Suddenly a thought came to me. I hadn’t understood why, the previous summer, he had given up attempting to see Roger: as though he had switched from faith to enmity. It must have been the day the offer of his decoration arrived. He had accepted the decoration — but he could have felt, I was sure he could have felt, that it was another oblique piece of persecution, a token that he was not so high as the Getliffes of the world, a sign of dismissal.
‘I had to make some criticisms,’ he said. ‘Because you were dangerous. I gave you the credit for not realizing how dangerous you were, but, of course, I had to make some criticisms. You can see that, Dr Rubin.’
He turned with an open, hopeful face to David Rubin, who was scribbling on a sheet of paper. Rubin raised his head slowly and gazed at Brodzinski with opaque eyes.
‘What you did,’ he said, ‘was not admissible.’
‘I did not expect any more from you, Dr Rubin.’ This answer was so harsh and passionate that it left us mystified. Rubin believed that Brodzinski had remembered that he was a Gentile talking to a Jew.
‘You said we were dangerous,’ Francis Getliffe went on. ‘I’ve finished now with your slanders on us. They only count because they’re involved in the other damage you’ve done. That is the second thing you must hear about. It is the opinion of most of us that you’ve done great damage to decent people everywhere. If we are going to use the word dangerous, you are at present one of the most dangerous men in the world. And you’ve done the damage by distorting science. It is possible to have different views on the nuclear situation. It is not possible, without lying or irresponsibility or something worse, to say the things you have said. You’ve encouraged people to believe that the United States and England can destroy Russia without too much loss. Most of us would regard that suggestion as wicked, even if it were true. But we all know that it is not true, and, for as long as we can foresee, it never will be true.’
‘That is why you are dangerous,’ said Brodzinski. ‘That is why I have to expose myself. You think you are people of good will. You are doing great harm, in everything you do. You are even doing great harm, in little meetings like this. That is why I have come where I am not welcome. You think you can come to terms with the Russians. You never will. The only realistic thing for all of us is to make the weapons as fast as we know how.’
‘You are prepared to think of war?’ said Arthur Mounteney.
‘Of course I am prepared to think of war. So is any realistic man,’ Brodzinski replied. ‘If there has to be a war, then we must win it. We can keep enough people alive. We shall soon pick-up. Human beings are very strong.’
‘And that is what you hope for?’ said Francis, in a dead, cold tone.
‘That is what will happen.’
‘You can tolerate the thought of three hundred million deaths?’
‘I can tolerate anything which will happen.’
Brodzinski went on, his eyes lit up, once more pure: ‘You will not see, there are worse things which might happen.’
‘I have to assume that you are responsible for your actions,’ said Francis. ‘If that is so, I had better tell you straight away I cannot sit in the same room with you.’
Faces, closed to expression, looked down the table at Brodzinski. There was a silence. He sat squarely in his chair and said: ‘I believe I am here by invitation, Mr Chairman.’
‘It would save trouble if you left,’ said Arthur Mounteney.
With exaggerated reasonableness, Brodzinski said: ‘But I can produce my invitation, Mr Chairman.’
‘In that case, I shall adjourn the meeting. And call another to which you are not invited.’
Later, that seemed to Rubin a masterpiece of Anglo-Saxon propriety.
Brodzinski stood up, massive, stiff.
‘Mr Chairman,’ he said, ‘I am sorry that my colleagues have seen fit to treat me in this fashion. But I expected it.’
His dignity was absolute. With the same dignity, he went, soft-footed, strong-muscled, out of the room.
35: A Choice
A few hours later, in David Rubin’s bedroom, he and I were having a snack before we went on to Roger’s house. The room was modest, in a cheap, genteel Kensington hoteclass="underline" the snack was modest too. Rubin had the entrée to Heads of State, but, despite the Tailor and Cutter elegance of his clothes, he lived more simply than an Embassy clerk. He was a poor man, he had never earned money, apart from his academic salary and his prizes.
He sat without complaint in the cold bedroom, nibbling a stale sandwich, sipping at a weak and un-iced whisky. He talked about his son at Harvard, and his mother who would scarcely have known what Harvard was, who had not spoken English in the home, and who had been ambitious for David — just as rapaciously as my mother for me. He spoke a little sadly. Everything had come off for him, spectacular achievement, happy marriage, the love of children. He was one of the men most venerated in the world. Yet there were times when he seemed to look back to his childhood, shrug his shoulders and think that he had expected more.
We had each been talking without reserve, like passengers at sea. He sat there, in elegant suit, silk shirt, hand-made shoes, shook his head, and looked at me with sad, kind eyes. It occurred to me that he had not given me a clue, not so much as a hint, why he was so insistent on talking to Roger that night.
When we arrived at Lord North Street, it was about half-past nine and Roger and Caro were still sitting in the dining-room. It was the place where Roger, nearly three years before, had interrogated Rubin. As on that evening, Rubin was ceremonious — bowing over Caro’s hand: ‘Lady Caroline’ — greeting Roger. As on that evening, Roger pushed the decanter round.
At Caro’s right hand, Rubin was willing to drink his glass of port, but not to open a conversation. Caro looked down the table at Roger, who was sitting silent and impatient with strain. She had her own kind of stoicism. She was prepared to chat with Rubin, in a loud brassy fashion, about his flight next day, about whether he hated flying as much as she did. She was terrified every time, she said, with the exaggerated protestations of cowardice that her brother Sammikins went in for.
All four of us were waiting for the point to come. At last Roger could wait no longer.
‘Well?’ he said roughly, straight at Rubin.
‘Minister?’ said David Rubin, as though surprised.
‘I thought you had something to tell me.’
‘Do you have time?’ said Rubin mysteriously.
Roger nodded. To everyone’s astonishment, Rubin began a long, dense and complex account of the theory of games as applied to nuclear strategy. Talk of over-simplification — this was over-complication gone mad. It was not long before Roger stopped him.
‘Whatever you’ve come for,’ he said, ‘it isn’t this.’
Rubin looked at him with an expression harsh, affectionately distressed. Suddenly his whole manner changed from the incomprehensibly devious to a brutal-sounding snap.
‘I came to tell you to get out while there’s time. If not, you’ll cut your own throat.’
‘Get out of what?’
‘Out of your present planning, or design, or whatever you like to call it. You don’t stand a chance.’
‘You think so, do you?’ said Roger.
‘Why else should I come?’
Then Rubin’s tone became once more quiet and reasonable: ‘Wait a minute. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to let it go. It’s because we respect you—’