He grimaced. “I’m not so sure he wasn’t right the first time around. I didn’t get very far.”
“I didn’t really think you would, Ross.” The President cocked his head slightly to one side and nodded toward an antique globe in the Oval Office’s far corner. “We’ve all painted ourselves into corners with this tit-for-tat protectionist crap. We’ve got so many restrictions and retaliatory tariffs on our stuff that it’s amazing anything sells. Nobody’s willing to listen anymore. The major governments are now in power because they promise to ‘protect trade.’ The French. The Germans. The Japanese. Every mother-loving one of us. We’re stuck with a trade war nobody can win.”
He shook his head in disgust. “But nobody wants to back down first. World leaders, hell! We’re all like a bunch of little kids screaming that the other fella threw the first punch.”
“Including you?”
The President snorted. “Especially me! If I even so much as think about relaxing our tariffs or import quotas, I’m gonna have Congress and big labor jumping down my throat with boots on and fangs out! That’s one reason I sent you over to Paris and Berlin, and not somebody carrying a passport stamped ‘U.S. Government Employee.’ If anybody had raised a stink, you’d have just been some overeager private citizen trying a little private diplomacy.”
Huntington arched an eyebrow. “But you still didn’t expect much from my mission?”
“Not really. The trade war’s gone too far for quiet words behind the scenes to have much effect.” The President jabbed a finger at him. “But I did want you to meet my counterparts. I need your firsthand impressions of these men. And your best guesses as to what their next moves might be.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the kind of shrewd, hard-eyed bastard I can trust to give me the straight scoop… without any punches pulled.” The President frowned. “Look, Ross, every other piece of analysis I get is skewed in some damned way. The CIA hems and haws and tries to cover every base from every angle. State’s too busy crawling on its belly to Congress to give me a clear reading. And the rest of my so-called experts can’t make up their minds about what they want for lunch — let alone where Europe’s headed!”
Huntington nodded slowly. Bureaucracies rarely produced anything more than a muddied consensus. The man sitting across from him wouldn’t be the first American president who’d decided to make an end run around the “normal” channels. Or to use a friend and political advisor to do it, either. Woodrow Wilson’s trust in Colonel Edward House and FDR’s use of Harry Hopkins came immediately to mind.
His thoughts twisted away from the comparison. Despite his years of experience in both the domestic and international business arenas, it seemed presumptuous to equate himself with either man. House and Hopkins had helped mold history during two world wars. He only wanted to help his country muddle through its current economic woes. History could look after itself.
He shrugged. “Guesses are about all I can offer, Mr. President. Where would you like me to start?”
“With France.”
The President’s interest in his French counterpart was very keen. Everything both men knew about the European situation pointed to France emerging as the continent’s leading political power. On the surface that seemed illogical. Germany was richer and had a bigger population. It also had Europe’s most powerful army. But the Germans were still stepping somewhat warily — with their economy and industry still weak, they were reluctant to awaken old memories of German military power. While both had economic problems, France had not had the crushing expense of rebuilding half its industry. Their treasury was in better shape, and their industry better established.
Even more important, the French possessed both a substantial nuclear arsenal and a U.N. Security Council veto. That gave them room to maneuver without much fear of foreign interference. And for the moment, at least, Berlin found itself forced to follow the course charted by Paris.
Huntington summoned up a mental image of the French President as he’d last seen him. “Bonnard’s more a figurehead than anything else. He’s too sick and too old to exercise effective control over his own household officials — let alone the country. They say he’s only made ceremonial appearances for the past several months.” He grimaced. “His aides practically had to read your letter to him three or four times before he understood it all.”
The President seemed surprised. “He’s that bad off? I’d read he’s been ill but I hadn’t heard anything like that before.”
“Not many people have, outside the Élysée.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, most of the government’s scared to death of showing any signs of weakness. They don’t want the opposition calling for new elections — not right now.”
“Understandable.” No politician with the brains God gave a snail would want to campaign behind a sickly, senile old man. Especially not at a time of growing civil unrest. “And the second reason?”
Huntington leaned forward. “Let’s just say that certain cabinet ministers enjoy operating pretty much on their own.”
The President nodded. Again, that made perfect sense. Ever since the time of Louis XIV, the Sun King, the French had shown a taste for being ruled by powerful, domineering men. Even under the republic, its presidents functioned more like elected kings than public servants. He could understand why the ambitious officials who often surrounded such leaders would jump at the chance to run their own ministries without interference. “Which ones?”
Huntington ticked them off on his fingers. “The defense chief, Minister of the Interior, head of intelligence, you name it. Practically everyone who controls a powerful department. Bonnard’s Prime Minister is almost as much a nonentity as he is right now.”
“So who’s top dog now? Or are they all still snarling for the honor?”
“Still snarling mostly.” Huntington laughed briefly at the image conjured up by the President’s choice of words. Then he stopped laughing. “But the word is that the intelligence boss seems to be emerging as the first among equals. A man named Nicolas Desaix.”
He remembered the hushed tones his French friends and former business associates had used when discussing Desaix. Their attitude toward the DGSE director had been a strange mixture of unspoken fear and uncomfortable admiration. And if just half the stories they’d told him were true, the man was charming, intelligent, supremely self-confident, and utterly ruthless.
“Will he replace Bonnard?”
“I doubt it.” Huntington shook his head quickly. Everything he’d heard about Desaix suggested the man enjoyed being the eminence behind the throne. He’d be surprised if the French President’s chief puppeteer opted to wear strings around his own arms. “But I do think he’s the man we’ll ultimately have to deal with.”
“Wonderful.” The President looked troubled. “I don’t like the idea of negotiating with somebody I can’t see or talk to directly. Damn it, when I horse-trade with a man, I want to look him right in the eye!”
Huntington agreed with that sentiment. Even in this day of computerized analysis and instantaneous telecommunication, there wasn’t any substitute for the personal touch. Half his success in the business world had come from an ability to size up his competitors, his employees, and his customers: to judge their strengths and weaknesses and to discern their needs and their desires, all in face-to-face meetings.
He rocked back in his chair. “I’d be surprised if Desaix’s interested in real trade talks anyway, Mr. President.”