They were passed directly up to the second floor where the President's appointments secretary, Steve Nichols, was just coming out of the Oval Office. Chapin went down the corridor to one of the waiting rooms used by the Secret Service.
“Good morning, General,” Nichols said. “Go right in, he's expecting you.”
Murphy nodded curtly and entered the President's study, no longer as surprised as he'd been the first time here at how small the room was. On television it looked so much bigger, more regal, more powerful. But the design woven into the dark blue carpet was the presidential seal, and coming here never ceased to impress him. The line of presidential succession went back more than two hundred years. The Soviet Union had only lasted seventy.
The President was seated in his padded rocking chair next to his National Security Adviser, Harold Secor, on the couch. The two men were a study in contrasts. The President was tall and lankyâ“Lincolnesque,” the media called himâwhile Secor, a former professor of history and political science at Harvard, looked exactly like a professor of history: tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, thin pinched face and sallow complexion, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pipe-smoker's overbite and stained forefinger. Both men were brilliant. “Among the most intellectual men to hold court in the White House since Woodrow Wilson's administration,” the
Post
maintained. Murphy agreed wholeheartedly, although in the first year of the President's second term, the public did not. The U.S. economy was still a mess, and everyone blamed the President, which wasn't fair considering the Congress he had to work with.
“Good morning, Roland,” the President said, looking up. “Good news or bad?”
“Good morning, Mr. President. I'd say neutral for the moment,” Murphy replied. He extracted a leather-bound folder from his briefcase and handed it over, then placed the briefcase on the floor beside the chair across from the President and Secor.
“That's something at least,” the National Security Adviser said. “The Russians are still mum, but Tokyo has finally come out with a statement.”
“What are they saying?” the DCI asked with interest.
No matter what happened the Japanese government was the key player in this instance. Current thinking was that they would have to be appeased, even if the costs were large.
“They regret the incident and they're studying it,” the President said, opening the intelligence report. “Get yourself some coffee while I take a look at this.”
Murphy poured a cup from the service on a cart beside the President's desk and came back and sat down. The intelligence report ran to around ten thousand words, but the President was a speed reader and would skim through it in three or four minutes. In the meantime, Secor handed over the message they'd received from Tokyo through our embassy.
Beyond the usual diplomatic verbiage, the essence of the message was contained in one paragraph.
The government of Japan deeply regrets the recent incident in the Tatar Strait off the island of Karafuto allegedly involving a vessel of Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force and one of the Russian Federal Navy in which there may have been a loss of lives and property. Every effort is being made to quickly and fully investigate the matter to determine culpability.
“I wonder if they used that name for Sakhalin Island in their reply to Moscow,” Murphy said.
Secor shrugged. “We don't even know if they've exchanged messages, official or otherwise. But I don't think the Russians are about to give up the island.”
“They'd be better off offering it for sale.”
Secor's eyebrows rose. “Would the Japanese consider such a proposal?”
“I don't know, Harold, but with the assets the Russians have brought to bear in those waters in the last twenty-four hours it's a safe bet the Japanese won't take the island by force.” Murphy handed back the message. “Or carry the dispute over those waters any further.”
The President closed the leather-bound folder. “That's the way I read this, Roland. The Japanese are simply disputing Russia's claim that all the waters of the Tatar Strait belong to them, even past the twelve-mile limit from the mainland and the island. Still leaves a lot of open water in between.”
“Apparently the Russians fired first. An underwater explosion of a type consistent with a helicopter-delivered torpedo came before the missile hit.”
“Moscow is going to claim that they were provoked into shooting because a Japanese submarine was operating in their waters,” the President said. “But the Japanese are going to protest that they were within international waters. They were outside the twelve-mile limit, weren't they?”
“Yes, they were,” Murphy said. “But we don't think Tokyo will go that route. So far as we can determine, no orders have ever been issued to test those waters. In fact standing orders are for the MSDF to stay the hell away from the strait, and to avoid any kind of confrontation at all costs.”
“What are you talking about, General?” Secor asked. “Are you suggesting a renegade submarine skipper?”
“Some of my people are thinking along that line. But they pick their sub-drivers just as carefully as we do ours. It's possible that a fleet commander, or even the C-in-C of submarine operations, gave the order. Tokyo would be insulated.”
