Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 10

EIGHT FORTY-FIVE AND JONATHAN IS LATE. I’ve been here since seven, trying to bring some order to my last three weeks’ efforts. I feel disquieted, uneasy. Had dinner last night at a restaurant in the neighborhood, sat at the bar making better use of their hospitality than I should have. While I wait, I look over my notes. Paul’s 60 Minutes program, what a coup! All unworthy thoughts are put aside. I am happy for him, and considering everything, I haven’t done so badly myself. But the two are not related – that’s the point.

At nine-fifteen Jonathan rolls in. “Sorry. I overslept.”

He is tanned, looks like he just stepped out of a travel poster. He tosses his briefcase on the table and looks around. “Looks the same here,” he grins. “You took some time off?”

I am not in the mood for this. “What I did may lack excitement, but at least one of us accomplished something.”

“Ouch,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But seriously, Gus, it’s good to see you, good to be back.”

“What did you find out?” I’m resigned to spending the day on his adventure.

He sits down. “I’ll start by telling you about Roberto.”

“Okay.”

“One of the more impressive people I’ve ever met, once you get to know him. He kind of sneaks up on you.”

“Good for his line of work.”

“Exactly. He’s short and wiry, speaks fluent Arabic, Spanish, I don’t know what else. He looks like something out of West Side Story – how the Army lets him get away with that I don’t know, maybe it helps. I met him the first night near the trailer park I was staying at. By the way, my credentials worked like a charm.”

“The Green Zone. Is it the Fortress America they say?”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “You see other uniforms but it’s American turf, no question. Not for nothing do they call it the Emerald Palace. There are plenty of locals too – translators, secretaries, and the menial stuff, of course.”

“Any rocket attacks while you were there?”

“Nothing that close. The false alarms are worse, they make you edgy the whole time. But back to Roberto. He insisted we couldn’t be seen together. I stayed in a trailer with some other reporters but I kept to my cover story, of course.”

“Which was?”

“Civilian contractors, how they’re into traditionally military functions, security, transportation, food, that sort of thing. A little more research, I can put together a decent article. Roberto came up with the idea – it gave me an excuse to interview Nita.”

“Garrison. You’ll finish this article first.”

“Of course. First things first.”

“What about ETVN?”

“I met them the second day. Mike Habbal from D.C. and an Egyptian who heads their Middle East bureau. I was disappointed how little they knew – about Paul’s death, that is. Day-to-day they’re fine. They were relying on me to point them in some direction.”

“What’s wrong with that? They paid for your ticket, after all.”

“I generated enough leads to keep them happy. But the General was the prize and I kept him to myself.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Okay, but first Nita.”

“Jonathan, at this rate we’ll be here all week.” I lean back in my chair. “All right. Why don’t I just step aside and let you run with it.”

He reaches in his briefcase and lifts out a folder. “Give me a minute,” he says, sorting through his papers. “I’ll lay it all out for you.”

* * * * * * *

I FOUND MYSELF AT LOOSE ENDS. Part burnout, but mostly that evil twin to my healing Wall. I tried not to dwell on things, but I have to tell you, in the small hours of the second night I found myself sitting up in bed, sobbing. “Be quiet,” Diane mumbled, turning over and pulling the pillow over her head, “you’ll wake the kids.”

Damnit, I thought, one of these days I will wake the kids, tell them what’s really going on. I went out to the living room and sat on the sofa, reconstructing my dream. I was at Thiepval, that much I remembered... then it started to come back. As I passed under the arch I heard a growl and the pillars began to shake. I turned and rushed across the grass toward the taxi – now it was painted army green. Looking back, I saw the monument chasing me, with these gigantic strides. The ground shook. I ran faster but I fell. Now it’s standing over me. On my back I watched it lower the upraised foot. I screamed and... woke up.

I wrapped my bathrobe tighter and hobbled to the kitchen, fumbling for a bottle of milk. I poured a glass and took it back to the sofa. This hasn’t happened for a long time. Lucky. Some guys I know haven’t slept more than an hour straight for ten years. I can focus, stay on top of things. Others can’t hold a job, in and out of the hospital, on the street. At the dedication I talked with probably a dozen guys in really bad shape. I shuddered... whatever’s going on, I am really blessed. I thought of my children and a warm glow settled over me, but before long Diane’s rebuke came rushing back. What a disappointment she is. Something else too. In the dream I had both legs, strong and healthy. And I was really hauling, trying to outrun that monster. I puzzled over this. Whenever I have a good dream, about the kids, my job, my friends, Mr. Stumpy is there. But in the nightmares my legs are sound as they ever were. Am I re-enacting my rush down that hill? If I ever saw a shrink he’d have a field day with that one.

AFTER 60 MINUTES I was asked a lot more for autographs and found myself beset by another by-product of exposure, fan mail. I received perhaps fifty letters the month after the show, then thankfully they dried up. This was not ordinary mail – almost all of it from women, many of them perfumed and personal. Whenever our grinning mail boy dropped one on my desk I would take a quick peek then toss it. One Saturday Diane brought in the mail, holding up one of those envelopes. Lavender, the color and I surmised, the scent. How it found me at home, I hadn’t a clue.

“And what might this be?” she asked, waving the envelope.

“My fan club.” I had mentioned the letters in passing.

“I see. May I read it?”

“Be my guest. That’s more than I do.”

As she ripped it open something fell to the floor. After examining it Diane handed it to me. A picture of a fortyish woman in a bikini, leaning into the camera, her long blond hair falling around her. Most of the letters had pictures.

“Meet Aimée,” Diane said, scanning the letter, “she’d certainly like to meet you. Well, what do you know? Do you know you have the sexiest eyes on television?”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Aimée lives in Argenteuil. That’s not far. An hour train ride and you could make her a happy woman.”

“Not worth the carfare. Wasn’t there a song about her?”

Diane finished the letter. “Pathetic,” she said, throwing it on the sofa. “So you get lots of these, do you? Maybe we should get a bigger place so you can move your harem in.”

“The kids wouldn’t understand.”

“But I would, would I?”

“I didn’t say that. You know, this is really a dumb conversation.”

She nodded at the sofa. “Is that one of the benefits of being on TV, one of the perks?”

“Will you cut it out! I told you I don’t even read them!”

“I suppose you don’t look at the pictures either.”

“That’s right!”

“I wish I could believe you,” she said, turning and leaving the room.

I put my fingertips to my eyes, massaging the headache that had just come on. A month to the day from that great night in New York, I thought – might as well be a lifetime.

