Bull stared.
Sullivan, the die cast, went on: ‘It seems a huge flood of information came in with the signal. They’re trying to work out what it means. Inter alia, the signal includes information about the human genome.’
‘Our genetic make-up? How could aliens possibly know about something like that?’
Sullivan spread his hands wide. ‘I — they — have no idea.’ He pointed to the envelope in the President’s lap. ‘That’s a transcript of the conversation. It’s long, but you’ll see I’ve added a three-page précis at the beginning. Mr President, if this is for real…’
Bull was looking at the CIA Director as if the man had gone mad. ‘Is that it? A phone call between two guys purporting to be top Russian scientists?’ He drew back his lips and gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘It’s obvious! They’ve figured you’re listening and they’re feeding you a load of bullshit.’
The dreaded giggle factor.
Sullivan shook his head emphatically. ‘The call was from Velikhov’s home address. Just to be double sure, I got my people to run a voiceprint on a snatch of the conversation. Not a significant part,’ Sullivan added as the President opened his mouth. ‘It matches old newsreel stuff we have on Velikhov. No question, the President of the Russian Academy of Sciences made that call. By inference, this Shtyrkov was the man he called.’
‘And the place?’
‘Some castle in Slovakia.’
‘Slovakia? What in hell’s name does a castle in Slovakia have to do with anything?’
‘That’s where we think the alien signal is being analysed. It’s all in the report, sir.’
‘We?’ Alarm crept into the President’s voice. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘So far nobody. The Moscow intercept team, but they’re passing on stuff which, so far as they know, is a hoax. They only put it in the pouch because they thought it meant the Russians had discovered they were being bugged.’
‘I reckon they’ve got more sense than you. Why are you bothering me with this science-fiction stuff?’
‘Sir, I’ve been in the game for a very long time: false flag recruitment, mission impossibles, stuff that makes James Bond look like Goldilocks. This doesn’t have the right signature for a sting. For a start, it’s impossible to believe. Mr President, according to this Shtyrkov, the signal may also turn out to contain recipes for creating enzymes to alter genetic structure in fundamental ways. What this means I don’t know. Maybe it can be used to cure diseases, maybe to create a new kind of human.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Al.’ Bull’s tone was one of utter rejection.
‘Yes, sir, I know.’
Bull put his hand over his mouth and looked into the flames. ‘The world’s full of creeps who would love to see this nation humiliated.’
‘Yes, sir, some of them within our shores.’ Sullivan wondered what the old man was driving at.
‘East coast editors especially. Now say this thing turns out to be a giant sting, which I expect it is, and the media get hold of it.’
Sullivan saw the point. He said, ‘I see the point.’
‘Exactly. This Administration would be ridiculed to hell, become the laughing stock of the world. What credibility would we be left with, say we used CIA analysis to warn of an imminent threat?’
And what would happen to you come election time, next November? Sullivan thought.
‘You’re right, Mr President. But let’s say it’s for real, which I believe. Uncontrolled publicity could be equally bad. We could have public panic.’
President Bull narrowed his eyes contemplatively. ‘So. Either way you keep your mouth firmly shut. That includes talking to McLarty. Okay?’
‘Agreed, sir. It’s the only way to handle this.’
Bull flapped the envelope. ‘I’ll take it from here. And I’ll read this with interest.’
Sullivan took his cue and stood up. ‘Mr President, there’s something else.’
‘Hit me with it, Al.’
‘Even without useful information in the signal, the implications of an intelligence out there need a lot of very careful thought.’
The President nodded. ‘We’d be walking barefoot through broken glass.’
Fifty minutes after Sullivan took his leave, the President made one phone call.
The call was to a house in Fairfax County. It was a large two-storey dwelling with mock-colonial architecture, and it overlooked the Potomac River. The call was intended for Hazel Baxendale, the President’s Science Adviser. Her husband took it sleepily, sat bolt upright, and handed the cordless phone over to his wife, mouthing ‘The President!’ silently.
President Bull’s voice was edged with tiredness. ‘Hazey? I wakened you, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay, Mr President.’
‘I need you in the Situation Room in a couple of hours. Can you manage that?’
‘No problem, sir.’ Strange!
‘And then I’d like you to join me in Camp David tomorrow. Could use a little advice over the weekend. Unless you’re otherwise fixed up.’
Baxendale’s married daughter was due to arrive from Canada at Dulles, along with Husband Number Two and Alice, Hazel’s six-year-old granddaughter. She had looked forward to this weekend for weeks, talked about a couple of days in the Poconos, maybe riding or even taking a canoe trip. ‘No, Mr President, that will be fine.’
‘Share my helicopter, Hazel. Be on the lawn after my morning briefing.’
It was now well after midnight, and silence had long since descended on the normally busy corridors of the White House. The President wrote a brief note, which he folded and put in an envelope carrying the presidential seal. He wondered grimly how the recipient would react to it. Then he called for an aide and asked for hand delivery. In the corridor outside the office, the aide looked at the envelope. It was an unfamilar address somewhere in North Carolina, and it was about eight hours’ drive away.
24
Pandora’s Box
The cabin was hot and already the Prime Minister could feel light beads of perspiration on his forehead.
The source of the heat was a glass-fronted stove, with logs glowing bright red and blue-white flames disappearing up a black flue. Logs were piled neatly on either side of it. On a mantelpiece above were beer glasses, books with German titles and a copper hod with long matches. The room was small; floors, walls and ceiling were pine-clad. A sideboard held an eclectic assortment of pottery and photographs. On the wall with the door, resting on hooks, were a long hunting rifle, two fishing rods, snowshoes, a row of heavy fur coats and Pembroke’s hat. The smell of pasta and Mediterranean herbs drifted through from a half-open door and reminded Edgeworth that he hadn’t eaten for twelve hours.
Ogorodnikov and Edgeworth were scarcely three feet apart, facing each other across a rough wooden table. Ogorodnikov’s translator, immediately to the President’s left, was a thin, near-bald man with a goatee beard, spectacles and a dark suit and tie. To Edgeworth, he bore a startling resemblance to a young Lenin. The far ends of the table were occupied by Velikhov and Pembroke.
The Academician’s presence gave the PM an uneasy feeling that he had been manipulated. Now scientific input would be delivered by a man whose country’s interests were not necessarily those of his own. And Pembroke would be as useful as a chocolate teapot. To judge by his slightly dismayed expression, Pembroke seemed to think so too.
Edgeworth glanced at Uncle Ogorodnikov, wondered if he had indeed engineered the situation. Ogorodnikov caught the look, but the man’s face was impervious to scrutiny. He opened the exchange, looking directly into Edgeworth’s eyes. The high-flier from the FO was sitting on Edgeworth’s right — the PM’s good ear. He translated Ogorodnikov’s words: ‘What are we to make of this, Prime Minister? Are we witnessing the end of mankind’s childhood?’