The President was troubled, and it showed on his face. “What would they have to gain?”
“I don't know for sure, Mr. President, but I'd say prestige. And they'd be setting a precedent to justify an expansion out of their home waters.”
“You're talking about Subic Bay?”
“Yes. The Japanese may be coming to the conclusion that we no longer have their best interests at heart. Witness what happened in the strait. We weren't there, so they had to defend themselves. Could be endemic, so they've got to begin looking out for themselves.”
“We've picked up nothing like that,” the President said, glancing at his National Security Adviser. Secor shook his head.
“At this point, Mr. President, it's only speculation. But we're working on it. That submarine driver will probably be fired and a very carefully worded apology will be sent to Moscow.”
“Reparations?” Secor asked.
“Not likely. Tokyo will claim that although its submarine was poking its nose where it shouldn't have, its intentions were friendly. The Russian navy fired the first shot, and in the heat of the moment the submarine driver defended himself.”
“So we continue to support the Japanese, while slapping the Russians on the wrist. Is that what you're suggesting?” the President asked.
“For now, until we get more information.”
“At the moment there are no Japanese navy ships in the strait?”
“Not so far as we can determine.”
“What about the submarine?”
“Presumably on its way home, we think to Yokosuka. We'll know for sure in a few days at the outside.”
“Keep on top of this one, Roland,” the President said, his gaze penetrating. “We're in a very delicate position between Tokyo and Moscow, and I don't want to be caught short. Anything that has any bearing on this subject, I want to hear about it pronto.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy said.
D
ominique Kilbourne was dead tired. Parking her Corvette in the Watergate ramp, all she wanted to do was get upstairs, have a glass of
white wine, take a long hot soak in her tub, and crawl into bed. Since McGarvey had left her apartment yesterday morning, she'd been on the go, which in one respect was all right. It kept her from thinking about him. She'd not gotten much sleep since his visit. Alone in bed at night she kept coming back to him, to the expression on his face, to the way he held himself. To the look in his eyes. She had tried to find him, but it was as if Washington had swallowed him. David was suddenly unavailable to her, and her brother was too busy at Gales Creek to talk.
Starting at noon yesterday when HR95831 had been proposed by William Hyde, the junior Congressman from Utah, her office had been swamped by every airline she represented, and seemingly by every journalist and television or radio reporter in town, and hundreds from across the country.
The bill proposed that a ten dollar per passenger surcharge be levied on all domestic flights, and twenty dollars on all international flights. The money was to be put into an airports and airways superfund to upgrade U.S. airports and help privatize the air-traffic control system. The bugaboo in the bill, and the one point that the Congressman and his supporters were the most adamant about, was that the tax was not to be charged back to the customer. The airlines would have to absorb this cost themselves out of their profits. But a capper to the proposal was that part of the superfund would be used to “police” the airlines, to make sure the surcharges weren't passed along to the passenger through hidden costs.
American Airlines's Tom Hailey had put it most succinctly, if indelicately. “What the hell is the dumb sonofabitch trying to do, bankrupt us all?”
There wasn't enough money in the industry to pay the extra tax. Fuel prices were going up again while the number of passengers was going down. All but a few of the nation's major airlines were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Since 1979, the year after the government decided to end its regulation of the airlines and the
airfares charged, more than half the carriers had gone out of business. Even the mighty Pan Am had fallen by the wayside. This bill, and the companion bill the Congressman was already talking about, which would add a surcharge to the cargo shipped by airlines, would kill at least two of the majors and several of the others.
“That's the minimum damage that would be done,” she'd explained to the Congressman in person this afternoon.
“Maybe that wouldn't be so terrible after all, Ms. Kilbourne.” Congressman Hyde smiled. “Maybe it's for the best that we pare away the dead wood in this country. Look at what the Japanese have done with themselves in the past fifty years. My God, those people started from scratch.”
“With a great deal of financial and technical help from us,” Dominique said, hardly believing what she was hearing.
“Certainly. Look at what we did to them in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The innocent lives lost. Women and children, the old and infirm. Lord, it must have been horrible. A blot on our national conscience. We owed them something.”
