Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘Oh, still. Be still.’

She collapsed and I got properly onto the bed and held her. After a while she reached down and pulled the sheet up over us. ‘How d’you feel now?’ she said.

‘I want you.’ I was still hot and hard.

‘Better we don’t,’ she murmured. ‘This way you’ll remember…something different.

‘I’ll think of the Queen.’

She smiled and curled herself up; I moulded her into a shape I could enclose with my arms and legs. I felt her twitch and then relax and settle into a loose, gentle sleep. I went with her, all the way, down to the warmth, out of the light, into the comforting dark.

We travelled from the hospital to the Senate hearing in a fleet of cars under a tight security screen organised by Billy Spinoza. Our bags were packed and on their way to the airport. Trudi went into the chamber with January, Gary Wilcox and Bolton, while I waited outside with the other men who had steel in their backbones and ice water in their veins. In fact, we lounged around; the brave ones smoked, some jogged on the spot, others, like me, leaned against walls and sweated.

The sweat wasn’t from fear; the whole operation had a smooth invincibility to it that convinced me from the first move. But it was a hot day in Washington, perhaps the last of the year locals told me. We all wore jackets to prevent our shoulder holsters from frightening the populace. It was more than a little absurd-a whole gaggle of men, every one above six feet and no one under 150 pounds, all standing around and sweating with several pounds of ironmongery under their arms.

It was boring enough to force me to take a look at the TV monitor when January came on to do his thing.

He was terrific.

With his head bandage smaller, his hair brushed and a better colour to his skin, he looked less like T.E. Lawrence and more like a slightly damaged Robert Redford. He spoke quietly, sketching the history of the Pacific and its associations for all the nations with a nuclear capacity-America, Britain, France, the Soviet Union.

One of the gun-toters outside said, ‘What about

Israel?’ It got a laugh outside but the audience in the large, wood-panelled room where January was speaking was hanging on his words. He went on to talk about the violence that was bred by violence and he managed by word and gesture to indicate his own martyrdom.

‘In the Pacific,’ he said. ‘We have a chance to demonstrate cooperation and harmony between people with the widest possible cultural differences -from the subsistence agriculturalists of New Guinea to the most sophisticated citizens of the United States. We can create a zone where no guns are fired, no bombs are dropped and not one nuclear device threatens the existence of the people, or the plants, or the lowest, most microscopic, form of life.’

Wilcox and Bolton passed him documents which he accepted with a boyish grin and glanced at without interrupting the flow of his remarks. He raised his right hand, the burnt one, occasionally as if to ward off a bad thought.

A mid-west Senator got the call from the Chairman and fixed January with a hard, blue-eyes gaze. He was an outdoors-looking type, with a mane of greying hair and a well-preserved figure.

‘Mr January,’ he said. ‘The Soviet Union is already acting belligerently in your so-called zone of peace. It is building stepping stones across the Pacific, stepping stones for the waging of war.’

Trudi handed January a note. He nodded and delicately touched his burnt hand to his bandaged head. ‘I believe that Senator Anderson knows all about stepping stones,’ he said quietly. ‘He is a fly-caster of note. Isn’t that so, Senator?’

The Senator inclined his head gravely.

‘You and the Soviets have something in common. The Russians are in the Pacific to catch fish, nothing more.’

There were smiles around the long table and in the several rows of guests, reporters and others flanking the participants in the hearing. Billy Spinoza, standing beside me, smiled too.

‘What he doesn’t know is that that fucking Anderson would just as soon dam up a river as fish in it.’

‘January wouldn’t care,’ I said. ‘He’s talking about the world tomorrow but he’s thinking about himself today.’

‘Too true.’

January never got flustered; he wasn’t glib, he hesitated a few times and appeared to be searching for the right words, but they always came. Some of his final answers were touched with passion-he projected a vision of the Pacific area as a laboratory where the study of man in conflict had been carried out by brilliant American, Russian, British and French anthropologists for decades and where the study of man in harmony could begin. He got a standing ovation and a series of awkward, and incredibly sincere-looking, left-handed handshakes.

A couple of the attendants stood to attention when January marched out. His jacket was open which, in that company, was like having a flower behind his ear. He acknowledged all the plaudits gracefully and as Spinoza and some of his trusted lieutenants along with yours truly hustled the party towards the cars, January made it look as if all the anxiety was on our side and for our benefit, not his.

I sat next to Spinoza in front while January shared the back seat with a Chinese he called Joe.

‘Who’s with Trudi?’ I said.

‘Three of the best.’

‘Does that leave any for Gary and Bolton?’

‘Bolton’s staying,’ January said. ‘He’s going to monitor press comment and come back when Martin’s fit to travel. Gary’s got some business to do. He’ll be on a later flight today.’

Spinoza negotiated the stately driveways around the Senate building. ‘We’ll look after them. The heat’ll be off them when Mr January leaves.’

‘In triumph,’ I said. ‘How’s the head, Peter?’

‘Fine, Cliff, thank you.’

I half-turned to look at him. Success became Peter January; it gave him an abashed, modest look that he wore easily along with his brimming self-confidence. Except that I seemed to detect a flaw in the armour. We rode down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House with the big, concrete barriers arranged around it like idols or totem poles. January bit his lip as he looked out at the seat of power. Maybe I was wrong in thinking he was worried; maybe he was planning security arrangements for the Prime Minister’s Lodge.

I shook hands with Spinoza before we boarded the plane. He’d overseen the departure of the Messiah of the Pacific with an awesome skill. We’d passed through all the stages as smoothly as if we were catching a taxi across a town.

‘Thanks, Billy. You’ve done a great job. Is there anyone I can tell that to? Do you some good?’

‘Sure, Cliff. You tell it to Mike Borg. He’s travelling with you.’

I was surprised and spun around to see Borg standing beside Trudi as January gave a last audience to the fourth estate.

‘Just a precaution. You tell Mike and he’ll tell some desk man and maybe I’ll get a desk myself some time.’

‘You want a desk?’

‘Sure. We’ve been on our feet too long. I’m ready to sit down and sign things.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Maybe not. Anyway, I’d like to take a trip to your country. Put in a good word with Mike and I might make it.’

‘You’ll be welcome at my place if you do. Take care, Billy.’

‘You too.’

He turned away and I watched January field a few balls. Don Carver was in the clutch of reporters but he didn’t speak. January shook hands warmly with Creighton Kirby for the benefit of the cameramen and then we were heading for the plane.

I fell into stride with Borg. ‘Can they spare you?’ I said. ‘I gather from Billy that you’re the foreman.’