‘So what are you suggesting? That I speak to the Russians?’
‘Yes. Not to the government, but to the peace activists we know.’
I frowned. ‘Are you sure they aren’t just fronts for the Russian government?’
‘Yes, quite sure. The Russians are not very subtle about the way they try to co-opt our peace movement. They finance the World Peace Council, everyone knows that. The Peace Council tries to give us money; we refuse. No, these people are different. In particular the person I’m thinking of. Donna has met her.’
I glanced back at Donna, who was listening. She nodded. ‘It’s the Gorky Trust Group. Remember I told you about them?’
‘Gorky is a secure Soviet city,’ Pat said. ‘Our contact is a physicist there.’
‘I know Gorky,’ I said. ‘It often turns up in our target packages.’
That shut Pat up for a moment. ‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘If the Russian peace activists know that the United States nearly launched nuclear weapons at them by mistake, then maybe they will let us know of similar incidents there. And then if we reduce our missiles, maybe they will reduce theirs. The only way we are going to stop this insane race is if Russia and the United States begin to trust each other. The Russians get that. There’s a Moscow Trust Group and now this Gorky one.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s never going to work in the real world,’ I said.
‘It was working!’ Pat said. ‘That’s what the SALT talks were all about. Until Reagan came in and started talking about winning the nuclear arms race just when we were about to wind it down. And you can help that.’
I didn’t answer.
The trees opened up on a lake, surrounded by rocks. It was extraordinary to think that we were in the middle of one of the biggest cities on earth.
‘Well?’ Pat said.
‘No,’ I said.
‘He’ll think about it,’ said Donna.
‘No, Donna,’ I protested, as Pat left us to walk back to Hunter College, and Donna and I headed south through the park.
‘Just think about it,’ Donna said.
‘It would be treason. I would be betraying my country. That’s not something I would be prepared to do.’
‘But don’t you see, you are betraying your country by saying nothing!’ Donna said. ‘And not just your country, every country in the world. The human race!’
I shook my head.
‘Just think about it, please.’
We walked around the lake, together but apart. This worried me. I had hoped that my experience on the Hamilton would bring us closer together, bridge that divide of our views on nuclear weapons. But it looked as if, far from burying the question, it was raising it up between us.
Donna’s fingers found mine. ‘Bill. You can do what you want on this. I like you a lot, and I will still like you if you decide to keep quiet and not see Pat’s contact. I’m not going to try to coerce you to do something you don’t want to do. That’s not how our relationship should work.’
I squeezed her hand: it was what I wanted to hear.
‘Just think about it for a few days. That’s all I ask. And then, if you want, I will tell Pat you don’t want to see her or her Russian friend.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Maybe speak to Lars about it? See what he thinks?’
While Lars and I were waiting for our discharges to come through, we remained at the base, but were removed from working with the rest of the Alexander Hamilton’s crew. We were given the kind of superfluous administrative jobs that the Navy excels at creating; mine was in the department responsible for linen supplies. My office was, literally, a linen closet. It felt a bit like life on a submarine: there wasn’t even a window.
Lars had a top-secret filing assignment and was just as bored as me. We had found throwing ourselves around a squash court a good way of getting over our frustration. We were evenly matched: I was the more skilful, but Lars was very quick around the court, and able to reach even my subtlest of drop shots.
A couple of days after I got back to the base from New York we were alone in the locker room after a game when I told him about my conversation with Pat Greenwald and her suggestion that I might talk to the Russians.
He was shocked.
‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ I asked him.
‘Why not just talk to the papers? Off the record,’ said Lars. ‘That way everyone would know, including the Russians. They’ll have people who read our newspapers.’
‘I thought of that,’ I said. ‘And, in fact, that’s what Pat Greenwald originally wanted me to do. Set up a press conference. But even if it is off the record, the Navy would figure out it was me in an instant. Or you. I mean who else could it be?’
‘I see what you mean. But talking to the Russians? That sounds bad. Like spying-against-your-country bad.’
‘Maybe. But, in a weird way talking to the Russians through someone like Pat might be the best thing to do. The Navy wouldn’t find out. And it’s the Russians who are the people I want most to hear about it. They are the ones who have to show restraint if something like this occurs again.’
Lars seemed unconvinced.
‘I wouldn’t tell them anything that would endanger an American submarine.’
Lars blew through his cheeks.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’
We sat in silence. I felt I had almost convinced him. I had almost convinced myself.
But. I would be spying against my country, at least according to the Navy.
‘Remember that conversation we had with the XO in the wardroom?’ Lars said. ‘The one where he said the Russians should know what happened?’
‘Yeah. I think that’s what got me worrying about all this in the first place.’
‘He’s a smart guy. Maybe you should speak with him?’
FORTY-TWO
February 1984, Groton
I decided to meet Lieutenant Commander Robinson outside, at the ruins of the fort which crowned a hill above the oldest part of Groton a few miles downriver from the sub base.
Nobody missed me when I snuck away from my linen closet to drive south into town. I parked outside the library, and gave myself a half hour to wander around to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It was a clear, cold, still day, and there were few people on foot. None of them was following me, and the cars parked within sight of the fort were all empty.
The fort itself was nothing more than a quadrangle of grassy earthworks overlooking the broad Thames River and the industrial port of New London on its far bank, where a couple of large freighters were unloading. I had visited it only once: with my parents soon after I had been posted to Groton. It was the site of a battle during the revolution. In 1781 the British, led by the turncoat general Benedict Arnold, had besieged the fort, breached its defences and massacred its defenders. A monument to the battle rose solemnly on the other side of the road.
Now it was quiet. It was also cold.
I stood on top of one of the ramparts waiting, the Thames glittering in the winter sunshine. A muffled crash drifted up from the General Dynamics shipyard a mile or so downstream – the sound of a new nuclear submarine being put together. At twelve-thirty precisely, the XO parked his car on the street a hundred yards away, spotted me and walked along the path from the road into the grassy square, surrounded by the remains of the walls. Down there, no one could see us.
We were both in uniform in our all-weather coats. I considered saluting, but decided not to.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said.
‘It’s an interesting place to meet, Guth,’ he said. I could see he was curious. ‘A bit cold.’