Dominique wanted to ask him if that's what his constituents wanted, but he held her off.
“We're not talking about the Japanese now. Admittedly we're having our difficulties with them, which if the President doesn't mishandle it will get straightened out. What we're talking about here is the airline industry in this country. They cried for deregulation in the seventies. Keep the government off our backs, they shouted. So, we stepped away. Have at it boys, we told them. And look what happened.”
The Congressman glanced at his aide, Pat Staley, who'd been trying to get a peek up Dominique's skirt since she'd sat down, and smiled.
“I think the first smart thing they ever did was to hire a pretty spokesperson,” Staley said, grinning broadly. “No offense, and don't you dare take what I'm trying to
say as some sort of sexist remark, but you do have our attention.”
“That's what this country is all about, I think,” the Congressman said. “Dialogue. Give and take.”
It was hard to keep her temper in check. “Perhaps you don't fully appreciate the ultimate effect this bill would have,” Dominique said. She wanted to slap the smarmy smile off the aide's face.
“I've talked with the experts,” Hyde said.
Dominique handed him a report. “When you have the chance take a look at this. Your bill will shut down the weaker airlines. And maybe you have a point, maybe in some ways that might be for the best.”
The Congressman and his aide looked surprised.
“But, when an airline goes under two things happen. First, a lot of equipment gets auctioned at a bankruptcy sale.”
“A good deal for the stronger, better-managed airlines,” Staley suggested.
“And secondly, because of the glut of used airplanes and spare parts on the market, and because there's one less airline to purchase new equipment, it drives our aircraft manufacturers one step closer to bankruptcy.” Dominique sat forward. “You are aware, I'm sure, Congressman, that there are only three major manufacturers of commercial aircraft left in this country. These three account for our single largest export in terms of dollars. If any one of them were to go out of business, for whatever reason, it would devastate our precarious balance of trade position, and it would throw at least sixty thousand aircraft employees out of work. Two hundred thousand others would no longer be needed to run the grocery stores or the department stores where the aircraft workers shop. Truck drivers would be idled, contractors, real estate agents, bankers.” Dominique smiled. “But I think you have the picture by now, Congressman.”
“Who do you represent, the airlines or the manufacturers?”
“Both, because they've become inseparable. Hurt one and the other suffers.”
“My experts don't agree,” the Congressman said with less certainty than before.
“Maybe they're wrong,” Dominique said. “Maybe after you've read my report we can get together for dinner.”
The Congressman brightened. “I'd like that.”
“Fine. I'll have a word with David Kennedy. Perhaps we could make a foursome with your wife. At your convenience.
Congressman Hyde's face fell. “Sure,” he mumbled.
The man was a toad, Dominique thought while riding up in the elevator from the garage. But the disturbing thing was the support he was getting. Some powerful members of the House were apparently behind him. And she was getting hints that the White House might be behind the bill. If that were the case, the situation would be even less understandable to her than it was. Presidents were known to have their own hidden agendas, but this was stupid.
Getting off the elevator, she slipped out of her shoes and padded down the thickly carpeted corridor to her apartment. She let herself in and flipped the switch for the hall light, but nothing happened.
“Shit,” she said, flipping the switch again. It was just a minor irritation, but she didn't need it tonight.
Leaving the door open so that she could see her way into the apartment she dropped her purse and shoes by the hall table and went to a lamp in the living room.
Something dark rushed at her from the shadows, knocking her aside before she could react, and then it was down the hall, moving swiftly like a jungle animal in the night.
“Hey,” she shouted.
Something very hard slammed into her back, spinning her around. It was a person, dressed in black from head to toe, some sort of a skier's mask covering his or her features. Instinctively she reached out to stop herself from falling and grabbed a handful of the mask. It came
off, and then she caught the edge of the coffee table with the backs of her legs and sat down hard on the floor, but not before she got a good look at the man's face ⦠it was a man, she suddenly was certain, and for a second he stood there, unmoving, looking at her.
He reached down and gently, it seemed, touched the side of her neck. She felt as if she were falling into a very deep and pitch-black hole.
Â
McGarvey was put up at the monumental Rossiya Hotel on Razin Street just off Red Square with no further word when he would be meeting with Aleksandr Karyagin, the new director of the Russian Federal Intelligence Service. But he'd been assured that he would be leaving on the 10:00 A.M. flight to Washington.
