Джон Болл - The First Team

The senator got to his feet, his body tense with anger as she left. When he was once more alone he sat for some time in thought. Then he picked up the speech that had been left with him and began to read. He turned the pages very slowly at first, then a little more rapidly as he began to get into the text. When he had finished it all he put it down again.

He leaned back, shut his eyes, and took refuge for a moment in the remembrance of his son. It was almost as if Gary had been able to return to him once again for a few brief moments. He saw no images, he only felt the illusion of a presence. And then, when his tortured brain could think of nothing else to do, he tried to ask his son what he should do.

He received no answer, of course, but in his pain he had succeeded in conjuring up the shadow of something that once had been, and was well remembered. And he knew what Gary would have done. What he had done. It was not humanity, then, it was not the United States of America, it was not even the people of the state that had so narrowly returned him to his seat in the Senate. It was Gary, his boy, his son, his hope for posterity and thereby a measure of immortality that could not be realized now. He had blamed Mrs. Smith in what he had conceived of as a burst of righteous anger. Now, in the cold reality of what he had read, he knew that he could no longer avoid and deny the truth. In the bitter dawn of his enlightenment he knew at last that at least in small part he also had himself to blame.

When Raleigh Hewlitt arrived for work the following morning his first action was to ask Major Barlov if there was any news concerning Zalinsky.

“Yes,” the major told him in his own language. “Mr. Zalinsky underwent surgery during the night. His gallbladder was removed. The operation was successful and he is resting as comfortably as could be expected this morning.”

“Good,” Hewlitt said.

Major Barlov appeared ready to say something else to him, but apparently changed his mind and walked away. Hewlitt considered it briefly and then dismissed it from his mind. The White House grapevine was still highly efficient, and whatever was going on, if anything was, he would hear of shortly.

There was one matter that occupied his mind and which he knew that he should think out to its conclusion. With Zalinsky in the hospital, and probably under the effect of sedation, the ultimatum that had baen handed down to him by the First Team could well be thrown off schedule. Through Frank he would have to get word of what had happened to Percival; the illness of the administrator might very well be something that was being kept secret for the time being. As soon as the fact was known, if it was not already, he probably would receive revised instructions. He was still turning this situation over in his own mind when, to his surprise, the buzzer which summoned him to the Oval Office sounded once briefly. He picked up a pad and pencils, opened the door, and went inside.

Seated behind the desk was a man whose hair was cropped close to his skull, revealing a white scar running above one ear. He was a considerably bigger person than Zalinsky and, although he had a substantial frame, there was no evidence of fat. He wore his clothes better than Zalinsky did, although the material and cut were of the same indifferent quality. All this Hewlitt saw, but his attention was captured and held by the man’s face. It was venomous; severe in the way that the skin was stretched across the bones, and viciously cruel. The eyes of that face burned into him and Hewlitt felt that they saw clear through into his soul.

“Good morning, Colonel Rostovitch,” he said. That was a minute victory, since the man did not have to tell him who he was.

Rostovitch looked at him for a full half minute without saying a word. Hewlitt waited until the scrutiny was half over, then he calmly sat down. He knew that the first moment he showed fear or allowed himself to be put on the defensive he would be destroyed. He was on a shaky raft, but it was afloat and he intended to keep it that way.

The voice of Rostovitch bit through the air like a living thing. “I did not tell you to sit down.”

Hewlitt fought down the temptation to yield; if he stood up again he would be a defeated man and he knew it. “I always sit down when I come in here,” he answered. “Mr. Zalinsky prefers it that way.”

Rostovitch ignored that as too trivial to notice. “You are an agent; as soon as I finish with you, you will be taken out and shot.”

Hewlitt lifted his shoulders and let them fall. He believed it, knew that it was true, but refused to give the man before him the least satisfaction. That gave him the courage he needed.

“If you do,” he said, “it will finish you. The Actor is in a rapidly weakening position — you know that, because you are going to be his successor. That is, if things stay as they are right now. But if you take me out, then you will be personally face-to-face with the man who has beaten you twice already and has the firepower to do it again.”

He saw the dangerous reddening of anger flush the face of the man behind the President’s desk, but he was on a course from which he could not deviate one moment. He kept the initiative because it was his only lifeline. “I was put in the position of being his spokesman — his and the people who surround him. I don’t know any of them or even who they are.”

“I do!” Rostovitch shot at him.

Hewlitt paid no attention. “I didn’t ask for this assignment, but now that I’ve got it I have no choice but to carry it out. I was elected because I speak your language; at the moment I’m a messenger and nothing more. If you want to do something about that submarine, you can send any messages you like through me. I’ll deliver them exactly as you give them as soon as they contact me — whenever and wherever they do.”

"You have been sleeping with Amy Thornbush.”

Amy Thornbush, that name again!

In a flash he saw a gamble, a hugh one, but if it paid off it might mean a reprieve — it could be the key to one more chance. Up to that moment he had been icy cool because in his mind was the unshaped thought that he was already a dead man: Rostovitch had promised to shoot him and there was no doubt that he would. Therefore it made little difference what he said. But Amy Thornbush might bring him back to life — if he guessed right.

“Yes,” he answered. It took him hardly a second to get that out. “And so have you.”

Rostovitch stared at him. “Maybe,” he said. Intensity burned out from him until it was like a consuming fire. “Meanwhile I give you a message; deliver it!”

“As soon as I can. What is it?”

“We have devices of which you do not dream. We have used them. Inform them that their submarine, the one named for the Filipino traitor and that has the high diver on board, was found and sunk by us early this morning!”

Admiral Haymarket was still in bed when the first word of Zalinsky’s illness reached the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. Major Pappas received the message on behalf of the First Team; as soon as he had read it he made an immediate decision that despite the strain the admiral had been under he should be awakened and advised at once. The unexpected event would obviously throw the entire timetable off and was bound to have a material effect on the very careful plans which Ed Higbee had drawn up for the next phase of Operation Low Blow.

His long years in the service had taught Haymarket how to wake up from a sound sleep and be alert enough to make a major decision within a few seconds after that. He had carried a great load of responsibility for many years and because of that he had been forced to condition himself to being on duty twenty-four hours of every day. It took the admiral little time, therefore, after he was given the news, to digest it and then to call an emergency meeting of his staff to be held in thirty minutes’ time. That done he got out of bed, allowed himself the luxury of a full shower, shaved, dressed, and made his way to the boardroom where a breakfast to his liking was awaiting him at his place at the head of the table.