Surfeited, drowsy, comfortable, Rory leaned back in his chair and his pale blue eyes were apparently candid. "Pa," he said, "why do you want me to be a congressman, then a senator, perhaps, a governor, or, as you used to say, President of the United States of America?" He smiled as at some happy jest, but his father gave him one of his fierce glances and Rory no longer smiled. "I thought I told you," said Joseph, in slow but emphatic words. "The country that would not accept me and my family, the country which rejected me, the country which despised me--it will accept my sons as representatives, senators, or whatever. That will be my--" He stopped, sipped a little wine. Rory was uneasy. "But you are accepted now, Pa. It was a long time ago." "It will never be 'a long time ago,'" said Joseph, and his long thin fingers clenched into a fist on the table. "We Irish have long memories." And black ones, too, thought Rory, who had no black memories and no memory of pain at all. He knew his father's history, for Joseph had told him often enough. But, thought Rory, it is the history of many immigrants to America, Jews, Catholics, hopeful poor Protestants, laborers from eastern Europe. They did not retain "black memories." They were only thankful to be in America. Rory's bronze brows drew together in thought. It was possible that they did not possess the unrelenting pride of the Irish, or the sensibilities of the Irish. Well, I don't, thought Rory, who was proud of his race and had encountered only a few insults in his protected life, and had found even those hilarious. "Tell me again about that girl, Claudia," said Joseph, and Rory was startled. It seemed a puerile request from his indomitable father, and even a little unworthy of him. But Rory rarely questioned his father, for Joseph had his reasons. So Rory talked merrily of Claudia Worthington, and did not notice that Joseph was watching him closely and that occasionally he drew in his mouth as if deeply thinking. Sometimes he smiled, and always he watched as Rory, a little drunk now, gave a very colorful picture of the young lady, and tried to describe her fascinating and elusive quality. "You were impressed with her then, I am thinking," said Joseph. Rory considered. "She is not pretty, and then she is suddenly beautiful," he said. "But she isn't quite seventeen. One of these days she may be a remarkable woman, though she hasn't the brains of a gnat." "Brains aren't necessary in a woman," said Joseph. "In fact, they are detrimental. You should have accepted their offer of the private coach." "Why?" "Damn it!" said Joseph. "Do I have to spell every word out for you, you young idiot?" The dining room was hot now and full of the scent of food and wine and spring flowers. But all at once Rory was cold, even shivering, with a sick premonition. Joseph stood and Rory stared up at him. Joseph said, "I thought I taught you that you must never let a single opportunity go by, but always make use of the smallest. The ambassador's daughter is not a small opportunity. Remember that." What the hell does he mean? thought Rory. Does he want me to squire her about London? I can do that without too much effort, and perhaps a little enjoyment. I am willing, as Barkis said. But Rory saw his father's eyes fixed intently on him and he knew that Joseph was thinking of something else, and plotting. "The ambassador's wife," said Joseph, "is distantly related to the British Royal House. Keep that in mind. The ambassador is giving a ball very soon for his daughter's debut, I understand. She will be presented. She will inherit, from her mother, a considerable fortune, and from her father even more, and she is their only child. She has uncles with broad powers in Washington and London and Berlin and Rome. Never let yourself forget that. We have, of course, been invited to the ball." As if Rory's stunned staring was too much for him Joseph abruptly left the dining room. Rory remained, leaning far back in his chair. He refilled his wineglass. He looked about him vaguely, frowning. He knew well enough now what his father meant. Suddenly he wanted to see Marjorie, to hold her in his arms, to kiss and fondle her, to smell the lily scent of her bright black hair, to hear her mocking voice, to touch her breast, to look into her eyes. Maggie, Maggie, he thought. Nothing can ever separate us, my impudent darling. My little Maggie. It was the wine, of course, but his eyes filled with tears, and he shivered from head to foot though the fire blazed up, 'and for the first time in his life he knew the full meaning of fear.