Unwelcome as this sort of attention was, in the weeks following the program I did hear from some old friends. Benny called to complain that they didn’t include him in the Berkeley segment.

“They must have figured a little Berkeley goes a long way,” I said.

Nathan had a more valid gripe. They had actually taped an interview with him, talking about our time in Vietnam, his non-injury that led to my real one, but they didn’t use it. “I am really pissed. My fifteen minutes of fame, right down the drain.”

“Look at it this way, Nathan, you still have the full fifteen left.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Gus also called. I told him he came across well, looked very good. He said he must be a good actor, things were still pretty rough for him. “I’m probably going to retire in June. It’s no fun any more.”

“What will you do?”

“Oh, I have enough to get by. A couple of my books still sell and the University pension isn’t half bad. I’m thinking of moving back east.”

“Where to?”

“We’ve had a place in Maine in the family a long time. My grandfather’s brother had money, they used it summers but it’s just going to waste now. I can get it for a song if I want. It needs winterizing but I can handle that.”

“Wouldn’t that be ironic? I leave, you arrive. You can always visit me here.”

“Gay Paree, no thank you. For me the sun has set on that life. I just want to be quiet, read. I have more ideas for articles than I know what to do with.”

“How will you survive without grad students?”

“It’s a pretty sophisticated community, it’s near Bar Harbor. I’ll figure it out.”

The call that really took the prize, however, was from Rudolph Latimer. Sure enough, the day following the program he called. After several handoffs, I finally got through. “What’s the big idea, doing a program with the competition?”

What’s he talking about, competition? “I wasn’t aware we had anything going.”

“You didn’t know LTN was running a special the day of the dedication?”

I felt my neck getting warm. “How could I? Anyway, why would that have made a difference? You didn’t ask me to be part of it. CBS did. End of story.”

“We didn’t call you?”

“That is correct.”

“Shit!” There was a pause. “This happens every time I get involved with you.” He harrumphed. “You did well. That’s what I called to say.”

“Thanks.”

“Just don’t let it happen again. You get a good idea, let me know first.”

I shook my head. Enough of this. “Be seeing you, Rudolph.” I hung up. Who the hell does he think he is? I could never work for that guy.

Two weeks later he called again. “It seems I need to congratulate you again.”

“Hello, Rudolph. What have I done this time?”

“No, no – I’m calling about the Cal game, their glorious victory over Stanford. I’m no fan of American football but that superb play deserves commendation. You saw it?”

“The replay. French TV spending airtime on American football, it had to be special.”

“For a moment I thought I was watching rugby, those laterals, the way they kept the ball in play. Spot on!”

“Some of the Cal team play rugby too, I understand.”

“And good ruggers they are, too. They even made a tour down our way some years back. Listen. I called for another reason as well. I want to apologize for my remarks the other day. You’re quite right, I have no claim on you, not yet at least.”

“No problem. It’s over and done with.”

“I wanted to clear the air. I admire what you’re doing and I have a feeling we’ll get together before too long.”

I paused, looking for the right words. “That certainly would be interesting.”

“Indeed. Well, keep up the good work.”

Unbelievable, I thought. How many people get an apology from Rudolph Latimer?

OUR ANNUAL JANUARY BUSINESS PREVIEW was coming up, and this year we were focusing on computers, their impact, what lay ahead. Science & Technology Editor Mark Rosenzweig would take the lead. He asked me to contribute a piece on the European computer scene. In it I noted France’s Minitel, launched two years before. Millions of terminals free to telephone subscribers who for a fee could make online purchases, check stock prices, search databases and chat with other users. A similar service was offered by British Telecom in the UK. I compared the AT&T’s upcoming breakup with Europe’s state monopoly model, noting that competition might stimulate a marriage in the U.S. between computing and telecommunications, though for now Europe has the edge.

In late December, as we were putting our story to bed we were shocked to find Time Magazine had stolen our thunder. Their annual Man of the Year issue had been recast as the Machine of the Year. “The Computer Moves In,” the cover proclaimed, with a paper-maché older man slouched in front of a computer trying to figure out how to work the damned thing. Had he opened the magazine he would have been even more dismayed, for inside, a thirteen-year-old middle-school student was shown tutoring two “adventurous septuagenarians,” and of a group of students in a computer lab one of them was – you guessed it – six years old.

So the future is here and it belongs to the young. It always has, of course, but clearly, something radically new was in the air. I saw it at home. Diane and I shared our computers with the boys and when Emma logged on we had to add a third one. Three kids ten and under, all computer-literate and it wasn’t just Donkey Kong and Pong, either. School reports, history and geography, language drills, calculations and computations. Paul Junior even found an action game pitting Rome against Carthage.

Among the questions – will this new technology save us or destroy us? I decided to do a couple of Dispatches on the topic. Together with the decline of America’s durable goods manufacturing, I wrote, computers had the potential to outdo the industrial revolution in putting people out of work, enabling a few to do the work of many and do it faster and better. Productivity, it was called, but the dark side of that shiny coin is downsizing and its cynical twin, rightsizing. Will computers create enough jobs to make up for the damage they cause? Will human beings in the work force be able to retool for them?

One thing was clear. Don’t count on the federal government for much help, not this crowd. In the face of compelling evidence that their supply-side miracle was a bust, they continued pushing their “starve government” initiatives. If the Reaganites couldn’t fix the economy, they might succeed at squeezing the life out of the government.

My other Dispatch commented on how heavily the Reaganites were promoting the financial sector – commercial banks, investment banks, savings & loans, investors, traders, speculators. Experts warned that as regulatory restraints fell away, the rise of financial institutions, their reach and grasp, will crown our industrial decline. There’ll be plenty of money to be made, not in factories but office towers where intangibles are invented, churned and spun. If this sounds like juggling, it is – gambling in all but name, the casino economy.

I discussed the prospect of a futures market in crude oil. Already supporting futures trading in cheese, poultry and plywood, the New York Mercantile Exchange had recently expanded to home heating oil and gasoline and was said to be preparing for trading in contracts for future deliveries of crude oil. This would permit speculators who haven’t the slightest interest in possessing an actual barrel of oil to exert a powerful influence over the price of crude. It will very likely undermine OPEC’s pricing power, I wrote, ushering in a new era of speculation and profiteering.

