“Celebrating, Daddy?” his daughter whispered, looking down into the champagne glass she held in both hands.
Bruckner looked at the pale blonde hair, the hint of blue eyes under her long lashes, the delicate bones of her face, the tiny but determined chin. It was as if his wife had been reborn in his daughter. Bruckner’s wife had died at the moment of Cheryl’s birth.
“You’re so much like your mother,” Bruckner whispered, dismissing the young Frenchman beside his daughter from his mind. “Even to her stubbornness.” Bruckner kissed her on the cheek again and walked away.
As he moved along the corridor toward the library, he glanced through one of the picture windows and across the darkened lawns and beyond to the other side of the dark bulk of wrought iron fence separating American embassy territory from Pakistan. There were vans and cars on the other side, and he could see lights for news cameras. The reporters had been there for twelve hours, ever since the United States and several of her allies had announced the intention of leaving the Pakistani capital. Official business was being left in the hands of the redoubtable Swiss. Almost bitterly. Bruckner realized he would be forced to say something to the reporters either when he left in six hours, or else at the airport.
Bruckner stopped at the double doors to the library and pulled down on his waistcoat. He hated formal wear. He placed both hands on the doors and pushed them open with a flourish.
“Gentlemen,” he said briskly, then walked across the oriental rug toward his desk, nodding individually to each of the men waiting for him-the French, the British, the West German and the Swiss ambassadors. “I hope you gentlemen like the cognac,” he said, whisking the tails out of his way as he sat down in the leather chair behind his desk. “Here, Reinhardt,” he started, reaching for the cognac and starting to rise. The Swiss ambassador waved him back down.
“It is my doctor-and my wife. She spies on me for him. No liquor. A horrible way to live,” the Swiss ambassador concluded, sucking on a dry pipe, the sound annoyingly loud to Bruckner.
Pouring a few ounces of cognac into a large crystal snifter for himself, Bruckner cleared his throat, then said, “I, ah, I imagine you all know what this is about?” Then turning back to the Swiss ambassador, he added, “I’m sorry we’re leaving you with all our troubles, Reinhardt.”
“That is part of being Swiss,” the man said, gesturing with a casual wave of his right hand. Then he looked back to his pipe.
“I’m sure I speak for all my colleagues when I say that our governments will certainly not forget the kindness, Reinhardt. Then, on to business, hmmm?”
“Arnold?” It was the British ambassador. “What’s your American CIA saying? Our chaps assess it as the Russians going full tilt. Will that mean war?”
Bruckner sat back, looked at the Englishman, then the Frenchman beside him, then at the others. “I hope not. But the Russians must be stopped. The president and our State Department are in touch with all the governments involved-the prime minister, the French president, the chancellor-I don’t know, in all honesty.”
“Will your president commit the American forces, as he has so indicated?” the French ambassador whispered through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“If the answer won’t leave this room,” Bruckner began, knowing that it would, “then yes. Some of our rapid deployment forces are already preparing for take-off from Egypt. All they need is the word.”
“And vat ist this word,” the West German said, his hands folded across his massive Bismarck-like stomach.
“There’s a time deadline, actually, isn’t there, Arnold,” the British ambassador interjected.
“Yes-true,” Bruckner said, staring into his cognac. “Less than a day, now.” He transferred his gaze to his watch.
“Where did it all go wrong, mes amis,” the Frenchman said, lighting another cigarette on the glowing tip of the nearly burnt out one between his fingers.
“What? Sorry, wasn’t listening,” Bruckner said, absently.
“I said, where did it go wrong?” The Frenchman stood and walked toward the window of Bruckner’s office, parted the heavy drapes there for a moment.
“Where did what go wrong, Serge?” Bruckner asked, his voice suddenly lacking conviction.
“We are all logical men. The Russians are, too. And suddenly the end of humanity is upon us,” the Frenchman whispered, his voice even and emotionless.
“I say, Serge-all this poof about the end of humanity-really,” the British ambassador droned.
“He ist right,” the West German said, his voice rough.
