“But what if they aren’t?” said Luchenko miserably.
“Ah,” said Mish-mish, returning an inscrutable look, signifying exactly nothing.
The meeting between President Horatio Francis Turn-bull and Premier Evgeniy Luchenko took place on 5 November. No interpreters were present, since Luchenko spoke fluent English, and the room in which the meeting took place had been twice swept-first by KGB men who planted their own pinhead-sized surveillance devices, then by NSA security men, who removed them. Whatever the chiefs of state said would be between them.
“Congratulations on your recovery, Mr. President,” Luchenko said with a tight smile.
Turnbull blew his nose. “Nasty, these between-season colds,” he said.
“But not as nasty as all-season heat.”
“True. But you know as well as I that I can’t control what Ripley Forte does. We have an all-points alert out on him. He’s to be shot on sight.”
“Like the last time you shot him?”
President Turnbull shrugged. “We’re big boys, Evgeniy. You know we’re not going to kill an honored, valuable citizen just because Russia wants him dead. Sure, we screwed you people a little, but then, you’re not exactly virgins, are you?”
The Russian glared at him.
“Anyway,” the president continued, “this time we want him dead, and dead he shall be as soon as we can find him. But you didn’t come here to talk about Ripley Forte.”
“On the contrary, that was my purpose.”
It was Turnbull’s turn to be perplexed. Once the Russians discovered that Ripley Forte was alive, he had expected them to raise diplomatic hell. But the issue wasn’t the kind of thing that would inspire an impromptu and secret visit of the Russian premier to America. “Better explain that.”
Luchenko chose his words very carefully. Whatever he said, it must not contain a hint of his real purpose. He knew he could get only so much mileage out of Ripley
Forte, so he had to pursue a different tack. He decided that the man-of-reason approach would work best. “Look here, Mr. President. Those Siberian fires were a bad mistake. They were set without my permission, and I was systematically deceived as to the difficulties involved in putting them out. Once I found out the truth, of course, I ordered troops personally loyal to me to extinguish them. Then I conducted an investigation, rounded up the culprits, and had them all shot. A very useful practice, which you would be well advised to adopt.”
“We give them a fair trial here, then shoot them. But I’m glad you are man enough to admit the mistake.” Turnbull was more at sea than ever. What Luchenko had told him was a lie of course, but why did he admit to such a monstrous act, especially when he knew that any American president, under the circumstances, would immediately use the admission as an excuse to reactivate the nation’s armed forces?
“Yes,” Luchenko said, “I admit the mistake. I declare, our informal agreement committing you to a scaling-down of your armed forces to be null and void.”
Jesus! thought Turnbull. What the hell is going on here? Next thing old Luchenko would volunteer to demob his own military forces.
“And to prove my good faith,” the Russian continued, “I shall unilaterally mothball an equivalent number of my ships and planes, and cut our land forces by one-third, beginning at once.”
“Fine. Fine,” mumbled the stunned president.
“With one proviso.”
Here it comes, thought Turnbull.
“That you arrest Ripley Forte and shut down those nuclear reactors. You see,” he went on hurriedly, “our environmentalists fear for the fishing industry on which we largely depend for our protein. They fear disrupted rain patterns that could cause drought in the world wheatlands and torrential downpours over the Sahara. They fear that the progressive heating of tropical waters could make veritable steambaths of the tropical lands, killing hundreds of millions of people in Asia, Africa, and South America.”
Bullshit! thought Turnbull. They feared something, all right, but environmental and humanitarian considerations didn’t bring Luchenko hotfooting to Washington. But if not that, then what was it he feared? Why did the Soviets, who had heated up the atmosphere to begin with to blackmail the Americans, suddenly cool to the idea? How did Luchenko’s determination to nail Ripley Forte square with Turnbull’s conviction that Forte was working for the Russians? None of this made sense. He couldn’t understand Luchenko’s sudden about-face.
What Turnbull did understand was Luchenko’s desperation. It was obvious that the rugged old bullet-headed marshal wanted that hot-water tap turned off and that he was willing to pay considerably more than the concessions he offered. Turnbull decided to see how far he could push the wily Russian.
“What if I were to tell you I don’t have the slightest influence on Ripley Forte?”
“I wouldn’t believe you, naturally.”
“What if I were to tell you that I’m convinced that Forte is actually working for you?”
Luchenko’s jaw dropped in incredulity. Then he laughed, a short, sharp, disagreeable sound, like a dog worrying a rag doll. He had misjudged Turnbull. The American had some political sense after all. Turnbull would now take an extreme position on the side of the angels, denying any connection with Forte, until he, Luchenko, granted sufficient concessions to make the exchange worthwhile to the Americans. Well, the situation was too desperate for such a traditional political minuet. He had to get those emissions stopped, and stopped right now.
“Your approach might have worked with Mish-mish, and on any other occasion, perhaps even from me you might have wrung certain advantages. I am, after all, a reasonable man. But the situation of the moment does not permit us such luxuries as bargaining like a pair of Armenian rug merchants. I must have your answer, at once, and without equivocation: will you turn over Rip-ley Forte and make to cease those hot-water emissions, in return for the concessions I offered, and even perhaps others that can be negotiated?”
Turnbull would dearly have loved to be able to say yes. The opportunity to wring out Luchenko, squeeze him down to the last destroyer, airplane, and paratrooper, was one that would never come again. But it was impossible. He’d already done his best to lay hands on Forte, but the cagey bastard was hiding on a sub among the thermals somewhere in the millions of square miles of open ocean. He’d surface only when he wanted to. Turnbull would have to convince Luchenko of this unpalatable truth and go on from there.
He tried… and tried… and tried. And failed. Through a lavish lunch brought in after three hours of nonstop discussion he attempted to convince Luchenko of his sincerity. But the Russian’s natural suspicion of Americans, coupled with Turnbull’s admission that the previous assassination attempt on Forte was rigged, made the Russian rocky soil on which to plant that fragile flower, the Unvarnished Truth.
Luchenko wiped his lips, drank a glass of water, and pushed himself back from the table. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he said, “but you force me to unpleasant alternatives. If you do not get those emissions stopped within forty-eight hours, I will be forced to order the activation of Reserve Plan B-l, by which a radio signal from Kiev will cause the release of some twelve hundred canisters of nerve gas secretly planted throughout the United States over the past fifteen years. The gas will penetrate every known type of gas mask, including ours. Fewer than a million people, mainly in remote areas, will survive.”
President Turnbull was grim. “You may do that, Mr. Premier, but meanwhile, you should remember just where you happen to be sitting. Before you leave this room-if that’s your final word-to put your genocidal scheme into effect, I shall order satellites loaded with anthrax, tetanus, plague, and other exotic diseases medical science hasn’t even heard of aloft to dump their cargoes on Russia. This time I won’t be bluffing, and after your threat to wipe out the American people, you’d better believe me.”
The two men glared at each other across the remains of their lunch. Neither was bluffing now, and both knew it. Still, neither knew where to go from here. They had each threatened the other’s nation with wholesale death. Both realized that there was absolutely no guarantee, at this stage of the game, that the other might not do it. For several minutes they remained mute, trying to think of some way to resolve the impasse.
The telephone rang.
President Turnbull picked it up. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed for anything.”
“Yes, sir,” said General Noonie. “But I know you’ll want to talk with the party I’ve got on the other line.”
“Who the devil is it?”
“Ripley Forte.”
31. SNOWBLITZ
5 NOVEMBER 2009
“Mr. President, this is Ripley Forte.”
President Turnbull had a number of things to say to Forte, but decided they could wait. “Speak your piece,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I understand Premier Luchenko is in Washington, out for my blood.”