The bottom line of all this? Those who make it will really, really make it. The income gap between the captains of – you can’t say industry any more – the captains of finance and everybody else, will widen spectacularly. Fewer will have enough, many will have so much it will be beyond comprehension. To the ordinary guy, what difference if Tycoon X’s year-end bonus is $20 million or $30 million? Whether he’s worth one billion or two? I had suggested deregulation was a tool of greed, now I claimed evil twin status for this monetization of American culture. How much money you make, how big your mansion, how luxurious your car, selfishness, greed, envy – not by accident do they drive capitalism American-style. They make the system go. Of course, this is not new. What’s new is the scale and scope, and its ready embrace by those supposedly pledged to serve the public good. We have redefined “good.” That done, the rest follows.

As I wrote these articles I grew more and more agitated. I realized it wasn’t just Paris that made me happy, but being away from the States. Distance lending perspective. My last Dispatch in the series contrasted the dedication and sacrifice represented by the Wall with the Selfish Revolution. What is happening in the United States? This is not what we fought for. This is not the country I grew up loving. One more thought. Maybe, just maybe, these bad actors will bring themselves down. Out front flaunting their power and wealth, perhaps they’ll grow so careless people will say – enough!

Opposing letters flooded in, some unfit for a family paper. I even received one from an Undersecretary of Something or Other. Fred had always said, write it as you see it, and he had personally edited those particular articles. In fact, after the reader reaction began to set in, Fred called and said keep it up – whatever else you’re doing, you’re selling a lot of papers. Not exactly principled encouragement but good enough. Be sure to document everything, he reminded me – as long as it’s defensible we’ll let it fly. That difference between reporting and opinion... I was more careful than ever to observe that bright line.

Diane took it badly. She accused me of being critical and cynical about what she did for a living. I said, of course not – there are investment bankers and investment bankers, and I’m sure you’re one of the good ones. Then she lit into me about her father’s new venture. “He’s trying to do something for the community and you make a mockery of him.”

“People who make home loans, lend to local businesses, I love them. It’s the predators I have a problem with.”

“You could have made that clearer.”

“Next time I will.”

Full disclosure – I won’t say I wasn’t interested in money. With a family depending on me, I wanted not merely to survive but do well. Thanks to my efforts and a father who struggled and finally broke through, I was doing all right. But accumulation for its own sake had always turned me off, nearly as much as accumulators.

At a year-end lunch Didier took me aside and told me it was official, I was off business reporting. In the afterglow of 60 Minutes I had spoken with Tom O’Connor about lightening up on my business reporting and shifting into general news, politics, international, that sort of thing, though still with the Franco-American flavor. Interestingly, Tom told me I would be reporting directly to him from now on. Since my scope would now be so broad (read: ill-defined) it no longer fit Fred’s or Harlan’s portfolios. I suspected he also wanted to keep tabs on my increasingly candid Dispatches.

One other piece of advice I was mulling over. After the screening Alan Mauro took me aside and told me I ought to get an agent. “An agent!” I said. “What in the world for?”

“You’re a property, man! You’ll need help with those big contracts people are going to be waving at you. Just don’t tell Tom who gave you the idea.”

“Time enough if and when,” I told him. But then, there were those calls from Latimer and every once in a while I got a feeler, nothing specific, more like nosing around... maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

FOLLOWING BREZHNEV’S DEATH IN NOVEMBER, Yuri Andropov became Soviet General Secretary. The West was apprehensive, given his role in the brutal suppression of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, then as head of the KGB in crushing 1968’s “Prague Spring.” With a hand from Marty and Alan, I reported on reaction in U.S. emigré communities. Then, less than three months in his new position, Andropov was felled by kidney disease which would plague him the rest of his life. Despite Andropov’s alarming resumé, he authorized the longtime Soviet ambassador in Washington, Anatoly Dobrynin, to explore the possibility of arms control negotiations and, we learned later, the new Secretary of State, George Shultz, arranged a face-to-face meeting for him with Ronald Reagan, the first time Reagan had met a high-ranking Soviet official.

In March, Reagan made two amazing speeches. In the first, to a convention of evangelical ministers, he denounced the Soviet Union as an “evil empire.” Two weeks later on national television, he stunned the country and his Joint Chiefs by terming U.S. policy of nuclear deterrence through mutually assured destruction a suicide pact, calling on scientists to develop a space-based system of lasers and rockets to shield the country. “Give us the means of rendering these nuclear weapons impotent and obsolete.” This was the famous Strategic Defense Initiative proposal, immediately dubbed “Star Wars.”

Andropov quickly rejected SDI as an attempt to unilaterally disarm the Soviet Union. Charlie Stebbins picked up reports that Reagan was going out of his way to reassure Andropov that the U.S. genuinely wanted to pursue peace. In a couple of months, new negotiations on nuclear arms reduction were announced – the “START” talks, to open early June in Geneva.

In my Dispatches I asked why had Reagan taken these positions at odds with his bellicose approach to world politics? One theory – disconcerting to his critics including me – was that the man was sincere, that he had a real horror of nuclear war. We also knew he had been pushed hard by the Nuclear Freeze movement in the United States, and on May 3 the U.S. Catholic Bishops finally issued the pastoral letter making the connection between nuclear arms and morality, calling for “resolute determination” to pursue arms control, disarmament and a ban on nuclear weapons. Two days later the House passed a resolution calling on the President to negotiate a mutual and verifiable freeze and weapons reductions.

As this was unfolding, Didier said he needed me to interpret the confusion in Nicaragua that was embarrassing Reagan’s presidency. In 1979 the Sandinistas, a left-leaning insurgent group, forced out the long-time Somoza regime. Soon they were overtly in Cuba’s embrace and supporting other guerrilla movements, notably in nearby El Salvador. Why any of this mattered to us, the region’s dictatorial regimes were seen as bulwarks against Communism in that strategic region. Plus, ever-present American commercial interests were jeopardized by Sandinista land redistribution and anti-business policies. We learned later that the Reagan Administration had secretly approved CIA funding for the “Contras,” insurgents opposed to the Sandinistas. Unfortunately for the clandestine program, a Soviet tanker struck a mine off Nicaragua and news broke that the CIA was mining Nicaraguan harbors. A huge controversy developed, with even Barry Goldwater blasting the administration. The Senate moved to cut off aid to the Contras.

You’ll recall, following Israel’s invasion of Lebanon and the political killings and massacres, Reagan had sent in the Marines as part of a peacekeeping force. Now, in mid-April our Beirut embassy was destroyed, a suicide van full of explosives killing sixty-three people, seventeen of them Americans. In reprisal the U.S. Navy shelled Druze militia positions on the outskirts of Beirut. With all these missteps and mishaps and a struggling economy, Reagan’s popularity was in the cellar. A second term would be no gimmie.

The day after the shelling Hamid called, more agitated than I had ever heard him.

“What are you people doing! How can you let Israel call the shots in Washington?”

