The defense minister outlined the conclusions reached up to that point and asked: “Professor, could they alter their own weapon to accept our improvements?”
Serkin replied: “It depends on how closely it approximated ours to begin with.”
Brukov broke in: “Essentially the same. In fact, much of our design is based on information we received about theirs from one of their scientists.”
Serkin asked: “How about the nuclear generator?”
Brukov referred to some notes and replied: “Our informant told us on August twenty-fifth they were three months from test fire. The generator was far from ready.”
Serkin’s voice was crisp and sure now. “Then I see no way the blueprints could have brought them even with us. No matter how great an emergency, it would be impossible for them to fire without the power from the generator. Then, of course, they have to be sure the laser itself functions correctly, too.”
Moskanko had heard enough. “Thank you gentlemen. I think I know what to do now. By the way, Serkin, Marshal Bakunin, who is at the complex now, is there only as my special observer. You take all orders directly from me.” The conference call was ended.
In Tashkent, Anatoly Serkin plunged back into his work. He paused fitfully to drink coffee. Though he had not smoked for five years, he now puffed cigarette after cigarette as he tried to concentrate on the technical details of his job. He answered the questions of his assistants perfunctorily and in between conversations sat at his desk thinking of the gentle Andrei Parchuk.
Parchuk had worked in the next room, and Serkin had used the connecting door many times as he sipped coffee with his friend and discussed the day’s work load. Serkin was intensely conscious of the emptiness nearby and could not keep his mind off it.
The calls from Moskanko had also been unsettling. Serkin was convinced the Americans were bluffing, but he was impressed with the audacity of the American President. He marveled that the man was still capable of resisting the enormous pressures being brought against him.
Had Parchuk, too, resisted? Was that why they took him away? Round and round his thoughts went. If Parchuk, who asked only friendship and gave only the love of a lonely man in return, could resist, what should Serkin think of himself?
In three and a half hours he would have to be ready to fire the laser at Washington.
The Security Council meeting had been recessed for nearly an hour. While weary delegates talked in the hallways or slumped in their seats, television commentators tried to fill air time by speculating on the Russians’ next move. Clement Dawson of United News Broadcasting had as his guest the distinguished correspondent of The Toronto Globe and Mail, Henry Pinkham. The venerable Pinkham, an increasingly cynical witness to the futility of the international body, had watched Zarov emote for an hour, giving a Soviet view of recent history. Like many of the bored spectators and delegates, he tried vainly to fathom the latest Soviet tactic. Pinkham was convinced that Zarov was stalling for time, but beyond that he could not imagine what was going to happen. When Clement Dawson asked him to predict, Pinkham shrugged and replied: “I’ve seen them all here, Vishinsky, Zorin, Gromyko, at times when the world was about to go down the drain, and it always seemed you knew their battle plan. The Russians have never been masters of subtlety. And yet this time I must admit I’m stumped by all this. Zarov hasn’t said anything new. In fact, he’s just parroted the party line for an hour. After getting the whole world in an uproar the past two days over the diabolical ambitions of the United States, he’s managed to let us down badly so far. As a reporter, I’m baffled.”
Down below, Ambassador Zarov had suddenly returned to his seat, and other delegates moved quickly to their places. A rumble of noise in the spectators’ gallery was muted by the gavel of Secretary General Svendsen, who reconvened the meeting and asked Zarov if he wished to continue to hold the floor. Zarov said he did and glanced at his watch. It was exactly 8 P.M.
“At this time I am prepared to submit incontrovertible proof that the United States of America has cold-bloodedly planned to initiate hostilities against the socialist countries. I am prepared to show that President William Stark, despite his constant protestations of peace toward all men, has, in fact, ordered an offensive war to be waged shortly against peaceful nations.” Zarov paused while delegates moved up in their chairs for his next words. Ambassador Carlson stared at his Soviet accuser with a bemused expression, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. He even seemed to be smiling at Zarov, who ignored him and continued: “I have the honor of presenting the distinguished Second Secretary of the Soviet Presidium, Comrade Darubin.”
The double doors to the chamber parted, and Mikhail Ivanovich Darubin swept into the room, across the soft carpet, and straight to the Soviet section. He did not look right or left as he took a seat next to Zarov. Darubin grimly looked down at his notes, while delegates and spectators erupted in a babel of conversation at this extraordinary turn of events. In the television room, Henry Pinkham sat stunned at the entrance of the Soviet leader. Dimly aware that the Presidium had been rearranged in the past weeks, Pinkham swiftly tried to place Darubin in his memory bank. He remembered Suez and nothing more.
Secretary General Arndt Svendsen felt a chill as he too attempted to recollect the background of the stranger in his midst. In the kaleidoscope of impressions that assailed him, one fact emerged clearly. Mikhail Darubin was trouble, a man with a sinister drive to place the Soviet Union in a pre-eminent position. To Svendsen, Darubin signaled a reckless pursuit of Soviet aims in the world.
He gaveled the noisy delegates into silence and, in the ensuing quiet, looked at Zarov to continue. Zarov’s face was triumphant.
“Mr. Secretary, I relinquish my chair to my esteemed colleague, Secretary Darubin.”
The Second Secretary of the Soviet Presidium rose slowly and faced the rostrum. Dressed in an expensive Savile Row suit, gray with an almost indistinguishable pinstripe running through it, he looked like a prosperous Wall Street broker.
“Mr. Secretary, I beg you to forgive my intrusion into the deliberations of this august body. I have flown from Moscow to present the Soviet Union’s answer to a situation so appallingly brutal as to defy comparison even with memories of Hitler.”
Across the nation, some television stations had ended their coverage of the Security Council session to resume their regular prime-time fare of Westerns and situation comedies. But most of the audience remained for Darubin’s speech.
In Washington, President William Stark was sitting with Randall and Sam Riordan as they fitfully watched Mikhail Darubin continue his indictment.
“The final proof of our suspicions came to us only a few days ago and in a strange way. I was called to Geneva to meet with a representative of the present American government. Ostensibly, he came to discuss further stages of the disarmament negotiations, which, as you know, we have been pursuing zealously. Instead, the man told us a story that confirmed our worst fears and has brought me here this evening. I would like to have you share now in that conversation. Because of a prior agreement with the man, we were able to record his words so that no doubt would linger in anyone’s mind as to the veracity of the charge we make against President William Stark. His own subordinate’s words will convict him before the world court.”
Darubin turned and nodded to an aide, who pulled a tape recorder from under the desk and carried it to the desk of Secretary General Svendsen. The aide pushed a button and then retired to the Soviet section.
The tape whirred for several seconds, and then the voice of the dead Clifford Erskine filled the room.