“True, but Harper’s put a block on any further action until he’s taken advice.”
“From whom?”
“From Chief Justice Elliot and Speaker Bethel. You and I are flying to Washington tomorrow, and both of us are seeing Harper. Then all of us are meeting Elliot and Bethel.”
“Won’t they raise hell at me being there?”
“Harper says he’s not going to sweep anything under the carpet. If he did and it came out later, some crafty bastard could pull it apart as a ploy by London. Harper’s view is that it’s too serious to play games.”
“I think he’s right, but when you want me off the lot you just say so.”
“Don’t worry, friend. We will.” He walked over to the TV and turned it on. “I think there’s going to be some sort of statement from Powell.”
The picture came up, and slowly the colour built up.
There were at least forty reporters at the foot of the aircraft steps. TV crews, and the usual foliage of microphones. Powell stood there with his coat collar turned up and the wind tugging at his hair, smiling, as Newman, who was acting as Press Secretary, made one of the crews shift lights so that the handsome face would lose its gauntness. He looked even younger than Kennedy had looked. He was forty in two weeks’ time. It was a crisp, cold night, and there was a fan-heater working from a generator to ease the cold of Powell’s feet. He craned forward to catch the first question.
“I’m sorry I can’t hear you, Mr. Francis.”
“Have you any comment to make on the statement issued today from Bonn regarding US troops in Europe?”
“Yes. I think that the Federal German Chancellor is saying to the American people—remember your commitments in Europe.”
“And what’s your answer, sir?”
“Our commitments remain, but the form of our demonstration of that commitment will not necessarily, in future, be represented by American forces in Europe. They could be sent there when, and if, they are needed.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then a clamour of voices. Powell nodded at a girl reporter in a white fur hat.
“There have been recent comments from the Pentagon indicating that without US troops in Europe, Soviet forces would be at the English Channel in a couple of days. Have you any comment?”
Powell smiled. “Not unless they’re all driving Ferraris. Europe’s a big area, ma’am.”
“Could I have a serious answer, Mr. Powell?”
“Yes, of course. My administration are already preparing an agenda for talks with the Soviet leaders. They are spending billions of roubles on missiles and weapons. We are spending billions of dollars doing the same. There comes a point when this madness has to stop.” He paused. “So far as I am concerned it stops on January twenty.”
“Did you discuss the effect on Californian unemployment of a cut-back in the arms programme while you were in Los Angeles?”
“I certainly did, and I made clear that my administration will give the highest priority to providing alternative work to all those areas of the country affected by these changes.”
“What do you expect the Soviet reaction to be, sir?”
“I guess they’ll start making more freezers and colour TVs.”
“There has been talk of a possible trade and peace pact with the Soviets. What would you say to that?”
“I like trade, Mr. O’Dell, and I like peace. That’s what I’d say.”
“But what would be your first action in response?”
Powell looked down at his feet and stamped them before he looked up. “I guess my first action would be to break open a bottle of champagne.” He looked around. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must go. I don’t want to read in the headlines tomorrow that the President-Elect admits that he’s got cold feet.”
There was a ripple of laughter and a barrage of flashes, and Powell turned to walk to the car.
Dempsey walked a few paces behind him. He never ceased to wonder how a man could go from being a diffident candidate for State Governor to an apparently confident President-Elect in the space of a few years. Maybe what they said was true; any man could be President of the United States. Powell reminded him of those old cartoon characters who walked off the edge of the cliff and didn’t fall until they looked down. They just went on walking.
Nolan turned, grim-faced, to MacKay.
“Well, that’s it. That’s the start, and he’s not even in the saddle yet. Thank God he’s said it tonight. Elliot and Bethel ain’t gonna miss the point of that little piece.”
“What do you think the press will make of it?”
“In tomorrow’s headlines they’ll be shit-scared. After they’ve phoned around the grass-roots tomorrow they’ll report widespread popular support. And if Moscow makes a tiny gesture to support him he’s home and dry.”
“They’ll make a gesture, there’s no doubt about that.”
Nolan nodded slowly. “You know we could already be too late.”
“Why?”
“Just look at the scenario. Years of phoney détente. The new President makes the big peace gesture. The Soviets appear to respond. What happens next? Some militant group in CIA, us, say that the President is a traitor. For co-operating with the Soviets. Is that treason, for Christ’s sake? And what if we do nail everything down and the President is impeached and gets thrown out? We go back to the cold war, for God’s sake. Big deal. The public will love that. No wonder Harper wants to play this cool. Jesus, what a can of worms.”
MacKay looked across at the American. He realized that it must be traumatic for a man like Nolan to contemplate what had happened already, let alone what was still to happen.
The American’s stocky body and his open face were made for certainties, and the almost old-fashioned crew-cut with its sprinkling of grey hairs represented experience in a familiar set of political and intelligence parameters, not with this European fantasy of deliberate deviousness. The Americans were used to punch and counter-punch, not this cobweb attack that used the very