“C’mon, Hamid, they’ve been doing it for a long time. But what do you say about the embassy, the people killed?”

“There comes a point when the weak have to take things into their own hands.”

“That’s not a reason, it’s an excuse.”

There was a pause on the line. “I admit that, but if you keep this up you will have no credibility in the Arab world. Nor will you deserve any.”

I felt bad about the conversation but I guess Hamid felt worse. In a few days he called and apologized. “For my tone. Not for what I said, that stands.”

“I can live with that,” I said. “How’s the magnum opus coming?”

“I’ve created a monster. Three years, nine hundred pages, and it still doesn’t have a proper ending. Every other day I change my mind. They want to bring it out next spring but I tell my editor something this good cannot be rushed.”

“You have a title?”

“A working title, yes. Under the Roof of the World. But I’m not totally sold on it.”

For me the summer’s big event would be John Paul II’s visit to Poland that I talked Tom into letting me cover. I would join an all-star team headed by Gabriel Griffin, a wonderful old-timer I wished I had known better in New York. Selected wives also, though I didn’t push for Diane. Didier and I joked that Harlan Kenny should have led the trip since the Pope’s visit was as much political as pastoral. Frank Astell would be along, giving me a chance to see the big boss in action. Tom was doing it right, chartering a jet to stop in Paris for Didier and me, then on to Warsaw. We must be doing better financially, I thought, either that or we’re going out in style. There were rumors of a private audience with the Holy Father. If anyone could pull that off it would be Gabriel, a former Jesuit and still tight with the Vatican. In mid-May Gabriel called and said not only was the audience on, but “as one of our rising stars and a Catholic at that” I was invited. Amazing. Diane wasn’t that thrilled and frankly, I was relieved she wasn’t included. The kids were excited, though, particularly Paul Junior, which surprised me. “Will you get me his autograph?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s done,” I replied, laughing.

“Why not? You’re a big shot, Mommy says so.”

“What about a prayer card with his picture? I can probably swing that.”

“See if he’ll sign it for you.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

MONDAY JUNE 7 – I remember as if it were yesterday. First Diane’s call. “Paulie’s in the hospital!”

“No! Where is he?”

“Salpêtrière.”

“I’ll get there fast as I can.”

The last week of school Paul Junior had come down with a sore throat which turned out to be strep. Dr. Charpentier prescribed an antibiotic, liquids and rest. Several weeks passed and he seemed to be mending, then he grew listless and ran a low-grade fever for a couple of days. The night before he developed a cough and was hacking all night. In the morning we found a rash on his abdomen and back. His temperature was 104. Diane called the doctor’s office and they said bring him right in. Now this.

I shoved my papers in a briefcase and hailed a cab in front of the building. Fuming in excruciatingly slow crosstown traffic, I tried to will positive thoughts. He’s in good hands ... our pediatrician’s excellent... one of the finest hospitals anywhere. And I prayed. After a twenty-five minute crawl I arrived. On the third floor I was directed down a brightly-lit corridor. Up ahead I saw Diane and the doctor conferring. Dr. Charpentier was tall, gray-haired, exuded competence, but despite his austere appearance children took well to him. I gave Diane a hug and shook hands with him. Their faces were grim.

“He’s resting comfortably,” the doctor said, “I prescribed something to bring the fever down. We’ll do a series of tests and know more this afternoon.”

“What do you think is going on? Is it the rheumatic fever again?”

Diane began to reply but she looked at the doctor. “It’s too early to tell, Mr. Bernard. Speculation does more harm than good. Better we wait for the results.”

“Can I see him?”

“Bien sûr. He is groggy. We want to slow his body down, allow it to rest.”

Diane preceded me into the room. Four beds, separated by screens, Paul Junior in the far corner next to a window. He was on his back, his eyes shut, an intravenous hooked up to his right arm. Several jagged green lines played across the screen of the monitor beside the bed. His breathing seemed calm and regular. I was alarmed to see an oxygen tank beside the bed, a mask hanging from a hook. “Paulie,” I whispered, leaning over him, “Paulie.”

His eyes opened. “Hi Dad,” he said in a small voice. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Maybe you should be, old man,” I put my hand on his forehead, which was fiery. “You didn’t get much last night.”

“I kept everybody awake. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“When can I go home?”

“When they figure out what you have and get the right medicine into you.”

“When will that be?”

“We’ll know more this afternoon.”

He shifted a little and looked directly at me. His eyes were rimmed with red – I noticed that last night as we ministered to him. “Where are Peter and Emma?”

Diane broke in. “They’re at home, with Kristin.”

“I want to see them.”

“They’ll come to visit. You’ll go home soon, when you get better.”

“When?”

“Listen,” I replied, “be a big boy and help the doctors. Will you do that?”

“Okay.”

“Whatever they say.” I looked up, the Doctor made a gesture with his head. “Listen, Paulie,” I said, kissing him on the cheek, “get some rest. We’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Diane took my place and fussed with his bedclothes, then kissed him. We left the room. Outside, I stopped Dr. Charpentier. “I realize it’s early but what are the possibilities?”

“I don’t want to alarm you. It could be nothing or it could be something.”

“But what is something?”

He shrugged. “Since you insist on worrying, the boy is symptomatic for influenza.”

“Influenza,” I said, “that’s not so bad. You can treat that, can’t you?”

“Of course, but I repeat, we don’t know enough yet to say what is going on. His joints ache and he is having some difficulty breathing, thus the oxygen. We will make him as comfortable as possible.”

The ordeal was taking its toll. Peter was worried about his little brother and Emma went around with a long face. Diane spent most of the day in the hospital and I got there at noon and stayed the afternoon. More tests – they still weren’t sure.

On Wednesday morning the doctor’s office called, said he wanted us to meet him at the hospital. Diane and I held hands in the taxi, not speaking, trying not to look at each other. There were several patients in the waiting room but we were waved in.

“Monsieur and Madame Bernard, we have determined that, yes, Paul has the flu. The first results were inconclusive but the second set confirmed the diagnosis.”

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“His flu is a rather common strain, it normally runs its course in a week to ten days. I am worried, however, that it could trigger a recurrence of his rheumatic fever, though my immediate concern is the underlying weakness in his heart from the first episode. Come.” He stood and went to a backlit screen on a wall, putting a piece of paper up and fastening it with a clip. “This is the EKG we took when Paul was admitted.” He pointed at one of the lines. “You see this irregularity, and the rate?”

We nodded.

“The left side of his heart is not functioning as it should. The heart is not pumping efficiently which means less oxygen is getting to the brain and vital organs.”

