He asked, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“A new alliance among nations. An alliance based on four firm principles: free trade, free enterprise, free markets, and free governments. An alliance that isn’t limited to a single continent or a single ocean.” The President laughed self-consciously. “Not much to ask, is it?” He turned serious. “It’s the only real way I know to promote peace, Ross. Prosperous democracies don’t make war on one another. All the treaties and solemn pledges in the world don’t mean anything unless they’re backed by goodwill and shared interests.”
Huntington nodded. “Building something like that won’t be easy.”
“Nope. It sure won’t,” the President agreed. “But since this is the third time we’ve picked up the pieces in Europe this century, the United States has a lot of moral authority and practical power right now. And I plan to use every last bit of it.” He glanced toward the phone on his desk. “I just finished talking with the British, and we’ve agreed to jointly sponsor talks in London beginning as soon as possible.”
“Who’s invited?”
The President smiled. “Since we plan to start small, just Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the United States for now. Eventually? Say in a few months? The whole world. It’ll take a hell of a lot of hard work and some fancy footwork — especially from whoever gets the unenviable task of shepherding the conference through to completion.” The President’s smile grew wider as it became clear that Huntington was his choice for the job.
Huntington felt the first flicker of alarm.
“So, what do you say, Ross? Have any other urgent plans? Golf? Tennis? A summer by the shore?”
He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “But… you can’t be serious, Mr. President. I’m not a statesman.”
“I’m perfectly serious,” the President said firmly. “You’re honest. You’re intelligent. You don’t put up with bullshit. And that’s exactly the kind of statesman the world needs right now.” He got up from behind his desk and laid a hand on Huntington’s shoulder. “You’ve served your country in the shadows long enough, Ross. It’s time to step out into the light.”
Feeling stiff and awkward in his new dress uniform, Zoltan Hradetsky stood among a host of other dignitaries on the tarmac — waiting impatiently while the British Airways jetliner from Paris taxied off the runway and turned toward them. The twin silver stars on each shoulder board that proclaimed him a major general seemed to weigh a ton apiece. Give me enough time, he thought, and I will become accustomed to them. The rank bothered him. The job that went with the stars did not.
As the new commander of Hungary’s National Police, Hradetsky was charged with reforming and reorganizing his country’s law enforcement organizations. It was a mission he’d been preparing for all his adult life. He was already seeking organizational and training aid from the American FBI and Britain’s CID. For once he could be sure of getting foreign advisors who would come bringing sound counsel, not seeking covert control.
The passenger jet rolled to a stop in front of the assembled crowds, and airport workers rushed a mobile staircase into place against its forward cabin door. When the door swung open, an army honor guard came to attention. Drums rolled softly as a band began playing the national anthem.
Hradetsky held his breath, waiting until Vladimir Kusin, tall and unbowed by his captivity, walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Hungary’s new President had come safely home.
Nicolas Desaix paced angrily back and forth through the darkness. He’d been penned up inside this special holding cell for days — held incommunicado while the newly formed Sixth Republic prepared to try him for crimes against the French people and against humanity. Aside from the prosecutors building the case against him, he’d been visited only by two doctors who had warned him against high blood pressure and prescribed medications that he’d immediately thrown back in their faces. He snorted in contempt. How absurd this false concern for his health was! Clearly the government only wanted to make sure he lived long enough to serve as a scapegoat.
He scowled. Perhaps Guichy had chosen the best path, after all. A bullet in the brain might be preferable to this prolonged mockery of justice.
Desaix shrugged the thought away. He would not surrender so tamely. The years he’d spent in the upper echelons of the intelligence service and the French government had given him access to many secrets — secrets that could prove highly embarrassing to a number of important officials. If bargaining failed, he could always use a public trial to drag others down with him. That, at least, would be a kind of pleasure.
A key rattled in his cell door. He turned in surprise. More visitors? This late?
The door flew open and three men crowded inside. Desaix recognized one of them, Philippe Gille, the head of the DGSE’s Action Service — its covert operations wing. The other two were mere thugs, the kind of petty criminals the Action Service often employed for deniable missions.
Desaix’s alarm turned to panic when he saw the surgical gloves on their hands. He opened his mouth, trying to scream. It was too late.
Something cold and sharp pricked his forearm. Pain flared in his chest, and he spiraled down into blackness and then oblivion.
Several hours later, an elderly police doctor rose awkwardly from beside the contorted body. He sighed, taking the stethoscope out of his ears.
“Well?” The chief prosecutor looked thoroughly irked. Desaix’s testimony would have been an invaluable aid in the new French government’s efforts to reform and reorder the various intelligence agencies. This death would complicate matters. Still, it showed that his probes were hitting nerves in certain, secretive quarters.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Prosecutor. It appears that the minister died sometime late last night of a massive heart attack. As I feared would happen.” The doctor, a short, thin white-haired man named Arnault, shrugged nervously. “It is a great pity.”
“I see. A very convenient heart attack for some, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?” The prosecutor studied him for another few moments, as though waiting for more. When the doctor stayed silent, his mouth tightened. He turned and signaled through the door. Two more men moved into the holding cell. Both carried medical bags of their own.
The prosecutor turned back to a now visibly worried Arnault. “I’m sure you understand that I must have my own experts verify your findings.” He glanced at the two waiting men. “Check for anything unusual. Needle marks, bruising, you know the sort of thing.”
They nodded somberly.
The police doctor began trembling slightly but noticeably. The DGSE men had promised him protection from this grim, implacable official. Now Arnault was beginning to suspect that the intelligence agents had overestimated their remaining authority and underestimated the determination of their new superiors to make a clean sweep. “On reflection, Monsieur Prosecutor, I must confess that I noticed certain things that are perhaps inconsistent with my earlier, preliminary diagnosis.”