Historians will long argue over which side won the Yom Kippur War. But without question, the victor in the battle for world prestige was Henry Kissinger.
George Keller’s conscience ached. What was originally a small subterfuge had been magnified in his mind into an act of high treason. He was too frightened to discuss it with anyone — including Cathy.
Though he scoured every science magazine for mentions of the RX-80, nothing he read gave the slightest suggestion that it could be of strategic advantage.
Nevertheless, George lived in constant fear that his actions would be discovered. And he knew it would do him no good to plead humanitarianism. When you are a government official, you must let your father die if he’s on the other side.
He had received no word of Istvan Kolozsdi’s fate. He had been afraid to contact Yakushkin at the Russian Embassy, lest observers begin to think they were getting a little too chummy.
George tried to assuage his guilt pangs by convincing himself that he had done nothing legally wrong. And that with the amount of paperwork flowing between State, the Pentagon, Commerce, and the Oval Office, the chances of detection were nil. Only then was he able to get a night’s sleep.
But world events constantly rekindled the spark of fear in him. No less a figure than Willy Brandt, Chancellor of West Germany, had to resign in May 1974, when his close aide was exposed as a Communist spy.
George sometimes imagined he was being followed — and he had long suspected that his home phone was tapped. Even while accompanying Kissinger on his Middle East shuttle jaunts he did not feel secure. He could not trust the phones at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem or at the Nile Hilton in Cairo.
Late one afternoon, after a long and fruitless day of negotiation with the Syrian authorities, the Secretary of State was flying back to Israel.
Kissinger signalled to George to come and sit by him. “Listen, my boy,” he said confidentially, “I’m under a lot of pressure from back home. Certain factions in Washington think I’m spending too much time out here and neglecting other business. They don’t seem to understand that I can’t be in twenty places at once. So I’m going to have to put more responsibility on those young shoulders of yours.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“As you know, the President plans to tour the Middle East and then go on to Russia. I could do with a trustworthy advance man to lay the groundwork in Moscow. And, George, there’s no one I trust more than you.”
“You flatter me, Henry.”
“I have to,” the Secretary joked, “otherwise you wouldn’t work for me. The pay’s too low. Anyway, I want you to fly to Paris tomorrow morning. Brent Scowcroft and Al Haig will meet you there in three days and you can go on together to Moscow.”
“Fine,” George replied, genuinely pleased to have such prestigious responsibility. “But, Henry, what am I supposed to do while I’m waiting for them?”
Kissinger’s reply shook George as if turbulence had struck the plane.
“Go to Budapest.”
He did not know how to react.
“Listen,” the Secretary of State continued in a soft voice, “your father hasn’t got very long to live. I think you should make peace with him.”
“How did you know?” he asked (And how much? he wondered).
“It’s my job to know. You can pull the same trick I used when I first went to Peking. Check into the Crillon, fake a cold, then quietly slip out to the airport. It’s only a two-hour flight. You can go and come back and no one will be the wiser.”
George was still searching for words. All he could manage was to stammer, “I — don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Kissinger replied, patting him on the arm. “It’s the least I owe you for the years you’ve helped me.
As the air-force plane began its final approach to Ben Gurion Airport, George thought, How can I tell him I don’t want to go? How can I tell him that I have nothing to say to my father before he dies?
I can’t. Because it’s not true. I do want to see him one last time. I have to.
Customs in Budapest was perfunctory. Except that the officer questioning George took a long look at his red diplomatic passport before saying, “Welcome home, Dr. Keller.”
It was a strange feeling being back in his native city. Though it was brighter — and the stores fuller — than during those dark days when he had fled, it seemed relatively unchanged. Rakoczi Street was like it always was. Here and there an ultramodern structure stood comfortably beside the old.
The terrace of the Hilton — a Hilton Hotel in Budapest! — looked out toward the ancient spires of St. Stephen’s Church. The huge Duma Intercontinental, where George was staying, was a concrete imitation of any new American hotel.
He checked in quickly, washed, and changed his shirt. And braced himself for the meeting that had brought him here.
Before George left Jerusalem, Kissinger had given him complete details on where his father was receiving treatment — even the phone number.
Now, he asked himself, should I call the hospital and say I’m here? Or should I just show up? My God, the shock of it might kill him then and there. No, it would make better sense to phone one of the doctors, announce his presence, and solicit advice.
In a matter of minutes he was speaking to Dr. Tamas Rozsa, chief of medical services at the People’s Municipal Hospital.
After the physician had repeated for the third time what an honor it would be to receive a visit from him, George finally exacted precise details of Istvan Kolozsdi’s condition.
“Ah, what is there to say,” Rozsa answered philosophically. “There’s so little one can do in cases such as his —”
“Did you give him medication?” George interrupted forcefully.
“Yes. Yes, of course. The very newest — right out of Switzerland.”
“Is he in pain?” George asked.
“He is and he isn’t.”
“Can you explain that?”
“It’s quite simple, Dr. Keller. If we drug him so strongly that he feels nothing at all, then he is comatose and cannot communicate. Of course, at night we help him to sleep comfortably.”
“So, in other words, in order to speak he’ll have to forgo some of the painkillers?”
“I’m sure your father will want it that way,” said Dr. Rozsa. “When he awakes I’ll inform him that you’re here, and ring you back. That should be about five this afternoon.”
“Is anybody with him now?” George asked.
“Of course. Mrs. Donath practically sleeps in the hospital.”
“Who’s she?”
“Comrade Kolozsdi’s daughter. Your sister, Dr. Keller.”
“Oh,” said George, as he slowly let down the receiver. And thought, I’ve got a second confrontation here in Budapest.
He now had several hours to kill and summoned the courage to go out and look at the city of his birth. To revisit all the places he had known when he was Gyorgy Kolozsdi.
His first entry into Budapest was like that of a swimmer into ice-cold water. But once he was actually in it and in motion, he began to feel warm and good and exhilarated. He reveled in the sound of his mother tongue being spoken everywhere.
Oh God, he thought, it must be fifty thousand English words ago that I felt so at home.
But his euphoria ended when it neared five o’clock. He returned to the hotel to wait for Dr. Rozsa’s phone call.
It came at about quarter to six.