“They can’t take it,” Caffey said. “Those boys can’t do it again. I can’t do it again. One helicopter and a bucket of fuel is not going to stop those bastards.”
“You need rest, Jake. C’mon.” She took his arm.
“It’s the fucking cold,” Caffey said as he allowed himself to be lead to the Joneses’ bedroom. “It’s the cold and the snow and… goddamnit! I should have known! I should have hit them earlier… from a defensible position! We could have taken out the fucking rockets!”
Kate made him lie down. There were tears in her eyes. “Go to sleep, Jake. I’ll let you know if… when we get a call through. You have to rest.”
“They could drop us something,” Caffey mumbled. He rolled on his side, only half conscious. “We can’t send boys… against missiles.” He closed his eyes. “Tell… Cordobes… briefing at midnight.
We have to… think… something. There’s no morphine. Have… to have… morph…”
Exhaustion overcame him before he could finish another word. Kate draped a blanket over him and sat on the floor beside the bed. “Someone will come,” she said softly to his back. “Goddamn them, Jake Caffey, they have to come.” She touched his hair, smoothing the matted lumps. Then she closed her eyes and wept.
Milton Weston dialed the number from the study of his Washington residence. She’d written it down for him because it was an unlisted number.
The telephone rang only twice.
“Hello?”
“Miss Longworth, it’s Milt Weston.”
“Senator,” she said pleasantly. “What a surprise.”
“I wanted to talk to you—”
“Why don’t we meet somewhere, Senator,” she said quickly.
“No, this won’t take long. I called you at home because I knew you’d be alone.”
“I hope that wasn’t meant to be complimentary.”
“I spoke to Alan Tennant earlier this evening,” Weston said. “Alan and I go way back. He trusts me.”
“So?”
“We had a long talk.”
“Oh? And?”
“It isn’t good news.”
There was a pause. “Look, Senator, why don’t we meet somewhere?”
“No, I don’t think that would be wise.”
“The… Christ! Wait a second, Senator. Let me get a pen.”
Weston heard the phone bang against something. She was back in less than ten seconds. “Okay, Senator, I’m ready.”
“I’m only calling you because I think it is the proper thing to do under the circumstances. I want you to understand that. I wouldn’t otherwise make this call. But I think it’s more important that you get all this straight.”
“I understand exactly,” she said eagerly. “You said it was bad news. I knew—”
“I said it wasn’t good news. I meant that in a journalistic sense.”
“Just tell me, Senator. I’ll make the journalistic decisions. What did Tennant say? I just knew that bastard McKenna was sitting on a big mess…”
“There isn’t any mess, Dorothy.”
“What?”
“There isn’t any crisis going on in the White House or anywhere else except in that lurid imagination of yours.”
“Wait a minute—”
“No crisis and no coverup. No nothing.”
“That’s impossible! My sources—”
“If you have any reliable sources, which I sincerely doubt, then they are mistaken. There’s nothing going on. I don’t know where you got this wild story of a crisis, unless it’s something you and Wes Nichols hatched together, but I promise you that if you print any bullshit I will personally see that Nichols gets full credit for supplying it to you. By the time people stop laughing, your so-called candidate won’t be allowed into his party’s convention even to clean up cigarette butts.”
“You’re covering for him!” she screamed. “You sonofabitch! McKenna bought you off!”
“If you think so, print it. Print anything you like.”
“You know I can’t print anything without confirming it.”
“Why would you start verifying stories now? It never stopped you before… having the facts.”
“You bastard!”
Weston nodded to himself. “Yes, that’s the Dorothy Longworth I know. The shrieking, hysterical shrew.
Well, nighty-night, Dorothy. It was nice talking to you.”
“Don’t you hang up on me, Weston! Don’t y—”
The senator set the receiver down gently. He leaned back and put his feet on his desk. Who’d have thought fucking that woman could be so much fun.
REYKJAVIK, ICELAND
The only meeting place that the Secret Service could find on short notice that lent itself to both privacy and security was the gymnasium of a junior high school that had been closed for the Christmas holidays. Red and green streamers were still taped to the walls along with hand-painted cardboard signs welcoming ninth-graders to “The Last Dance of 1983.”
The Soviets had already arrived when the president entered.’There were four of them in the center of the basketball court — Gorny, of course, who was seated at a portable card table; a translator; Madame Nadia Kortner, minister of agriculture; and Aleksey Rudenski, minister of external affairs. All stood behind the chairman. Standing at the other end of the gym, behind the out-of-bounds line beyond the basket, were members of Gorny’s personal bodyguard detail. They were as grim-faced as McKenna’s Secret Service bodyguards, who were likewise instructed to stay out of the playing field.
The footsteps of the president, Farber and Quade echoed together as they walked to center court. Gorny rose as they approached.
“Mr. President,” Gorny said. He smiled and offered his hand. “It is good to finally meet you.” His English was heavily accented but precisely spoken, as if he’d rehearsed it several times.
McKenna took his hand. “Mr. Chairman, you look well. It’s difficult to believe you’ve just turned fifty-seven.”
Gorny chuckled. “Fifty-six, Mr. President. And thank you for your telegram. I was very much moved.”
“I’d like to present Dr. Farber,” McKenna said. He turned slightly to indicate his NSC advisor, who stood with Quade a few feet behind and to the right. “Jules is my assistant for national security. And Mr. Quade, undersecretary of defense.”
Gorny bowed his head in polite acknowledgment. “I am pleased to introduce to you our minister of agriculture, Madame Kortner, and Colonel-General Aleksey Rudenski, minister of external affairs.” He gestured toward the interpreter. “I hope it is not a great infraction of our agreement, Mr. President, but I included a translator in our group. It had escaped me, but comrade Kortner does not speak English so well.”
“It’s all right.” McKenna smiled at the squatty woman dressed in a severe suit. “I’m not against anything that might help us understand one another.”
Gorny and McKenna sat down opposite each other at the small table. Each of the attending seconds took a step closer behind his respective leader.
“I’d like to begin this, Mr. Chairman,” said the president in a pleasant voice, “by asking you the obvious question.”
“Of course.”
“What the hell are you doing on my land?”
“Reluctantly but firmly retaliating,” Gorny said calmly.
“Finally — an admission that the force is Soviet. Ambassador Orlavski has not been so forthright. He keeps insisting that you’ve lost a satellite.”
“It is an ambassador’s job to be devious. But we are here, I hope, to discuss issues. Matters of urgency.
We bear great responsibility, you and I do, Mr. President.”
“Exactly how is your military invasion of Alaska a retaliation,” McKenna said. He spoke precisely so the interpreter would get every word. “Retaliatory against what?”