Jake Grafton stood. “You’re going to have to name names. Lancaster is in his office right now playing the tape for Yeltsin. Put that in your story.”
Jack Yocke gnawed on a fingernail as he thought about it. Finally he said, “You want me to say how you got the information from Tenney?”
“You can do it like an interview, if you want. Don’t mention binary poisons. I think that little problem is going to solve itself. Just quote Herb. Don’t forget to mention that the interview was recorded and the president got a copy of the tape.”
“ ‘That little problem is going to solve itself.’ Goddamnit, Admiral, shit is shit! If we’re going to nail the Commies to the cross we ought to nail our own bastards up there with them.”
“Oh, we will, Jack. We will. But one set of bastards at a time.”
“Who authorized you to release this story? The president?”
“I authorized myself.”
Yocke couldn’t think of a reply, which infuriated him since he had known what Grafton’s answer would be before he asked the question.
“Wake me up in two hours,” the admiral said, “and let me read your story. I’m not much of a writer but maybe I can help you with the commas.”
And with that Jake Grafton stretched out on the couch. He turned so his back was to Yocke. In moments, as Jack Yocke stared, he was breathing deeply and regularly. By the time Yocke got his computer plugged in and running, Jake was snoring lightly.
22
Boris Yeltsin was a bear of a man, a burly, fleshy Russian with a bulbous, veined nose that one hoped did not indicate the condition of his liver. He shook Jake Grafton’s hand and waved toward a chair as he traded Russian with an aide who didn’t bother to translate. The interpreter who had led Jake into the room also remained silent.
The sun streamed between the drapes of the tall window on Yeltsin’s left. Blinking in the glare, Jake Grafton looked around curiously. It was a good room, a man’s room, tastefully decorated and heaped with piles of paper.
Yeltsin kept glancing at Grafton as he spoke. Finally one of the aides said, “President Yeltsin wishes to thank the American government for its help in this crisis.”
Jake Grafton nodded pleasantly and glanced at his watch. The first edition of the Post carrying Jack Yocke’s story was probably hitting the streets of Washington just about now. If the Post editors placed the story on the wires it was going to be on CNN and every other television and radio station in the Western world within an hour. Yeltsin’s phone should start ringing in very short order.
After Yocke sent the story to the Post in the wee hours this morning via modem, his editor, Mike Gatler, called back and questioned him for ten minutes. When Yocke was about to lose his temper, he passed the telephone to Jake Grafton, who told Gatler, “Yeah, I read the story. Every word’s true.”
“Saddam Hussein has two dozen nuclear weapons?”
“At least that.”
Gatler whistled. “Can this CIA source — what’s his name?—”
“Herb Tenney.”
“Yeah. Can Tenney be trusted?”
“I don’t know that I trust him, but I think he told the truth on this matter.”
“Can we quote you on that?”
“If you spell my name right.”
“Rear Admiral, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you and Yocke both saw the base where Hussein got the weapons? Weapons sold to him by the Russians?”
“Yes. Name of the place is Petrovsk. Yocke has it in the story. We went there in a helicopter.”
“This is a big story,” Gatler said.
“That’s what Jack said.”
“Put him back on, please.” Jake held out the telephone.
“This story just scratches the surface,” Gatler complained to Yocke.
“I know that, Mike. I’m getting all I can. I’ll send you more as soon as possible.”
“I want you to work with Tommy Townsend on this. Call him at his hotel.”
Yocke decided to call Townsend in the morning. He went to the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and was just stretching out on the floor with a pillow when Gatler called back. “The State Department refuses to confirm or deny this story.”
“Nothing I can do about that,” Yocke said, waving frantically to Jake Grafton. The admiral sat up on the couch and rubbed his head.
“Yocke, this is the biggest story since the Japs hit Pearl Harbor,” Gatler said. “Our White House guys can’t get any confirmation, State refuses to confirm or deny, the people at the Pentagon refuse to comment, the CIA press people refuse to confirm that they’ve ever even heard of this Tenney guy. And CIA says that none of their people would ever talk to the press — violation of security regs and all that crap. So we’ve got your story and a voice on the telephone who claims he’s Rear Admiral Jake Grafton. That’s all.”
“I heard the Tenney interview, Mike. I was there in person. I saw the tape being made. I saw the rubble of the Serdobsk reactor, I visited the base at Petrovsk. I saw some bodies. I saw some weapons. I talked to Jake Grafton on the record — he’s the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, for Christ’s sake! He explicitly agreed to be quoted. I talked to an Israeli Mossad agent who’s now dead — she was shot in my presence. I’ve got all that I can give you. If you haven’t got the balls to run the story, then don’t run it.”
“Don’t get testy with me, Jack. I’m just explaining how far out on the limb we are with this story.”
“I’m sorry, Mike, but it’s a good story. Every fucking word is true. I guarantee it. I don’t give a shit what anybody else says, General Shmarov sold Saddam Hussein those bombs and blew up the Serdobsk reactor to cover up the fact that the weapons were gone.”
“Shmarov is dead.”
“I know that, Mike.”
“Heart attack.”
“No, he was poisoned by Herb Tenney.”
“What?” Gatler roared. “Poisoned! By a CIA agent? That isn’t in this story!”
“I know that too, Mike. I can’t get any confirmation for that from anybody. But Tenney confessed to the killing in my presence. I didn’t put that in this story because I don’t know that anyone will ever confirm that Shmarov was even murdered, much less that Tenney did it. I’m telling you that the stuff that is in that story is confirmed gospel. I’ve got a mountain of stuff that isn’t in there because I haven’t yet got it confirmed.”
Gatler thought that over for five seconds, then said, “I want a copy of the tape of Tenney’s confession.”
“Grafton won’t release it. The White House might, but I doubt it. It covers a lot of ground, all of it classified up the wazoo.”
“I want more stories when you get confirmations.”
“I understand. When and if, you’ll be the first to hear.”
They said their good-byes and Yocke told Jake, “He’s gonna print it.”
Jake Grafton had grunted from his position on the couch and pulled his jacket around him. He was asleep again in minutes.
This afternoon Jake idly wondered what Boris Yeltsin would do when he heard the story was out. Oh well, he was a politician, experienced in converting lemons into lemonade.
He settled back into the chair and crossed his legs. This afternoon President Clinton was supposed to call to talk to Yeltsin about the mess in Iraq. Last night Yeltsin invited Jake to come here to answer any questions his staff might have.
Now the telephone rang. One of the aides picked it up, said something, then Yeltsin took the other line. Jake looked at his watch. He wondered if the airplanes coming in from Germany would be on time.