Smithy said: "You haven't lost your cherry yet, Murray."
He meant that Jasper had not yet committed a war crime.
Jasper knew what was coming.
Smithy said: "Shoot the old woman."
"Fuck you, Smithy," said Jasper. "Shoot her yourself."
Mad Jack raised his rifle and pressed the end of the barrel into the side of Jasper's neck.
Suddenly everyone was silent and still.
Smithy said: "Shoot the old woman, or Jack will shoot you."
Jasper had no doubt that Smithy was willing to give the order, and that Jack would obey. And he understood why. They needed him to be complicit. Once he had killed the woman he would be as guilty as any of them, and that would prevent him making trouble.
He looked around. All eyes were on him. No one protested or even looked uneasy. This was a rite they had performed before, he could tell. No doubt they did it with every newcomer to the company. Jasper wondered how many men had refused the order, and died. They would have been recorded as killed by enemy fire. No downside.
Smithy said: "Don't take too long making up your mind, we have work to do."
They were going to kill the woman anyway, Jasper knew. He would not save her by refusing to do it himself. He would be sacrificing his own life for nothing.
Jack prodded him with the rifle.
Jasper raised his M16 and pointed it at the woman's forehead. She had dark-brown eyes, he saw, and a little gray in her black hair. She did not move away from his gun, or even flinch, but continued pleading in words he could not comprehend.
Jasper touched the selector lever on the left side of the gun, moving it from "Safe" to "Semi," allowing it to fire a single round.
His hands were quite steady.
He pulled the trigger.
PART SIX
FLOWER
1968
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jasper Murray spent two years in the army, one year of training in the USA and one of combat in Vietnam. He was discharged in January 1968 without ever having been wounded. He felt lucky.
Daisy Williams paid for him to fly to London to see his family. His sister, Anna, was now editorial director of Rowley Publishing. She had at last married Hank Remington, who was proving to be more enduring than most pop stars. The house in Great Peter Street was strangely quiet: the youngsters had all moved out, leaving only Lloyd and Daisy in residence. Lloyd was now a minister in the Labour government and therefore rarely home. Ethel died that January, and her funeral was held a few hours before Jasper was due to fly to New York.
The service was at the Calvary Gospel Hall in Aldgate, a small wooden shack where she had married Bernie Leckwith fifty years earlier, when her brother, Billy, and countless boys like him were fighting in the frozen mud trenches of the First World War.
The little chapel could seat a hundred or so worshippers, with another twenty or thirty standing at the back; but more than a thousand people turned up to say good-bye to Eth Leckwith.
The pastor moved the service outside and the police closed the street to cars. The speakers got up on chairs to address the crowd. Ethel's two children, Lloyd Williams and Millie Avery, both in their fifties, stood at the front with most of her grandchildren and a handful of great-grandchildren.
Evie Williams read the parable of the Good Samaritan from the Gospel of Luke. Dave and Walli brought guitars and sang "I Miss Ya, Alicia." Half the cabinet were there. So was Earl Fitzherbert. Two buses from Aberowen brought a hundred Welsh voices to swell the hymn singing.
But most of the mourners were ordinary Londoners whose lives had been touched by Ethel. They stood in the January cold, the men holding their caps in their hands, the women shushing their children, the old people shivering in their cheap coats; and when the pastor prayed for Ethel to rest in peace, they all said amen.
*
George Jakes had a simple plan for 1968: Bobby Kennedy would become president and stop the war.
Not all of Bobby's aides were in favor. Dennis Wilson was happy for Bobby to remain simply the senator from New York. "People will say that we already have a Democratic president and Bobby should support Lyndon Johnson, not run against him," he said. "It's unheard-of."
They were at the National Press Club in Washington on January 30, 1968, waiting for Bobby, who was about to have breakfast with fifteen reporters.
"That's not true," George said. "Truman was opposed by Strom Thurmond and Henry Wallace."
