“I am sure you realize, Mr. Darubin, I am a devoted American, but I am sickened at the thought of my country’s diabolical plan.”
Darubin was very pleased with his handiwork. It had been his idea to tape Erskine’s voice secretly in Geneva and then splice words and phrases into an incriminating statement. Delegates who had known Erskine were sitting in bewildered silence, listening to every syllable issuing from the machine. Even Ronald Carlson had dropped his attitude of feigned indifference. He stared at the instrument in dismay.
“I have come to Geneva to warn you. President Stark and his advisors plan to destroy the Soviet Union, using atomic weapons on your cities and missile sites.”
In the oval office, William Stark just stared at the television screen in amazement. When Randall tried to speak, the President waved him into silence.
Clifford Erskine had come to life again.
“As a sane man, I could not live with the thought that I had not tried to prevent the deaths of millions of innocent people.”
It was over. The machine turned for a few seconds and then clicked to a sudden stop. The chamber was silent. Darubin rose once again from his seat and addressed Arndt Svendsen.
“And now, for the last measure of proof that the Americans are plotting against us. Once before, in May of 1960, my government was forced to expose publicly an infamous act by the government of the United States. At that time, Comrade Khrushchev revealed to a shocked world that he had in custody an American U-2 spy plane and the spy plane pilot, Francis Gary Powers. I have just been informed by my colleagues in Moscow that we have foiled an attempt by American spy personnel to infiltrate and destroy one of our defense centers. We have the leader of that group, Colonel Joseph Safcek, Green Berets, serial number 0-1926112. Safcek has confessed everything about his mission and has directly implicated the President of the United States.”
The gallery erupted. The delegates stared at the United States ambassador whose face was in his hands. His eyes were riveted on the tops of his shiny black shoes. Ronald Carlson was reminding himself to resign the next day for allowing William Stark to strand him out on the limb of ignorance.
“In conclusion, Mr. Secretary,” Darubin was going on despite the clamor, which quickly subsided now. “In conclusion, I would like to state our position on this matter. We have no intention on being caught by surprise by the imperialist forces. If we detect the slightest sign of further hostile action toward us at any time within the next twenty-four hours, we shall retaliate with maximum power. This is not a threat. It is merely a statement of fact. We cannot be held responsible for what might happen since the burden of guilt lies heavily on Washington. The decision for war or peace lies in the White House.”
Darubin inclined his head slightly toward Svendsen, gathered up his papers, and strode away from the desk. Followed by Zarov and others, he marched determinedly through the opened door and disappeared, leaving bedlam in his wake.
The Security Council degenerated into an impassioned scramble for attention. Ronald Carlson tried to get the floor but was surrounded by a milling throng of officials, demanding his private response.
In the streets outside the United Nations Building, pickets carrying transistor radios had heard the news from inside and instantly organized a raucous demonstration before the gates on First Avenue. Screaming “Impeach Stark” and “Fascist Pigs,” hundreds of men and women walked back and forth in the humid night air. The police firmly held the crowd to the narrow path they had been assigned on the sidewalk, and the parade was kept within bounds. Television cameras brought the scene to the millions who had witnessed the confrontation. Most Americans were still dubious about the Russians, but they had been stunned by the spy revelation after being shaken by the voice of the dead secretary, who had persuasively condemned the President of the United States.
Washington, D.C., was free of crime for the first time in years. Except for a few government employees and embassy officials, the only pedestrians were army troops patrolling in mournful silence. Under the street lights they looked like a ghost battalion, seeking comfort in one another’s company, smoking cigarettes, and listening for footfalls in the night. They prowled empty avenues in pairs looking constantly for signs of looters. But no one roamed the streets. The city was truly deserted, a tribute to William Stark’s planning and the specter of further catastrophe.
Near the Union Station, firemen had finally left the two-block area where the pipeline had burst. Only the scars of the disaster remained.
At the White House, the President had not fully recovered from the Soviet stratagem at the United Nations. Staggered at the audacious use of the doctored Clifford Erskine tape almost as much as at the irrevocable news of Safcek’s failure, Stark felt increasingly like the fly caught in the spider’s web. The more he maneuvered, the tighter the enemy drew the net around him.
He finally excused himself from his advisors and walked into the bathroom. When he poured a cup of water, the liquid spilled over his coat, and he had to hold the cup in both hands to get a drink. In the mirror, his face was chalk white and beaded with sweat.
The President sagged down onto the edge of the bathtub and put his head down onto his arms. His stomach quivered, and his body started to shake uncontrollably. He suddenly knew why. It was simply fear, fear of the next hours and the decisions he had to make. He remembered Korea and the same reaction when the Chinese caught him in the open and laid in fifteen rounds. He had clawed with his bare hands into the dirt to escape the terrible noise and the screaming scraps of metal that searched for him. When it was over, he had begun to shake, and it was hours before he could function again.
Stark sat on the edge of the tub and thought of Harry Truman, who said, “The buck stops here.” He thought of his responsibility to the people — the farmers and the South, the liberals, and even the radicals. The President thought of them and wondered whether they were all worth saving, whether the human race wasn’t just a collection of muck dredged up from some prehistoric sewer to pollute the planet. The President recalled his continuing problems with the polarized society, consumed by its insecurities and prejudices: the peace-and-love people who held their fingers spread out in their special salute and were fully capable of ramming those same fingers up your ass if you didn’t agree with their ideas, and their smug and equally righteous opponents who professed great morality while clawing their way to affluence. They were all flawed and unable to recognize it in the mirror.
William Stark thought of the nation he was supposed to save from the barbarians. “Christ, we’re all barbarians.”
The voice of Sam Riordan broke into his reverie. The CIA director was calling him out to the teletype. Stark splashed some cold water on his eyes and stepped out to face his duty.
By 9 P.M., New York time, the one hundred and seventy-six Soviet Embassy and consulate officials who had assembled around the Darubin visit had not left for Kennedy International Airport. Instead, they had gathered to celebrate at the building that housed the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, there to wait the remaining two hours and eighteen minutes until the ultimatum expired. Mikhail Ivanovich Darubin was jubilant over his success at the UN. He patted the tape recorder beside him and offered a toast: “To Mr. Clifford Erskine, our Number One spy — and to Colonel Safcek.”
Loud laughter accompanied the remark, and Darubin leaned back to savor his spectacular triumph. He knew Stark would be unable to rebut the charges. With the laser facing him down, Stark would be forced to surrender without a fight. The Soviets had boxed him in, and the President could not accept the onus of guilt for launching a nuclear war that would kill millions.