Stromberg was halfway to the door before Hensley could intercept him, helping him on with his robe as the ambassador fumbled with the doorknob, then threw open the door to his private office.
Inside, Stromberg took the Andrew Wyeth painting from the wall behind his desk, then felt along the joint of the wall paneling. A piece of the paneling slid away, revealing a small wall safe.
“Sir,” Hensley said. Then, clearing his throat, repeated himself, “Sir!”
“What is it, man?”
“I shouldn’t be here when you go into that safe, sir-that’s against security-”
“The hell with security, Hensley,” Stromberg said.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Stromberg half-shouted.
“Coffee, darling-hot.” Mrs. Stromberg was young-Stromberg couldn’t help but be reminded of that as she entered the room. Hensley stared at her. Her robe was more revealing than Stromberg would have liked.
She started to leave the room, and Stromberg said, “No. Wait here.”
He had the safe open, then sat down at his desk. Looking at Hensley, he said, “Let’s see that message again.”
“Here, sir,” Hensley said. “Should I go now?”
“No-wait. Let’s see what this sucker-sorry dear,” he said absently to his wife, then, “Let’s see what this is all about.”
Stromberg’s wife stood beside him, lighting another cigarette, then putting it between his lips as he worked at the tiny, gray canvas-bound code book. Stromberg could taste her lipstick on the cigarette filter.
He stopped halfway through the message. “Hensley, get the embassy security chief up here, pronto. You come back, too. On the way, go down to the code room and get Washington to retransmit this, to be sure. Verify that they haven’t changed Sigma 9, RB 18 since the last time my book was updated.”
“Should I say that, sir, I mean en clair?”
“Yes, Hensley. They can always change the code later.” And as Hensley left the room, Stromberg muttered, “If there is a later-”
After several minutes he looked up from his desk, stared across the room and saw his wife sitting in the chair opposite his desk, smoking one of his cigarettes. She only smoked his cigarettes, never bought any of her own because she smoked so seldom. He had often wished he could control smoking the way she did-half a pack or a pack one day, nothing for several weeks, then a single cigarette. She had will power.
Stromberg looked across the message in his hands, saying, “I’ll read this to you, Jane. If it’s an error, it doesn’t make any difference. We’ll know that in a minute. If it’s true-” he shrugged- “doesn’t make much difference, either.”
“Security will be miffed with you, George,” she warned, smiling.
“Piss on security,” he grunted. “Here-listen. ‘Instruct you to advise Soviet Premier, formally, in person, following. Ongoing Soviet invasion of Pakistan begun zero eight forty-five Washington time must be halted immediately. Troops must be withdrawn to Afghani border. United States views Soviet aggression in Pakistan as gross violation of Geneva Accords and threat to United States security. STOP. Severe international repercussions will result. The possibility of United States and other NATO power armed intervention not ruled out. Word it tactfully but strongly, George. End it.'”
“My God,” the woman whispered.
“It’s signed by the president, Jane.”
“Do you want me to pretend to be a secretary and call the premier for you?”
“What?” Stromberg said. “Oh, yeah-please. Good idea.”
He stood and walked to the window, staring out onto the embassy grounds below. “This could mean a world war, Jane,” he whispered. His breath clouded the window pane.
“I know, George.” He heard her answer over the clicking of the telephone dial.
“No-wait,” he said suddenly. “Hensley hasn’t verified the Sigma 9, RB 18 code yet.” But he knew the wait was a waste of time. The message was correct.
Chapter Four
The tiny alcove in the antechambers of the premier’s office was oppressive Its cold, almost sterile stone seemed to close in on George Stromberg as he waited, pacing and smoking, looking for an ashtray.
He turned, hearing the premier’s young male secretary re-enter the room.
“The premier will see you now, Ambassador Stromberg.”
“Thank you.” Stromberg followed the secretary down the hallway, past the premier’s formal office, then into another carpeted hall. They stopped before a small dark wooden door. The secretary knocked, then, without waiting for a reply opened the door and stepped aside for Stromberg to enter.
