“I gave him the other set of blueprints and notes about the laser.”
“The other set?”
“Yes, Parchuk gave me two in case one was lost…”
Baranov’s voice had changed. He was tense, rough in his pursuit of Rudenko.
“The same as the set that Brandon had?”
“Exactly.”
Baranov groaned audibly. “Bastard! I should have known he’d be too smart to trust it all to that American teacher.”
Sheila lay looking up at him, her head in his lap, and he was murmuring: “Will you wait for me?” She reached for his mouth with her lips.
“Grigor, who was supposed to be Debran’s contact?”
“I don’t know. Someone in the CIA.”
“In Paris?”
Grigor’s hands moved on her back.
“In Paris?”
“Yes, yes, but I don’t know who.”
“Are you sure you don’t know?”
Sheila was breathing rapidly, and Grigor looked quickly into the back seat, but Karl and Maureen had gotten out and walked down to the lake.
“Are you sure, Grigor?”
“Yes. You know that I’m telling you the truth. Debran has friends in the CIA who pay him for different jobs.”
“Did he know what was in the package you gave him?”
He could feel her mouth against his ear.
“Did Debran have any idea what he was delivering?”
Grigor crushed Sheila against him.
“Answer me, Grigor.” Baranov was relentless. “Answer me.”
Sheila put her arms around Grigor and tried to hold him to her. “Don’t go away now,” but he had drawn back to quiet the insistent questioner.
“Debran knew nothing. Are you satisfied?”
The exasperated Baranov said: “Take him out of here. I have to report this to Moskanko right away.”
Fire trucks from fourteen communities had been called in to try and contain the explosion of the natural gas pipeline feeding into Washington. Two enormous breaks were allowing millions of cubic feet of gas to escape into the atmosphere. The billowing fires had advanced hungrily on a huge forest, which blazed quickly. By 7 A.M., the area was a holocaust, consuming virgin timber and threatening to spread into populated areas.
In the White House, President William Stark heard the news on the morning TV show from New York. He picked up the phone and called Markle at his home. When the commissioner came on the line, Stark knew he was totally depressed by his night’s work. “Herb, in one half hour, initiate phase two. Correct?” Markle sighed wearily and agreed.
“And Herb, after that I’ll take over. You just agree with everything you hear. OK?”
“OK, Mr. President Don’t worry about me. But I just hope this doesn’t get out of hand.” Stark reassured him and hung up.
At 8 A.M., a thunderous explosion rocked the Washington suburb of Bethesda, Maryland, north of the city. Two miles beyond the city limits, on a deserted hill, another natural gas pipeline burst in two places, creating a tremendous fire through the heavily timbered land. Fire-fighting equipment was called in from forty miles distant to contain the inferno.
Stark heard this news within minutes from Robert Randall, who met him in the Situation Room. Stark listened to a description of the explosion and then asked Randall what Safcek was doing. “He’s not supposed to report in to Richter until ten A.M., our time. By then he’ll know what he’s going to do about the laser.”
“By the way,” Randall said, “Ambassador Tolypin and the entire Soviet Embassy staff flew to New York from National at eight A.M. When reporters asked them what was going on, they refused to talk.”
Randall picked up the transcript of the Soviet cruiser’s conversation and handed it over to Stark: “The duty officer says you’ve heard this one. What do you think?”
Stark shrugged. “It’s just an attempt to rattle me, I’m sure. They’re trying to stampede us in these last fifteen hours.”
A phone call came in for the President from Markle.
“Mr. President, the explosions we’ve had this morning north and south of the city have caused possible breaks all along the lines through the city. We may have as many as fifty from the stresses caused by the blasts. I wanted to warn you about seepage.”
“What does that mean, Herb?”
“Well, there’s a strong possibility that escaping gas can destroy life, and also the fires from further explosions would make the old Chicago blaze seem like kid stuff.”
“In that case, Herb, perhaps we should evacuate the vicinity affected.”
“The problem, there, Mr. President, is that the entire city is in trouble. The pipelines go right through the center of it.”
“OK, thanks, Herb. I’ll do something about it.”
Stark turned away to Randall and said: “Call the Civil Defense Director and tell him to begin an evacuation of all of downtown Washington. Tell him I ordered it and explain why. And, Bob, tell him to treat it with the same urgency he’d use in time of war in order to make this thing work right.”
Randall went to the phone, but before dialing he suddenly asked: “This is your little gimmick, isn’t it?”
Stark pointed at the phone: “Just call that man, Bob, and get the ball moving.”
Arndt Svendsen, Secretary General of the United Nations, sat in his spacious office overlooking the East River and thought this mild mid-September morning one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Tugs rode lazily past him on their way up to the Harlem River. Loaded barges made barely perceptible headway down the ribbon of water toward the ocean at the foot of Manhattan Island. Smog was for once absent from the blue sky. A brilliant sunlight crinkled his face as he gazed out on the city he had come to love as much as his own Oslo.
Dressed in a light brown suit, his fingernails manicured, hair trimmed, Svendsen was ready to preside over the opening session of the General Assembly of the United Nations. For once, the world situation seemed reasonably stable. No major wars were in the offing. Only in the Middle East had the conflicting powers failed to reach a state of total truce. As Svendsen enjoyed the view, his secretary announced the arrival of Yuri Zarov, chief Soviet delegate to the United Nations.
Surprised at his sudden appearance, Svendsen invited the Russian to sit down before the magnificent picture window. He ordered coffee and then asked: “Well, Zarov, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
The impassive Zarov took a piece of paper out of his briefcase and thrust it at the Secretary General. “This is the reason. This threat to the security of the world.”
Svendsen looked at the paper and scoffed: “Surely, Zarov, your government doesn’t believe this is true. The United States has no intention of beginning a nuclear war, and your country should be the first to know that.”
Svendsen laughed: “You know, Zarov, I don’t like to seem non-neutral, but the Soviet Union has more spies per square inch in this country and around the world than anyone else.”
Zarov bristled, but Svendsen continued. “From all the information gathered by you, you have to know that William Stark has no intention, and never did, may I add, of blowing up the world.”
Zarov smiled broadly. “Are you finished maligning my government, sir? Because if you are, I want to add proof to my charge. We are willing and, in fact, insist that you call a special meeting of the Security Council this evening. There I will prove our case and expose Stark as a fraud and potential mass murderer.”
The suddenly concerned Secretary General agreed to convene the council at 6 P.M. right after the first session of the General Assembly ended. When Zarov left, Svendsen went back to the window and stared unseeing at the panorama. He was shaken by the Russian’s demand and Zarov’s demeanor, and began to ask himself if William Stark could possibly have lost his senses and plotted what Zarov said.