"He's on the hook," Gunther continued. "Nikitin isn't fooling around on this. He's going on TV to dare the President not to appear in Geneva next Thrusday. The man can't not be there, and Nikitin knows that."
The director sighed, spreading his large hands.
"Dick, I understand all that. There's no answer, nothing but Winter Hawk. Dammit, the President has to let us try." He glanced at a group of small, silver-framed photographs ranged near him on the desk. Calvin as college football player, Calvin as naval officer, Calvin receiving an honorary degree in England, Inauguration Day, waving beside the First Lady. The roles the man had played. 'There's no other way the agency can help, Dick."
"You have to, Bill."
"How? You want a solution to this mess? Five weeks ago we didn't have the faintest idea the Soviets were within fifteen years of developing a weapon like this and placing it in orbit. We never had an agent at Semipalatinsk — all we had was Cactus Plant, a low-grade agent-in-place at Baikonur, useful for tipping us off when a launch was about to happen and for telling us what kind of satellite they were putting up. Then, he stumbles on — this. We're four days away from the launch date of the first of a dozen satellites, and we haven't even gotten our second wind on this thing." His voice was firm, but tight and small in his throat; angry, guilty, and maybe afraid, too. "We're four days away from this country becoming a third-class power, and the President wants a nice neat answer?" Calvin would be listening, of course, but he had to hear it was hopeless unless they relied on Winter Hawk.
Gunther's voice was soothing when he replied, but it rubbed like sandpaper, the implacables of the situation scoured.
"All that's history, Bill, already history. He's delayed as much as he possibly can, but no one can work miracles. We can't get the ring of Nessus surveillance satellites into operation in time to detect the launching of these weapons. Nessus and everything else is going to be at their mercy. That's why Nikitin is hurrying everything forward. The President can't be seen to be dragging his feet now — it's his treaty, dammit. Once the document is signed, there's a two-month ratification period, and by then every ICBM we have left, every satellite — Big Bird, Navstar, Milstar, the whole bag of tricks — will be at the mercy of the laser battle stations. The man is terrified he's going to go down in history as the President who gave his country away on a silver plate. Give him some room to maneuver, Bill — a little elbow room. Work a miracle."
Gunther had perched himself on the edge of the desk, leaning intently toward the director as he spoke. Now he stood up and walked to the window as he continued speaking. The director felt no slackening of the tension and depression throughout his body.
"He blames everyone, Bill — you, me, our agencies, the chiefs of staff, just about everyone — like he's been betrayed." The chill light of the windows palsied Gunther's cheek. "This was his treaty from the beginning. He blames all of us for not guessing what the Soviets were doing at Semipalatinsk. He blames us for advising that he agree to the Soviet suggestion not to bother to include orbiting weapons systems in the treaty. Neither side had them or could have them inside fifteen years, so what the hell, we all said. It was science fiction two years ago, Bill."
"And now its not. It's a reality."
Gunther turned from the window. "Bill, give him something," he pleaded.
Gunther had raised his voice, as to give a theatrical cue, and Calvin reentered the room. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked to the desk. Gunther moved to one side.
"Have you explained?" he asked Gunther, his voice clipped and hard. The winter daylight was again cold on his face.
"I have, Mr. President."
"Well, Bill, well?"
The director nervously and with great reluctance shook his head. Then he said: "We have Winter Hawk, Mr. President, and that's all we have. If we initiate now—"
"It won't work!"
"It has to."
The silence was stormy, the director's temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Calvin slapped his hand on his desk, then slumped into his swivel chair. He stared out at the White House lawns, deep in snow, at the pale spike of the monument. Stared into a close and ugly future.
He announced to the window: "I have to have irrefutable photographic evidence that these weapons exist. With that much, I can go to Geneva and denounce the Soviets — get their laser weapons included in the treaty. If I don't have it, world opinion will break me and this country." He turned to face the director. "OK, Bill," he added, raising his palms outward in what might have been surrender. "Do it. Initiate Winter Hawk today — now. Get those guys off their butts in Nevada and into the air before this afternoon. Forty-eight hours maximum, you said. Bill, I'm holding you to that. Tuesday, on my desk — proof!"
Sunday nights he was always drunk. Just like now, but not usually here, in his own flat, because he was afraid to go out, or be seen anywhere. Filip Kedrov looked at his shaking hands, quivering in front of his face. His eyes filled with a leaky self-pity, his body was possessed by an ague of terror. Christ! He'd tried not to drink any more after he returned to the flat, because of what he knew lay ahead of him, but it had been no good. He'd had to calm himself down, or try to — he was so frightened! He'd been back an hour and he was still shaking like a leaf. He had literally fled from the officers' club they allowed people like him to use on weekends, fled because of that telemetry officer opening his big mouth in the toilet while Filip was in one of the cubicles. Christ, why had he had to listen? It was terrible, terrible.
His fear was real and deep, in every part of his body like a fever. He clutched the hand he had been inspecting beneath his arm as if he had been caned in school. He folded his arms.
He knocked over his half-filled glass. Beer foamed on the thin carpet, then soaked into it.
Sick with fear, he wandered toward the window, avoiding the low coffee table. It wasn't in a sensible position, but it disguised a threadbare patch in the carpet. He reached for the curtain, knowing he would not pull it aside because of the watchers out there.
He walked away. His eyes scanned the room as if he were making an inventory for some insurance claim. Hi-fi, bottles, a cupboard, cheap dining table and chairs. Some pieces that had belonged to his mother, but mostly standard-issue furniture appropriate to his status. His eyes flitted, unable to settle, like his body. He'd tried not to drink anymore, to keep the remains of a clear head.
Not drunk. Just terrified. Tomorrow he would have had to evade the people outside anyway, so he'd gone out to the club because he always did, so as not to show he knew they were watching him. But he shouldn't have gone. Now he knew he must leave tonight, at once. The big-mouthed officer had seen to that. They'd be looking for him, and when they discovered who he was, they'd be right over to shut his mouth — for good. God, they'd kill him for what he'd overheard.
His stomach cramped agonizingly, and he doubled up, groaning and retching dryly. Why couldn't the drunken pig have kept his big mouth shut? Why had he had to overhear what they were saying while they pissed in the urinal? Why, oh, God, why?
Slowly, the pain retreated. Filip's head cleared a little. His brow felt hot.
There were two men in a car at the front of the block of flats at that moment. A third man was in the shadows at the rear, near the garage. He could place them precisely just by closing his eyes. That's where they'd been when he went out, and to where they'd return after following him back from the club. Closing his eyes made him giddy. There were only three of them, and they still had no orders to close in.