Blake didn’t hesitate to answer the question. “In the first place, sir, should the Russians ever even hint that we had anything to do with eliminating Fedotov, most of the entire civilized world would simply stand up and applaud. If we are successful in stopping a nuclear war, then who could argue that the means didn’t justify the end? But, should the Russian government insist on taking it further, should it ever appear that the Presidency or our nation is implicated in any way, then we simply tell them the truth. It was a Ukrainian operation. Flown by two Ukrainian agents. They stole our weapon. They precipitated the whole attack. We wash our hands of the whole operation. It will be as simple as that.”
“Deny any foreknowledge of what happened?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. We have absolute deniability. It’s the most beautiful part of this plan.”
“And what about our man, Richard Ammon?” the President asked in the softest voice he had used during their entire conversation.
Blake shifted around in his seat. “Sir, I know what you’re asking,” he answered. “And we have considered how best we can help him. We can divert a few of the fighters. Send them north when they need to go south. And we can thin out the Naval defenders as he makes his way across the Mediterranean Sea.
“But the hard truth is, there isn’t a lot we can do. By and large, we have to let the thing play itself out. We can’t just hand them a bomber with its nuclear missiles, then send them merrily on their way, while we dear a path for them to go and bomb Russia. And to help him out, in even a small way, would take a great deal of planning and coordination. It would involve far too many people. And we have to be very discreet. Very, very discreet. No one must ever know what we’ve done.”
“Besides,” Coy broke in, “it would be highly illegal. As we have already discussed.”
Allen glanced at Coy with a look of contempt.
Blake saw the look on the president’s face. “In addition, sir,” he quickly continued. “If we made things too easy, Ivan Morozov would become suspicious.”
President Allen turned away from Coy and pulled at his chin. A smoldering fire began to burn in his eyes. “And does Ammon realize we won’t be there to help him? Does he understand he will be on his own?”
“Sir, to my knowledge, it has never been discussed. But it is something he would have to understand. He is a soldier. There are certain things we don’t have to tell him. There are certain things that he knows on his own.”
“And what about Morozov? Do you think he will go along with the plan?”
“No, sir, he won’t,” Blake said matter-of-factly. “While killing Fedotov would be a good thing to him, we fear it would not be enough. For one thing, it leaves the Russian military completely unharmed. And the Ukrainians are determined that they be destroyed, especially their nuclear weapons. The only way to do that would be to carry out their plan and instigate a major U.S./Russian confrontation. In addition — and this may be the most important — it would appear that Morozov is seeking revenge. Revenge upon Fedotov. Revenge upon the whole nation! He will settle for nothing less.”
“So where does that leave us, then,” Allen wondered, “if Morozov won’t go along with our plan?”
“Sir, the thing is, he doesn’t have to know. The physician out in Kansas has assured us that he won’t remember a thing about being taken captive. As far as Ivan Morozov is concerned, he will awake in the morning, thinking everything is on track and going according to schedule. And it won’t be until they are just beginning to cross the Russian border that he finds out. Then, Ammon fires the missile, and it’s over. There will be nothing Morozov can do.”
The President settled back, closed his eyes and raised his hand to silence them both. Coy remained cocked and loaded on the edge of his seat. Blake glanced around the room and loosened his tie. The Oval Office was always too hot. As they had talked, he couldn’t help but think back on President Nixon and his White House full of bugs. He prayed that Allen would never be so foolish. Nor any President ever again.
“Okay, then,” Allen said after a while. “Let me think about it. Something like this is going to take some time.”
Allen started to push himself back from his desk, a signal to his men that the meeting was over. But before he could stand up, Milton Blake interrupted.
“Sir. Actually, that’s not quite true.” The President looked down with a scowl. Blake glanced over to Coy and then continued.
“We need an answer, sir. This afternoon. Really, right now. For if we don’t move within the next few minutes, if we don’t begin to make our preparations, we will ruin our cover.” Blake thought of what Morozov had told them. Tuesday. 1415 Zulu time, 0915 D.C. time, 0815 local time in Wichita. He glanced at his watch. Less than sixteen hours to prepare.
“Sir, I apologize,” he continued. “You know how I feel about bringing this to you with such short notice. But we really have no choice, sir. It’s something that came up really just a few hours ago. And unfortunately, it’s either now, or we come up with some other plan, for by nine fifteen tomorrow morning, if we don’t act, the whole option will just go away.”
The President swore and sat back in his scat. “Okay,” he said, “tell me once again. Complete deniability? Right? No threat of exposure? Right? Fedotov will not have any warning? He’ll have no chance to respond?”
“Sir,” Milton Blake was quick to reply. “I promise you, he’ll never see anything coming. One second, he’s there. The next second, he’s gone. Without any notice or warning. We strike like a bolt from the blue.”
Fullbright walked quickly into the room. Ammon and Tray raised their eyes from their charts and their pencils. “It’s a go! Everything is falling in place!”
Ammon nodded his head as his stomach tightened up. Tiny drops of sweat began to trickle down his ribs. He turned away from Tray and stared off into space. So that was it. He was on his way. But he wasn’t surprised. What other choice did they have? He knew it would go all along.
“The CIA has a few of their very best people working on the matter,” Fullbright continued. “They are also sending out the materials that you asked for. We should have it in less than an hour.”
Neither Ammon nor Tray replied. Turning to their charts, they went back to work. They still had an enormous amount of planning to do. Tray picked up the laptop computer and silently tapped in the next coordinates of the flight plan.
Three hours later, they were on their way back to the motel. It was dark. Morozov was slumped over in the back of the van. He wouldn’t wake up until morning. And when he did, he wouldn’t remember a thing. Not so much as a whisper in the back of his mind. Beside him was his friend from the diner. He too had been laced with enough drugs to guarantee that he slept through the night.
Oliver Tray rolled among the light traffic, switching lanes to pass a small trailer. As he drove off the freeway and down their exit ramp, he turned to Ammon and said, “It’s going to work, Richard. I really believe that it will.”
Ammon stared ahead in the darkness. The success of the mission was not his only concern. After several minutes, he quietly asked Tray, “Have you ever killed a man, Oliver?”
Oliver winced. Of course, the answer was no.
Ammon waited, then nodded his head. “Neither have I. Never thought of myself as an assassin.”
Oliver didn’t respond. There was no time now for moral discussions. They both knew what they had to do. And to him, it wasn’t even an issue. Killing Fedotov to avert nuclear war? He’d pull the trigger in less than a heartbeat. Never think twice. It wasn’t even gray. It was straight black and white.