Chapter 38
"This," said Joseph, "is where the Committee for Foreign Studies meets regularly, in London." Rory knew all about the international Committee for Foreign Studies, for he had seen its discreet American quarters from the outside, on Fifth Avenue in New York. Nothing proclaimed its presence. His father had shown him one day. "Here," he had said, "and in their quarters in other capitals, li¢s the real power of the world, and here it is decided what the world will " "Without benefit of elections and the people's will, of course," Rory had said. His father had looked at him sharply and with disgust. "Don't be a fool, Rory," he had said. "Sometimes you sound like a child. Elections and the people's will, for God's sake! When were they ever of any consequence?" "I believe," Rory had answered, "that once they did exist in Athens and Rome and Jerusalem and Alexandria, and perhaps in America and Britain, too." Joseph had actually laughed. "And for how long, may I ask, boyo? Don't be a fool," he had repeated. "I expect much of you, you spalpeen, in spite of your innocent questions which aren't innocent at all. Stop teasing me. You are wasting my time." For all his scrutiny, which was formidable, he had not noticed that the lower lids of Rory's eyes had relaxed, widened, artlessly, like a child's eyes, and he did not know that when this happened Rory was reserving his opinion, which could be as immutable as his own, and as dangerous, and as secret. Rory knew that the Committee for Foreign Studies had some three hundred members in nearly every country in the world, all bankers or industrialists, politicians and financiers, and that they had meeting places in every capital and that those meetings were discreet and unostentatious and that the general public was unaware of them. The meeting place in London was an old and decorous mansion of gray stone and ostensibly owned by a British banker who lived alone and was reputed to be a bachelor by his neighbors. None of these men sought publicity, and lived private lives which were known for philanthropy and quiet reserved living with their families. All had "private" fortunes, or let it be casually known that they were engaged in the professions, dabbled occasionally and mildly in politics, and art, or did "a little banking the family name, you know." Many of them had sons in government, industry, the Navy in the professions. Some of them were openly known as impressive financiers, especially in America where the possession of wealth was regarded as akin to holiness, and in Zurich, where the same opinion prevailed. But none really knew what they were, except themselves. They controlled interests in almost all the important newspapers in the world, appointed writers for those newspapers, and editors, directed editorial policy. They were the real owners of publishing houses, of magazines, of all the media that guided public information. They were the ones who really appointed the Cabinets of Presidents, and the Ministers to government in nearly all other countries. They controlled elections, built up their candidates, financed them, everywhere in the world. Any presumptuous or intrepid man who did not meet with their approval was lampooned in the press, discreetly libeled, or exposed." The politicians, themselves, were often quite unaware of who had advanced or destroyed them. Even Presidents did not always know. Kings and emperors sometimes were vaguely aware of the momentous shadow that hung over their thrones and decided the destinies of their nations, and many were quite convinced that should they denounce that shadow they would be exiled, or perhaps even assassinated. The grip on events was not iron, but it was equally pervasive and persuasive, as soft and silent as mist which concealed invincible armies. They were never quoted in the press concerning politics or wars or other policies. There was never any public opinion except through their manikins, who were excellently chosen for their popularity with the people. It was possible that only Popes knew who and what they were, for the Vatican, too, had listening posts in every capital, but by a peculiar coincidence if a Pope hinted of what he knew an anti-clerical movement began in chosen countries and the Pope found himself in quite a desperate situation.
