Джон Болл - The First Team

“Right, sir,” Wagner answered. “One other thing: I had a good chance to observe the crew. I never saw a better bunch of pros in my life. You can depend on them all the way, no matter what happens. The boys on the Dolly were just as good. Any word from them, by the way?”

The admiral nodded. “They went into this thing knowing that they were expendable and that we couldn’t let them abandon their ship in the middle of the northern Pacific without giving too much of the show away. I’ve had a report; they’re close in to Japan now and the arrangements for their reception are in good order.”

“At a time like this,” Major Pappas said, “it’s nice to have friends.”

“Anytime,” Stanley Cumberland commented.

The admiral grew grimmer for a moment. “As soon as we knew that Magsaysay had it made through the Bering Strait and that the show was definitely on the road, we put the interpreter, Hewlitt, in. So far it looks as though the estimates we had on him were accurate; we got a feedback which indicates very strongly that he did deliver the goods — apparently he shook up Zalinsky quite thoroughly.”

“Since we pretty much had to choose one from one,” General Gifford said, “it looks as if we lucked out.”

“As long as Zalinsky himself stays in the saddle Hewlitt should be effective,” Colonel Prichard commented. “Against Rostovitch it would probably be a different matter.”

“Things are getting into my area now,” Higbee said, “and I’m working on that.”

“Great, Ed,” Prichard answered, “but remember that this man, no matter how willing and courageous he may be, is an amateur and he’d be up against the roughest pro in the business. Ted or Walt could handle him, but even they’d have to push to do it. Propaganda won’t erase that.”

“Propaganda wasn’t what I had in mind. He’ll need some help and I plan to see that he gets it.”

“Anyway, gentlemen,” the admiral said, “we’ve given them three weeks. By the end of that time…” He did not need to finish the sentence. Every man there knew that at that moment Magsaysay was already under the ice cap and, barring incredibly bad luck, before the ultimatum would expire she would be far to the east, close to Atlantic waters and within missile-firing range of the enemy’s homeland.

Despite a slight chill that tinged the air, Hewlitt was comfortable as he drove south from Alexandria, with Barbara close beside him. He kept the car going at an even speed; neither said anything — they were sharing a common mood.

At last Barbara spoke. “When we get back, are you going to stay at the house tonight?”

He looked at her for a moment. “I’d like to.”

She drummed her fingertips gently against the upholstery. “More and more I find that I’m thinking in terms of time. How much of it we may have left.”

Hewlitt drew breath. “I know, I feel it all around me. Every time I see Zalinsky. Sometimes he looks at me as though he was asking for something, other times he ignores the fact that I’m alive.”

Barbara looked out of the window for an interval despite the fact that there was little to see. “Hew, you know, don’t you, that he’s got some pretty deep troubles of his own?”

He glanced at her. “Internal or external?”

“External. I debated telling you this, but I think you should know — it may help in dealing with him. The Actor’s in serious trouble. More than that, their whole government is.”

He considered that as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road. “Not just another power play?” he asked.

Barbara shook her head. “No — it’s more than that. All Europe knows about the submarine of course — everybody does. But it isn’t that. When they tried to take us over they simply bit off too much. Now they’ve got China applying pressure from the east and a lot of other powers nibbling at their flanks. And they don’t have any friends to speak of.”

Hewlitt eased the car around a curve. “They’re pretty elastic. And they have a habit of landing on their feet.”

Barbara didn’t want to argue the point. “All right, maybe they will. Meanwhile there’s us.”

Hewlitt looked at the road. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Right now I’m in a pretty risky position. I can’t complain; I asked for it. This may sound funny to you, but I’ve never been particularly concerned about myself in all this; maybe I’m being fatalistic — I don’t know. The only thing that’s been on my mind recently is the thought that if I don’t come out of it, I won’t have you around anymore.”

“I’ve thought of that too,” Barbara said.

The restaurant they were headed for appeared too soon, it was there and it could not be ignored. Hewlitt pulled into the parking lot and let the topic die as he turned off the ignition. One thing had been settled anyway: he would be back with Barbara again that night and, the way things stood, he had minimum difficulty adjusting himself to the situation. She was his girl now and that was good enough for him. And it was good enough for her, too, which was the important thing. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered and warmed him with a soft smile.

As Frank drove them both to work the following morning Hewlitt once more counted off the days that remained brfore the ultimatum that the First Team had issued would expire and Zalinsky would be expected to give his answer. He could respond at any time, or he might ignore the whole thing. If he did that, then what would come next was still uncertain. One thing was clear: simply giving up was about as far from Zalinsky’s normal behavior pattern as it was possible to get. Something else would have to happen first.

When he had cleared through the White House guards and had been searched as always, he settled himself at his desk to await whatever was to come. Zalinsky knew that he was a member of the underground, that was sure, but it was a minor consideration. He hadn’t done too much so far in that role; perhaps he was destined to make up for lost time.

He phoned Cedric Culp on some routine matters, went through the mail that had been sorted out for his personal attention, and checked the appointment pad. He presumed that Zalinsky was inside, as he invariably was, even though there were no stiffly written notes or directives left for him to heed and obey. He had to give Zalinsky one thing: the man worked from dawn to dusk and sometimes later than that. He was probably a good manager and administrator; his problem was that he was trying to be the President of the United States without any help or willing cooperation from the subjects of his directives. And in a strange country, and through the medium of what was to him a difficult foreign language.

If he had been born an American, Hewlitt thought, and had been raised that way, he could have been a major success in industry: president, perhaps, of some leading corporation. The vision of Bob Landers’ execution would not go away, but against it stood the certainty that Bob at least had been saved from Rostovitch and shipment back across the Atlantic to face torture and whatever else might have awaited him there.

When the summons to the Oval Office came it was not the usual minimum sound of the buzzer; the crispness was replaced by a too-long pressure on the button — a variation that put Hewlitt on his guard immediately. His first thought was that someone else was in the President’s office, but he did not wait to speculate on it; he picked up a pad and pencils and went inside.

Zalinsky was sitting as usual in the President’s chair, but his body was slumped across the desk. His arms were stretched out until they almost reached the farther edge and they were in motion, working like the oversized antennae of some probing insect. He was uttering no sounds, but his body was fighting to find some position which would bring relief from an invisible inner agony. Hewlitt dropped the things he was carrying onto the top of the desk and bending over Zalinsky spoke to him in his own language. “Are you in pain?”