32

NED FOREMAN, the National Security Advisor, stood behind a large oak and watched the footpath in the patch of park behind his apartment house. Vashevsky, wily as ever, rarely approached from the same direction. His journey was always the difficult one, since he had to get out of the Soviet Embassy compound unobserved by American surveillance, then find his way to the strip of parkland bounded by Massachusetts and New Mexico avenues. The senior KGB operative in the United States, he was, of course, resourceful and clever.

They had set up the rules years before, as if it were a kind of floating crap game. Meeting places were arranged by sequence. There were six preagreed sites, all outdoors, an imagined neutral turf, theoretically safe from unwanted listening devices. To police these devices, Foreman carried an electronic sensor. Its mechanism had never been triggered. Perhaps Vashevsky carried one as well. Foreman's instinct was to trust the man.

It wasn't easy for Foreman to leave what was now referred to sarcastically as the command bunker. Chalmers was frustrated. Most of those around him were exhausted. The country appeared trapped in the entrails of its own system.

He had insisted that he must go back to his own apartment. An hour, no more, he had promised. Milly had called, reporting that Vashevsky's signal had come. Two rings on his private number followed by an interval of one minute, then two rings. Repeated twice. Milly actually had no knowledge about the signal's origin. Foreman was, after all, the President's National Security Advisor. Such mysterious goings-on required no explanation.

He had expected Vashevsky to step forward in response to the crisis. Indeed, it had surprised him that he had not done so sooner.

Peter Vashevsky, a general in rank, had direct and mostly secret access to the Premier of the Soviet Union, who was also the General Secretary of the Communist Party.

A burly man with a jolly manner and a brilliant mind, Vashevsky was highly educated and, most important, well-informed, especially on matters of infighting and intrigue among the bureaucrats who ran the Soviet Union. Foreman offered similar credentials. Both men enjoyed their roles, especially the subterfuge, which seemed to satisfy some childish urge for secrecy.

Alert to the sounds around him, he heard Vashevsky's footfalls as they moved cautiously along the little-used path.

"Pete," he whispered. "Here."

Vashevsky halted behind the tree. From there they had a clear view of both ends of the path.

"Ned," Vashevsky said, offering his hand. Foreman took it and shook it warmly.

"Goes from bad to worse," Foreman said, kicking his toe into the dirt for emphasis.

"They are confused at home," Vashevsky said. "How is it possible for the man to stay in office? He is a captive." The setting sun made his pale blue eyes shine. He shook his head. "There was Watergate and the President resigned. Hardly a terrible crime. Now this. Your system needs an overhaul." A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat.

"Polls show that the people overwhelmingly support him."

Vashevsky shook his head. "The General Secretary is not happy. All this instability is dangerous."

"You've put your people on alert," Foreman said, careful not to adopt an accusatory tone.

"There was no choice. It was not at all like the surgical bombing ploy of Reagan. Instability feeds the paranoia of our military. When in doubt, put the troops out."

"The President has refused to do this," Foreman said.

"Wise move on his part. Keeps our paranoids from acting hastily. But, Ned, there are problems. When you destabilize you set an uncontrollable course, especially among those fools in the Middle East."

"Can't you rein in your friends?" Foreman asked. "At least until we get things sorted out."

"Believe me, we are trying." Vashevsky sighed. "We are having our hands full just keeping some of them from massacring every American they can get their hands on. I think we can lean on the Syrians and the Libyans. The Iranians are irascible. The Saudis are your problem." He lowered his voice. "The King must be really pissed off."

"He is. I've spoken to him."

"Your President can't keep denying his complicity, Ned. Our people know what is happening. It is ridiculous."

"I know."

"This Harkins." Vashevsky pointed to his temple and made a twirling motion. "He loves these macho games. Besides, we know where at least three of the people have been put."

Foreman's ears perked up. "Only three. You're slipping, Pete."

