“The American press,” the premier went on, “has called Afghanistan a Soviet Viet Nam. It is. But we cannot afford to withdraw from Afghanistan. The United States does not border Viet Nam-it is oceans and thousands of kilometers away. We do border Afghanistan. Some of our most important research facilities are near it. Today, the Moslem populations of our own territories grow restless. Were something the likes of which your government allowed to transpire in Iran to have taken place in Afghanistan, it could have spread into our borders. Guns and propaganda and fighting men are entering Afghanistan through Pakistan. This must stop. No one else in the world has decided to stop it, so we must.”
“But, sir, the entry into Afghanistan is still the subject-”
“Of much debate, yes I know. I am tired of debate. Russian soldiers are dying in Afghanistan. Debate does not bring them back to life! If we were to pull out of Afghanistan, the Moslem peoples in the Soviet Union would view this as a sign of weakness and we might well have open revolt. For a variety of reasons, this could not be tolerated. You know this. It is common knowledge that our primary particle beam weapon research facilities are in an area close to Afghanistan and peopled largely by Moslems. We are advanced-vastly. No-the word is superior. We are superior to you in this field. We are-and you must believe this-at the stage where our particle beam weapons can be deployed terrestrially. I am not talking about laser-equipped hunter-killer satellites at thirty thousand meters overhead or some such. I am talking about cannon-like particle beam weapons which can destroy any American missiles or bombs before they can deliver their weapons and warheads. We are militarily superior.”
“We are aware of Soviet strides in particle beam weaponry,” Stromberg said. “The United States has made similar strides, in some instances along parallel lines.”
“We know what you have and what you don’t have,” the premier said, almost bored. “Ask anyone who has the better of intelligence services. We do. The world knows this. And you must now believe me. This is why we have for so long been sincerely interested in strategic arms limitation talks-to limit nuclear weapons. We can survive with what we have, and still be victorious if need be. But I am not saying this as a threat.”
“Then why are you telling me this, sir?”
“It is simple,” the premier answered slowly. “We do not wish the destruction of the world. There. That is something your president can understand, something on which we are both agreed. We will not withdraw our troops from Pakistan until significant border regions of that nation are totally under Soviet control. We will then leave a residual peacekeeping force and conclude prosecution of the matter in Afghanistan. Within perhaps a few months, at most a few years, Soviet troops will be withdrawn from Pakistan. This, I pledge. But not before.” He drummed his right fist down hard on the desk.
Stromberg watched the hand. His own father had been a roofer before forming his own construction business and rising in society. Stromberg remembered his father’s hands-the huge knuckles. The premier had been a roofer as a young man-had Stromberg not already known that, the massive, raw-boned knuckles would have told him. “The United States certainly does not wish a war with the Soviet Union or any other power, yet we must again insist on the sovereignty of Pakistan.”
“Mr. Stromberg,” the premier said, “you are an ambassador-you are not paid to say what you think. I am a premier-I am paid to say what I think.” He paused. Then: “I do not think the United States will risk a world war over Pakistan. You are bluffing-that is the expression, yes?”
Stromberg nodded.
“Bluffing, then. You have in the past-a great deal. You will again. We will sometimes acquiesce to your bluffing simply to avoid protracted difficulties. But this time, the Soviet Union will not back down. If the president chooses to make his ultimatum public, he will only lose face in the world community. NATO will not back you-of this, I am sure. The Warsaw Pact Nations can easily defeat even the most innovative NATO strategy in Europe. You are hopelessly outnumbered, my friend. If your president is foolish enough to begin a war with us, he will not win. He will be remembered as the destroyer of the United States, not its avenging savior. Perhaps he will be remembered as the destroyer of the world-if there is anyone left to remember him.”
“You would risk that, Mr. Premier?” Stromberg said, incredulous.
“I speak of the welfare of my nation. A man must be willing to risk all for a cause he feels is just. Do you think this is only the prerogative of the West, my friend Stromberg? If you do, then you understand us less than I had thought.”
“What can-” Stromberg stammered.
“Go and tell these things to your president, convince him of my sincerity and my earnest wish for peace. Do not trouble yourself to return here with the formal note. Your assistants can handle that. My formal reply shall be ready for return to your president by then. Now go.” Stromberg started to stand up, but then the premier said, “A bit of advice to you. I like to think that as well as possible we have become something of friends over these three years since your posting here. Stay in the Soviet Union-you will be safe. At least, if you cannot, keep your wife and daughter safe here. I will guard them as if they were my family. Moscow is impervious to attack. It will be-in that eventuality-the safest place on earth for them.”
Stromberg looked into the darkness as he stood before the premier’s desk. “I used to have nightmares about something like this.”
The premier whispered, so softly that the American ambassador could barely make out the words: “I still do.”
Chapter Five
Sarah Rourke rolled over and opened her eyes, leaned toward the bedside lamp, and squinted as she pulled the chain for the light. Looking away from the glare as much as she could, she studied the digital alarm clock beside the bed-Michael would be late for kindergarten. She felt behind the clock. The alarm had been pushed off.
She sat bolt upright in bed, pushing her shoulder-length brown hair back from her face. She had watched the network news the previous evening, then had a hard time getting to sleep afterward. As she pulled away the covers and edged her feet out of the bed, she wondered if John had made it out of Pakistan before the Russians had entered the country. Gingerly, she tested the rug with her toes until she found her slippers, then slipped her feet into them and stood up.
Her pale blue nightgown brushed at her ankles as she reached for the robe on the chair beside the bed and slipped it on.
“Michael”‘ she called from her door, “get up for school. Mommy overslept. Come on. You too, Ann,” she called to their four-year-old daughter.
“I’ll get Ann, Mom,” Michael shouted back.
“All right. I’ll make breakfast. You can eat at school today. No time for me to make your lunch.”
She glanced into Michael’s room first. His was across the hall from her own. And then into Ann’s room before she started toward the head of the stairs.
She stopped. She’d thought she smelled cigar smoke, but supposed it was only her imagination-despite herself she’d been thinking of John all night. But as she stood there at the head of the stairs, she could smell it now quite distinctly. She rubbed her eyes and peered over the banister into the living room below. Someone was in the easy chair by the fireplace-and there was a fire going.
Over the mantel, the brass brackets for the shotgun which John had insisted she keep there were empty. “My God,” she started to say, her hazel eyes staring straight at the back of the head that was half visible above the chair’s headrest.
“You can relax, Sarah.”
He stood and looked up at her, the shotgun and an old rag in his hands. It was John, and for an instant she wasn’t sure she was glad. If it had been a prowler, she would have known how to react. But with her husband, she no longer did.
“Daddy!” It was Michael screaming and running past her, taking the steps down two at a time; then Ann was racing past her too, “Daddy! Daddy!”
Sarah Rourke turned and walked back down the hallway. He’d been cleaning the shotgun. His obsession, she realized, with guns and death and violence hadn’t gone away. Her stomach was churning. She stumbled into the bathroom. Obsession. She looked into the mirror, studied her face a moment, touched her right hand to her hair, realizing that she was like him-obsessed.