Bruckner stood up and walked around to the front of his desk, then sat on its edge. Staring down at the oriental rug, he said slowly, “You realize that it takes hundreds of hours to make a rug like this? The art is almost lost. Like engraving. No one wants to devote the effort to it anymore.”
“Then I am not the only realist here,” the Frenchman said, and as Bruckner looked up, their eyes met.
“I will take a glass of cognac now,” Reinhardt Getsler, the Swiss ambassador said. “What? Oh, certainly Reinhardt,” Bruckner said, reaching for the cognac. When he started to pour it, he noticed that his hand was shaking so badly that the cognac was spilling. The Frenchman walked over from the window and took the snifter and bottle from him.
“Serge,” Bruckner said, ignoring the others in the room for a moment.
“Oui,” the Frenchman answered, his hand rock steady as he poured the cognac for the Swiss ambassador, then passed the bottle around the room.
“Is your man, Montand-is he only what he claims to be with my daughter? I’ve got to know.”
“Do you mean is he spying on you through her? No. Montand is not.”
“Thank God,” Bruckner said. “I’d hate it if she’d been cheated. You understand?”
“Oui. You can know she has not been cheated of that one thing.” Then, putting his hand on Bruckner’s shoulder he added. “I have known you since before Cheryl was born. Her mother was not cheated of that one thing either, mon ami.”
Bruckner’s hand stopped shaking. The cognac in the snifter he held settled into a smooth pool at the bottom. Without looking up, he whispered, “I have a few formal things that the secretary of state wants us to work out-in just a moment though.” He emptied the glass.
Chapter Eleven
“All right. Let’s just pretend we did a shakedown run and we’ll all rest easily. The electric boat fixers here wouldn’t let us down,” Captain Mitch Wilmer intoned quietly into the microphone. He could hear the faint echo of his own voice coming back to him through the open doorway leading from the bridge over the intercom speaker just beyond. “We’re going down now and Mr. Billings, the exec, tells me the water’s fine. Anything you need to know, I’ll keep you posted. Wilmer out.”
Snapping the microphone back into its mounting bracket on the console dominating the central core of the U.S.S. Benjamin Franklin’s bridge, Wilmer turned to the young man standing just below him by the seated corpsman, saying, “All right, Mr. Billings. You’re on. Take her down, Pete.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Billings snapped. Then, “Prepare for negative buoyancy. All ahead one-quarter. Check the trim on the starboard diving planes, Smith! Let’s get those tanks going. Blow number two and number four. All right, blow one and three. Secure.”
A smile crossing his lips, Wilmer cut in on Billings. “I’ll be in my cabin for a minute, Pete.” Glancing at his Rolex-just about an hour out of New London, Connecticut, now, he saw-he snatched up his baseball cap with the gold braid on the bill and left the bridge. He caught sight of the new sonar man. The man seemed pretty competent. Then he walked down the companionway and to his quarters.
Letting himself in, he snapped on the light, walked past the smaller compartment where he slept and straight toward his desk at the far end of the main cabin. He tossed the baseball cap on the small easy chair, walked around behind the desk and sat down, snatching a thumbnail full of Copenhagen snuff and slipping it into the pouch in his left cheek. He glanced at the photo of his wife and two daughters on his desk.
Fishing in his trouser pocket for his keys, he found the right one and opened the large false drawer at the bottom of the right pedestal of the desk. Bending down to see, he twirled the combination on the small safe there, opened the fireproof door, and reached inside, past his log, for the envelope he’d been given. Wilmer closed the safe, then the desk, and ripped open the manila envelope around the Top-Secret seal. Inside, was a smaller, white envelope. He opened it. On letterhead from the Chief of Naval Operations was printed a single word: “Morningstar.”
“Wonderful,” Wilmer muttered to himself. He put the orders down on his blotter and opened the safe again. This time he had to get out of his chair to reach all the way into the back of the safe and work the combination for access to the interior compartment. Tucked inside was a packet of bulging envelopes, each with a code word printed in the upper left-hand corner and stamped again across the closure flap-just as a precaution, he’d been told, that in haste someone didn’t open the wrong orders.