"We have to assume you know where the other two are. The Saudi boy and the Syrian girl."

"Wish we did," Foreman said sadly. "The FBI is on the case. But we're dealing with a clever bunch of bastards."

"The Mafiosa."

"It's as if we were all in on this great big secret. We are all winking at each other."

"Look, Ned, if it doesn't get out of hand, I know we can get the Syrian President to play ball. But if the girl is harmed, I assure you he will go crazy."

"You think our Mafiosa friend will sit still if they harm his daughter or his grandson?"

"It has troubled us, Ned," Vashevsky said. His knowledge of the American idiom was superb and his accent detectable only by the strange rhythm of his speech, not the pronunciation of his words. He hesitated for a moment, rare for him. Ned could see he was having trouble putting his thoughts in context. "There are those who believe that the President and Harkins staged these events to allow this action to proceed."

"And you, Pete? What do you believe?" Foreman asked.

"Ninety percent no."

"And the other ten percent?"

"This Harkins is a snake."

"Our snake." He looked pointedly at Vashevsky. "A requirement for the job."

"Nevertheless," Vashevsky said, scratching his chin. "He is capable of orchestrating the event."

"I'm sure of that. But I'm afraid it's out of character for the President," Foreman said. "No way. You're letting your penchant for concocting disinformation scenarios run away with you, Pete."

"All right, Ned," Vashevsky said. "Whatever the genesis of the act, the fact is inescapable. The President is colluding."

"There is a knife at his throat," Foreman said. "He's in a double bind. If he resigns, he's a dead man. If the man's daughter and grandson are not released unharmed, he's a dead man."

"It does limit his options," Vashevsky said. "It would certainly limit mine."

"I know the man. He can be manipulated only if he allows himself to be," Foreman said, bowing to loyalty. He owed the President a great deal. He also liked the man and respected his political instincts, the one indispensable ingredient for high office.

"You will never know what a man will do when his life is in danger."

"And the life of his wife," Foreman added.

"That," Vashevsky said, "is debatable."

Foreman blanched. The Soviets had a talent for heavy humor. Then he remembered that Vashevsky had at least two former wives.

Vashevsky smiled and shook his head. Despite his intriguing mind, he had a limited sense of subtlety. He took a package of chewing gum from his pocket and offered a stick to Foreman, who refused. Then he unwrapped a stick and popped it into his mouth, chewing contentedly.

"We must assume that he is acting according to the wishes of his captors." Vashevsky chomped on his gum. "It is possible, therefore, that he is a party to the idea, that he aids and abets and approves what is going on, whether out of fear or his own desires. It is not only a matter of life and death, Ned." He stretched out a pause with vigorous chewing. "Death is death. But life is the presidency. If he gets out of this alive, he would want to be whole. To continue in office."

Foreman studied the man. He had a benign look about him, kind and grandfatherly, hardly the demeanor for a tough KGB operative who had won his rank and privilege the hard way. Despite his more academic background, Foreman felt equal enough to match wits with Vashevsky. Neither felt threatened by the other. Each had learned to accept nothing at face value, to look behind the political masks and words, to distrust the apparent. And each enjoyed unraveling the puzzle of political motivation. Vashevsky, Foreman knew, was enjoying this episode immensely.

"You have a very hard view of human nature, Pete," Foreman said.

"Believe me, my friend, I long for innocence. But you must remember, your President is a man under our microscope. We must know him better than you, perhaps as well as you know our General Secretary. Your President, like all of them, is a man who does not wish to relinquish control. He must have calculated that it is safer for him and his wife if he continues to hold the reins of power. He is in a better position to know what this Padre will do if he opts out of governing. Our Mafia man wants his daughter and grandson back alive. He will do anything to save them. He is also not afraid to die which makes him, in a way, a fanatic and quite capable of killing the President and his wife if his daughter and grandson are harmed."

"Is that a revelation, Pete?"

