Jagerman sighed, regretting again the web of circumstances that had brought him into this room. “First of all, Mr. President, you must neither threaten him nor give in. But plant in his mind the idea that what he wants is not totally impossible.”
“Even though it in fact is?”
“Ja, ja.” The Dutchman underlined his words with two abrupt inclinations of his head. “We must deceive him into thinking that he can succeed.” Jagerman caressed the skin of his mole with his fingertips, almost as if he were touching a talisman. “Try to avoid direct confrontation, because that will only reinforce his negative attitudes. From his first few words, he seems quite composed and in command of his emotions. Contrary to what you might think, that’s good. It’s weak, insecure people who frighten easily that are dangerous. They’re apt to lash out at you at the slightest provocation.”
There was a slight pause while the psychiatrist marshaled the last of his thoughts. “Tactically, sir, I would try to persuade him to accept the dialogue with Mr. Eastman. Tell him that that way you yourself will be free to concentrate all your time and energy on resolving the problems he has raised in his letter. It’s really very, very important that we lure him into that ongoing dialogue.”
The President folded his hands on the desk, composing his thoughts, preparing himself for the ordeal ahead. He took a breath that swelled the frame of his thoracic cage until his blue shirt went taut, then let it out in one long, weary burst. “All right, Jack,” he said. “I’m ready.”
As the President leaned to the white squawk box, a flush of pink seeped above the ridge line of his collar like water spreading over a blotter. It was a manifestation of his hidden anger; his anger at the humiliation he felt having to act out this comedy; his anger as the proud leader of the most powerful nation on earth at being forced to humble himself before a man who would kill, six million of his fellows.
“Colonel Qaddafi,” he began as soon as the Libyan leader was back on the line, “this is the President of the United States. The message which you addressed to my government yesterday has been the object of a close and detailed study by my principal advisers and myself. We are still in the midst of that process. However, you must have no doubt, sir, that both I and my government condemn the action you have taken. No matter how strongly you feel about the issues that divide us in the Middle East or the injustices that have been inflicted on the Arab people of Palestine, your attempt to resolve the problem by threatening the lives of six million innocent Americans in New York City is a totally irresponsible and deplora-ble action.”
The President’s blunt words sent concern sluicing over the faces of the psychiatrists. Tamarkin grabbed a silk foulard from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed at the sweat glistening on his temples. Jagerman sat stiffly upright, his head cocked slightly backward as though he was already waiting to hear the distant rumble of the Apocalypse. The Chief Executive ignored them. He jabbed his finger at the State Department’s Arabist.
“Translate that. And don’t you damn well modify my tone by so much as one iota.”
The President leaned forward as the translator’s last phrase ended, determined to resume speaking before Qaddafi could break in with a reply.
“You are a soldier, Mr. Qaddafi, and as a soldier you know that I have, at my fingertips, the power to destroy, instantly, every living creature in your nation. I want you to understand that I shall not hesitate to use that power, whatever the consequences may be, if you force me to do so.”
Eastman smiled in silent approval. He hasn’t listened to a damned thing the psychiatrists had to say, he thought.
“Most men in my position, sir, would have used that power to destroy you the minute they read your letter. I did not because it is my ardent desire to find a peaceful solution to this problem. To find it together with you and your help. As you are perhaps aware, I have never, during my Presidential campaign and since my inauguration, ceased to proclaim my conviction that there can be no durable resolution to the problem of the Middle East which does not take into account the legitimate aspirations of the Palestinian people. But you must not forget, sir, that the attainment of the objectives you set forth in your letter does not depend on my government alone. That is why I would like to suggest to you that my close counselor, Mr. Eastman, remain in permanent contact with you as a link between us while I negotiate with Jerusalem.”
Drained, emotionally, by his effort, the President slumped back in his chair. “How’d we do?” he asked Eastman, tugging at his sweat-dampened shirt collar as the translator started to work.
“Terrific!” his adviser replied. “A-okay.”
A few minutes later, the Libyan’s answering voice poured forth from the squawk box. Its tone seemed slight, almost as though the dictator was subconsciously trying to apologize for intruding on the White House gathering. There was nothing apologetic, however, about the words Qaddafi employed.
“Mr. President, I have not called you to discuss my letter. Its terms are very clear. They require no discussion or amplification on my part-only action on your part. I have no intention of entering into a discussion with you now or in the future.”
Qaddafi paused to allow the State Department expert to interpret his words.
Jagerman and Tamarkin gave each other quick glances of professional concern.
“Mr. President,” the Libyan continued. “The sole reason for my communication is to warn you that we have discovered on our radar screens and radio channels the presence of your Sixth Fleet menacing our shores. I will not be intimidated by your martial posturing, Mr. President. I will not be threatened.”
“That arrogant son of a bitch!” The voice, skirting lotto voce under the interpreter’s words, belonged to Delbert Crandell, the Secretary of Energy.
“He thinks he’s being threatened?”
“Those ships are now twenty kilometers off my coastline. I want them withdrawn immediately to a distance of at least one hundred kilometers from my shores, Mr. President. If they are not, I shall reduce the time in the ultimatum I gave you by five hours, from twenty-one hundred GMT tomorrow to sixteen hundred GMT.”
The President shook his head, stupefied by the boldness of the man. Handing out ultimatums seemed to come easily to him.
“Mr. Qaddafi, in view of the threat you yourself have already posed to the citizens of New York City, I find your request not only extravagant but wholly unexpected. However, because of my very real desire to find, with you, a peaceful solution to this crisis, I am prepared to discuss it immediately with my advisers and convey to you our decision in a few minutes’ time.”
The Chief Executive gave an angry, accusatory regard iro the men around hm.
“None of your well-thought-out game plans predicted this, gentlemen,” he noted acidly. “How the hell do we handle it?” He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Harry, what do you recommend?”
“I’m very much opposed to pulling those ships back, Mr. President,” Admiral Fuller replied. “The whole purpose of this exercise was to provide him with a highly visible reminder of what the consequences of setting that bomb off are going to be. Very clearly we’ve succeeded. Take those ships away and their absence just might make it easier for him to set the bomb off if it comes to it.”
“Caspar?”
“I concur,” the Secretary of Defense answered.
“Alex?”
The Secretary of State, recalled from Latin America, twisted a ballpoint pen in his fingers, subconsciously playing for a few seconds to run the alternatives past the screen of his brain one more time. “Military considerations aside, I think that with a man of his reputation it would be a fatal mistake to open a negotiation with a concession like this. I’m convinced it’ll tend to make him wholly intractable farther down the line. I say refuse.”