“Thank you, Mr. President. As we told your people last week, our disposal facility has proven inadequate. We can't dismantle the damned things fast enough, and our nature-lovers in parliament are objecting to our method of neutralizing the propellant stocks.”
Fowler smiled in sympathy. “I know the problem, Mr. President.” The environmental movement had taken off in the Soviet Union the previous spring, with the Russian parliament passing a new set of laws modeled on — but much tougher than — American statutes. The amazing part was that the central Soviet government were abiding by the laws, but Fowler couldn't say that. The environmental nightmare inflicted on that country by more than seventy years of Marxism would take a generation of tough laws to fix. “Will this affect the deadline for fulfilling the treaty requirements?”
“You have my word, Robert,” Narmonov said solemnly. The missiles will be destroyed by 1st March even if I must blow them up myself.'
“That is good enough for me, Andrey.”
The reduction treaty, a carryover from the previous administration, mandated a 50 percent reduction in intercontinental launchers by the coming spring. All of America 's Minuteman-II missiles had been tagged for destruction, and the U.S. side of the treaty obligations was fully on track. As had been done under the Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, the surplus missiles were dismantled to their component stages, which were either crushed or otherwise destroyed before witnesses. The news had covered the first few destructions, then grown tired of it. The missile silos, also under inspection, were stripped of their electronic equipment and, in the case of American structures, fifteen had already been declared surplus and sold — in four cases, farmers had purchased them and converted them to real silos. A Japanese conglomerate that had large holdings in North Dakota had further purchased a command bunker and made it into a wine cellar for the hunting lodge its executives used each fall.
American inspectors on the Soviet side reported that the Russians were trying mightily, but that the plant built for dismantlement of the Russian missiles had been poorly designed, as a result of which the Soviets were 30 percent behind schedule. Fully a hundred missiles were sitting on trailers outside the plant, the silos they'd left already destroyed by explosives. Though the Soviets had in each case removed and burned the guidance package in front of American inspectors, there were lingering intelligence evaluations that it was all a sham — the erector trailers, some argued, could elevate and fire the missiles. Suspicion of the Soviets was too hard a habit to break for some in the U.S. intelligence community, as was doubtless true of the Russians as well, Fowler thought.
“This treaty is a major step forward, Robert,” Narmonov said, after a sip from his wine glass — now that they were alone they could relax like gentlemen, the Russian thought with a sly grin. “You and your people are to be congratulated.”
“Your help was crucial to its success, Andrey,” Fowler replied graciously. It was a lie, but a politic one which both men understood. In fact it was not a lie, but neither man knew that.
“One less trouble spot for us to worry about. How blind we were!”
“That is true, my friend, but it is behind us. How are your people dealing with Germany?”
“The army is not happy, as you might imagine—”
“Neither is mine.” Fowler interrupted gently with his pronouncement. “Soldiers are like dogs. Useful, of course, but they must know who the master is. Like dogs, they can be forgetful, and must be reminded from time to time.”
Narmonov nodded thoughtfully as the translation came across. It was amazing how arrogant this man was. Just what his intelligence briefings had told him, the Soviet president noted. And patronizing, too. Well, the American had the luxury of a firm political system, Andrey Il'ych told himself. It allowed Fowler to be so sure of himself while he, Narmonov, had to struggle every day with a system not yet set in stone. Or even wood, the Russian thought bleakly. What a luxury indeed to be able to look on soldiers as dogs to be cowed. Didn't he know that dogs had teeth? So strange the Americans were. Throughout Communist rule in the Soviet Union, they had fretted about the political muscle of the Red Army — when in fact it had had none at all after Stalin's elimination of Tukhachevskiy. But now they discounted all such stories while the dissolution of the iron hand of Marxism-Leninism was allowing soldiers to think in ways that would have ended in execution only a few years earlier. Well, this was no time to disabuse the American of his illusions, was it?
“Tell me, Robert, this treaty idea — where exactly did it come from?” Narmonov asked. He knew the truth and wanted to see Fowler's abilities as a liar.
“Many places, as with all such ideas,” the President replied lightly. “The moving force was Charles Alden — poor bastard. When the Israelis had that terrible incident, he activated his plan immediately and — well, it worked, didn't it?”
The Russian nodded again, and made his mental notes. Fowler lied with skill, evading the substance of the question to give a truthful but evasive answer. Khrushchev was right, as he'd already known. Politicians all the world over are not terribly different. It was something to remember about Fowler. He didn't like sharing credit, and was not above lying in the face of a peer, even over something so small as this. Narmonov was vaguely disappointed. Not that he'd expected anything else, but Fowler could have shown grace and humanity. He'd stood to lose nothing by it, after all. Instead he was as petty as any local Party apparatchik. Tell me, Robert, Narmonov asked behind a poker face that would have stood him well in Las Vegas, what sort of man are you?
“It is late, my friend,” Narmonov observed. “Tomorrow afternoon, then?”
Fowler stood. “Tomorrow afternoon, Andrey.”
Bob Fowler escorted the Russian to the door and saw him off, then returned to his suite of rooms. Once there he pulled the handwritten checklist out of his pocket to make sure he'd asked all the questions.
“Well?”
“Well, the missile problem, he says, is exactly what our inspectors said it is. That ought to satisfy the guys at DIA.” A grimace; it wouldn't. “I think he's worried about his military.”
Dr. Elliot sat down. “Anything else?”
The President poured her a glass of wine, then sat beside his National Security Advisor. The normal pleasantries. He's a very busy, very worried man. Well, we knew that, didn't we?'
Liz swirled the wine around the glass and sniffed at it. She didn't like Italian wines, but this one wasn't bad. “I've been thinking, Robert…”
“Yes, Elizabeth?”
“What happened to Charlie… we need to do something. It isn't fair that he should have disappeared like that. He's the guy who put this treaty on track, isn't he?”
“Well, yes,” Fowler agreed, sipping at his own replenished glass. “You're right, Elizabeth. It really was his effort.”
“I think we should let that out — quietly, of course. At the very least—”
“Yes, he should be remembered for something other than a pregnant grad student. That's very gracious of you, Elizabeth.” Fowler tapped his glass against hers. “You handle the media people. You're releasing the treaty details tomorrow before lunch?”
“That's right, about nine, I think.”
“Then after you're finished, take a few of the journalists aside and give it to them on background. Maybe Charlie will rest a little easier.”
“No problem, Mr. President,” Liz agreed. Exorcizing that particular demon came easily enough, didn't it? Was there anything she could not talk him into?
“Big day tomorrow.”
“The biggest, Bob, the biggest.” Elliot leaned back and loosened the scarf from her throat. “I never thought I'd ever have a moment like this.”
“I did,” Fowler observed with a twinkle in his eye. There came a momentary pang of conscience. He'd expected to have it with someone else, but that was fate, wasn't it? Fate. The world was so strange. But he had no control over that, did he? And fate had decreed that he would be here at the moment in question, with Elizabeth. It wasn't his doing, was it? Therefore, he decided, there was no guilt, was there? How could there be guilt? He was making the world into a better, safer, more peaceful place. How could guilt attach to that?
Elliot closed her eyes as the President's hand caressed her offered neck. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected a moment like this.
The entire floor of the hotel was reserved for the President's party, and the two floors under it. Italian and