"An introduction only. Frankly, I believe the President is playing the game on two tracks."

"Only two?"

"And it is dangerous on both counts. For himself and the country," Vashevsky said. "Yours and mine." He chewed heavily for a few moments. "Ned, the General Secretary would like to see this episode ended immediately. Indeed, the General Secretary has always been confused by your reaction to hostage-taking. Your President should have taken a page out of our book."

"Maybe he should enlist your services," Ned said, but only half-facetiously.

"The General Secretary offers it," Vashevsky said with unmistakable seriousness. "Ned, we can't allow this event to continue. One thing will lead to another. It will get out of hand."

"Why can't your own trusted people in Lebanon just go in and snatch them away from him? Your surrogate runs the show there."

"Our surrogates are idiots," Vashevsky said, "and this Safari is a clever son-of-a-bitch. Believe me, we are looking for him. If only he made a telephone call. We would trace him instantly."

Vashevsky spat out the chewed ball of gum. "However it is done, your President must be removed from office." He paused, then added: "One way or another."

Foreman turned his eyes from Vashevsky's. A sudden chill made him tremble.

"It is terrible, I agree," Vashevsky said. "There were tears in the General Secretary's voice. But I ask you, my friend, look at what we risk. Uncertainty is our mutual enemy. Better our stalemate than one or another of our surrogates acting alone. Our respective military people will get trigger-happy. This is the risk. I tell you there is no way to control these crazy people, Ned."

"You ought to know. Most of them are yours," Foreman replied. They had often traded barbs in the guise of banter. But neither of them ever became angry. They were too professional for that.

"We all agree. At least it has been illustrated that the tactic of terrorism and hostage-taking is too dangerous, too counterproductive," Vashevsky said with an air of contrition. "We have accepted it for too long among our friends."

Frankness was the treasure of their relationship. Often they were the first to admit when a favored tactic went awry. Both knew that the objective of the game was to control the balance between them, to keep the tension perfectly calibrated. At this moment it was out of control, the calibration terribly faulty.

Foreman was good at Machiavellian theory but bad at practicing it. Besides, as a man, he considered the President his friend and mentor. Although the idea that Vashevsky was imparting remained scrupulously unarticulated, it flew in the face of his value system. Did the President's life depend on the vehemence of his objection? Did ambition presume this kind of responsibility? He was merely an advisor, for chrissakes.

"I'm not comfortable with this idea," Foreman said.

"Nor are we."

"You've had more experience along these lines."

"I am sorry. I am only the messenger."

Foreman turned and walked up the path for a short distance. So they were scouring West Beirut looking for Safari. For them it would be easier to kill him, the woman, and the boy. It was certainly the road to stability. They've already made up their mind. Foreman was sure of that. Kill off the President by remote control. No one would know. He came back to where Vashevsky still stood.

"Just don't tell me it's because you want to save the world."

"I won't say it then, my friend."

"We've gone over that option as well and come up with the same conclusion. We'll never get them out alive. Besides, we can't stop you."

"Not really," Vashevsky said.

"Dead or alive, it won't matter to you," Foreman sighed.

"It does matter," Vashevsky said. "We would prefer to get them alive. Surely, as in your own scenario, it is most unlikely. Unless..."

Foreman felt that Vashevsky was sincerely disturbed by the news he was imparting. "We did consider another aspect," Vashevsky continued. "If our people were lucky enough to rescue the woman and her child, then we would have saved the life of your President."

Foreman felt a sudden burst of elation and optimism. Indeed, for the Soviets it would be the public relations coup of the century.

Vashevsky put out his hand.

"Some day as old men we will enjoy our nostalgia over a few vodkas," Vashevsky said.

"If we ever get to be old men," Foreman said. Considering this new-found knowledge, it seemed to be an unlikely possibility.

"You and I. No question about it."

Foreman took Vashevsky's hand.

"This Chalmers..." he began.

But Foreman had already turned and started back up the path.