On a newspaper where the monthly telephone bill is $50,000, Duane Brewster could afford the luxury of telling Michaels that he wanted to do a little checking in Washington and then would call him right back.
Brewster dialed Robert Randall’s private number and found him there. Randall was vague with the Times man. He professed ignorance of the disaster. When Brewster pursued the point, citing Dan Michaels’s reputation for accuracy, Randall changed his approach.
“Duane, I’m asking you as a personal favor to kill the story.”
Brewster refused.
Randall continued: “Then I ask you as a matter of national security not to print it. If you do, the President will be put in a terrible position, and believe me the man is up against it right now.”
Brewster was struck by the urgency in Randall’s voice. “Bob, is it that bad?”
Randall was quiet for a few seconds, then said: “Duane, please believe me, it’s worse than Cuba. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more right now.”
“OK, don’t worry. We’ll keep this one on ice as long as we can, but if the wire services break it, we’ll have to go ahead.”
“Thanks, Duane. The President will really appreciate that.”
Duane Brewster called Tel Aviv, and then sat for an hour longer in his office that night. While the clamor that accompanies the preparation of the morning edition continued outside his office in the third-floor newsroom, he could not forget Robert Randall’s pleading voice. It radiated the fear which pervaded both the White House and the Pentagon.
At 9 P.M., in Washington, Robert Randall was telling William Stark about the call from Duane Brewster. Stark was grateful, and made a note to thank Brewster personally.
Randall had another worry. The Israelis had now asked the CIA to help investigate the attack that had destroyed their atomic arsenal. Stark moaned aloud: “Jesus Christ, we can’t tell them we know. And I hate to do this to those people. They’re our only real friends in that part of the world, and they must be going crazy trying to figure this one out. Worse, they’ll know we know what caused it.”
The thoroughly agitated President paced the floor of the Oval Room. Randall had never seen him look so worn. Though Stark was stylishly dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, his face betrayed his turmoil. His eyes were rheumy, veiled by fatigue and worry. He had even cut himself shaving. His skin was blotchy and marred by deep creases.
Stark whirled on Randalclass="underline" “That brings us to our other allies. What the hell can we do with them? They have a right to know that the world is falling down all around them. But I can’t tip my hand to them about Safcek. It’ll get back to Moscow in hours some way. Every time we tell NATO something, it seems a report lands in the Kremlin the next day.” The President shook his head. “No, I’ll just have to let them hang until we know about Operation Scratch. It won’t make any difference if it fails.”
The next visitor to the Oval Room was Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine, just back from Geneva. If Robert Randall was dismayed by the physical appearance of Stark, he was stunned by Erskine. The tall, slim secretary looked as though he had been visited by a ghost. The President himself was so moved that he immediately asked: “Are you all right, Cliff?”
The secretary, easing himself into a chair, said: “I’ve got the grippe or something. I’ve never felt so bad in my life. But if we get through the next few days, I’ll go off on a vacation and relax for a while.”
Stark wanted to know about the movie in Geneva. Erskine told it again, scene by scene, to the very end. He mentioned that Bordine thought he recognized the Soviet general in the room. He said it might have been Marshal Moskanko, who put down the uprising in Budapest in 1956 and later faded from the scene with Darubin after the Six Day War. When Erskine ended by telling about Darubin’s final threat to Washington and the country, his voice broke in anger. He apologized to Stark and then lapsed into moody quiet. Stark spent the next few minutes briefing Erskine on the arguments presented the previous day by the Executive Committee. When he mentioned Roarke’s espousal of a nuclear strike, Erskine roused himself to grunt: “That damn fool! He’s like a bull in a china shop. Did the other members of the Joint Chiefs go along with him?”
Randall said: “The Marines and Navy were against it, I believe. But Air Force was all for it and so was Army.”
Erskine got up to leave. “I’ll speak to them later today to make sure no one goes off half-cocked. When does Safcek arrive at Peshawar?”
“Before midnight tomorrow, their time. That’ll be about noon here. We’re eleven hours behind him from here on in.”
Erskine looked at Stark, who added, “And completely in his hands.”
The Secretary of Defense went to the door and opened it. Pausing, he asked the man behind the big desk, “What kind of men would ever try what those damn Russians are pulling on us? They must have nerves of steel to match their ambitions.”
When the door closed behind Erskine, Stark murmured, “And no feeling for anyone.”
The room was simply furnished. A light-colored bookcase lined the right wall. A nondescript rug covered the floor almost entirely. Three functional chairs were drawn up near a table. On the wall was a portrait of Lenin, his chest adorned with medals. Around the edges of the covered windows seeped the first light of day. A tall lamp still lighted from the previous evening shone down on a sallow-faced man sleeping on a couch tucked in a corner. His thick black hair fell onto his forehead. His cheeks and general facial contours suggested he came from Oriental stock.
He snored intermittently. His body moved several times as he lay on the couch. He seemed to be having a troubled sleep.
A door opened, and a man walked over to him. He tugged gently on the sleeping man’s jacket and said: “Comrade Krylov, Comrade Krylov.” Vladimir Nikolaievich Krylov struggled up from his bed.
“What is it, Alexei?”
“I am sorry to wake you so early, but Marshal Moskanko is outside waiting to see you.”
“Send him in, Alexei. No, wait a minute, until I wash up.”
When the general entered, Krylov was sitting in one of the wooden chairs. His hair was combed, and his face was fresh and untroubled. “Dear friend,” he asked, “how was your trip to Geneva?”
Marshal Moskanko, defense minister of the Soviet Union, was a bull-necked giant of a man who now nodded grimly. “Excellent, Vladimir Nikolaievich. The Americans were properly impressed. I thought Erskine would have a heart attack right in the room. But Darubin has probably already cabled you about the important facts.”
“Yes, Mikhail Ivanovich was ecstatic. He particularly emphasized the importance of keeping up the pressure about destroying Washington. Like you, he referred to the impact that message had on the two guests. But then, General, I’d rather hear it from you because it was Darubin who convinced me that Nasser could handle the Jews with one hand tied behind his back.” Krylov laughed loudly. “I lost my job because of that.”
Moskanko did not laugh. “Mikhail Ivanovich told the truth about the Americans. They were terrified.”
While Krylov poured coffee from a silver samovar left by Alexei, Marshal Moskanko stood before the portrait of Lenin. He gazed at the face of the man who had led the original revolution years ago. “Vladimir Nikolaievich, we can make all his dreams come true. In less than a week, the world will be communist, and he”—gesturing at the painting—“will be proven a prophet.”