At Peshawar, Karl Richter was distraught. Informed that the intelligence agent had pursued and killed a Pakistani spy, Richter had to assume that he might have passed on information about the flight in his very brief conversation with the man at the movie house. Even a few words hurriedly exchanged could have given the enemy inexpert knowledge of Safcek’s coming. Richter was doubly troubled because he should have heard from the pilot as soon as Safcek left the plane. Thirty minutes had gone by beyond the projected touchdown, and Richter went to the radio to inform President Stark of the problem.
At 4:18 A.M., the receiver crackled, and through the static Richter heard the phrase: “Troika, troika.” Then the transmission abruptly faded. Richter had heard what he wanted. He told the White House that Joe Safcek was on the road to Tashkent.
In the Oval Room, President Stark thanked Richter and considered the wreckage of the day. His nightmare had been going on for forty-two hours; it could be all over in thirty more. The Russians had divided the country by inciting the marchers. Only the fact that Safcek was inside the enemy camp gave him any reason for hope.
Clifford Erskine had one last job. In his office on E Ring, the former Secretary of Defense called Steve Roarke to him and told the general he had resigned his job. Roarke, stunned, told Erskine he was sorry to see such a thing happen. Erskine continued cleaning his papers from a drawer while Roarke tried to think of something else to say. A lethal silence prevailed until Erskine looked up from his belongings and asked: “General, what were the casualty figures outside the Pentagon today?”
Roarke had the figures at hand. “One woman dead, twelve soldiers and civilians in critical condition, forty-five walking wounded.”
Erskine shook his head sadly. “Christ almighty. All because one fool fired a gun into innocent people.”
Roarke bristled: “Innocent, my ass. Those marchers are all alike, whether they’re kids or middle-aged. They may think they’re patriotic, but let me tell you something. Most of them follow a pattern. Going back to 1939 and the Russo-Finnish war, this type has rooted for the wrong side. Mannerheim of Finland was merely a fascist; Stalin’s fight with them was legitimate. Only in World War Two, when the Russkies needed help, did certain of these people agree with the American government. After that we’ve had nothing but a pattern of marches, riots, and disorders. Most of them still believe Alger Hiss was bagged by the FBI. The Rosenbergs are still martyrs. And then the Vietnam thing was a disgrace. Just remember those Vietcong flags waving about in the breeze. They paralyzed Lyndon Johnson and ruined us in Southeast Asia.”
Erskine had finished packing his papers. “Just a minute, Steve, I happen to agree with those people about Vietnam. Are you calling me a Commie?”
“Not at all. I’m not saying that. Many responsible Americans felt we were wrong in Vietnam, and I myself blame Lyndon Johnson for his handling of it. What I am saying is that most of these liberals are naive human beings. And a hard core of malcontents has always led them down the path of righteousness by conjuring up plots by whatever administration is in power. They’re still trying to prove that Jack Kennedy was killed by a rightist plot, or the CIA, or by anybody except Oswald. And then today, that goddamn pamphlet. They were willing to believe that within minutes. I wonder what they’d say if they knew the other side was threatening to burn them up by tomorrow night. Probably that we brought it on ourselves.”
“You know, General, you may have just hit on the truth. If we hadn’t sickened the people over Vietnam and Asia, you might still have their confidence. If we hadn’t been so hypocritical in supporting dictators and so ready to export democracy to the far corners of the earth, you’d probably still have enough money to keep even with the Russians on research. But no, we had to plunge in here and there to shore up the dams against communism, and the bulk of the American public finally got tired of the waste of lives and money and said ‘Stop!’
“What made this country think we had any right to force our way of life on others? We can’t even solve our own domestic problems, and we may be right around the corner from a bloody revolution. Who are we to act as policeman of the world? If we’re in trouble today with that laser, it’s quite possible that your way of thinking helped put us in that fix.”
Incensed, General Roarke tried to interrupt, but the secretary waved his hand for silence.
“Don’t bother to argue with me. We’re worlds apart.”
Clifford Erskine was suddenly very tired. He was sick of arguing with Roarke, sick of Washington. His breastbone ached. His left arm was riddled with pain. He rose from his seat for the last time, thought of shaking hands with Roarke but rejected it. Instead he said “Good-bye” curtly and stepped to the door. At the threshhold, he caught his breath sharply and staggered from the intense pain in his chest. Erskine tried to say something to Roarke, but the words were cut off as he fell dead in front of the General’s polished shoes.
Only three trucks passed the Soviet Army car as it moved leisurely toward Tashkent. Joe Safcek was exhilarated, as he always was on such a mission. His mind was clear, his reflexes highly acute. Safcek had noticed that the other members of the team were also exhilarated, perhaps just because they were back in their native land. Though aware that they were facing instant death if found, they were nonetheless happy to return. Even Peter Kirov had become voluble. Withdrawn most of the time since Safcek had met him, Peter rode through the darkness telling of his youth in Volgograd, formerly Stalingrad, the site of the greatest German defeat in World War II. While Safcek watched the road for traffic, Peter told his companions of the many days he spent fishing on the Volga and of the ice floes that came down the great waterways in January to make a giant land bridge across to Krasnaya Sloboda. Peter’s eyes sparkled as he dwelt on those days, and his white teeth flashed as he suddenly pounded Boris on the back. “We should have some vodka here to celebrate being home.”
Gorlov winced from the blow but managed to smile warmly at his confederate. “Soon enough, Peter. When we blow that laser sky high.”
Luba, sitting beside Joe, was suddenly grim. Her close-cropped hair neatly covered under a garrison cap, she turned to the window and stared at the impenetrable darkness. Safcek noticed a streak of light crowding the night sky and checked the mileage gauge. “Only twenty kilometers to our first stop. We should hit it just about dawn.” Luba did not react.
In the President’s sitting room, William Stark talked earnestly to Herbert Markle, Commissioner of Natural Gas Utilities. He had known Herb Markle for twenty years, since the time when both were freshmen congressmen. When Stark became President, he appointed Markle to head the commission overseeing an industry spreading its pipelines under every major city in the United States. Stark spoke for nearly thirty minutes to the puzzled Markle, who listened raptly to his friend and took notes on a small memo pad. Finally Stark shook hands with him and cautioned: “Herb, no matter what happens, remember I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” Herb Markle left the White House quickly, and jumped into a waiting limousine before reporters could guess his identity.
Upstairs, William Stark paused to change into a fresh shirt and tie. He combed back his graying hair and washed his face with a cold facecloth. Feeling slightly restored, he went to the elevator and rode down to the Oval Room. While the Bagman took up his accustomed position outside, Stark greeted Randall, Riordan and Manson. Weinroth was missing. His ulcer had finally hemorrhaged. Roarke was unaccountably delayed. Stark went to his chair and made himself comfortable. Martin Manson noticed that the President’s hands were quite steady. The Secretary of State thought it remarkable how the President was holding up.