'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 Troops must be withdrawn to Afghani border.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 reenter 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.'
