"Has anything like this turned up in China?" asked Lyman.
"Nope," Lieberman said. "Maybe Feemerov's cheating on his Peiping buddies, too."
"If this is true," Lyman said, "the treaty is dead. And maybe the world too."
"It never figured, Mr. President," said Lieberman, "if you'll pardon me for saying it. I mean the Commies never figured to go through with it."
"No, Saul, I guess it never figured." As he said it, Lyman could see the sunrise in Vienna, Feemerov's outstretched hand, the blink of photo flashbulbs. He could feel the dry itch on his skin from lack of sleep. Above all, he could feel again his own relief and elation.
Now he merely sighed.
"I suppose the Joint Chiefs have been notified?" he asked.
"Yes. The NIC duty officer is supposed to be briefing General Scott right now. We knocked off another evaluation conference. It looked too sure to all of us."
Lyman played with the edges of the map as he thought. Lieberman obviously expected action. But there's more than one predicament for the country now, Saul, and which comes first? And where is there help? Girard's advice is gone-forever. Ray Clark is -is where? There's only Chris. No, there's only Jordan Lyman. The President is alone again. Oh, dry up, Jordie. Get back to earth.
Lyman buzzed and Esther came in at once.
"Esther," the President said, "please get word to all members that there will be a special meeting of the National Security Council Tuesday morning. Make it nine o'clock. Say it's important and no deputies should be sent as substitutes."
Esther scribbled swiftly and withdrew.
"Tuesday?" asked Lieberman. "That's five days away, Mr. President."
Lyman nodded. "I want it that way. We've got to be absolutely sure that we're solid on this build-up before we blow the whistle. I can't jeopardize the treaty on flash information, even though you and I believe it. And I want everybody there, including Vince Gianelli, and he won't be back from Italy until then."
Lieberman's mobile features showed his frustration.
"Look, Saul," the President said. "There's more than six weeks to go until July 1. Whatever we do, it's got to be just right."
When the CIA director left, Lyman found himself trying to sweat this new horror down to size. For the first time that day there were no barriers in his mind to inhibit thought. Russian duplicity, at least, was familiar stuff. Unlike the Scott affair, it was not only plausible but could be countered by techniques that were already on the books.
Lyman knew at once that if the CIA evidence held up under further checking, no pale move would suffice. Feemerov's secret audacity demanded a bold public response.
A direct accusation before the United Nations by Lyman? A proposal that Lyman and Feemerov exchange visits to missile-assembly sites, each man to visit a city of his own choosing? Perhaps a televised speech to the world, using the new satellite communications relays, declaring that America had evidence of developments in Yakutsk and demanding that the Kremlin admit the international inspectors at once? Or, bolder yet, why not fly to Moscow and personally challenge Feemerov to accompany him to any United States missile site-stopping first at Yakutsk?
Lyman frothed with ideas. He scribbled notes rapidly on his memo pad. Maybe, he thought, this is actually a blessing. This may be the turning point, after two decades of trying to live with what his national security aides called "the insupportable." Perhaps not even the brutal and opaque Kremlin could withstand the revulsion of world opinion if Feemerov were caught cheating now. Put the facts to him privately, give him a chance to back down and clean out Yakutsk? There were dozens of fruitful alternatives.
But what about Scott? Suppose he seizes on this intelligence and spills it to the country before I can get to him? Suppose we can't stop him before Saturday? How can he be stopped?
"Esther," he asked on the intercom, "any word yet from Ray?"
"I'm sorry, Governor. Still not a thing."
Lyman crumpled his notes and Lieberman's little map of Russia, then smoothed them out again and slowly tore them into little pieces. As he dropped the shreds into the wastebasket, a thought struck him. The irony of it forced him to smile.
Do you suppose, he wondered, if General Scott is sitting in this chair next Tuesday, he will wish he had the National Security Council to help him decide what to do about Yakutsk?
Thursday Noon
Jiggs Casey smiled as disarmingly as he knew how while Morton Freeman gulped the last inch of his second gibson and jerked the luncheon menu toward him. The gingham tablecloth wrinkled with the movement and the empty cocktail glass splintered on the floor. The television writer glared at Casey.
"Christ, I can't stand neutral people," he complained. "They make me nervous. I said I'd see you as a favor to Shoo, but you sound like a dish of Jell-o."
"I don't want to get into a political discussion, Mr. Freeman. I just want to find out a few things."
Freeman peered through his black-rimmed spectacles and pushed a jumble of hair back off his forehead. He glanced around the crowded restaurant as though seeking allies. Casey felt vaguely like a foreigner, as if he should have shown his passport to the headwaiter.
"I can't figure you, Casey," Freeman said. "You say you want the lowdown on MacPherson so Washington can cut off his water, but you won't commit yourself on anything. Don't you ever stick that big fat neck of yours out?"
It had started peacefully enough. Casey recognized Morty Freeman at once from Shoo's description. When they were settled in a back booth at The Bowl, he stated his business simply, if untruthfully. He said he was a Democrat, in a modest federal job, one of many friends of President Lyman who were concerned about the increasing virulence of Harold MacPherson's attacks on the administration and the nuclear disarmament treaty.
Freeman promptly plunged into a passionate denunciation of nuclear weapons and previous United States policies, praising Lyman for "having the courage" to understand that "the Communists want to live too." When he went on to declare that Eisenhower-Kennedy distrust of the Russians had set civilization back two decades, Casey offered a mild dissent. Freeman rushed on anyway. He blasted military officers as "latter-day Francos," damned the Republican party, the Chamber of Commerce, and the American Medical Association, and called Lyman "the only world statesman since Nehru."
When Casey suggested that the two men represented completely different philosophies, Freeman stopped talking and looked at his luncheon companion as if he had just noticed him for the first time. "Say," he said, "just where do you stand?"
Casey tried to backpedal into a compromise, but Freeman blocked his retreat. Casey decided he had better concentrate on simply holding onto his temper long enough to get out of this place with some information. Freeman continued to demand that he take the stand and testify.
"Look," Casey finally said, "I've stuck my neck out once or twice, but that isn't my job right now. I'm trying to get some facts that will put MacPherson where he belongs, and what I believe about birth control or aid to Yugoslavia hasn't a thing to do with that. Are you going to help me or not?"
Freeman squeezed into the corner of the booth. "How do I know you're not some frigging FBI agent and this isn't some trick to blacklist me?"
Good God, Casey thought, they complain about Scott having right-wing oddballs on his side. Well, it looks like Lyman has managed to collect at least one lulu from deep left field. He covered the thought with a smile.
"You don't, unless you think Shoo, who happens to be an old friend of mine, would deliberately trap you. Come on, let's talk sense."