"That was twenty years ago. Anyway, Bobby can't win the Democratic nomination."
"I think he'll be more popular than Johnson."
"Popularity has nothing to do with it," Wilson said. "Most of the convention delegates are controlled by the party's power brokers: labor leaders, state governors, and city mayors. Men like Daley." The mayor of Chicago, Richard Daley, was the worst kind of old-fashioned politician, ruthless and corrupt. "And the one thing Johnson is good at is infighting."
George shook his head in disgust. He was in politics to defy those old power structures, not give in to them. So was Bobby, in his heart. "Bobby will get such a bandwagon rolling in the country that the power brokers won't be able to ignore him."
"Haven't you talked to him about this?" Wilson was pretending to be incredulous. "Haven't you heard him say that people will see him as selfish and ambitious if he runs against a Democratic incumbent?"
"More people think he's the natural heir to his brother."
"When he spoke at Brooklyn College, the students had a placard that said: HAWK, DOVE--OR CHICKEN?"
This jibe had stung Bobby and dismayed George. But now George tried to put it in an optimistic light. "That means they want him to run!" he said. "They know that he's the only contender who can unite old and young, black and white, and rich and poor, and can get everyone working together to end the war and give blacks the justice they deserve."
Wilson's mouth twisted in a sneer but, before he could pour scorn on George's idealism, Bobby walked in, and everyone sat down to breakfast.
George's feelings about Lyndon Johnson had undergone a reverse. Johnson had started so well, passing the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and planning the War on Poverty. But Johnson failed to understand foreign policy, as George's father, Greg, had forecast. All Johnson knew was that he did not want to be the president who lost Vietnam to the Communists. Consequently he was now hopelessly enmired in a dirty war and dishonestly telling the American people he was winning it.
The words had also changed. When George was young, black was a vulgar term, colored was more dainty, and Negro was the polite word, used by the liberal New York Times, always with a capital letter, like Jew. Now Negro was considered condescending and colored evasive, and everyone talked about black people, the black community, black pride, and even black power. Black is beautiful, they said. George was not sure how much difference the words made.
He did not eat much breakfast: he was too busy making notes of the questions and Bobby's answers in preparation for a press release.
One of the journalists asked: "How do you feel about the pressure on you to run for president?"
George looked up from his notes and saw Bobby give a brief, humorless grin, then say: "Badly. Badly."
George tensed. Bobby was too damn honest sometimes.
The journalist said: "What do you think about Senator McCarthy's campaign?"
He was talking not about the notorious Senator Joe McCarthy, who had hunted down Communists in the fifties, but a completely opposite character, Senator Eugene McCarthy, a liberal who was a poet as well as a politician. Two months ago Gene McCarthy had declared his intention of seeking the Democratic nomination, running as the antiwar candidate against Johnson. He had already been dismissed as a no-hoper by the press.
Now Bobby replied: "I think McCarthy's campaign is going to help Johnson." Bobby still would not call Lyndon the president. George's friend Skip Dickerson, who worked for Johnson, was scornful about this.
"Well, will you run?"
Bobby had lots of ways of not answering this question, a whole repertoire of evasive responses; but today he did not use any of them. "No," he said.
George dropped his pencil. Where the hell had that come from?
Bobby added: "In no conceivable circumstances would I run."
George wanted to say: In that case, what the fuck are we all doing here?
He noticed Dennis Wilson smirking.
He was tempted to walk out there and then. But he was too polite. He stayed in his seat and carried on making notes until the breakfast ended.
Back in Bobby's office on Capitol Hill, he wrote the press release, working like an automaton. He changed Bobby's quote to: "In no foreseeable circumstances would I run," but it made little difference.
Three staffers resigned from Bobby's team that afternoon. They had not come to Washington to work for a loser.
George was angry enough to quit, but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to think. And he wanted to talk to Verena.