Stromberg waited until the secretary had gone to say anything-the premier rarely advertised the fact that he spoke excellent English.
“Mr. Stromberg, what an unexpected pleasure.” Behind the desk, its green blotter bleached in yellow-tinged light, sat the premier.
“Good evening, sir,” Stromberg said perfunctorily, then approached the desk. He could see only the bottom half of the premier’s face, the stubble showing that the man had not bothered shaving for Stromberg’s unexpected visit.
But was it unexpected, Stromberg wondered? If he had learned anything in three years of representing U.S. interests in Moscow, it was that every Russian politician was a consummate actor, and the premier was perhaps the best of all. “Sit down, please, Mr. Stromberg. You must be tired.”
“I am, sir,” Stromberg said, sitting in the worn leather chair opposite the desk.
The yellow circle of light from the old gooseneck lamp on the premier’s desk left the man’s eyes in shadow. Stromberg was unable to read his face
“And why have you come, Mr. Stromberg? An urgent message from your government?”
“I see no reason why we should mince words, sir,” Stromberg said.
The premier, Stromberg decided, knew him well.
The long, bony fingers of his left hand pushed a small glass ashtray into the pool of light and toward Stromberg. “Feel free to smoke, if you choose. ”
“Thank you, sir,” Stromberg said, then fumbled out his cigarettes and the Dunhill lighter which Jane had given him on his last birthday. Suddenly, Stromberg felt afraid. Had it been his last birthday, hers, everyone’s?
“Mr. Stromberg, since we are speaking plainly, I assume your president wishes to convey some message about our recent decision to protect the internal security of the people of Pakistan. And how is your president, by the way? I was, in all honesty, expecting a call from him directly. But…I see this is not the case. Would that we could talk person-to-person as people think we do.” He chuckled. Stromberg watched the premier’s mouth in the light. The lips set into a tight half-smile.
“A formal note signed by the president will arrive by courier later in the morning. However, the president wishes me to convey his best personal wishes, and that he is troubled by what he can only interpret as an act of aggression-not only against the autonomous government of the people of Pakistan, but against our mutual interest of world peace. ”
“It depends, Mr. Stromberg,” the premier said. A match flashed in the darkness near his heavy brow, then a cloud of cigar smoke filtered into the light of the gooseneck lamp. “It depends upon how one interprets things. We are preserving peace.”
“Mr. Premier,” Stromberg said, clearing his throat, “you said we were speaking frankly. May I?”
“Certainly, Stromberg. We are old friendly adversaries. I sent your daughter a fur ski jacket for her eleventh birthday, remember?”
“Yes, sir-she still wears it often. In fact, she wanted me to thank you personally for the porcelain doll you sent.”
“I mean no harm to you,” the premier whispered, “nor to your wife and daughter, Stromberg. So tell me-the truth.”
“Sir,” Stromberg said, leaning forward in his chair, desperately trying to glimpse the premier’s eyes. “My president’s message was that if Soviet forces are not withdrawn from Pakistan to beyond the border with Afghanistan, there could be severe international repercussions, possible military intervention in Pakistan by U.S. and NATO forces.”
“And you feel, Stromberg,” the premier said, his voice tired-sounding, “that your president is talking about what you would call World War Three, no?”
“Sir, the president’s message said nothing of global war.”
“But total war was between the lines, was it not?”
Stromberg said nothing, and the premier went on. “I will speak frankly with you. It is hard, your not being Russian to understand us. We think in two different languages. In two different ways. You cannot think in the manner that we do, and we cannot think as you do. I appreciate your trying to learn our language. We see our movement into Pakistan as the only way to make our posture in Afghanistan tenable.”
“As you, sir, must believe me,” Stromberg said, lighting another cigarette, “when I tell you that a military response is our only tenable reply to your move.”
“I know this, and for this reason I am sitting here with you at an unholy hour! I do not want a war with the United States. I have never wished this. But you must believe what I am about to tell you. In some ways it is highly secret, but you must know it if you are to prevent a war.”