“Thank you, Mikhail Sergeyevich.” Molotov had made a point of learning the young man’s name and patronymic; by all reports, he was able, even if inclined to put form ahead of substance. Well, if ever there was a protocol officer’s failing, that was it.
The limousine was a Cadillac. Seeing as much, Molotov raised an eyebrow. Gromyko said, “Impossibly expensive to import our own motorcars to all our embassies. In the Reich, we use-used-a Mercedes. I don’t know what we’re doing there now.”
“Did we?” Molotov hadn’t concerned himself with the point before. He shrugged as he got inside. If he was going to worry about it, he’d worry after he got back to Moscow. For the time being, he would simply relax. The automobile was comfortable. But he wouldn’t let it lull him into a false sense of security. To Gromyko, he said, “No substantive conversations here. Who can tell who might be listening?”
“Well, of course, Comrade General Secretary.” The foreign commissar sounded offended. “I am not a blushing virgin, you know.”
“All right, Andrei Andreyevich.” Molotov spoke soothingly. “Better to speak and not need than to need and not speak.”
Before Gromyko could reply, the limousine started to roll. The Soviet embassy was only a few blocks from the Gray House. One thing that struck Molotov was how small a city Little Rock really was, and how new all the important buildings were. Before the Lizard invasion, before it succeeded Washington as a national capital, it had been nothing to speak of, a sleepy provincial town like Kaluga or Kuibishev.
Well, had the Nazis or the Lizards broken through, Kuibishev would have had greatness thrust on it, too. “This place seems pleasant enough,” Molotov said: about as much praise as he would give any town.
“Oh, indeed-pleasant enough, barring summer,” Gromyko said. “And with air conditioning, even that is a smaller problem than it would have been twenty years ago.” Almost silently, the car pulled to a stop. The foreign commissar pointed. “There is Stassen-President Stassen, now-speaking with General Dornberger.”
“Thank you for pointing him out,” Molotov answered. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have recognized him.” Like Dornberger, Stassen was bald. But the American was a younger man-probably still on the sunny side of sixty-and looked to have been formed in a softer school. He might not have had any trouble in his life from the end of the first round of fighting to Earl Warren’s suicide. Well, he would have troubles now.
The driver opened the door to let out the Russian leaders. “Shall I introduce you?” Gromyko asked. “I speak enough English for that.”
His English was actually quite good, though he preferred not to show it off. Molotov nodded. “If you would. I have never met Dornberger, either. Does he speak English?”
“I don’t know,” Gromyko said. “I’ve never had to deal with him. But we can find out.”
He and Molotov approached the American and German leaders. Stassen turned away from Dornberger and toward them. He spoke in English. “Purely conventional,” Gromyko said. “He thanks you for your presence and says it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Tell him the same,” Molotov answered. “Express my condolences and the condolences of the Soviet people.” As Gromyko spoke in English, Molotov extended his hand. The new president of the United States shook it. His grip, firm but brief, said nothing about him save that he’d shaken a lot of hands before.
Stassen spoke in English. Gromyko translated again: “He hopes we can live in peace among ourselves and with the Race. He says staying strong will help in this.”
“Good. He is not altogether a fool, then,” Molotov said. “Translate that last into something friendly and agreeable.”
As the foreign commissar did so, the new German Fuhrer came up and waited to be noticed. He was a poor man waiting for rich men to deign to see him: not a familiar position for a German leader these past ninety-five years. When Dornberger spoke, it was in English. “He says he is pleased to meet you,” Gromyko reported.
“Tell him the same.” Molotov shook hands with the Germans, too. “Tell him I am happier to meet him now that the Reich no longer has missiles aimed at the USSR.”
Through Gromyko, Dornberger replied, “We had those, yes, but we had more aimed at the Race.”
“Much good they did you,” Molotov said. After the Reich’s misfortunes, he didn’t have to worry so much about diplomacy.
Dornberger shrugged. “I did not make the war. All I did was fight it as well as I could once the people set above me made it. When no people set above me were left alive, I ended it as fast as I could.”
“That was wise. Not starting it would have been wiser.” Molotov wished more Russian generals showed the disinclination of their German counterparts to meddle in politics. Zhukov came close. But even Zhukov, though he didn’t want the title, wanted at least some of the power that went with it.
“Now I have to pick up the pieces and gather my nation’s strength as best I can,” Dornberger said. “Maybe the Soviet Union can help there, as it did after the First World War.”
“Maybe,” Molotov said. “I can offer no promises, even if the idea is worth exploring. The Race has espionage far better than the Entente powers did after that war.” He turned away from the German Fuhrer, who no longer led a great power, and back to the American president, who still did. “President Stassen, I want to be sure you understand how brave President Warren was not to leave you at the mercy of the Lizards for the sake of a temporary political advantage.”
“I do,” Stassen replied. “I also understand that he has left me at the mercy of the Democrats because he gave the Lizards Indianapolis. I do not expect to be reelected in 1968.” He smiled. “Just for the moment, and just a little, I envy your system.”
Had he thought of it, Molotov would have envied the American tradition of peaceful succession when Beria mounted his coup against him. He would not have admitted that no matter what. Before he could say anything at all, an American started calling to the assembled dignitaries. “Their protocol officer,” Gromyko said. “He is telling us how to line up.”
The ceremony was not so grand as it would have been in the Soviet Union-as it had been when Stalin died-but it had a spare impressiveness of its own. Six white horses drew the wagon on which lay the flag-draped casket that held Earl Warren’s remains. Behind it, a nice touch, a soldier led a riderless black horse with empty boots reversed in the stirrups.
President Warren’s widow, his children, and their spouses and children walked behind the horse. Then came the new U.S. president and his family, and then the assembled foreign dignitaries, with Molotov in the first rank. Behind them marched military bands and units from the American armed forces, some on foot, some mounted.
At a slow march, the procession went east on Capitol Street-Embassy Row-for more than a mile, then turned south toward a barge church. Molotov cared little for any of that, except when his feet began to hurt. He took sardonic pleasure in the certainty that Walter Dornberger, who wore Nazi jackboots, was suffering worse than he.
What really interested him were the people who crowded the sidewalks to watch the coffin as it rolled by. Some were silent and respectful. Others called out, as they would not have done in the USSR. Gromyko murmured in Molotov’s ear: “Some of them say he should have hit the Lizards harder. Others curse him for striking them at all.”
“Someone will take the names of those people.” Molotov spoke with great certainty. The United States might boast of the freedom of speech it granted its citizens. When they criticized the government, though, he was convinced they would be fair game.
He endured a religious service in a language he did not understand. Gromyko didn’t bother translating. Molotov knew what the preacher would be saying: Warren had been important and was dead. One day, Party functionaries would say the same of Molotov. Not soon, he hoped.