He put a second chart on the screen beside the first. “This is the EKG from his last physical examination in March. The difference, do you see it?” He pointed to closely bunched lines on the first EKG stretching almost off the page. “It tells us his heart has deteriorated significantly in the last three months. He has a condition we call cardiomegaly. The flu attack probably put more strain on his heart and caused it to weaken. Here, look at this,” he put an x-ray on the screen. “This chest x-ray shows us the heart is enlarged.”

He took the x-ray down and put up another transparency. “An echocardiogram, a picture taken by the use of ultrasound, a new procedure we have just begun to employ. You can see the left atrium is enlarged. This tells us precisely where the problem is, the mitral valve between the upper and lower chambers of the heart.” He pointed to the left side of the heart. “The valve is damaged so it does not open and close as it does in a healthy heart.”

I spread my hands. “I hear what you’re saying but what does it all mean?”

“I am concerned that all this strain has taken a toll on Paul’s heart...”

“But...”

“...which means he is running a significant risk of congestive heart failure.”

“My God!” Diane put her hand to her mouth.

“Can’t you do something!” I shouted.

“We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Bernard, but our science has its limits. Recall we discussed the possibility of surgery when he was first admitted. Unless your son responds within the next several days, that course of action will be highly advisable. It may represent his only chance to recover, let alone live a normal life.”

We visited Paulie in his room. His little body showed the diagnosis playing itself out. In three days he had become pale, his breathing labored. Instead of getting better he was worse. As we walked in he raised his head and managed a wan smile.

“How’re you doing, old man?” I said, gently tousling his hair.

“My throat hurts.” He grimaced, trying to swallow. “That thing,” he pointed at the oxygen tank, “it hurts to breathe it. It like burns me here.” He pointed at his chest.

“Well, just stay with it. You’re doing fine.”

He stared at me for several long seconds. “I’m not doing fine,” he said. “I’m not getting better, am I.”

“Sure you are. It’s just taking longer than they thought.”

“Mommy, I don’t feel so good. Can’t they make me feel better?”

“They’re trying, darling. They’re doing the best they can.”

He fell silent and his eyes closed. “I better sleep. I feel better when I’m asleep.”

Diane and I looked at each other. “We’ll stay here,” she said, caressing his forehead. “Close your eyes, we’ll be here.”

Two hours later he awoke. The nurse brought a tray of scrambled eggs, a cup of yogurt, and he downed some of it. The intravenous was pumping nutrients since the sore throat made it difficult to swallow. His face was noticeably thinner than it was when we brought him in. I didn’t want to admit it, but he was failing. My heart was broken.

That afternoon I gathered Peter and Emma and brought them in. Peter tried to be cool, cracking jokes. Emma hung in for about ten minutes then began to sob and Diane led her from the room. At home afterward, I sat them down and told them the bad news, their brother might not make it. Peter said, “You mean Paulie’s going to die.”

“We don’t know that...”

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” he said, his eyes filling with tears.

“I don’t know, Peter. The doctors are doing all they can.”

“But what did he do to deserve this?”

“Nothing,” I said, putting my arm around them. “God works in mysterious ways.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he’ll have a better place in heaven if he gets there first.” He nodded. “He can have mine.”

We went back that evening, Dr. Charpentier was there. “No improvement?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sadly, none.” He was holding Paulie’s chart. “I notice under Religion is written Roman Catholic. It would be well to have a priest come if that is your desire. It is not too early.”

Diane looked at the chart and forced a smile. “It’s what you would have wanted,” she said, nodding at me.

“Hardly,” I said hoarsely, “but thank you.”

On the way back to our apartment, Diane broke down, sobbing. “I feel so all alone,” she said, “here in this strange place, doctors I don’t know, nobody I know.”

“When’s your mother getting here?” Diane had been keeping her parents current and as the week dragged on, her mother offered to come and help, do what she could.

“Tomorrow night. I’m meeting her at the airport. You’ll be at the hospital – I’ll take Peter and Emma.”

That afternoon I called Father Alois, the priest from our parish who worked with the CCD program and was preparing Emma for her first Holy Communion. He said he would come over that afternoon with the Sacrament. I wavered but decided not to include Peter and Emma. They were having a hard enough time as it was. Diane begged off. I didn’t blame her, but it would be plenty hard on me too. The priest heard Paulie’s confession as I stepped out of the room... what could a nine-year old possibly have to confess? Then communion, and the anointing with oils. The prayers seemed more positive than I recalled. I saw it administered many times in Vietnam and was told they gave it to me in Saigon. In the corridor Father Alois reminded me that along with its spiritual benefit the Sacrament may have a healing effect on the body, though, he added, that is nothing to count on.

The doctor put Paulie on a drug that dilates the blood vessels, making it easier for his laboring heart to pump blood, but he still wasn’t responding. On June 12, the sixth day of the ordeal, his little heart went through forty-five minutes of uncontrollable quivering. That evening we sat in Dr. Charpentier’s office, exhausted and discouraged. “I am not sure how much more stress his heart can take. With fibrillation also comes the possibility of blood clot and stroke. I am requesting that you allow me to schedule the surgery.”

Diane and I had decided if it had to be, it had to be. We looked at each other. “Yes,” I said, “go ahead.”

“Dr. Martel is a wonderful surgeon, he has performed this operation on children many times and with great success. I will be there as attending physician.” We had met Dr. Martel a few days ago, young for such a reputation.

“We put our faith in your judgment.” I thought to myself, we have no choice, but these people seemed to know what they’re doing.

“Thank you. The surgery is not without risk, but it will give your boy his best chance.” He looked down at his desk. “I assumed you would want to go ahead so I have scheduled it for tomorrow at eight.”

That night the phone rang. I got out of bed and glanced at the clock. Three-thirty.

“Monsieur Bernard, Dr. Charpentier here.” I caught my breath. “I’m very sorry to tell you, your son has died. He suffered a massive heart attack and we were unable to restart the heart. I was at his side. It happened in his sleep, just a half hour ago. I am very, very sorry.”

I looked at Diane who was sitting up in bed, her eyes wild with alarm. I sat down beside her. “It’s all over. Paulie had a heart attack. His heart just... stopped.” We sat a long time, holding each other, sobbing. “The poor little guy,” I finally said.

“We should never have come here.”

Mrs. Archer appeared at the door, her hair tousled, tying the cord of her robe.

“I heard the phone...” Then she stopped. “Oh my dear,” she said, sitting on the bed beside Diane. “My poor, poor baby. Here, take this,” she said, handing her a tissue.

