World War III

“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?”

“Your grain embargo, of course. There is nothing else.”

“It’s our grain, Mr. Chairman.” McKenna leaned slightly forward. “In a democracy we sell our products to whom we wish.”

“Grain is food,” Gorny said with the tiniest impatience, “but you use it as a weapon against us.