“I know,” Hilliard said. “It’s been giving Minister Borsa grief since the day he approved it.”
“He’s been up against more than protestors lately.”
The President nodded knowingly. “I saw the antiterrorist memorandum. Far as I’m concerned, NATO can’t tighten the security screws enough. Anything else?”
“Well, the Belgians have been breathing easy since we’ve postponed. But they’re still terrified the talks’ll fail, and they’ll be forced to deploy. Ditto for the Norwegians, and Dutch who are both—”
“Pisses me off!” Hilliard exploded. “All these years, these damn heads of state have failed to sell the need for deployment to their people; the very people who put ’em in office to protect ’em! If we hadn’t been deploying all this time, where the hell would they be now?! I’ll tell you where — looking at a stockpile of Russian SS-20s planted throughout Eastern Europe with nothing in the West to force the Soviets to the table. No deterrent — no disarmament. Why is that so hard to understand?”
Keating shrugged.
The President shook his head from side to side despairingly and took a moment to settle himself. “Any problems?”
“A little wrinkle with the Swedes.”
“Oh?” Hilliard wondered, smoothing his beard.
“Seems they broke some KGB people who infiltrated their peace movement,” Keating responded. “Organizing rallies, pumping in money, the usual agit-prop stuff. The Swedish government wanted to declare ’em persona non grata, and boot ’em. But we convinced them this is not the time to embarrass Moscow.”
“Good going. Can’t say I blame them. They’ve had it with Russian subs plying their waters. What else?”
“Nicholson’s been kicking up a little dust. Nothing major.”
“Nicholson?” Hilliard responded, surprised. “Christ, sixty, sixty-five percent of his suggestions ended up in our disarmament package. Find me another former chief negotiator who’s had that kind of input in a succeeding administration. What’s his beef?” the President asked, feeling slighted.
“His book,” Keating replied, smiling.
“His book?”
Keating nodded. “I told him I’d mention it to you. Seems it was about to go to press and Boulton’s censors deleted half of it.” Keating let the sentence hang, heightening the President’s curiosity, then added, “For reasons of national security.”
Hilliard broke up with laughter. “Half of it?” he asked thoroughly amused.
Keating nodded again, and smiled.
“Those two have been banana peeling each other’s paths since Nixon was a choirboy,” Hilliard chortled. “Their battles on the golf course alone are—”
The intercom buzzed, interrupting him. He chuckled to himself and scooped up the phone.
“Yes? — Send him right in, Cathleen. Thanks.” Hilliard hung up, and said, “Jake.”
The door to the Oval Office swung open, and Jake Boulton, DCI, popped through it.
“Mr. President. Phil,” he said rapid-fire.
“Thanks for coming by, Jake,” Hilliard said. “What can you tell me about this damned Heron?”
“The SS-16A,” Boulton said crisply.
“Whatever the hell the numbers are,” the President said impatiently. “The one they supposedly tested and scrapped.”
“Right,” Boulton said, “the SS-16A. NATO code name Heron after the ornithological species of waterfowl. Initially developed for submarine launch. Design goal — solve chronic, unacceptable guidance system performance.” The data came from Boulton in clipped, high-pitched bursts.
“What was its problem?” Hilliard asked.
“Best we can determine—” Boulton began.
Hilliard and Keating exchanged glances.
“—the Heron took its namesake too seriously,” Boulton went on. “The bird is a patient, tenacious hunter. It waits unmoving for hours, locks onto prey the instant it appears, and — whammo — the target never gets away.”
“And the missile?” the President prodded.
“No powers of discretion,” Boulton replied. “It locked onto everything and anything. Tendency acutely manifested over water where distracting targets are isolated and clearly defined. Ships, rowboats, buoys, metallic debris, a floating beer can, in one instance, even a fellow missile, and whammo!” He made a diving motion with his hand. “Problem magnified as range increased.”
“So it was never deployed, right?” Hilliard asked.
“Right. NIE confirms,” Boulton replied smartly.
“Is that an — absolutely right? Or an — as best we can determine right?” the President jibed.
This stopped Boulton. He hesitated briefly, feeling suddenly unprepared. “The second, sir,” he replied with diminished fervor, anticipating the President’s reaction.
“Well, what the hell does that mean, Jake?” Hilliard pressed. “That we have doubts? I mean, how the hell can we start horse-trading with the Russians in Geneva next week if we aren’t positive we know about every system they’ve deployed?”
The President got up out of his chair, almost charged out of it.
“The concept of negotiating is based on total, total knowledge of the other side’s arsenal, dammit!” he continued heatedly. “YOU know that, Jake! Geezus, I’ve got Phil here massaging the hell out of the NATO people, convincing them we’re on solid ground; and before he even gets into it, the Germans drop the Heron right in our laps!”
“Fortunately,” Keating interjected, “it was handled privately, and Pomerantz has agreed to keep it that way until we can get a fix on the facts.”
“But if we can’t, Jake,” the President said, still charged up, “and she drops that tidbit on the other NATO representatives—” he let the sentence trail off, emphasizing the gravity of the situation. “And who would blame her?” he added. Then lowering his voice but maintaining his intensity, he said, “There’s no way we can back out of the talks now. None. Not after pushing so hard for them. Even a stall would be unacceptable. It’s tightrope time — no matter which way we fall we get screwed.”
He moved around the desk, and approached Boulton.
“I want this, Jake. I want it badly,” the President said with obsessive fervor.
“Yes, sir. I know,” Boulton replied contritely.
“Good,” Hilliard said. “Now, these talks are going to go on for months. Use the time. Juice your people. Fine tune your antenna. Wind up a couple of dozen more spooks and turn ’em loose. The Heron may be a dead duck, but — as best we can determine, just doesn’t cut it. I want to close the loop on this, Jake. Top of the shopping list!”
“Our prime KIQ, Mr. President,” Boulton said, smarting, but knowing Hilliard was right. This was a key intelligence requirement if ever there was one.
He did a crisp about-face and headed for the door.
“Jake?” Hilliard called out.
Boulton stopped on a dime and turned. “Sir?”
“Do me a favor, Jake,” the President said. “Ask your boys to back off Nicholson, will you?”
“Nicholson?” Boulton broke into a boyishly innocent smile. “I’m not aware of a problem there.”
“Glad to hear it,” the President said. He knew Boulton’s answer was his way of indicating he’d take care of it, without admitting it was necessary.
Boulton exited the Oval Office thinking about the round of golf he and Theodor Churcher had played at Eagle Rock a few months earlier. The solid thwack of driver against ball blasted thoughts of The Heron, and Nicholson, from his mind as he pictured his old friend’s perfect swing that the DCI had long envied.