“If you do,” he said, “it will finish you. The Actor is in a rapidly weakening position — you know that, because you are going to be his successor. That is, if things stay as they are right now. But if you take me out, then you will be personally face-to-face with the man who has beaten you twice already and has the firepower to do it again.”
He saw the dangerous reddening of anger flush the face of the man behind the President’s desk, but he was on a course from which he could not deviate one moment. He kept the initiative because it was his only lifeline. “I was put in the position of being his spokesman — his and the people who surround him. I don’t know any of them or even who they are.”
“I do!” Rostovitch shot at him.
Hewlitt paid no attention. “I didn’t ask for this assignment, but now that I’ve got it I have no choice but to carry it out. I was elected because I speak your language; at the moment I’m a messenger and nothing more. If you want to do something about that submarine, you can send any messages you like through me. I’ll deliver them exactly as you give them as soon as they contact me — whenever and wherever they do.”
"You have been sleeping with Amy Thornbush.”
Amy Thornbush, that name again!
In a flash he saw a gamble, a hugh one, but if it paid off it might mean a reprieve — it could be the key to one more chance. Up to that moment he had been icy cool because in his mind was the unshaped thought that he was already a dead man: Rostovitch had promised to shoot him and there was no doubt that he would. Therefore it made little difference what he said. But Amy Thornbush might bring him back to life — if he guessed right.
“Yes,” he answered. It took him hardly a second to get that out. “And so have you.”
Rostovitch stared at him. “Maybe,” he said. Intensity burned out from him until it was like a consuming fire. “Meanwhile I give you a message; deliver it!”
“As soon as I can. What is it?”
“We have devices of which you do not dream. We have used them. Inform them that their submarine, the one named for the Filipino traitor and that has the high diver on board, was found and sunk by us early this morning!”
22
Admiral Haymarket was still in bed when the first word of Zalinsky’s illness reached the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. Major Pappas received the message on behalf of the First Team; as soon as he had read it he made an immediate decision that despite the strain the admiral had been under he should be awakened and advised at once. The unexpected event would obviously throw the entire timetable off and was bound to have a material effect on the very careful plans which Ed Higbee had drawn up for the next phase of Operation Low Blow.
His long years in the service had taught Haymarket how to wake up from a sound sleep and be alert enough to make a major decision within a few seconds after that. He had carried a great load of responsibility for many years and because of that he had been forced to condition himself to being on duty twenty-four hours of every day. It took the admiral little time, therefore, after he was given the news, to digest it and then to call an emergency meeting of his staff to be held in thirty minutes’ time. That done he got out of bed, allowed himself the luxury of a full shower, shaved, dressed, and made his way to the boardroom where a breakfast to his liking was awaiting him at his place at the head of the table.
Major Pappas was already there. Stanley Cumberland came in, his usual long, lean composed self, and sat down with the general air of a man who listens to a problem and then routinely disposes of it. Walter Wagner and Colonel Prichard arrived together, closely followed by General Gifford with a thick folio under his arm. The last to come in was Ed Higbee, who took his place silently and prepared to listen with the ears of a trained reporter before he would have anything to say. Backing them up there were others of the support framework who also headquartered at the underground complex. Dr. Heise, who had prepared the supposed corpse of Admiral Haymarket, was present, as was the helicopter pilot who passed so well as a hunting guide.
The admiral was handed two more messages which he read before he convened the meeting. “Gentlemen,” he began, “up to now things have been running so smoothly I have been waiting for the other shoe to drop — something had to go haywire somewhere. Well, it has.” Then he told the news and filled them in with the details he had just learned.
“What are his chances of survival?” Colonel Prichard asked.
“Dr. Heise?”
The white-haired physician answered without hesitation. “Barring complications of which I am not aware, very good. He is very much overweight, but in this situation that shouldn’t be too material. There is an element of risk, if he has surgery, but I would assess it at less than ten per cent at this juncture.”
“But he will be out of circulation for a while.”
“Yes, admiral, for the next week count him out of everything. After that he will still be recuperating, but he will be able to make some decisions — if he is still in a position to.”
“Precisely.” The admiral looked around the table. “All of the intelligence that we have been getting indicates that Rostovitch has been closing in on him; if I know that man he will lose no time whatever in taking over in Zalinsky’s place. As of right now, I would guess that Feodor Zalinsky has a damn sight better chance of recovering his health than his job.”
General Gifford responded. “I’ll support that fully, especially in view of the information flow we’ve been getting from the White House. Zalinsky isn’t hacking it, no one man could, and this is undoubtedly his out. The question now is: how can we exploit this to our advantage?” He looked at Ed Higbee for an answer.
Higbee took his time. “As of this moment that will be hard to do — finding an advantage, I mean. I believe it would be a safe assumption to go on the basis that the ball has passed to Rostovitch as of right now. I’ve been over this with Ted Pappas and we have a plan ready; it was drafted to meet the unlikely event that Zalinsky was assassinated, clobbered in traffic, or otherwise taken out of the picture. That is just what has happened now. You tell them, Ted.” Major Pappas was as inhumanly efficient as always. “Assuming that Colonel Rostovitch is in the driver’s seat, then the whole formula of attack must be changed to fit his known characteristics and personality. First, we must have confirmation; I don’t see much room for doubt, but I don’t want to shoot in the dark.”
“I agree with that completely,” the admiral said.
“Thank you, sir. To continue: as soon as we are certain that Rostovitch has taken over the show we will immediately tighten the security around our White House people; depending on the exact circumstances, we may want to take some of them out of there. When that has been done, then I propose that we mount Operation Counterweight at once. It will be rough and we may lose some people, but it will send the colonel a message in language he can understand.”
“Can we do Counterweight?” the admiral asked. “Does the situation still permit?”
“Yes, sir, as of two days ago it does and there is a very high probability that there has been no change. The operational team can be positioned very rapidly. They have been keeping current on any developments and they have reported none.”
“They are fully prepared as to exact targets?”
“Chapter and verse.”
“Go ahead, Ted.”
“Sir, if I could be excused for a moment, I’d like to get my file on this. I don’t want to trust to memory.” As he turned in his chair a member of his staff handed him the wanted folder.