“I never thought I would be getting into bed with the Jews to save my good Russian ass,” he said.
“You are a big enough man to do that, but Comrade Plotovsky?”
“He doesn’t hate Jews,” Shevenko said as he buttoned his coat. “He had a team of dynamiters during the Revolution. That was over fifty years ago. All of them were Jews. They blew up a lot of the Tsar’s troops. Now we’ll see if we can blow up Admiral Zurahv with the help of the Jews.”
“What are you going to ask the Israelis to do?” she half whispered. He stopped at the door and looked at her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
Isser Bernstein put down the telephone and ran his hand over his bald head. He read the notes he had made during his talk with Shevenko and carefully rewrote the notes, fleshing out his self-taught shorthand. His aide came into his office in response to his buzzer.
“Get me Mr. Wilson of the CIA at once, please,” he said. He looked at his wrist watch. “It’s ten-thirty here. Seven hours time difference, three-thirty in the morning there. He should be at home. If he is not, get me Admiral Benson. If he isn’t home get me Admiral Brannon.”
“Bob Wilson better be home in his own bed,” Naomi said primly. She left the room and Isser heard her talking to the operator on the Mossad switchboard. He settled back in his chair and waited, looking at his watch from time to time. The light on his telephone console suddenly began to blink and he picked up the receiver and heard Bob Wilson’s sleepy voice.
“Dr. Saul here,” Isser boomed out. “Wake up. You have a notepad and pen near your bed? Ah, always prepared, are you? Take this down carefully.
“The Soviet Union will launch ballistic missiles from submarines at fifteen thirty hours Greenwich time. Repeat fifteen hundred hours plus thirty minutes Greenwich time. Targets will be hardened missile sites in the United States.
“The attack will be launched ninety repeat ninety minutes after the Politburo goes into emergency session to resolve the differences between the hard and softliners.”
Bob Wilson sat on the edge of his bed, fully awake, the hair on the back of his neck raising. He looked at his notes and took a deep breath to calm himself and then carefully read back what Isser Bernstein had said to him.
“Source?” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Shevenko. He tried to reach me. I was out. His aide called back and gave Naomi instructions I should call him at once. He was not in his office. He was in the office of Leonid Plotovsky of the Politburo. Plotovsky has been the leader of the softliners in the Politburo.”
“Credence?” Wilson said.
“I believe Shevenko is telling the truth, Bob. He wouldn’t dare lie from that old man’s office. Plotovsky would have him hung up by, how do you say it, by his balls. Yes. I would appreciate you calling me back as soon as you have information of what action your side will take.” He listened a moment, swiveling back and forth in his chair.
“For what it is worth, my old friend, and I give you this because I owe you so much: If the attack is launched you may tell your President that Israel will attack the Arab states within minutes after the first missiles leave Russia. We are not going to sit here and be taken by madmen like Nasser and Qaddaffi as if we were rabbits in a pen. Make sure your President knows that.” He put the telephone back on its cradle. He buzzed for Naomi.
“Get me the Prime Minister, please,” he said. Naomi came back into his office in two minutes.
“Her schedule for today reads like she is to attend a meeting of the Knesset, sir. That’s going on now. It’s a closed meeting, the subject matter is the Egyptian aggressions.”
“Hm,” Isser said. “Phone the Chief of Security at the Knesset. Tell him I have to talk to the Prime Minister at once. Tell him the conversation must be conducted over a safe phone.” Naomi left and Isser Bernstein sat, drumming his fingers on his desk top. The telephone rang.
In Washington a sleepy Vice Admiral Mike Brannon was jolted wide awake by the call from Rear Admiral Mike Benson. He dressed as swiftly as he could as his wife made him a cup of strong coffee. He gulped the hot black liquid down and pulled on a heavy overcoat. He stopped at the door and kissed Gloria Brannon and held her close. He heard the single, muted sound of the automobile horn outside and he suddenly hugged her more tightly and kissed her again and trotted down the front steps to the car.
“The White House,” he ordered the driver. He craned his neck, looking out the car window and saw his wife’s ample form outlined against the lights in the living room of his quarters and wondered if he would ever see her again.
CHAPTER 22
Admiral Brannon thanked the Marine Sergeant who opened the door of the Oval Office for him, and walked inside, hearing the door click closed behind him. A mess steward, immaculate at that hour of the morning in a white starched jacket and blue trousers, was putting a tray of cups and saucers and carafes of hot coffee on the sideboard. He finished and left the room and Mike Brannon nodded to the three men who were seated at the long table.
Admiral Benson was wearing a pair of slacks and a sport shirt covered by a pullover sweater. Bob Wilson had apparently put on the first clothes he grabbed out of his closet; his trousers were wrinkled and paint-stained and he had on a gray sweatshirt. Captain Herman Steel was in full uniform, his black tie knotted neatly between the collar wings of his starched white shirt. Brannon walked to the sideboard and filled three cups with coffee and brought them to the table. He nodded at Captain Steel, who barely acknowledged the gesture.
Moise Goldman, dressed in faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck sweater walked into the office followed by the President, who had on a red dressing gown with the Presidential Seal embroidered on the left breast pocket. Goldman got coffee for the President and himself.
“Let’s go over this one more time,” the President said. He sipped at his coffee, his eyes turning toward Bob Wilson. “Start at the beginning, Bob. Moise, take notes, please.”
“I asked for his source, sir. He told me it was Igor Shevenko, chief of the First Directorate of the KGB.”
“What’s the First Directorate?” the President asked.
“That’s the KGB division that is responsible for all intelligence operations outside of the Soviet Union, sir.”
“Do you know anything about this Shevenko?” Goldman asked.
“Yes, sir. I know him. He’s tried to kill me several times. I’ve tried to kill him.”
“Uh, huh,” Goldman said. He doodled a little square on his notepad. “Since you both obviously failed what sort of relationship do you have? A sort of mutual admiration society? Do you talk to each other through Israel?”
“I’ve met Shevenko face to face in the past.” Wilson’s voice was edged. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Goldman. He’s the enemy. I respect him. He’ll lie as easily as he breathes but I don’t think he’s lying now. We know that the KGB doesn’t want a nuclear war. I believe that. Isser Bernstein believes it.”
“Go on,” the President said.
“Bernstein told me that Shevenko’s personal aide had called his office. He was out but Naomi, Bernstein’s right hand girl, told Shevenko’s aide that she could have him return the call in a half an hour. Five minutes later Shevenko’s aide called again and asked to have Bernstein make the call to Leonid Plotovsky’s private office. The number for that phone was given to Bernstein’s aide.”