The Ambassador was silent.
“Every time,” Peter went on lowly, “I pick up a paper or hear one or other of the men who want to be the next President, that dreadful man Wallace in Alabama, Cabot Lodge, or Nixon or Rockefeller, or even the other Democrats, I mean, apart from that Hubert Humphrey fellow they all seem horribly bigoted, anti-British, ineffectual, irrelevant or just plain barking. Honestly, sir,” he sighed, “at least with President Kennedy we all know in our heart of hearts that he probably has his heart in the right place.”
Oliver Franks shook his head.
“Now you’re even talking like a politician, Sir Peter.”
Later the two men stood on the lawn in front of the “main house” with their backs to Nantucket Sound. Although it was a bright, balmy early summer day the wind was biting and both men were grateful for their coats. The President’s Chief of Staff, Marvin Watson had sent ahead his own representative to liaise with the State Department’s “protocol people” just to “smooth things out”.
Marvin Watson’s man, a crew cut Texan in his thirties with coat hanger shoulders and a military bearing had walked the two visitors through the house, explained the prospective layout of the “meeting rooms” and the “commissary arrangements” for the principals and their staffers.
There would be a photo call on the lawn tomorrow morning and then the press and the cameramen would be escorted outside the two mile “security zone” around the compound.
Oliver Franks had handed over a suggested draft agenda.
The US Navy had stationed a destroyer, the USS Southerland (DD-743) in Nantucket Sound. Her long low menacing silhouette visually augmented the impression conveyed from the constant thrumming of the rotors of the helicopter gunships patrolling the landward perimeter of the “secure zone”. Closer inshore smaller patrol boats cruised beyond the surf line.
“The Secretary of State is due to be landing at Otis ANGB shortly, sir,” the White House staffer had explained. “I’ll make sure he has this draft document in good time for your scheduled meeting this evening.”
“Are you able to confirm that the Treasury Secretary will be able to join our deliberations?”
“Yes, sir.”
Oliver Franks checked his watch.
“We need to return to Otis in time to greet the Prime Minister’s party,” he decided. The Secret Service men kept a respectful distance, always watchful. Their nervousness, the destroyer patrolling out in Nantucket Sound and the constant distant thrumming of the rotors of the circling Bell UH-1 Iroquois Hueys spoke to the deeply trouble land in which the two Englishmen now walked. If even here in this relatively calm corner of the Atlantic north east nowhere was safe; where was any man safe in America?
“Diplomacy is a funny old thing, Peter,” the older man observed professorially. “In the next few days I rather fear we will be plumbing the depths, exploring as it were, the nadir of Anglo-American relations. In amongst all the recriminations it is likely that we will forget all the things that tie us together, the countless things large and small which make us more alike than unalike. We forget at our peril that we have many, many vital interests in common. Not to put too fine a point on it I believe that we and the United States are inestimably stronger together than we are apart.”
That made a lot of sense to the younger man.
After the Battle of Malta he would have drowned if the commanding officer of the USS Berkeley had not risked his ship by coming alongside Talavera when she was obviously sinking. That officer had known Talavera, already on fire could have turned turtle or even, blown up, at any moment and yet he had still unhesitatingly conned his ship alongside. Thereupon, crewmen from the Berkeley had jumped onto the decks of his sinking ship without a care for their own lives, and soon afterwards when Talavera went down other Americans had dived into the oily, flotsam-fouled waters to save wounded British seamen. Two of those brave Americans had died in the rescue but many of Talavera’s badly injured survivors were alive today only because of the selfless bravery and sacrifice of those brave Americans. As long as he lived Peter Christopher would be in the debt of those courageous men from the United States Navy.
“I’d have drowned two months ago if an American captain had not put his ship in peril to come to Talavera’s aid, sir.”
Oliver Franks nodded.
He halted and met Peter Christopher’s gaze.
“You were sent to America as a propaganda stunt,” he said. “You and your lovely wife, Lady Marija, and the Hannays have done a marvellous job flying the flag and fighting the battle for hearts and minds; but it may be that the lasting fruits of your time in America will be in the contacts and friendships you are able to establish.” He sighed. “To that end I have recommended, with the endorsement of the Foreign Secretary, to the Prime Minister that we give you a “proper job” and a “proper diplomatic role” for the rest of your “tour” in the United States.”
Peter was not sure he was very keen on this development; although for the while he kept his reservations to himself.
“The reason we — as a nation — honestly and truly do not know where we stand with America anymore,” Lord Franks explained, “is that the United States does not know where it stands in the World, or even whether it is still united. The Kennedy Administration, the House of Representatives, State Governors are at odds not just for the Hell of it but because everybody suddenly has their own idea of what the Union means to him. Before the October War the United States was a continental empire bound together by the Constitution and a sense of oneness; nowadays the Constitution has become a thing to beat one’s foes over the head with and an awful lot of people are looking for somebody to blame for everything which has gone wrong. Whoever wins the next Presidential election will inherit a Union that has probably never been more disunited since the Civil War. That said, it will still be in our British national interests to exert as much influence as possible on the new Administration employing every lever at our disposal. For that reason we are currently investigating the practicalities of setting up diplomatic missions — officially somewhat beefed up “consular” establishments — in several of the most populous states. The most important of the first tranche of upgraded consular offices will be in California. We propose to style it “the United Kingdom Consulate to the West Coast Federation of States”, covering California, Oregon and Washington State. Our mission, which will have offices in Los Angeles and San-Francisco or ideally Sacramento, and in Portland Oregon, and Olympia Washington will require a high profile Consul with proven leadership and public relations skills.”
The younger man was fascinated by what he was being told.
Right up until, that was, he worked out why he was being told what he was being told; and then his troubled expression exactly mirrored the sudden alarmed perturbation of his thoughts.
“I’m just a junior naval officer, sir,” he protested.
“No, you’re not,” Lord Franks reminded him. “You are the youngest Post Captain in the Navy and, notwithstanding your relatively tender age, pretty much the most highly decorated and by far and away the Royal Navy’s most famous living hero.”
The older man paused briefly to let this sink in.
“Coincidentally, you happened to be married to a highly intelligent, utterly charming, and highly photogenic young woman with equally, if not more, heroic credentials, who the American people are desperate to take to their hearts.”