Diane wiped her eyes. “I hate this place, Mother. I don’t want to live here any more.”

Her mother took a deep breath. “I know, baby. Try to get hold of yourself.”

The funeral was at our old parish church. It broke my heart to see the tiny casket, the flowers and candles. We buried Paulie in the Archer family plot. I felt that was more appropriate than Rhode Island. Catherine and Jim came down, providing the day’s only solace as I saw Peter and Emma with their cousins. Fred and Alan were there, a number of others from the paper, Benny and Nathan as well. The O’Connors sent a floral arrangement and showed up at the wake the night before.

During Paulie’s illness I had managed to steal a few hours, trying to regroup and prepare for the Poland trip. I warned Tom and Didier I might have to cancel – I couldn’t leave Paulie or put that burden on Diane. Then this. On the flight to New York Diane had been surprisingly positive. “Go. It’s important to get your mind off things. I’ll handle everything.” I told her the plane was scheduled to leave the very evening of the funeral and she seemed all right with that, but as the time approached she broke down again. I’m ashamed to admit, it had crossed my mind that she wanted me to leave, to handle this herself, but her tears told me otherwise.

My bags were packed but two o’clock came, then three, and I still didn’t know what to do. Possibly I can catch up in a day or two but, I thought, but that’ll only postpone the misery. Finally I asked Diane to step into Mr. Archer’s study. Hanging around, his cousins having left, Peter followed us in. Diane had calmed down some but she was still upset. After we talked a few minutes Peter found the words I had been looking for. “Dad, you should go. Paulie would want you to go.”

Diane nodded. “Peter’s right. I’ll muddle through.”

About five o’clock my cab for LaGuardia appeared. At the front door I hoisted Peter and Emma in the air and roped Diane into a threesome, but when I went to kiss her, she averted her face. “See you at home next week,” I said. She didn’t reply.

OVER THE ATLANTIC I BROODED. Somewhere I had picked up the idea that the death of a child brings the parents closer together, but that’s not in the cards for me. As the plane approached Orly we broke through the clouds and I gazed at the rooftops, the spires, the broad boulevards and twisted streets, ran my eye from Nôtre Dame across the Seine and up to our neighborhood. I had so much... I had so little. Never before had I felt so discouraged. During the crossing I couldn’t fight off this upsetting thought – it is possible, even likely, our marriage will not survive.

Somehow, airborne on the last leg of the flight, I rallied. We turned north and east, toward the Alps, toward Switzerland, Germany and Poland, and I began to focus on something besides myself. I read what Didier prepared for our entourage. Since becoming Pope, John Paul had made only one visit to his native land, a pilgrimage, a triumphant visit. General Jaruzelski was not eager to see the Pope again, but now, nearly four years to the day of that first visit, he returns.

As John Paul traveled, our entourage followed, hearing his message of perseverance, encouragement, hope, reporting on the crowds which everywhere greeted him. Warsaw. Czestochowa. Krakow. The Pope pulled no punches. He likened the suffering of the Polish people to Christ’s on the cross. Your freedoms are denied, your dignity trampled on, but call good and evil by name, do not permit fear to rule your lives. Forgiveness is not weakness, but the power of love. Provocative, seditious words.

The outpouring of affection stunned the Communist leadership. The enthusiasm for John Paul’s message was deeply troubling, his special rapport with the young an ominous harbinger. This unprecedented embrace of the enemy, televised worldwide, must have caused harsh words between Moscow and Warsaw. Reluctantly, the government authorized a private meeting for the Pope with Lech Walesa, and before the crowds he endorsed the labor leader and his banned organization. He overrode the Polish Church’s go-along-get-long attitude toward the Communists, ending talk of cutting Solidarity’s loose. I wrote two articles about these amazing events and outlined Dispatches which would set them in perspective.

Our audience was set for the day before the Pope’s departure, in the chapel of Cardinal Glemp’s Warsaw residence. John Paul was taller than I had anticipated, crisp in his white alb and short jacket and wearing his white skullcap. As we filed past, a member of his party introduced each of us by name. I was at the tail end of the line. The Catholics among us knelt to kiss his ring and receive his blessing and he offered words in flawless, accented English for everyone. When my turn came I knelt as best I could and as I rose he remarked that we have both tasted war’s bitter fruit, mine against the Communists. It surprised me that he knew this, then he bent toward me, speaking in a low voice.

“I was saddened to learn you have lost your son. Know that he is in my prayers. We share the name of a great saint, we three. I have no doubt he is with God.”

“Thank you, Your Holiness,” I managed, “you are most kind to remember him.”

“Go in peace, young man, and never forget, your profession is vital to the cause of freedom. I pray you will have the courage always to speak the truth.”

I walked away, dazed.

Buoyed by the encounter, my maudlin thoughts gone, I couldn’t wait to get back. Diane was subdued, welcoming. I wondered whether her mother had a talk with her. She asked me about the trip, my meeting with the Pope. Peter was interested in the prayer cards with the picture of John Paul. Three mementos – one for Emma, one for Peter and the third, Paulie’s. “Keep this one,” I told Peter, “Paulie would like you to have it.”

He looked at me with an intense expression. “I know. He told me so.”

“You mean in the hospital?”

“No, last night. Paulie and me, we talk all the time.”

I nodded. Nothing is impossible.

A month later General Jaruzelski lifted Poland’s state of war. Fear is the glue that holds dictatorships together, I wrote, and when you see the glue dissolve...

I CALLED PAT AND A FEW OTHERS to let them know about Paulie. A week after my return a letter arrived from, of all people, Meg. She said how sorry she was and hoped I was bearing up. A brief account of her medical practice, said she and Clyde were expecting their first, then she went on.

I know I made the right decision, but for a long time I’ve been ashamed of how I treated you. I didn’t know how to say I was sorry. You deserved better and I hope you’ve found it with Diane. You are a good man and I think fondly of you. Perhaps this will clear the air. I hope so. Take care. Always, Meg

I put the letter in my desk. What’s past is past. I felt warmed by her words, and perturbed. Her comment about Diane... if she only knew.

Speaking of Pat, a couple of weeks later he called and I rang him back. He reminded me that this was the year, the twentieth anniversary of our pledge to re-enact our event on Mount St. James. “I take it you don’t plan to be back there anytime soon,” I said.

“Hardly.”

“Let’s do it on Montmartre? Nothing says we can’t have a new venue.”

