Stark began by exploring the previous hours. “We’ve had a helluva day, gentlemen, and I’m afraid it’s going to get a lot worse. I’m happy some of you are still with me.” The trio laughed quietly while he continued: “At ten A.M., tomorrow morning, I am going to begin evacuating the capital of all inhabitants not expressly needed to maintain vital functions.”
Manson asked: “What in God’s name for, Mr. President?”
Stark looked patiently at him. “Because I have to believe that the Russians will use the laser on us tomorrow night.” And he added, “I’m not going to leave nearly a million people as sitting ducks.”
Robert Randall broke in: “Why don’t we go on the air and tell the people the truth about the Reds? Maybe we could condemn them in front of the world and force their hand.”
“No. I’ve thought about that long and hard. All along we’ve tried not to rock the boat, not to do anything that might make that unstable government go crazy. That’s why we sent Safcek in instead of just blowing it up as Roarke said we should.” Stark was adamant. “For me to go on television now might drive the Russians to all-out war. And their excuse could be that they believed the story contained in that damn pamphlet.”
Sam Riordan added: “Speaking of the Russians, my men say they’re pulling out of the embassy up the way as if the devil’s chasing them.”
“It figures,” said Stark. “Perhaps it’s only a war of nerves, but I can’t take the chance they’re bluffing. I’ve got to believe they mean to burn the city.”
“Mr. President, what reason will you give the people for evacuation? I mean, once the country gets wind of this, you might have a general panic, especially after what happened here today with the riots.”
“Martin, it’s all taken care of. Don’t worry. We’re going to have a good gimmick for an official story that makes sense. It should be enough to get the folks moving.”
Stark spread his hands out toward his advisors. His voice almost pleading for understanding, he said: “Look, we have little more than a day left to work this out. I haven’t told the Israelis what happened to them, so they wouldn’t try to retaliate. I haven’t told the Allies because what they don’t know won’t hurt them. And I won’t tell the American people for the reasons I just gave you. We agreed days ago to stall for time until Safcek could get there and eliminate the weapon. For God’s sake, let’s hold on to our nerves for a while.”
The men with him shifted their feet uncomfortably. Stark mussed his carefully combed hair with his hand. “How about a drink to our man in Tashkent?”
As they prepared to adjourn, General Stephen Austin Roarke came into the room slowly and approached the President. The general was unaccountably somber, almost in shock.
“Mr. President,” he said, “I have some very bad news. Cliff Erskine just dropped dead at the Pentagon.”
Four men sucked in their breaths at the same time, and Stark reeled back from the general.
“Oh no, Steve, oh no.” Stark sat down again and looked wildly about as he tried to assimilate the news. “How did it happen?”
Roarke told the group the main details, leaving out his argument with the secretary. “And his wife, does she know?” Stark asked.
“We just cabled the American Embassy in London to tell her. She stayed on there after Cliff left for Geneva. The Ambassador will take care of her.”
Stark nodded absently. “God, I feel it’s all my fault after what happened here today. I’d never had a disagreement with him before, and then this fight over the laser. Did he say anything to you about me.”
“No, he didn’t. He was just cleaning out his desk and never mentioned you as far as any personal feelings.”
Stark murmured something about seeing everyone later and hurried out to tell Pamela the dreadful news.
Joe Safcek had arrived at his first destination. As the desert sky filled with an incredibly beautiful blend of rose and violet hues he turned the automobile off the main road onto a dirt trail one mile outside the sprawling city. Half a mile into the dusty plain, the members of Operation Scratch saw their rendezvous, an eleventh-century mosque, abandoned for hundreds of years and long fallen into decay. Two minarets rose from the roof. The circular dome was nearly intact, except for a small hole near the middle. The dome was a shimmering azure blue, which reflected the sunrise and lent an ethereal grandeur to the setting.
As Safcek approached it, he wished for a moment that Martha could share it with him. Then he turned off the road, pulled the car around to the rear of the building, and saw what he wanted. One of the basement rooms of the mosque had sagged outward, crumbling the wall and leaving a gaping hole leading directly into the interior. Safcek manhandled the car over several small rocks and jockeyed it inside. Only the rear fender remained in the sunlight. The colonel jumped out, rummaged inside a bag and took out shoe polish which he rubbed over the chrome fender to eliminate glare. He opened the trunk, urging, “Let’s get this stuff inside and get ready for work.” Kirov and Gorlov started pulling equipment out. Luba watched them carefully for a moment, then went over to a slim box. She took it by its handles and raising it effortlessly, moved toward the gloomy cellar.
Safcek rushed to help her. “Careful, Luba, that little devil is more important than all of us.” She was carrying the atomic bomb.
As though struck dumb by the awesome material in her arms, Luba just murmured: “OK, OK.” Safcek wondered whether her nerves were bothering her.
Sixteen miles due north of the bomb and its guardians, the Soviet police held a man at bay. Andrei Parchuk, the director of the laser center, was surrounded in his office by four state security men, specially sent from the Center in Moscow. He had been held under house arrest until they arrived at 2 A.M. They had now been badgering him for nearly four hours. Parchuk wanted desperately to sleep, but they would not let him alone. They had forced him to stand while they asked him about Grigor Rudenko and the blueprints Parchuk had given him. Parchuk denied everything.
Andrei Parchuk was a member of the prestigious Soviet Academy of Sciences. He was also a controversial figure. Five years before, he had sent a letter to the Presidium demanding the release from prison of several Soviet intellectuals jailed for writing articles against the régime. For this act, Parchuk had suffered harassment from the state security police, who warned him that further protests would result in banishment from his chair at the university and possible imprisonment. Parchuk never again spoke out publicly against the Kremlin.
The elderly scientist was afraid. He knew they might beat him, and he was certain he could not stand up to it. Parchuk had heard of notorious methods used to elicit information from suspects. He realized that Rudenko must have broken and that Rudenko was a far stronger man than he.
The state security men had scrupulously avoided touching the director to that moment. Parchuk had sparred with them intellectually, feinting and staffing, trying to avoid any damning admission. As sunlight flooded against the window, the interrogators pursued him relentlessly.
“When were you last in Moscow, Professor?”
“Let me see, it was around the sixth of September, for two days. But you can check that easily by referring to my schedule here.”
“And what did you do there?”