Erich Segal - The Class

Argentine troops invaded the Falkland Islands. And to protect their tiny colonial outpost, Britain sent a huge armada steaming toward a military confrontation in the South Atlantic.

Haig got the President’s approval to attempt to avert bloodshed by a Kissinger — like shuttle between London and Buenos Aires.

He woke George in the middle of the night and told him to be at Andrews Air Force Base at 0600 hours.

From then on, there was no day and no night for the two diplomats. They snatched what sleep they could in the jet ferrying them back and forth between England and Argentina, through endless time zones, from frustration to frustration.

Then, just before the British attacked, Haig miraculously convinced Argentina’s General Galtieri to withdraw his troops and negotiate. It looked like a real coup.

As they were fastening their seat belts for the long ride home, George congratulated his boss, “Al, I think you won a big one.”

But just as the plane door was shutting, a messenger arrived with a letter from Prime Minister Costa Mendez.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” George asked.

“I don’t have to,” Haig said with a weary sigh. “I know it’s my death warrant.”

Indeed, the execution of Alexander Haig had taken place while he was still in the air.

An unnamed White House source said the administration saw his fruitless mission as mere “grandstanding.” The press took the cue and began to quote various authoritative sources that “Haig is going to go, and go quickly.”

George Keller had more frequent lunches with Dwight Bevington.

He was sitting at his desk polishing a lengthy telex to Phil Habib, then shuttling between Damascus and Jerusalem, when his secretary buzzed.

“Dr. Keller, there’s a phone call from Thomas Leighton.”

“You mean The New York Times reporter?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Well, put him on.”

If this was indeed the Thomas Leighton, investigative journalist and author of a highly praised book about Russia, it was a favorable signal.

The journalist had possibly been tipped that George was in the wings to succeed Haig. And, like his Harvard mentor, George intended to play the press like a piano.

“Thank you for taking my call, Dr. Keller. I’d like to ask a favor. I’m on leave from the Times to write a book about your former boss, Henry Kissinger.”

“Is it a snow job or a hatchet job?”

“I hope it’ll be an honest job,” the reporter replied. “I won’t say I haven’t heard some nasty things about him. That’s why, if you let me have a couple hours of your time, I might get a more balanced picture.”

“I see your point,” George said, thinking that it would be nice to have such an important journalist on his future team. “Suppose we meet for lunch sometime next week. Is Wednesday good for you?”

“It’s fine,” said Leighton.

“Let’s meet at Sans Souci at twelve.”

The first thing that struck him was the reporter’s youth. He looked less like a Pulitzer Prize winner than a candidate for the Crimson . When George said this to Leighton, he confessed, “Well, actually I did write for the Crime. I was Class of ’64.”

They chatted cordially about their college experiences. Then the journalist got down to business.

“As I’m sure you know, not everybody views Kissinger as a knight in shining armor.”

“No,” George concurred. “But that’s the price you pay when you wield power. What sort of mud are they throwing at Henry?”

“Well, everything from ‘war criminal’ to ‘ruthless manipulator,’ and lots in between. You’d be surprised, he had a reputation even at Harvard.”

“Yes.” George smiled. “I was his student.”

“I know that, too. I also know you deserve your nickname of being ‘Kissinger’s shadow.’ Isn’t it true that you were as privy as any man alive to every significant decision he ever made?”

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” George replied, trying to affect humility. And then joked, “I mean, he didn’t take me into his confidence about marrying Nancy. Anyway, what’s the thrust of your book?”

“I get the impression that your boss was — how can I put it? — sort of amoral. That he played the game of world politics with human beings as pawns.”

“That’s rather brutal,” George interrupted.

“Which is why I want to hear your side of it,” Leighton responded. “I’ll give you a few examples. Some insiders I’ve interviewed say he deliberately withheld arms from the Israelis during the Yom Kippur war to ‘soften’ them into a better negotiating mood.”

“I bet I know who told you that one,” George said with irritation.

“No comment. I always protect my sources. Anyway, I’ve done some digging on my own and found that he was not averse to doing curious favors if it could help him win a point.”

“Could you be most specific?”

“Well, this may seem a small thing, but I think it’s typical of how he operated. Back in 1973, he okayed the sale to Russia of a sophisticated filter for satellite photography. I’m told Commerce had been sort of leery about letting them have it.”

George’s blood froze. He could barely listen to the rest.

“It’s my theory that Henry was trading for something. Now, what I’d like to know from you is — what did he get in return?”

George Keller had often testified before senatorial committees. He knew that the ironclad rule for any witness confronted with a startling question was to wait. And then answer as simply and directly as possible.

“I think you’re going up a blind alley on this one, Tom,” he said quietly.

“I’m positive I’m not.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The expression on your face, Dr. Keller.”

Leighton paused for a moment and then said politely, “Are you willing to talk about it?”

George’s mind was in turmoil. He had to quash this story or his whole life would be ruined.

What could he trade this guy? A great deal, he decided quickly.

All he had to do to save himself, was… sell out Kissinger.

“Listen, Tom,” he said as casually as possible, “it’s a nice day. Why don’t we go for a walk?”

First George did some off-the-record bargaining. Without explaining why, he simply offered to exchange the insignificant filter story — for whatever other information Leighton would request.

“Can I trust you, Tom?”

“I’ve got a reputation,” the journalist replied. “I’ve never betrayed my sources. And I never will.”

“I believe you,” George said.

He had to.

On June 25, the ax fell. Ronald Reagan called Alexander Haig into the Oval Office and gave him an envelope. It contained a letter accepting the Secretary’s resignation. Now all Haig had to do was formally resign.

The word in Washington was that Keller was going to get the job. The Washington Post went as far as to call him “the best appointment Reagan could possibly make.”

Dozens of reporters now kept vigil around his home, waiting for the moment when the new cabinet appointee and his wife would step outside to be photographed in triumph.

The major wire services had done their research and prepared a profile. The saga of the teenager who fled Communist oppression and had risen to the top. Only in America, et cetera.

Inside, George and Cathy were rooted by the telephone. They dared not speak to each other. All Cathy had said the entire evening — at regular intervals — was that she would love him even if he was not made Secretary of State.

He wanted desperately to take a drink, but she forbade him even a drop.