And so, the first Saturday morning in July, a breezy, balmy day, I met my old friend on the butte Montmartre, highest point in Paris, on a bench under the brow of Sacre Coeur, overlooking Clichy and Rochechouart, former site of a risqué nightlife scene, now a sprawling marché aux puces. “I often come here to clear my head,” Pat said as we observed the panorama. He opened his backpack and took out a paper bag. “Need to keep this little beauty out of sight. Here we are, only steps from Paris’ last working vineyard but the flics know nothing of history. So how’d your meeting with John Paul Deux go? You two an item yet?” He uncorked the bottle and filled two plastic glasses with vin rosé.

“Hardly, but something remarkable happened.” I related his comment about my injury and his prayer for Paulie.

“He must have a good advance man.”

“It’s more like I do.”

“Well, cheers,” Pat said, raising his glass.

“Santé.”

Pat took a round of cheese from his pack. “Folks, you may wonder why I called this meeting. Simple – we take stock after lo, these many years.” He looked at me. “I figured you’d have put it off it you weren’t up to it.”

“Yeah.” I paused. “You know, I was really touched by the Pope’s comments. He is a genuinely holy man, practical and saintly both. A rare combination.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But look at that,” he said, gesturing at the white monolith behind us. “Will he disavow that? Sure, it’s interesting architecture, but for the price they could have fed and housed a lot of people down on their luck. When did Christ ever tell Peter and the boys, go forth and build me one of those? They met in homes, in caves, under cover. Christ was a subversive! I tell you, Paul, the Church celebrates Constantine but he was a disaster for Christ’s message, for his ministry.”

“You sound like Gus.”

“Gus and I were on the same page, I saw that right away.”

“He’s leaving Cal, coming back east. His wife died last year.”

Pat sighed. “Too much of that going around.”

“How goes it with you?” I asked.

“I love it here. Michel and I get along so well it’s scary. The only trouble is nobody wants to publish my thesis – though I’ve pilfered it so much for articles, a lot of it has seen the light of day. So how about you? 60 Minutes was spectacular. You’re headed for the big time, no question.”

“That was a big deal.”

“So you’re on your way to your goal.”

“Goal?”

“Remember? You’re going to change the world for the better.”

I laughed. “Thanks for the reminder. Nothing like inexperience to inflate your ambitions.”

“But seriously, you’re making a name, you have a platform and I figure a modest following at least. You could be President if you put your mind to it.”

“As you artists say, it’s not on my palette.”

“So, how goes it with you and Diane? She doesn’t like me but, frankly, so what?”

I paused. I hadn’t talked about this with anyone before... but why not? “Not good,” I began. “She’s not the same person I married. Not a good scene. She wants to move back.”

“Sorry to hear that. But have you ever considered you’re not the same person she married, either? No offense, but it goes both ways.”

I nodded. “You’re right. I’m not that easy to live with.”

“Well, hang in there. The alternative can get pretty nasty.” He handed me a piece of cheese and bread. “Of course, there’s always Lucie.”

I laughed. “Diane doesn’t like her either.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Who does she like?” We fell silent. After a minute he asked, “More wine?” I held out my glass. He looked around and pulled out the paper bag. “Will we see you at Lucie’s opening? You got an invitation, right?”

“Yeah, and I’d better r.s.v.p. For one.” I looked hard at him. “You know, I’m really glad you’re here. It helps a lot.”

He turned away. “I don’t know about that...”

“No, I mean it. Having an good friend here makes a big difference.”

LUCIE’S PARTY WAS A BLAST. Le Monde would call the exhibition “stunning.” Our Sunday Gazette, “an extraordinary blend of beauty and scholarship. Don’t wait for the Met – hop a plane to Paris today!” I made sure Didier gave it special treatment and he managed to lure Pam Snyder, recently promoted to Arts & Culture Editor, to cover the show, teaming her with Celeste and assigning Max Brodeur, his best photographer. Max worked the room, capturing me in several shots, one of which made it into our “In and About” page the next day. Costumed musicians strolled around, sounding suitably medieval. I caught up with Pam, bubbling over about her new assignment. During the evening, I noticed a number of people staring, trying to figure out where they knew me from. Several introduced themselves, said how moved they were by 60 Minutes, how much they liked my work.

Lucie had prevailed. The exhibition was ensconced in the medieval wing where it clearly belonged. Uncanny, seeing her plans come alive. I spent a lot of time in the workshop with the craftsman who constructed it, learning how he scavenged for tools and implements, fabricating them from old drawings when he could find none. I stood over the mannequin calligrapher as he lettered a page, inkwell at his elbow. I watched a young painter infuse his miniature masterpiece with a brilliant blue hue.

“What is that color?” I asked the workbench maker, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Ultramarine. It’s made from lapis lazuli, a semi-precious stone they ground and made into a pigment. Unfortunately, these days they use less costly synthetics.”

I watched the binding take shape and saw the book enclosed in its leather-and-board cover, clamped with a sturdy brass clasp for protection and to mold it into shape. In another room the mannequin Duc de Berry engaged a magnificent Jeanne d’Evreux in animated conversation, gesturing with his Très Riche Heures, her tiny Belles Heures in her lap, a finger marking the place. The larger-than-life-size computer images of individual pages were indescribable, though I knew Pam and Celeste would do a superb job if it. I resolved to return at a quieter time, when I could focus better on what was going on.

The reading room displayed the exhibition catalog and computers for visitor study. There was Lucie’s coin des enfants, an alcove off the reading room with low tables holding child-sized cahiers recounting the story of the Books, also tins of water colors. Children in smocks earnestly daubed in notebooks their parents had acquired at an outrageous price. One particular child took my breath away – a blond boy about Paulie’s age who had spilled water in his notebook. My eyes filled with tears... Paulie would have been here this night, he and his nascent interest in antiquities. After watching the boy for a moment I left the room, wiping my eyes with my hand.

I passed on the T-shirts and mugs for now but did spring for a catalog. At the dinner the director hosted for Lucie and her counterparts, I asked Lucie if she’d sign my copy. When Pat and I arrived in the Metro station where we would part company, I showed him the inscription. “Pour Paul, bon ami, supporteur fidèle, avec admiration et affection, Lucie.”

“You see,” Pat said, “she has a thing for you. You could do a lot worse.”

I shook my head and laughed ruefully, thinking to myself I already have. “My net’s already full, Pat. As long as I’m in this I’ll try to make it work.”

In September a letter arrived from Gus, postmarked Maine. “Good news and bad news,” he wrote. “I made it here, but I can’t find anything.” I called his new number to congratulate him and see if I could do anything. “I’m fine,” he said. “My niece and her husband came up with their kids – it’s nice having life around. He’s out of work so I’m paying him to winterize the place. And I found a local guy who’ll help after they leave, with the cooking and so on. Come visit! The way we’re going this place is going to look like the Ritz.”