An open exposure, an open encyclical, could result not only in anticlerical convulsions in various countries, and exiles of the Religious, but bloodshed and terror. It had happened several times in the past and the Popes were aware of it. It had happened in France in 1794. It had recently happened in France again. It had happened in Germany and in South American countries lately, and now was threatening Spain and Portugal. The gentlemen had many weapons and never hesitated to use them, on kings, emperors, princes, Popes and Presidents. Sometimes it needed but one emphatic event. Sometimes it needed coups d'6tat. But whatever was needed was ruthlessly and invincibly employed, not only as a punishment but as a warning to others. Revolution was one of their weapons, and "popular uprisings," and incendiaries and attacks on the forces of law and order. Rory knew all about this Invisible Government which decided the destinies of nations, their survival or their obliteration, for his father had told him. Moreover, he had taken Political Science in college, which, while it did not reveal the enemies of mankind and their peace and security, hinted at it. "The world really exists on money and on nothing else," a professor had told his students. "This is a fact of human existence which must be acknowledged, however we might wish to protest. Some call manifestations of it commerce. Some call it politics. Some call it 'spontaneous movements of the People.' Some call it 'revolutionary change of governments.' Some call it holy wars in behalf of freedom. But all these things are implacably plotted by the men who really rule us, and not our ostensible elected administrations. It is a matter of money. Even the most unworldly of idealists comes face to face with that fact eventually. If he can be used he will be financed. He then deludes himself that 'worthy and compassionate persons, or whatever,' have come to his aid in the Name of the People. If he does not meet with approval, if he honestly believes that there should be some other motivation for the energies of man besides simple greed--if he believes that the nature of man can be exalted to heroic proportions--then he is destroyed by public laughter and public ignominy and it is suggested that he is insane. If he is an authentic hero his fate is much worse: obscurity. His name will never be mentioned in the public means of communication. What he writes and says will never again be known by the people. He is consigned to Limbo." Well, Rory had thought, they tried that with Christ throughout the centuries, but they didn't accomplish it. They probably never will. Of course, they have used the name of Christ during whole eras, and were regarded as Christian Gentlemen, but even that trick didn't succeed. well, not too Often, anyway. Rory was careful not to let his conclusions be known by his father, though he more than suspected that Joseph despised the men with whom he was associated. Rory was more indulgently inclined to regard them, not as hateful, but as assassins who could be defeated at their own games. His father could have told him differently, but Rory had never confided his ideas to him, for he had youth's arrogance and assurance of being clever and omniscient. Rory was even convinced that in some ways these formidable men were ridiculous. His facile opinions were more than a little shaken during the meeting in London. He was never to be quite the same in his conclusions, and he aged during those hours. Still, he did not tell his father. He was afraid that Joseph might be angered against him, or even worse, consider him an ignorant fool. No one else in the world had ever had the influence over Rot3" that Joseph had, not even Marjorie. If he had spoken to Joseph, after those hours in the meeting place of the Committee for Foreign Studies, his own life would have been entirely different. His death might have convulsed the world. Or, it might have led to nothing. The public, as always through the endless centuries, preferred the satisfactions of its bellies and its titillations and womanish emotions, and its warm little comforts, to thought and investigation. The men of the Invisible Government were wiser in their understanding of human nature than were the men who cheerfully believed that humanity could be advanced, could be totally human. "Give a dog a bone and he will happily crunch on it and never know what is going on about him," Rory was to hear that day in London. "Nor will he care." They supplied the bones, as Rory finally understood, and the good men who protested were blown into silence by hurricanes of public-induced laughter, or were assassinated. The Invisible Government controlled public opinion over assassinations. They sometimes made the murdered man a hero--and attributed to him opinions which only confirmed their own powers. All that he had wished o warn his people against was obliterated in a rose shower of sentimentality, or was perverted against those who had stood with him in fighting the enemies of his country. This Rory learned on the January day he met the dangerous men in London and began to understand them. They did not speak of "assassinations," for they were delicate gentlemen, and decorous. But the implications were there. They did not speak