Then the window drapes parted, and Erskine squinted against the harshness of the afternoon sun.
Darubin and the general were back facing the Americans in their chairs. Darubin was almost unbearable now. “You have your proof. That was not a hydrogen bomb. It was, as our message to you indicated, a weapon of unusual destructive force. And, may I reiterate, there is no defense against it.”
Mikhail Darubin was enjoying himself immensely. He offered the Americans coffee or something stronger. They declined. He offered them cigarettes. They refused.
Darubin shuffled some papers and went on, “You are empowered, you say, to find out what we want from you. Mr. Erskine, we want your country. To that end, you have precious little time to effect an orderly transfer of power. We have men in Cuba who are waiting to be received in Washington. From there, you will take them to the missile centers, atomic plants, and storage areas. In approximately sixty hours, our warships will be off New York City and will expect the fullest cooperation from the U.S. Navy in disarming Polaris submarines at sea and in port. Army occupation units will arrive after the strategic weapons have been rendered harmless. Finally, your President will fly to Moscow at the end of the time period specified on the teletype. There he will enter into conferences with Comrade Krylov as to future relations between our two nations.”
Clifford Erskine felt a sharp pain under his breastbone. His body was bathed in sweat. He wanted to vomit.
Darubin did not seem to notice his victim’s discomfort. “In case anyone decides to ignore the obvious and fight, I give a final warning. If surrender is not indicated within five minutes of the expiration of the deadline, the city of Washington will be burned to the ground.”
Erskine rose from his chair and screamed, “Darubin, you’re a maniac! If you force us to the wall, we will surely fight against the Soviet Union, but it will mean the deaths of millions of innocent people. I have come to Geneva to warn you of my country’s reaction. You can be sure that President Stark is a man who could not live with the thought that he had not tried to prevent the subversion of his country. As a sane man, he is sickened at the thought of using atomic weapons, but if you persist, you leave him no other reasonable alternative than to plan to destroy your cities and missile sites.”
The Russian was unruffled. He came up to Erskine, who stood, fists clenched, rigid against the table.
“Mr. Erskine, if you fight, the decision to kill millions will be yours and yours alone.”
He glanced at his watch and said, “You have only hours left to make your plans.” Walking to the double doors, he held one open and said pleasantly, “Good day gentlemen.”
Erskine and Bordine went past him and down the stairs to their car. In the conference room, Darubin and the general touched tumblers of vodka and drained them in a salute.
In Lafayette Park, pedestrians sat under trees to escape the heat, enervating even so early in the day. Across the street in the East Room of the White House, an early-bird tour group stood around a guide as she explained the history of the State reception room. The guide was telling them that the body of President Kennedy had lain in state there on November 23, 1963. The tourists stood hushed in the presence of history.
In another room in the same building, a preoccupied President William Mellon Stark talked with his closest advisors about the ultimatum from the Russians. The President had just heard from Clifford Erskine in Geneva that the enemy was adamant and Darubin wanted nothing short of total surrender by the United States. Erskine had given details of the movie and had closed with the Russian threat to obliterate Washington if their demands were not met immediately.
Stark was becoming increasingly despondent. His normally bright blue eyes were rimmed with fatigue. He had not been able to eat his usual breakfast of bacon and eggs. He just nibbled at a piece of toast and absently sipped a glass of orange juice. The President was increasingly aware that the Soviet Union was presenting him with an impossible situation. Erskine’s report made it obvious the other side was convinced he was in a trap from which he could not escape. The Russians seemed to be counting on Stark’s abhorrence of nuclear war.
The men with Stark were weary from lack of sleep. The impact of the ultimatum had struck them most forcibly after they had gone home and reflected on it behind suburban doors.
Martin Manson was outwardly calm as he listened to Erskine’s report, but his stomach was churning.
Robert Randall, the sharp-nosed, wiry-haired foreign policy advisor, felt strangely like the quarterback of a football team before the big game. His nerves were on edge and he was slightly nauseated, but his senses were unusually alert. Adrenaline was flowing swiftly through his body. To Randall, the problem before them was acute but a distinct challenge to his intellect. He was ready to compete for the highest stakes in the world.
General Stephen Austin Roarke was edgy. Still smarting from the rebuff handed him the previous evening by President Stark, Roarke had gone back to his quarters at Fort Myer, Virginia, and drunk three stiff bourbons. The tall, rawboned Texan, a widower, had paced the living room for some time until he finally fell into bed as dawn broke. Steve Roarke was a stubborn man, and as he rode to the White House a few hours later, he determined that he would continue to press his case with the Commander-in-Chief. It was his duty.
CIA Director Sam Riordan had come to the conference loaded down with information. Still feeling that he had let Stark down, Riordan had gone right back to his office in the early morning and napped for two hours on a couch. At 5:30 A.M., Riordan had assembled his experts and compiled a mass of data for the President. Along with it, he brought Charlie Tarrant, his deputy, to the conference.
Stark had weeded out unnecessary personnel for the morning briefing. Only Manson was there from the cabinet. Vice-President Richard Terhune, on a ten-day trip to Asia, had not been ordered back, to avoid arousing the suspicions of the press. Terhune was not even told of the peril.
Professor Gerald Weinroth sat at the huge table nursing his ulcer. Weinroth’s cramps were no longer spasmodic; they now cut across his stomach like a knife. His face contorted, the owlish academician struggled to be attentive as Stark asked Riordan for further information.
The CIA man went to an easel set up in a corner. Tarrant followed.