“Heron?” the President echoed, looking back at Keating. “Phil, I recall we monitored the testing of that system in the mid-seventies. Right?”
“That’s correct, sir,” Keating replied smartly. “Soviets never deployed it.”
“As best we can determine,” Pomerantz corrected sharply, enunciating each word, and neatly tacking the phrase onto Keating’s reply. Then she turned to the President and, softening her tone, said, “That’s a quote from the NATO Report, Mr. President. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s not the kind of wording that inspires confidence.”
Hilliard burned Keating with a look. “Is that what it says, Phil?” he asked through clenched teeth.
They were moving into the dining hall now.
The President laid back to enter alone. “We’ll talk,” he barked before Keating could reply.
Keating nodded. He leveled an apprehensive look at Pomerantz as they separated, and went about mixing with the other representatives in the dining hall.
The President paused and, with effort, transformed his pained expression into an ebullient smile and entered to spontaneous applause.
Chapter Ten
The swell had rolled hundreds of miles across the Gulf before it slapped against the starboard pontoon of Churcher’s helicopter. The unoccupied craft rode the crest, settling onto the flat catenary of sea beyond.
Two hundred feet beneath the surface, the prow of the Soviet submarine cut through the black water.
The interior of the Foxtrot always reminded Churcher of Moscow before the snows — cold, gray, and depressing. Portfolio in hand, he was waiting in the wardroom with Gorodin and Beyalev when the door in the bulkhead swung open and Deschin’s bodyguard entered.
Uzykin had the head of an eagle. The tip of his broad nose descended almost to the centerline of his lips. He surveyed the compartment and, satisfied all was in order, motioned Deschin inside.
Deschin wore a dark blue suit, square shaped and buttoned over a slight bulge in his waistline, white shirt, and subdued striped tie.
He had put on a few, thought Churcher, but the hollows below his cheeks were still there.
Four medals — Hero of the Soviet Union, the Order of Victory, Marshall of the Soviet Union, and Order of Lenin — hung above Deschin’s breast pocket.
He smiled at Churcher and extended a hand. “Ah Theo,” he rumbled in his heavily accented English. “You’ll forgive an old friend for keeping you waiting?”
Churcher’s eyes twinkled, as they always did when he held the cards. He shook Deschin’s hand firmly, causing the medals to dance.
“Please, Aleksei, no need to apologize,” he replied, pushing the left lapel of his suit jacket forward with his thumb. “See, you outrank me.”
Deschin leaned forward, squinting to see the tiny emblem pinned in the notch. He knew that the gold and enameled insignia meant Churcher had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his heroic piloting of gliders during World War II. “By a margin of four to one!” he roared heartily.
As the soviet minister settled, Churcher unzipped the portfolio, removed the painting, and placed it on the table in front of Deschin.
In the cramped, somber compartment, the impact of the vibrant colors and powerful structure of the canvas was overwhelming — as Churcher knew it would be. For a moment, the four Russians stood blinking and stunned.
Churcher set the portfolio aside, and gestured magnanimously to Deschin. “You have the floor, Aleksei,” he said. “I’m quite certain as minister of culture you can explain this.”
Deschin took a long moment to think it through, deciding to force Churcher to keep the ball. “We have assembled at your request, The-odor — and at great inconvenience. The first explanation should be yours.” He paused locking his anthracite pupils onto Churcher’s and added pointedly, “My government doesn’t take kindly to being threatened.”
“I assume you’re referring to my conversation with your people in Washington?” Churcher asked rhetorically. Then nodding compassionately, added, “I can see how it would be upsetting coming so close to the talks.”
“I’d say your timing was particularly unnerving,” Deschin snapped. “Yes.”
“You mean, your people aren’t going to put all their missiles on the table?” Churcher asked facetiously.
“Nuclear disarmament isn’t my area,” Deschin bluffed. “I’m not privy to the strategy, nor will I speculate what they—”
“Then allow me,” Churcher interrupted. “Sometime last night, you got a call from — Kaparov? Pykonen? Whoever. And he said, ‘What the fuck is going on here, Aleksei? I thought we owned this guy? If Churcher does as he’s threatening, we’ll lose our edge. The very thing that has prompted us to go to Geneva; that will allow us to trade system for system, missile for missile, warhead for warhead, and still come out ahead will be kaputnick!’ ”
Churcher let it sink in for a few seconds.
“How am I doing?” he asked almost mischievously.
“Very well, I’m afraid,” Deschin replied.
“Right,” Churcher snapped. “The bottom line is—the United States representative can’t ask to negotiate for something he doesn’t know exists.”
He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture.
“So, here we are,” he concluded. “My apologies for my tactics, my friend; but had I not used that leverage, Aleksei, would you be here now?” Churcher didn’t expect an answer. He matched Deschin’s contemptuous glare with one of his own, and continued. “Now I don’t take kindly to being taken,” he said, stabbing the painting with a forefinger. “The currency used to make your last payment and, as best I can determine, to make most of the others over the years" — he paused to emphasize the scope and premeditated nature of the deception—"is counterfeit. All brilliant works, no doubt of that. Works of genius. But, nonetheless, fakes, forgeries.”
Deschin stared at Churcher blankly.
“Come on, Aleksei,” Churcher prodded. “You don’t expect me to believe you didn’t know?”
Churcher had him and knew it. Many times in his forty years of dealing at the top, his adversaries tried to put things over on him. A few had succeeded; but sooner or later, he found them out.
Deschin pulled a cigarette from a pack.
Uzykin stepped forward and lit it.
Deschin inhaled deeply, his mind searching for a way to avert this disaster. Finally, he exhaled, and more than credibly, replied. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Theodor. I vouch for their authenticity myself.”
Churcher shook his head no emphatically. “There’s no disputing that this one’s a fake,” he challenged.
Deschin wondered how Churcher could be so positive. His face darkened at the possibility that crossed his mind. He decided to be direct because he had to know. “You didn’t go to someone?” he asked, uneasily. “You didn’t have it authenticated by a professional?”
Churcher scowled, insulted by the suggestion. “Of course not,” he replied, his drawl thickening as it always did when he lost patience. “We’ve both known that’d never be possible. And the whole world knows your people have these paintings under lock and key, and won’t sell any of ’em. How could I take one to an expert? Where would I say I got it? You took advantage of that, Aleksei. Took advantage of me.”
Deschin was relieved by the answer, but didn’t let it show. “Then what makes you so sure?”
“That,” Churcher replied, placing the nail of his forefinger beneath the telltale area of crimson pigment. “Right there,” he went on. “The Dutchman would’ve never done that. He wasn’t a fusser. Never would’ve touched it up like that.”