“Next time I’m back I will. Count on it.”

“Remember to ask for the student dropout discount.”

“That should bring down to my price range.”

“Aw, come on, you’re rolling in dough.”

I laughed. “Not exactly, but it isn’t bad.”

“Aren’t you happy you didn’t go into teaching? Church mice are cute but you don’t want to be one, especially when you’re raising a family.”

“Very happy.” I was tempted to open up but I figured no, he’s got his hands full. Anyway with something like that face-to-face is the only way.

EVEN DURING THIS FRENETIC TIME I had to give the Gazette what it was paying me for. In July, a terrorist attack on French soil – a bomb exploding in a suitcase being checked through to a Turkish airliner at Orly. It killed eight and injured fifty-five. Members of an Armenian militant organization would be convicted and imprisoned. I used the occasion to explore the destruction by the Ottoman Empire of its Armenian population and other ethnic groups during and after World War I. Massacres, burnings, poisonings, forced marches, deportations – estimates place the Armenian toll alone at over a million. A debate continues whether these brutalities constitute “genocide.” What’s in a name, I thought.

On September 1, we received word of a Korean Air Lines 747 missing in the area of the Sea of Okhotsk in the Soviet Far East. Reports began to filter in that it had crashed into the ocean. A week later the Soviets acknowledged they shot the plane down after it violated their airspace, believing it to be a spy plane. I learned later that from NSA intercepts the U.S. knew this indeed was the Soviet military’s belief, mistaken though it was, but – still smarting from the embassy bombing, his popularity low – Reagan saw fit to blast the USSR for “a crime against humanity that must never be forgotten.” In the next weeks he reaffirmed an existing ban on Aeroflot service to the U.S. and announced limitations on scientific, cultural and diplomatic exchanges – a tepid response given the tough rhetoric.

On October 23, an event occurred with far-reaching consequences. At 6:20 a.m., a Mercedes-Benz truck packed with explosives crashed through a barbed wire fence, two sentry posts and a gate, and drove into the lobby of the Marine barracks at Beirut Airport. The detonation leveled the building and killed 241 American servicemen and a Lebanese custodian. Moments later, at the French barracks six km away, same thing. Sixty-two paratroopers and five civilians. Though never definitively established, the Lebanese Shi΄a group Hezbollah was generally credited with the attacks, with aid from Iran and Syria. Reagan denounced the despicable act and pledged that the U.S. would not be intimidated. Within days, however, he had moved the Marines offshore out of harm’s way, and by February next they were gone from Lebanon. It turned out Reagan had his sights on a different target.

Two days after the barracks tragedy, U.S. troops landed on the tiny Caribbean island of Grenada. A former British colony, Grenada had been independent since 1974 though it still was a member of the British Commonwealth. A 1979 revolution brought a Marxist-Leninist government to power and the new Prime Minister, Maurice Bishop, established ties with Cuba and other Communist governments. In October 1983 Bishop was deposed but he escaped and tried to reclaim power, before being murdered. The Army then took over. On October 25, after months of menacing talk the U.S. invaded, citing a Soviet-Cuban build-up, pointing to a new airport with a military-length runway under construction. Danger to American students at a local medical school was also cited.

After unexpectedly stiff resistance, U.S., Jamaican and Caribbean regional defense forces overwhelmed the small Grenadian Army and a band of “construction workers” – actually members of Cuba’s secret police and the KGB – as well as advisors from other Communist countries. Within a week, the fighting was over and constitutional government was soon restored. Some 7,000 U.S. troops took part in “Operation Urgent Fury,” with 19 killed and 116 wounded. Opposing casualties were somewhat heavier. This was the first major military action for the U.S. since Vietnam, trumpeted by Reagan as our first combat victory over the Soviets and an eradication of the stain of Vietnam.

I scheduled an interview with the British Foreign Secretary, Geoffrey Howe, who was fuming over this attack on a Commonwealth country, as well as at Reagan’s misleading statements. Reagan had assured Mrs. Thatcher that an invasion was not contemplated and Howe repeated this in the House of Commons. When it appeared the invasion was imminent, she called Reagan and insisted that the landings be cancelled. Reagan later admitted he couldn’t bring himself to tell her they had already started. By a vote of 122 to 9 (the U.S. and its Caribbean allies) with 27 abstentions, the U.N. General Assembly “deeply deplored” the armed intervention, calling it “a flagrant violation of international law.” But for a U.S. veto, the Security Council would have done the same. Dissenting voices were raised at home, seven Democratic Congressmen in fact calling for Reagan’s impeachment.

I remarked on the sequence of events. Lebanon. Bombings – embassy and barracks. Grenada. What timing – far from coincidental. Shamed one day, forceful and manly the next. Only problem – Lebanon and Grenada. What is the connection? Leave it to the great communicator, he found one: Communism. The USSR, backer of militant Arabs and author of a military threat in our neighborhood. If you can’t check them where you should, do it where you can. Using my “who stands to gain?” test, I found the big winner was the defense establishment, which periodically needs to prove its mettle and justify itself. It did so here, but only to a point, for confusion and ineptitude, poor communication and inter-service rivalries marred the Granada operation. Soon after, calls for major Pentagon reform arose in the Congress. The process culminated several years later with the Goldwater-Nichols Defense Reorganization Act which established the primacy of the Joint Chiefs Chairman as sole military advisor to the President. From now on the services would speak with one voice. I added – maybe, maybe not. As for Thatcher-Reagan, that smacked of the schoolyard. You had your Falklands – now it’s my turn.

In November a U.S.-NATO war exercise nearly brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. Designed for realism, “Able Archer” (a neat irony, that) was indeed that, with simulated missile release, extensive military and diplomatic comm traffic, participation by heads of state and escalation to DEFCON-1 readiness. Soviet military leaders, well aware of the nuclear missiles recently deployed on European soil and aimed at them, believed they were witnessing the cover for a U.S. nuclear first strike. In response they placed their nuclear-capable aircraft on high alert and, though it hasn’t been definitively established, their ICBMs as well. Eleven days later the exercise concluded and the Soviets’ fears subsided, but Ronald Reagan was reportedly so shaken when apprised of the near-miss that it led him to ease off the militant rhetoric. His speeches adopted a friendlier tone toward the Soviets as he affirmed that a nuclear war can never be won, must never be fought, and expressed the hope of living to see the day “when nuclear weapons will be banished from the face of the earth.”