‘I want to continue the conversation we had in the wardroom,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to be overheard.’
The more I had thought about it, the more I realized that the XO was exactly the right person to talk to. I didn’t know him well – we had only served on one patrol together – but I respected his professionalism. He was a conscientious, diligent, talented officer with direct experience with planning for a nuclear war. And that conversation had shown that he was also a thinking human being.
If he agreed with Lars that what Pat Greenwald had suggested was treason, then I would have nothing more to do with her. But if he agreed with Donna… I wasn’t sure what I would do. But I would respect his judgement.
Approaching him was risky, but he had opened up to Lars and me first, and I hoped that by reminding him of this, I would discourage him from turning around and reporting me.
Robinson frowned, pulling his dark eyebrows together. ‘Is this something I should hear?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
I could see Robinson hesitate. But curiosity overcame caution. And I also felt trust and respect for me.
‘I have a philosophical question for you,’ I said.
‘I have come all this way to discuss philosophy with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘I love my country. That’s why I joined the Navy. But it’s also why I did what I did on the Hamilton. I didn’t want the country I love to be destroyed. To me, that is straightforward patriotism. Do you agree?’
Robinson nodded slowly. ‘I do. And so does Commander Driscoll. That’s why we recommended you for an honourable discharge.’ He gave me a grudging smile. ‘If it were up to me, I’d give you a medal.’
‘Thank you, but I’m just glad to avoid a court martial,’ I said. ‘I was thinking about our conversation. You suggested that it would be good if the Navy was more open with the Soviets?’ I waited. I needed his acknowledgement before I went further.
Robinson looked uncomfortable, but then he nodded. ‘I remember.’
‘It seems to me that it’s unlikely that this will be the only time an erroneous order is given to a boomer. Or maybe a missile launch site or a bomber. In fact, I would be surprised if this hasn’t happened before. It may even have happened on a Russian submarine.’
‘That is certainly possible.’
‘In which case it would be good if the Russians knew about it. Because if three missiles are accidentally fired at the Soviet Union one day, they might consider the possibility it was an accident. They might not retaliate. Do you think that’s right?’
‘I do,’ said Robinson, carefully.
‘So, philosophically speaking, would it be a good thing if the Soviets knew what we almost did in November?’
Robinson turned away from me and took a few paces, staring at the grassy hump of the old fortification.
My heart was thumping as I let him think. I hoped I hadn’t said enough for Robinson to have me arrested. The XO was a diligent officer; maybe that’s what a diligent officer should do.
We stood there, apart, for two full minutes. Then Robinson turned and faced me.
‘I have two things to say to you, Lieutenant Guth. Firstly, I agree with your philosophical point. A true patriot would not want to see his country devoured by a nuclear holocaust. And if the Russians knew about nuclear near-launches, they would be less likely to retaliate if one were to occur in the future, one where missiles were actually fired.’
I felt a wave of relief.
‘I have another point, though, and please listen to it. I am a serving officer in the United States Navy. If I ever learned that you intended to approach the Soviets and tell them anything about what happens or happened on board a nuclear submarine, I would have to report it to the naval authorities. But I believe you were only speaking “philosophically”. Is that correct?’
‘Aye, sir,’ I said.
‘So you have no intention of going to the Russians directly, then?’
‘Oh no. Of course not, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Robinson. ‘Then I think we understand each other. I doubt we will speak before your discharge comes through. Good luck, Lieutenant Guth. With life after the Navy.’
Robinson held out his hand, and I shook it.
With a shiver, he hunched himself in his coat and turned back to his car.
As I watched him drive off, I knew I had my answer.
FORTY-THREE
April 1984, Paris
They call April in New England ‘Mud’. There was no mud in the Jardin du Luxembourg in April, or at least not during the three full days Donna and I spent in Paris.
We stayed in a cheap hotel just beyond the périphérique, and took the Metro into the city every morning. We did all the things young Americans do in Paris. We loitered in cafes, we loitered in museums, we hung around churches, we walked and we talked. Neither of us had ever been to Paris before: in fact the only country I had ever visited in Europe was Scotland. Donna had spent a month in Italy in her junior year at Swarthmore, and her French was pretty good – definitely better than mine.
We fell in love with the city – like so many Americans before us – and we were falling in love with each other.
I had been discharged from the Navy, and spent a couple of weeks at home with my parents before joining Donna in New York. My mother had been happy to accept my explanation that I couldn’t divulge why I had left early, and that the discharge was indeed honourable. But my father had not taken my leaving the Navy well, especially when he realized that there was little chance that I would come and work with him on his newspaper. He was a curious newspaperman and he also felt that I should be able to trust my own family; he wanted to know all the details.
I held out.
But now, even more inconsistently, I was about to tell a total stranger everything.
Our three days coincided with the twenty-fourth International Conference on High Energy Physics, which was taking place in Paris that year. The plan, as explained to us by Pat Greenwald, was that we would saunter past a particular bench in the Jardin at 12.40 for each of the three days. If and when Donna saw Irena Boyarova, whom she would recognize, sitting there reading a book in English, we would place ourselves next to her and strike up a conversation, asking her about the book. If she was reading a book in Russian, we would walk on by.
I suggested that we spend the half hour beforehand going back and forth on the Metro to make sure no one was following us. We did this, but we found it impossible to determine whether we were being followed or not in the crowded foreign city.
The bench was just a few yards away from the Medici fountain. There was no sign of the Russian on the first day, but on the second the bench in question was occupied by a small woman with short greying hair wearing a shapeless brown coat. She was reading The Thornbirds.
‘There she is,’ said Donna.
We paused in front of the bench. ‘Il y’a quelqu’un ici?’ Donna asked the woman.
The Russian smiled. ‘Non,’ she said. ‘Asseyez-vous.’ Her face was small and round, as were her blue eyes, which glanced at us quickly, and then went back to her book.
Donna and I unpacked a simple picnic from the bag Donna was carrying – bread, cheese and a couple of oranges – and began to eat. While we had both felt a sense of excitement at these meeting preparations over the previous couple of days, now I wasn’t so sure. This was all too much like a John le Carré novel. I didn’t like to think of the Russian physicist as a spy, and I certainly didn’t like to think of myself as one.