She was in town, and staying at his apartment as always. She now had her own closet in his bedroom, where she kept cold-weather clothes she never needed in Atlanta.
She was so upset she was near tears that evening. "He's all we have!" she said. "Do you know how many casualties we suffered in Vietnam last year?"
"Of course I do," said George. "Eighty thousand. I put it in one of Bobby's speeches, but he didn't use that part."
"Eighty thousand men killed or wounded or missing," Verena said. "It's awful--and now it will go on."
"Casualties will certainly be higher this year."
"Bobby has missed his shot at greatness. But why? Why did he do it?"
"I'm too angry to talk to him about it, but I believe he genuinely suspects his own motives. He's asking himself whether he wants this for the sake of his country, or his ego. He's tormented by such questions."
"Martin is too," Verena said. "He asks himself whether inner-city riots are his fault."
"But Dr. King keeps those doubts to himself. You have to, as a leader."
"Do you think Bobby planned this announcement?"
"No, he did it on impulse, I'm sure. That's one of the things that make him difficult to work for."
"What will you do?"
"Quit, probably. I'm still thinking about it."
They were getting changed to go out for a quiet dinner, and at the same time waiting for the news to come on TV. Tying a wide tie with bold stripes, George watched Verena in the mirror as she put on her underwear. Her body had changed in the five years since he had first seen her naked. She would be twenty-nine this year, and she no longer had the leggy charm of a foal. Instead she had gained poise and grace. George thought her mature look was even more beautiful. She had grown her hair in the bushy style called a "natural," which somehow emphasized the allure of her green eyes.
Now she sat in front of his shaving mirror to do her eye makeup. "If you quit, you could come to Atlanta and work for Martin," she said.
"No," said George. "Dr. King is a single-issue campaigner. Protesters protest, but politicians change the world."
"So what would you do?"
"Run for Congress, probably."
Verena put down her mascara brush and turned to look directly at him. "Wow," she said. "That came out of left field."
"I came to Washington to fight for civil rights, but the injustice suffered by blacks isn't just a matter of rights," George said. He had been thinking about this a long time. "It's about housing and unemployment and the Vietnam War, where young black men are being killed every day. Black people's lives are affected even by events in Moscow and Peking, in the long term. A man like Dr. King inspires people, but you have to be an all-around politician in order to do any real good."
"I guess we need both," Verena said, and went back to doing her eyes.
George put on his best suit, which always made him feel better. He would have a martini later, maybe two. For seven years his life had been bound up inextricably with Robert Kennedy's. Maybe it was time to move on.
He said: "Does it ever occur to you that our relationship is peculiar?"
She laughed. "Of course! We live apart and meet every month or two for mad passionate sex. And we've being doing this for years!"
"A man might do what you do, and meet his mistress on business trips," George said. "Especially if he were married. That would be normal."
"I kind of like that idea," she said. "Meat and potatoes at home, and a little caviar when away."
"I'm glad to be the caviar, anyway."
She licked her lips. "Mm, salty."
George smiled. He would not think about Bobby anymore this evening, he decided.
The news came on TV, and George turned up the volume. He expected Bobby's announcement to be the first report, but there was a bigger story. During the New Year holiday that the Vietnamese called Tet, the Vietcong had launched a massive offensive. They had attacked five of the six largest cities, thirty-six provincial capitals, and sixty small towns. The assault had astounded the U.S. military by its size: no one had imagined the guerrillas capable of such a large-scale operation.
The Pentagon said the Vietcong forces had been repelled, but George did not believe it.
The newscaster said further major attacks were expected tomorrow.
George said to Verena: "I wonder what this will do for Gene McCarthy's campaign?"
*
Beep Dewar persuaded Walli Franck to make a political speech.
