Washington, 2300 GMT (1800 EST)

The Secretary of State stood up from behind his large Louis XV desk and moved to greet the Soviet Ambassador. Anatoli Dobrynin had given his coat and hat to an aide before entering the Secretary’s cavernous office, and he smiled thinly as he shook hands with the American. The Ambassador was a big man, with a perpetually jovial expression from behind steel-rimmed glasses, but he could look dour or severe when the diplomatic necessities arose.

The Secretary ushered Dobrynin to a comfortable, intimate place in front of the low-burning fireplace. There were deep, comfortable chairs, and on a low marble table between them glasses, ice, vodka, scotch, and a pitcher of water. The Secretary prepared scotch and water for them both, measuring carefully the Ambassador’s drink the way he knew Dobrynin liked it. The Ambassador’s sunny expression became composed as he polished his glasses on a pocket handkerchief, put them on, and accepted the whiskey glass.

“Thank you for coming to talk privately, Anatoli,” said the Secretary of State.

The Ambassador smiled and held up his glass, to be touched by that in the hand of the Secretary. Dobrynin appreciated the tact, since it had been he who had requested the private meeting. “Thank you for making time to see me, Mr. Secretary, in these difficult times.”

Holt leaned back in his deep chair and sipped his drink. He knew the Russian would begin when he felt ready.

Dobrynin sighed, put his drink down, and once again began to polish his glasses. “Henry, this afternoon, you made some pretty strong demands upon us, in the matter of this affair in Libya.”

“Our people are in deadly peril, Anatoli.”

“Perhaps, although you have not, apparently, convinced your allies in NATO of that.” The Ambassador spoke very softly.

Holt leaned forward, his brows arched. “If the intent of this gambit is to divide NATO, Anatoli-”

Dobrynin raised his hands, palms toward the Secretary. Holt stopped speaking in mid-sentence. “Henry. Henry! There is no intent, from our side. No gambit. We don’t control this; even Baruni does not. That you must believe!” The Ambassador lowered his hands to his knees. His expression said sorrow.

The Secretary looked at the veteran ambassador, wanting to believe him, yet inevitably suspicious. Holt had come to Washington two years before, expecting to be able to use his natural instincts of honesty and candor; it hadn’t taken him long to learn he was routinely lied to by friends as well as adversaries, and worse, he had learned to lie himself.

Only in the national interest, he reminded himself, suppressing a grimace.

“There must be something you can do to help us get those hostages out of there, Anatoli.”

Dobrynin shrugged. “We have refrained from any but the most moderate expressions of support for Baruni, and said nothing about Abu Salaam. We are not countering your buildup in the Mediterranean, despite the fact that it violates previous understandings-”

“Dammit, Anatoli. Baruni is your client! He belongs to you. Without your support, even his own people, even his own military, wouldn’t put up with him!” The Secretary fought back the heat in his voice.

Dobrynin leaned forward in his chair, picked up his drink, and sipped it. “Henry, things are not that simple. The Politburo is divided as to how we should handle this situation. Powerful forces want to help you with Baruni, to the extent that is possible; other powerful forces want to prolong your embarrassment.”

The last word stung like a whip. Holt sipped his own drink, buying time. “Where does the General Secretary stand on all of this? Surely he wants better relations?”

“Henry, the General Secretary is dying.”

Holt inhaled a sip of his drink and almost choked. The General Secretary’s poor health had been known since before he had taken office, but there had been no intelligence to indicate that the man was close to death. The Secretary fought for composure, struggling within himself to understand how this would impact on the hostage situation and the larger relationship between the two nations. “Anatoli, I am saddened to hear that, truly.”

“Henry, I am telling you this, because it is imperative that you move with care, and that you interpret reactions of my government with caution.”

Holt looked at his hands. “You are telling me you cannot predict the reaction of your government to actions we may feel compelled to take.”

“That is correct.” The Ambassador’s despair seemed genuine.

“And we won’t know whether your government will help us with Baruni, whatever they may say.”

“I am sorry, Henry.”

“Even what they may say through you?”

“I am sorry, Henry.”

The Secretary of State sighed. He knew that the Ambassador was identified with the moderate, pro-detente faction, thought to be led by the Foreign Minister and the younger members of the Politburo. He also knew the Ambassador would serve well whomever he believed to be his masters in the Kremlin. “Can you tell me who in the government takes the hard line against us in this affair?”

“No, Henry, I have said all I can.” The Ambassador rose. “Thank you for seeing me, in private, and at such short notice.”

The Secretary rose and offered his hand. The Ambassador took it. “Thank you for coming, Anatoli. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”