all’s well
” – that sort of stuff. Nobody ever delves, as you do. I can’t recall anyone at your level properly checking out the genetic programme, let alone going underground at Milton Keynes. They visit the games, sure, or go racing or watch polo, but they sit in the diplomatic box. Not you. You were quizzing that fat guy next to you and his wife. It’s admirable, sir.’

‘Now I’m embarrassed.’ Strether put up a hand. ‘But let me into a secret, then, Matt. How did my predecessors spend their days, if not like that?’ 

‘Going to other embassies. Eating, drinking. Recycling chatter as fact and innuendo as truth. Putting themselves absolutely in the clutches of those pale-eyed clones, the perm secs and chefs de cabinet. Since you ask. Sir.’ The staffer’s eyes were bright, but his mouth was set.

‘We don’t use
that
word here, Matt. Not even in asides. But I take your point.’ A thought occurred to Strether. ‘You courting at all, Matt?’

The young man grinned. ‘No, sir, not yet. Playing the field. The girls here are gorgeous. The only minor problem is they tend to look alike. California girls are the rage at the moment, so I’m suited. Can’t tell whether it’s fashion or – you know what.’

‘I tell you why I asked,’ Strether said. ‘I have an invitation to the nightclub called the Toy Shop; Prince Marius says I must go. I thought there might be safety in numbers. Would you and a couple of the other staffers care to accompany me? I won’t cramp your style, but it might be better if we go as a crowd.’

Matt looked at him curiously. The Ambassador’s physical side must have been thoroughly awoken – or reawoken? – for such a suggestion to have been considered, let alone accepted. The Toy Shop was not a place to take a respectable woman; like a Japanese geisha house, on which it was modelled, it was designed exclusively for the entertainment of men. That said, it was reputedly not to be missed.

‘Certainly, sir. I’ve heard a lot about it. That’d be great. Now, please excuse me; I’ve been asked to taste the Tex-Mex chilli. Duty calls.’

It was acknowledged as the best party London had seen for ages. Strether had revelled in the power his engraved cards briefly conferred. The senior echelons of the business world attended, including billionaire friends who had flown over from the States, the entire diplomatic corps, department heads and students from seven universities which had offered Strether honorary degrees, doubtless in hope of largesse; sports personalities, including the teams he had seen at White City, his favourite film, theatre and TV stars. The press corps turned out in force, with Maxwell Packer in the vanguard. A crowd of MPs, MEPs and peers milled about with partners both licit and illicit, alongside the management of the Milton Keynes hospital, who had been bewildered at the missive since they had been blissfully unaware of his visit. Plus anyone who’d ever fed him since his arrival four months before in the early spring, what seemed a millennium ago, on board
King William V
.

Prince Marius, resplendent in a purple velvet tunic with blouson sleeves, raised a glass of frothy green liquid topped with spangles and a tiny umbrella. ‘Congratulations, Ambassador. So this is how you like to enjoy yourself.’

Strether, flushed and happy, half bowed. He had chosen an ivory linen jacket and sported a silk stars and stripes tied jauntily at the neck. ‘Good to see you.’

‘I hear you’re a horseman again?’

Strether patted his middle. ‘After Brussels. I couldn’t go on like that, Marius. I’m not genetically cleansed like you to avoid heart disease. I seriously missed my riding, so I started up again. I go hacking on the Heath trail first thing every morning. Got a bay gelding called Jefferson: big brute, but it’s doing me good.’

‘Pity we don’t allow fox-hunting any more. You’d have loved it. The French were the last to bow to public opinion – the Commission’s, not theirs. These days, the nearest you’ll 
get is bear-shooting in the Urals; and if you don’t pay your beaters well they’re as likely to shoot
you
.’ Marius put his head on one side. ‘So, Bill, you like it here.’

‘I could become very used to it.’ The two men had gravitated towards the french windows and emerged on to a balcony. Behind them came vivid snatches of ‘Jeepers Creepers’ and ‘Maple Leaf Rag’; it sounded as if the various bands were competing with each other. A fragment of Sousa music – the circus, probably, on the floor below – came floating up as an echo from a nearby building. Below, street lamps gave a muted light as dusk began to close in. Electric cars whizzed around corners several storeys down. The air was warm and limpid.

Strether checked they were not overheard; the embassy was free of cameras and clean of bugs, in the public rooms at any rate. ‘Maybe you can help me with one small matter, Marius. It can’t be all sweetness and light here, and I don’t care to be treated like a fool. I keep getting messages on my vidphone about demonstrations. From an unlicensed operator, at a guess – the quality’s terrible. Bit garbled and frantic, about protecting someone. Yet there’s never a whisper in the news. Is something happening I should know about?’