“That was Phil,” he said. “The Russians are—different this time. They’re not rigid anymore, not frightened. They put it all on the table first crack out of the box. Phil thinks they’re up to something.”
“That’s a given, sir.”
“What do you have for me?”
“An intriguing anomaly, sir,” Boulton replied, handing him copies of the ASW data. “Vessel in question — tanker. Cargo, one hundred twenty-five thousand tons of crude. Documents analysis reveals a one-thousand-ton discrepancy between rated and delivered tonnage,” Boulton replied in his cryptographic syntax.
“Which means—” Hilliard pressed, sorting through the pages of data.
“Various scenarios that invite scrutiny arise,” Boulton replied, finishing the President’s sentence. “Conclusion due to unwavering consistency of discrepancy. Precisely one thousand tons each time.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat on the edge of the President’s desk. “Consider, Mr. President,” the DCI went on more conversationally, “That when the Kira was reoutfitted, a one thousand-ton-sized compartment was carved out of her hold — a compartment for ‘cargo’ other than oil, so to speak.”
“Jake,” the President said a little impatiently, “are you telling me that Herons are deployed in that tub? That a hundred-fifty miles off our shores, there’s a tanker loaded with nukes on a Caribbean cruise?”
“No, sir. Theory considered and dismissed,” replied Boulton, reverting to his staccato delivery. He stood and, with a flick of a thumb and forefinger, rebuttoned his suit jacket. “DDI calculates said compartment could provide only marginal deployment capability, that is, one Heron and attendant support.”
“Hell,” the President said. “The Russians didn’t go to the trouble of reoutfitting a tanker just to deploy one missile.”
“Agreed.”
Hilliard’s face clouded over at the thought that occurred to him. “Christ, Jake — what are the chances we’re looking at a fleet of ’em?”
“Negative. Scenario dictates a missile-to-launch-crew ratio of one-to-one. Submarine deployment is twenty-five-to-one. Limited supply of qualified technical personnel eliminates the option.”
“Yes, the Kremlin’s worse off than we are. And they’re not competing with a private sector that triples the pay in the military. They can’t afford to take crews from subs carrying twenty-five birds and assign ’em to tankers with one. I agree.”
Hilliard flicked a glance to the slide projector Boulton’s aide had set up. “What’s the feature presentation?”
Boulton nodded to the aide who dimmed the overhead lights, and flipped on the projector.
A glowing chart of Gulf and Caribbean waters appeared on the wall opposite the President. The landmasses of Cuba, Central America, and the Gulf coast of the United States were delineated.
Boulton took a pointer from his pocket, telescoped it open, and traced a big triangle on the projection as he spoke. “VLCC Kira runs a triangular circuit, sir. Havana, Gulf, Puerto Sandino, and back. Pick up crew, take on crude, pump off crude, ad infinitum.”
“Sounds like maybe we’re looking at a missile delivery truck,” the President ventured.
“Indeed, a prime scenario, sir. Moscow ships hardware to Cuba. Kira picks up and, under legitimate cover, delivers to Soviet missile base in Nicaragua, but—” Boulton advanced the slide, and a satellite surveillance photograph of Nicaragua replaced the map —“analysis of KH-11 reconnaissance indicates”— Boulton zoomed in to the distinctive geometry of a baseball field; long shadows of personnel in strategic positions indicated a game was in progress —“that said scenario is negated.”
“Because of a baseball diamond?” asked the President somewhat incredulously.
“Yes, sir,” Boulton replied smartly. “The import here is — Russians play soccer. Baseball is a Cuban game.”
“Pardon me?” Hilliard said, offended by the DCI’s Cubanization of the national pastime. The President grew up in Chicago, and spent as much time at Wrigley Field as he had at the U. of C. Law School. Ernie Banks was his hero, and it still irked him that the guy who hit five grand slams in one season, led the league in home runs and RBIs four times, and was voted MVP two seasons running had never played in a World Series. “Let me tell you, Jake,” he went on, “if this means that Abner Doubleday really grew up in Havana, I’m going to be real upset.”
“I’ll put someone right on it, sir,” Boulton said deadpan.
The President laughed.
Boulton nodded to his aide, who flicked off the projector and brought up the room lights.
“So what you’re telling me,” the President concluded, “is that baseball means we have a Cuban, rather than a Soviet, presence in Nicaragua.”
“Correct, sir.”
“And the soccer team would never turn its nuclear hardware over to the baseball team.”
“Correct again.”
“Okay — back to the Kira. False alarm, pack of trouble, what?”
“Trouble — situation demands that conclusion.”
“Until we verify one way or the other.”
“Exactly.”
“How?”
“Visual inspection.”
“Board her?”
“Affirmative. It would require a finding, sir.”
The President nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, I’ll sign it. But we can’t get caught, Jake,” he warned. “No gaffs. I don’t want people telling the truth when they should be lying. Not now.”
“Not ever, sir,” Boulton replied grimly.
The President drifted off for a moment, then tightened his lips and caught Boulton’s eye. “If we’re right, Jake. If the Soviet’s have Herons deployed out there somewhere, that means they wouldn’t break-even in Geneva — they’d win. What would result?”
“World domination; unreasonable demands — without option,” Boulton replied, angered by the idea. “Consider bilateral disarmament in place — a year, two, three—then imbalance is insidiously revealed,” he paused unexpectedly, and broke into a curious smile.
The President stared at him, baffled as to why.
“Consider, sir,” Boulton went on, delighted by his vision, “consider the import if positions were reversed.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hilliard said, sharing it. “We would have them out of eastern Europe so fast it’d make their heads spin.” He paused, then added, “For openers.”
“Affirmative,” Boulton said, the smile gone now.
The President nodded, decision made. “Go to it.”
Boulton and his aide packed up and left.
The President pressed a button on his console. “Cathleen? Get me Phil, will you?”
The U.S.S. Marathon, a Navy patrol gunboat, sliced through the icy waters of Lake Geneva, pulling streaks of red and green light through the darkness behind it. The swift vessel, armed with ordnance and electronic surveillance gear, was assigned to provide offshore security for the U.S. disarmament contingent housed at Maison de Saussure.
After making his report to the President, Keating had joined Gisela Pomerantz in one of the mansion’s private dining rooms. Lights on the opposite shore twinkled through the mist. The silver and crystal between them shimmered in candlelight, adding to the romantic aura.
Pomerantz raised her glass in a toast. “To two-act plays,” she said, gazing alluringly over the goblet at Keating.
He smiled knowingly at the reference, and touched his glass to hers. “To two-act plays,” he said, thinking the years had given her a radiance that made her all the more attractive to him. Then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “You know, I think that might come in handy during tomorrow’s session.”