He pinned the X-rays to his lighted cabinet. And immediately said, “I don’t understand why you had to come to an oncologist.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean any med student could see what’s wrong. See that black mark on the apex — that’s the upper lobe — on the left lung? That’s a very large malignancy. This patient has very little time to live — several months at most.” He then turned to George and asked, “Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”
George hesitated and then asked, “Is it possible for you to tell me if the patient is in any… distress?”
“I can make a pretty accurate conjecture,” Ryder answered and turned back to the photograph. “The carcinoma seems to be impinging on the brachial plexus of nerves. This would cause severe pain in the upper chest at that point and radiate down the arm as well.”
George was momentarily at a loss for further questions.
“Is there anything else I can tell you?” the physician asked.
“Uh — yes. Just some theoretical information, if you would, please — uh — Pete. If this person were your patient, how would you go about treating him?”
“Well, there’s zero chance of actually reversing the disease, but we could perhaps prolong life with X-ray treatment and some of the new drugs like Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan. These could be used singly or in combination.”
“Would they ease the pain?” George asked.
“In many cases. If not, we have a whole pharmacopoeia of narcotics and sedatives.”
“So it’s possible that even a person as sick as this could… die in peace?” George asked.
“I’d like to think that’s a very important part of my job,” Ryder said gently.
“Thank you very much, Pete,” George mumbled, and tried to keep his wits about him to make a nonchalant exit.
“Not at all,” his classmate replied. “But could I ask you a question? I mean, you can count on my complete discretion.”
“What?”
“Is it Brezhnev?”
“I’m sorry,” George replied softly. “I can’t tell you.”
George asked his secretary to get Stephen Webster of the Commerce Department on the phone. He was a technology expert fresh out of MIT who had recently introduced himself to George at a party. And who, like all ambitious young men arriving in Washington, was eager to curry favor with his superiors.
“Gee, Dr. Keller,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a pleasant surprise hearing your voice. How can I help you?”
“Steve,” he began casually, “this is really a very small matter. Are you familiar with this RX-80 business?”
“You mean the Taylor photographic filter?” the scientist inquired, anxious to show he was on top of things.
“Yes. Could you explain to a layman like me just what the thing does?”
“Sure. We’re using it on weather satellites to sharpen our pictures and prevent guys like you from getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.”
“Sounds pretty innocuous to me,” George replied. “That’s the reason some of us at State were wondering why you guys are sitting on it. Could it possibly serve any military purpose?”
“Well,” Webster replied, “almost anything could. It depends how you use it. I mean, theoretically, a clearer satellite image might help you aim a missile better.”
“So which way are you guys going to go on this?”
“Listen, Dr. Keller, I’m practically one step above the office boy. If you want my opinion, it probably depends on what State decides.”
“Do you mean Kissinger?”
“Could I possibly mean anyone else?”
“Thanks, Steve. By the way, do you play tennis?”
“A little,” he replied eagerly.
“Then I’ll call you sometime next week and maybe we could hit a few balls.”
This time it was George’s turn to invite Yakushkin to dinner. He chose Cantina d’Italia, another elegant Washington restaurant favored by the Russians for detente dinners. As soon as they ordered, he got right to the point.
“Dmitri, I’ve done some preliminary explorations with Commerce and it does appear we could possibly speed along your government’s request for that little filter.”
“That’s wonderful news,” said the young diplomat, smiling broadly. “I’m extremely grateful to you. And if there’s any way I can ever reciprocate.…”
George tried to glance around in a nonfurtive way to see if they were within earshot of the other guests.
But Yakushkin knew what was on his mind and immediately remarked, “You know, you wouldn’t recognize your native city, George. Budapest has modern skyscrapers now, modern hospitals with the best facilities and advanced medications.…”
“The very best?”
“I’ll wager they’ve got any drug you have in the West. Try and stump me if you can.”
He had made it easy for George, who had, of course, memorized the relevant pharmacology.
“How about Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan, for example?”
“Certainly obtainable when the circumstances call for them.”
“I’m very impressed,” said George.
And both gamesmen knew it was time to switch to other topics.
In his capacity as Assistant Secretary of State for East European Affairs, George would prepare a series of policy memos, consistent with his boss’s political philosophy, but written by himself and given to Kissinger in a pile at the end of each week.
By now he was so adept at doing this that he could even reproduce Henry’s distinctive turns of phrase. That Friday the heap of correspondence to various departments and bureaus included a brief memo to a middle-ranking office at the Department of Commerce:
There seems no point in holding up the sale of the Taylor RX-80. Its military value is tenuous at best. Besides, we might as well sell to them and get the money before they steal it.
George briefed the Secretary of State on the contents of what he had placed before him.
They were mostly policy directives, notes to various think-tanks to be sure their area studies were on target. And one or two miscellaneous notes, like a memo to DOD about security precautions at an upcoming arms- trade show. Also a note to DOC about an innocuous camera device the Soviets want to buy.
“Who did you check it out with to be sure it was ‘innocuous’?” Kissinger asked.
“Oh, an MIT whiz kid at Commerce named Webster,” George replied casually.
“I don’t think I know him. Is he new?”
George nodded. “But I looked into him. Apparently, nobody knows more than he does about this filter.”
“Do you think I ought to have a word with him myself?”
George’s mind raced frantically. “Uh — I don’t think you need to in this case.”
“I suppose you’re right. You always do a thorough job, George. Okay, you go home while I sign these.”
“Thanks, Henry.”
His boss looked up. “Have a good weekend, George. Don’t work too hard.”
