He was towering over Stark, who sat motionless, taking the verbal battering. In the next room, Robert Randall heard the uproar and rushed in.
The Commissioner had not finished.
“I walked through that place just now and saw what your orders have done to I don’t know how many families. And you keep on acting as though it was merely a regrettable error. Well, let me tell you something: you’ve changed a helluva lot since you got in that seat. Is it power that’s done it? Power?”
Randall spun Markle around and said in an angry undertone: “March out of here, Herb. How dare you do this to the President?”
At the door leading from the Oval Room, Markle laughed scornfully and shouted: “Who are you planning to kill tomorrow?”
William Stark had no answer. He turned away from his friend and looked out at the landing pad, where a helicopter carrying Michael Macomber was due momentarily from Dulles International Airport.
The fifteen members of the Security Council were in their seats at 5:55 P.M. Some smoked pensively, others stared up into the television room where correspondents from the major networks supplied a colorful commentary to over 90 million watching Americans. In other parts of the world, satellites carried the broadcast live to other minions of anxious people trapped between the two major antagonists in the continuing cold war. In the Soviet Union, television programs did not carry any of the drama emanating from the UN.
At precisely 5:59 P.M., Arndt Svendsen entered the chamber and went quickly to his seat. The Secretary General was not in his usual happy frame of mind and ignored greetings from old friends as he shuffled papers and peered over his spectacles at the council members. At 6 P.M. he rapped his gravel, and all noise subsided.
Svendsen adjusted his spectacles and began: “Gentlemen, we are here tonight in reference to a rather unusual request from the delegate of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. This morning he came to me urging that I call a special session of this body to discuss a most serious matter. We are here assembled, and I now propose to allow the distinguished Mr. Zarov to present his case for your consideration. Do I hear any objections?” Hearing none, he asked Zarov to speak.
The television cameras panned in on the short, well-fed form of Yuri Zarov, the sixty-two-year-old bearer of orders from the Kremlin. Zarov had survived the frequent convulsions of power in the Soviet Union for the past twenty-seven years. A totally humorless man, he was well-known to Americans. Like an angry neighbor, he had frequently complained to them about U.S. indiscretions and ambitions. He scolded, threatened, and lied to the American people about its government’s chicanery and belligerence. His audience had come to enjoy his presence in their living rooms, anticipating his diatribes with a benign humor. The Russian provided a pleasant diversion from the ponderous debates that normally emerged from UN crises. Zarov was an enemy but surely not a bore.
He sat at ease in his accustomed spot just to the right of the chief United States delegate, Ronald Carlson. Zarov began to speak in a soft voice, and the translators rushed to pick up his words and relay them in several languages to listeners.
“Mr. Secretary General, esteemed members of the United Nations Security Council, I have asked you to come here to listen to a tale of perfidy so outrageous as to defy precedent. It affects all of us because it concerns an attempt by one of us to enslave the world.”
Zarov reached for a glass of water and drank deeply while the amphitheater buzzed with an astonished reaction. Ronald Carlson, at his left, doodled with a pencil.
Zarov put down his glass and continued his attack.
“Perhaps it would serve everyone’s best interest if I explained the background to this treachery. The whole world knows that the Soviet Union has been attempting for decades to stabilize the various conflicts that have threatened to envelop us in total war. In the Middle East the reactionary forces of the state of Israel have fomented aggression against the peoples of the Arab world. We have tried to help the Arab nations by supplying Egypt and its neighbors with the proper means to protect their freedom.”
Several of the members smiled self-consciously at Zarov’s statement. Ronald Carlson grinned widely and stared at the ceiling in amazement. Arndt Svendsen tried to conceal his absolute disbelief by studiously wiping his glasses with a Kleenex.
Zarov ignored the amusement and continued: “In Southeast Asia, imperialist forces have made a shambles of the region between the Mekong and the sea in their ceaseless pursuit of resources and territory. For our part, the Soviet Union looked on in horror while innocents were being slaughtered and land devastated by the ‘democratic forces of liberation.’ Since we had no desire to plunge the world into war over this issue, we could only send supplies to our beleaguered friends who calmly withstood the fascist hordes.”
Ronald Carlson was now wondering whether Zarov would have the temerity to include Czechoslovakia in his list of good deeds. Zarov did not disappoint him.
“Even in one of our own socialist countries, we had to act to prevent a deterioration of the status quo. When imperialist reactionaries tried to subvert the government and inhabitants of that wonderful ally, we were forced to correct the situation by rooting out the enemy and exposing his deceits to the world. As you remember, the forces of the Soviet Union entered that country only at the request of true patriots who desperately sought our help. And as you know we neither murdered nor burned as Western nations have done countless times in recent history.”
In the White House, Robert Randall switched off the set and went down the hall to the Oval Room, where William Stark sat in his big swivel chair. Stark was staring at a phone on his left which connected him with the tracking stations in California.
Stark looked up as Randall entered and asked: “Has Zarov started to speak yet?”
“Yes, but so far it’s the usual baloney about our imperialistic excesses. I couldn’t concentrate too much on him. Has Macomber arrived from Paris yet?”
“He’s landing on the pad now,” Stark waved toward the window facing onto the South Lawn behind him.
The two men went directly to the Cabinet Room, where the special Committee waited. Gerald Weinroth was there, too, brought from Walter Reed Army Hospital by ambulance to be present when the documents arrived. Sitting up on a hospital stretcher, Weinroth, though uncomfortable, was anxious to get a look at the material that would unlock the mystery threatening the lives of the entire population of the world.
William Stark shook hands with Michael Macomber and thanked him for his timely arrival. Then he asked Weinroth to study the blueprints. The professor propped himself up on the cot and studied the plans carefully for several minutes without a word. He turned the pages one by one with what seemed agonizing deliberateness. The other observers dared not interrupt his concentration. General Roarke paced up and down the thick red carpet. Stark himself sat in his swivel chair and stared intently at the scientist.
Weinroth seemed about to speak. But he plunged again into the mass of technical details and ignored the waiting group. Robert Randall spoke softly to Macomber, asking him again how he came to possess the documents. Sam Riordan listened carefully to Macomber’s story, then passed on the news from Perkins about Debran’s death. Macomber appeared shaken. Riordan asked, “Did Debran mention anything Rudenko said the last time they met?”
“No, sir, except that he seemed quite nervous and agitated.”
Riordan said: “I can imagine he was.”
Weinroth interrupted: “Mr. President, I believe these blueprints are genuine. They are a complete description of the weapon itself.