of controlling governments. They spoke of "information" and "guidance" to rulers. The men Rory had met in Washington and New York were rambunctious and shameless, and they had American open exigency, and had laughed over it. But the men he met in London were entirely different, and there were no Americans among them. Moreover, they had no sense of humor. Money, Rory was to discover, was not humorous in the least. It was the most serious thing in the world beyond any God man had ever dreamed of or had known. Joseph had introduced Rory as "my son, of whom I have told you before." He looked at Rory, and not without pride, though he hoped that his colleagues would not consider him too showy, too ornate, too handsome, and too young, and possibly superficial. For Rory lit up the immense dark room like a rocket in the English dusk, the gas chandelier shining down and glinting on his red-gold hair, his ruddy face and his wide amiable smile. There was a fireplace at each end of the dank room with its long oval table shining like dulled satin in the gloom, and about that table sat some score or more men who scrutinized him with uniformly impassive faces. They were, of course, not the same men Joseph had met so long ago, when he had been younger than Rory, himself, except for half a dozen who had been fairly young then. But these were their sons, or their immediate successors. To Joseph, their faces had not changed at all. They all appeared circumspect, gray, compact, merciless and deadly, their eyes barely alive in their cold faces yet all-seeing. They were all without race or racial identification. The gentleman from London was nearly the twin of the gentleman from St. Petersburg and the gentleman from Stockholm could hardly be told apart from the gentleman from Paris. None of them was fashionably dressed. All had quiet hands with faintly polished nails, and few wore rings. Anonymity was their garment, their desire, their uniform. Each wore, in his black tie, a single large pearl, and Rory thought, looking at them, I bet they bought those pins by the gross in Cartier's. They might have all been forty, or all eighty, though none was wrinkled or flabby or fat or crumpled. But Rory, all at once, stopped smiling easily from one man to the other. They did not frighten or disconcert him. They did not make him flinch in himself, or feel too young or brash. They did not embarrass him. It was that he felt he had never encountered so much concentrated force in all 478 his life before, such a gathering of intense and solid power. It was inhuman to him, and for that reason to be watched and considered. Evil, if human, could be guarded against, armed against. But these men were not even evil, he thought. The}, were, as Nietzsche had said, beyond good and evil. They existed. They were amoral, not immoral. They probably have steel guts, he thought, and not normal bowels. As he looked slowly from one to the other his lower eyelids relaxed, widened, giving him that artless boyish look which had sometimes annoyed Joseph. Joseph glanced about the table, feeling warmth in his face, expecting genteel rejecting eyes which delivered their opinion that Rory was indeed too young, too shallow, too colorful, for their taste and acceptance. Rory looked like a schoolboy! He leaned forward in his chair, his arms casually folded on the table, mildly observing. He might, Joseph thought with humiliation, be some jejune youth optimistically facing schoolmasters and hoping, by charm and smiles, to change a rigorous judgment. his genial gaze moved from one man to another, pleasantly, indeed with a sort of foolish expectation, thought Joseph, who wished to God he had w
aited a few more years. Then he noticed that ever3.; man was looking only at Rory and that a shadow of movement had touched them as if they had straightened in their chairs. The slightest of smiles lifted every colorless lip. It was impossible to say who was the leader in this organization, but a gentleman looked at Joseph almost kindly and said, "He will do very well, I think. Indeed yes, I think he will do very well. Welcome among us, Mr. Rory Armagh." "They arc all bastards," Joseph had told his son. "They are, without doubt, the wickedest men on earth, though I am sure they would be astonished to hear they were wicked. They might even be outraged. Many, I am sure, even believe in God and support churches, and this is no hypocrisy on their part. I remember what Disraeli, the Prime Minister of England, said about them, with some surprise, 'The world is governed by we different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes!' I believe he had a little success, for a time, in opposing them, but it was no use. It is like opposing Mount Everest." "But they didn't assassinate him," Rory had said. "No. Perhaps, being a brilliant and astute man, he discovered too much about them, which his heirs, and his Monarch, might have made public. I believe I heard something about that, )'ears ago. I also heard he was an enormous cynic--and who can blame him? Had he exposed them, do you think the people would have listened?" Rory had thought. Then he had said: "You are one of the richest men in America, Pa. Perhaps those bastards served your purpose once, but now you don't need them. Why not get out?"