It was 4:30 in the morning, and unable to sleep he stared out of his eleventh-floor window at the fantastical domes of St. Basil's and the red brick walls of the Kremlin, a shiver rising up his spine.
Everything was different, and yet nothing had changed. The free market economy had taken hold, more or less, but there was still nothing affordable to buy in the stores. The KGB's name had been changed to the SUR, and it no longer acted as a thought police, yet the person on the street could still spot an intelligence officer a block away and steer clear. Emigration was no longer tightly controlled, and yet passing the U.S. Embassy in the back seat of General Polunin's limousine, McGarvey had seen long lines of people waiting to get inside where they could apply for visas, while uniformed militia officers watched and took notes and photographs.
Everything here was run-down. Cars, roads, buildings in the entire country had gone to hell since he'd last been here. Moscow had always been a seedy old city, but now it was worse. The place was coming apart at the seams, helped by the Russian Mafia and a growing murder rate, yet somehow McGarvey found that he wasn't glad of it. His parents would weep if they could see what was happening.
Another change that had taken place was the reopening
of the churches and the young people flocking to them. Not so surprising, because through most of Russia's history its people had been deeply religious. A seventy-year atheism imposed by the communists paled to insignificance when compared to six centuries of Orthodox Catholicism.
Besides the language, McGarvey had been taught Russian history, which was his father's first love. In 1310, Moscow became the Seeâthe seat of authorityâfor the Russian Orthodox Church. In 1367, the first stones of the first Kremlin were laid, and in 1448, going directly against the Council of Florence, which had finally united the western and eastern branches of the Catholic Church, the Church of Moscow became independent. Dates on dates, he remembered them all, remembered having them drummed into his head.
“Without knowing where we've been how will we know where we should go ⦠where we must go?” his father would ask him.
The building of the new Kremlinâ1496 to 1497. War with Swedenâ1502. Ivan the Terrible, the first Russian czarâ1553 to 1584. The Romanovs begin in 1613 with peace between Sweden and Russia. The Pauls, the Catherines, the Alexanders and Nicholases. War and revolution. The Cheka, the White Army, the Red Guards. The Stalin years and the purges and pogroms and collectivizations. Khrushchev and Brezhnev and Molotov and Andropov ⦠and on and on to Gorbachev and Yeltsin and finally this.
All the prayers and all the sacraments were for nothing, the thought passed through McGarvey's mind, because throughout all their history Russians generally had less regard and less reverence for human life than even Hitler had. The sweep of Russian history was a vast panorama of death. Mind-numbing numbers of men and women and children, peasants and officers, kulaks and bankers, by the millions, even
tens of millions, had
been led off to the slaughter.
Had his father understood this? He must have.
This was a land that stretched across eleven time zones. Nearly half the earth's circumference. Oil and coal and lead and zinc, uranium and gold and platinum and diamonds. Timber stands that stretched for a thousand miles or more. Mighty rivers, at least three major mountain ranges, and coastlines that ranged from the Arctic Ocean to the Black and Caspian seas and from the Pacific to the Baltic. But it was as if a terrible dark cloud covered the entire nation or that some horrible genetic defect had somehow infected the entire people, turning them into a nation of murderers and victims.
McGarvey turned away from the window. In the dim light from outside he could see his reflection in the mirror above the dresser as a vaguely dark outline, and he could see himself as he might look in twenty or thirty years, the age his father had been at his death. But he could not make out the expression on his face, only that it was incomplete. That he was incomplete, for some reason. He was here on the first leg of a mission that he himself didn't fully understand, and that he should never have suggested. He was no longer in the business. Hadn't that been settled in his head after Volodga? Maybe Howard Ryan was right. Maybe he did not belong.
After he'd returned from the Soviet Union he'd tried to look up his first wife with the thought at the back of his head that they might get together. But she was dead. It had been breast cancer, her dying painful and lonely. She had called for him. But that's when he had begun to run.
Maybe he didn't belong anywhere, he thought grimly. At some point in his life he'd probably had the chance to take a different road, despite how he'd been raised. But he had not. And this was the result.