At first he refused. He was a guitar player, and he feared he would make a fool of himself, like a senator singing pop songs in public. But he came from a political family, and his upbringing would not allow him to be apathetic. He remembered his parents' scorn for those West Germans who failed to protest about the Berlin Wall and the repressive East German government. They were as guilty as the Communists, his mother said. Now Walli realized that if he turned down a chance to speak a few words in favor of peace, he was as bad as Lyndon Johnson.
Plus he found Beep pretty much irresistible.
So he said yes.
She picked him up in Dave's red Dodge Charger and drove him to Gene McCarthy's San Francisco campaign headquarters, where he talked to a small army of young enthusiasts who had spent the day knocking on doors.
He felt nervous when he stood up in front of the audience. He had prepared his opening line. He spoke slowly, but informally. "Some people told me I should stay out of politics because I'm not American," he said in a conversational tone. Then he gave a little shrug and said: "But those people think it's okay if Americans go to Vietnam and kill people, so I guess it's not so bad for a German to come to San Francisco and just talk . . ."
To his surprise there was a howl of laughter and a round of applause. Maybe this would be all right.
Young people had been flocking to support McCarthy's campaign since the Tet Offensive. They were all neatly dressed. The boys were clean shaven and had midlength hair. The girls wore twinsets and saddle shoes. They had changed their appearance to persuade voters that McCarthy was the right president not just for hippies but for middle Americans too. Their slogan was: "Neat and clean for Gene."
Walli paused, making them wait, then he touched his shoulder-length blond locks and said: "Sorry about my hair."
They laughed and clapped again. This was just like show business, Walli realized. If you were a star, they would love you just for being more or less normal. At a Plum Nellie concert, the audience would cheer wildly at literally anything Walli or Dave said into the microphone. And a joke became ten times as funny when told by a celebrity.
"I'm not a politician, I can't make a political speech . . . but I guess you guys hear as many of those as you want."
"Right on!" shouted one of the boys, and they laughed again.
"But I have some experience, you know? I used to live in a Communist country. One day the police caught me singing a Chuck Berry song called 'Back in the USA.' So they
smashed up my guitar."
The audience went quiet.
"It was my first guitar. In those days I had only one. Broke my guitar, broke my heart. So, you see, I know about Communism. I probably know more about it than Lyndon Johnson. I hate Communism." He raised his voice a little. "And I'm still against the war."
They broke out into cheers again.
"You know some people believe Jesus is coming back to earth one day. I don't know if that's true." They were uneasy with this, not sure how to take it. Then Walli said: "If he comes to America he'll probably be called a Communist."
He glanced sideways at Beep, who was laughing along with the rest. She was wearing a sweater and a short but respectable skirt. Her hair was cut in a neat bob. She was still sexy, though: she could not hide that.
"Jesus will probably be arrested by the FBI for un-American activities," Walli went on. "But he won't be surprised: it's pretty similar to what happened to him the first time he came to earth."
Walli had hardly planned beyond his first sentence, and now he was making it up as he went along, but they were delighted. However, he decided to quit while he was ahead.
He had prepared his ending. "I just came here to say one thing to you, and that's: Thank you. Thank you on behalf of millions of people all over the world who want to end this evil war. We appreciate the hard work you're doing here. Keep it up, and I hope to God you win. Good night."
He stepped back from the microphone. Beep came up to him and took his arm, and together they left by the back door, with cheers and applause still ringing out. As soon as they were in Dave's car, Beep said: "My God--you were brilliant! You should run for president!"
He smiled and shrugged. "People are always pleased to find that a pop star is a human being. That's really all it is."
"But you spoke sincerely--and you were so witty!"
"Thanks."
"Maybe you get it from your mother. Didn't you tell me she was in politics?"
"Not really. There's no normal politics in East Germany. She was a city councilor, before the Communists cracked down. By the way, did you notice my accent?"
"Just a little bit."
"I was afraid of that." He was sensitive about his accent. People associated it with Nazis in war movies. He tried to speak like an American, but it was difficult.
"Actually it's charming," Beep said. "I wish Dave could have heard you."