“So the Canadians aren’t popular in the White House. That’s what you’re telling me. But surely the new prime minister’s changing that.”
“He’s making a real effort, but my reading is that to bring Canada into our nuclear waste planning right now would be to invite an anti-American reaction from them that would destroy any possibility of success. That’s the danger. So the President wants the planning to be top secret and he wants all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed before he goes public.”
The PM was not convinced. “I’ll speak to your President. I think the Canadians should be given an opportunity to be part of your scheme right now. If they say no then he can keep them out of the picture, out of the planning. Yes, I’ll call him.” Britain’s intelligent, pragmatic leader was emphatic. “I will indeed. Well, old chap, you’ve painted a rather clear picture, one that I hadn’t seen before. Most valuable. You can count on me.”
Ross responded, “I’m pleased that’s your decision and I’m sure the President will be as well.”
The Prime Minister stood up, giving Ross a toothy smile. “Well there you are, Mr. Ambassador. I’m delighted to be brought into the net. And I hope to hear from you often. There will be many decisions for which you or the President will want my input. My door, my phone, my fax, and not-secure email and I are always available.” He escorted Rob Ross to the door. Shaking his hand, he said, “Have a successful and safe trip. Watch those Russian buggers. And next time stay longer and bring your golf clubs. We’ll do eighteen at Stoke Poges, James Bond’s favourite course, where he aced Goldfinger.”
Back at the Stafford, Ross went to the American Bar, asked the head waiter, Pierre, to call Sue to tell her he was there and to ask her to join him, please. He would have the best white wine, her noon favourite, waiting.
When Sue arrived the usual luncheon crowd of English and American men, in for their two-hour drink-eat sessions, swivelled their heads in near unison to watch this brunette beauty glide past them, her long legs perfectly shaped as they disappeared beneath her brief miniskirt. “Lucky sod,” one observer was heard to say as she nestled in beside Rob in the comfortable, cushioned far corner.
Over two glasses of white wine from Montrichard, Rob’s special town in the Cher River area of France, he gave her a muted — so as not to be overheard — full report on his meeting with the Prime Minister. “He’s really quite a guy,” he admitted. “Bright as hell. Very perceptive.”
“Which means you and he got along very well and you persuaded him to do something you wanted him to do.”
“You’ve got it, sweetheart. And after I have a dozen oysters and another glass of wine there’s something I’d like to persuade you to do.”
She sat back, her foot suggestively touching his leg. “Dare I hope, dare I wish, that this something you want can’t happen in this bar?”
“Again you’ve got it. It can only be on the third floor in an appropriate horizontal conference position.”
“Where I can take dictation?”
“No. Where you can receive it ... and thank God my meeting with old what’s-his-name isn’t until four.”
“Wonderful. We can conference upstairs probably twice — if you and the oysters are up to it!”
CHAPTER 9
Rob Ross’s time with Carl Elton, the American Ambassador to the Court of St. James, was full of fun and typically of little substance or, as the Ambassador called it, meat. The old boy — old to Rob — was in his early sixties, outgoing, gregarious, lean, but flush of face. He had stringy grey hair, his own teeth, and sharp, intense brown eyes. He was a political appointee, as tradition allowed the president to choose his own person for that plum London office. Elton, a multi-billionaire from long-time investments in television stations and outdoor advertising, had been a main fundraising force and contributor to the President’s run for the party nomination and then for the presidency. Shortly after his man had won the Oval Office, Carl had made it known that he would covet the London appointment, if the president-elect was inclined to give it to him. He was so inclined, and with the approval of the Senate — despite a few naysayers — Carl Elton was appointed the U.S. Ambassador to the U.K., one of the most prestigious foreign posts.
Special Ambassador Ross arrived in an Embassy limo at the secured underground entrance to the U.S. Embassy at the west end of Grosvenor Square just minutes before his scheduled four o’clock appointment.
Elton received his guest in his spacious, high-ceilinged office in the building’s northeast corner overlooking the square and the monument to President and General Dwight D. Eisenhower. At the far end of Grosvenor Square sat the appropriately diminutive Canadian High Commission offices and the residence of the incumbent high commissioner. In the British Commonwealth the member countries, such as Canada, did not send ambassadors to London — though they were, in fact, the same — but high commissioners, because they were affiliated with the monarchy. Canada, once a colony but now independent, still had the British monarch as its titular head. All that had gone through Robert Ross’s computer-like mind as his limo passed the Canadian building on its way to the American Embassy.
Carl Elton, the perceptive, intuitive entrepreneur, made his colleague comfortable, called for a drink for each of them — Californian red wine for himself (never French) and white for his guest. “Call me Carl” was among his welcoming words.
“You’re at the Stafford. My favourite hotel. And that American Bar. Wonderful, with all those pictures of the American generals and admirals in the entrance from the hotel’s main-floor sitting room. Mind you, there’s one Canadian Air Force general’s photo contaminating the montage.”
“Yes, I saw that. Air Force, author, lawyer, most decorated Canadian citizen. Forgotten his name.”
“And let me tell you, young man, just forget about Canada when you’re wheeling and dealing here or with the Russians. The funny people who live to the north of us in that cold, bleak country are always bitching about what we’re doing to them. I’ll tell you, Rob, they’re a PITA.”
“A what?”
“No, I’m not talking about the bread. I mean, they’re a pain in the ass. A PITA! Get it?” He laughed. “Anyway, Rob, I know what your terms of reference are. Something about inspecting the Russian nuclear waste situations, that sort of thing. Believe me, I don’t know the first goddamn thing about nuclear stuff — nothing. Television, the Internet, films, outdoor advertising — that’s my bag.”
“And you’ve made a big bag out of it, Carl. A big one.”
“You’ve got that right. And so have my four wives — former wives. Over here I’m a single and, boy, do the Lady this, the Duchess of that, all the loose women — I mean widows and divorcees — do they ever think I’m a catch.”
“And you are, Carl. You are.”
“You are, too, young man. Understand your EA’s travelling with you. Fabulous woman, I hear. Miss America runner-up with a pair of the best and longest legs east of the Mississippi.”
“That is absolutely true. Absolutely. But what she does for me when I’m in Russia is protect me.”
Elton was surprised. “What d’you mean, protect you?”
“From the Soviet days the Russians still haven’t overcome their obsession with blackmailing Westerners, particularly government people like you and me. They’d give their eye teeth to get me on film in a sexually compromising position with some prostitute or an agent of their Federal Security System — used to be the KGB.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.