TEN
The emergency phone beside the presidential bed ruptured Haugen's sleep with shrill urgency. He groped for it, nerves vibrating. "This is the president."
"This is General Hammaker, Mr. President. I have something very important to tell you."
His military aide. Haugen squinted, reading the luminous dial of his bedside clock: 1138. He'd been in bed less than half an hour.
"All right. Let's have it."
"The Soviet Union has invaded Iran, about an hour ago. An army group, part of the Trans-Caucausus Command, moved south across the border, out of the Nakhichevan SSR. Another army group started across the eastern border from the Afghan SSR at about the same time."
"When did you find this out?"
"Intelligence picked it up monitoring Iranian and Soviet military radio less than an hour ago. We have satellite verification now."
The president was aware of his Wife sitting up, looking at him. He covered the mouthpiece with a hand. "Russia's invaded Iran," he murmured to her. Then, into the phone:
"What's the action situation?"
"We don't have much on that, but they're moving pretty rapidly."
"All right. Have a communication center set up here in the White House by 0700. With computer equipment that can generate large-scale maps and receive and process satellite images. Can that be done?"
"I'm sure it can, Mr. President."
"Fine. Do the media have this yet?"
"Not that I know of. But if they don't, they will soon. They're sure to know about it in Ankara by now, and probably Amman and Jerusalem. Uh—Regarding the media, is there something you want stated or withheld?"
"No." Haugen sat silent for a moment. "I'm going back to sleep now. Call me again at five and update me."
"Yes sir, Mr. President."
Haugen hung up, then switched on his bedside lamp and sat staring at nothing. Lois got out of bed.
"I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm wide awake. Would you like a midnight glass of wine with me?"
He grunted. "Just what I had in mind." Insomnia was something neither of them had trouble with, but he'd need to settle down for a few minutes before he'd be ready to sleep again.
***
Paul Willard Randolph Massey slept alone; at age sixty-four, he was long a widower and disinterested in sex. This morning he too was awakened by phone, its ring less strident than the president's. The basic message was much like that received by Arne Haugen, but eight hours later; it was already daylight.
The official throne of the Massey financial empire was in the Randolph Building on Manhattan, but it was so tightly organized and run that most often its master stayed at home in the forested hills of Connecticut's Litchfield County.
To those who have always had a great deal of money, other interests tend to be paramount. And as often as not, what Paul Massey worked on had nothing to do with business, or was peripheral to it.
In the last decade of the twentieth century, the electronic communication net allowed a new mode of operation. And when electronic communication wouldn't do—if he was needed in Manhattan or preferred to be there—there was always the helicopter.
Of course, electronic communication is not as secure as face to face communication in a safe place. And in some enterprises, security is important. But electronic safeguards—scramblers and other countermeasures—had become extremely sophisticated; while with ultra-miniaturized bugs, and other even more advanced listening devices, even face to face communication involved a degree of security risk.
After eating, Massey called Barron Tallmon, his chief of staff for Holist operations. From another apartment in the Massey compound, Tallmon's long horsey face appeared on the screen.
"This is Barron."
"Phone up Jaubert for me."
"Mr. Massey, Jaubert is here. At the compound. He arrived last evening about nine. We have just eaten breakfast and were talking."
"Put him on please, Barron."
Another face replaced Tallmon's, rounder, and fine-boned beneath a mostly bald head. The mustache, thin and black as a mascara brush, seemed a relict from the 1920s or 30s.
"Yes, Mr. Massey?"
"What have you been able to obtain on Haugen?"
"Nothing of conspicuous value. Actually he did belong to a political party in the 1970s—the Libertarian Party. But he did not participate beyond attending some meetings, and he left it in 1978, reportedly with the comment that its overall philosophy was impractical of implementation. Or words to that effect.
"So far, my people have uncovered no indication of scandal or criminality in either his personal or business life."
"Hm-m," Massey looked unconvinced. "Keep looking, Jaubert, keep looking. And remember, it is not essential that we find anything factually disgraceful. Although that would be best. Something that can be interpreted... D'you know what I mean? If it suggests something reprehensible... If we can't have an expose, then a whispering campaign will do, especially if it is rooted in some actual association. Yes." Massey's mind raced. "Check his close associates, from boyhood on. For, say, neo-Nazi associations, the Ku Klux Klan, homosexuality... You see what I mean. After all, we will not be connected to any accusations. We'll leave that to the media. The tabloids if necessary; they're widely read, even if most people don't take them seriously."
"Of course, Mr. Massey."
Paul Massey was beginning to feel a certain exhilaration. Yes, this Haugen would be handled. "Put Barron back on please."
Barron Tallmon had, of course, heard all of it. They were not using a privacy receiver; output at either end was normally through a desk speaker. Massey somehow seemed to overlook that, perpetually. Tallmon simply moved in front of the miniature video pickup.
"Yes, Mr. Massey."
"I am encouraged by Mr. Haugen's background in the Libertarian Party. Even given his rejection of it as a political organization, to the extent that it reflects his philosophic tendencies, he will botch his presidency."
He paused as if pulling on some thread of thought.
"And while you're at it, Barron, please have Mr. Jaubert investigate General Cromwell. As vice president, it would be helpful if we could find some latent scandal fermenting in his past.
"Oh, and one thing further. In contracting with Mr. Jaubert, please do not be prodigal with my money. I realize that Jaubert's is a very valuable, a very resourceful, a very circumspect agency, to be treated with a certain generosity. And that you two are—close friends. But after all, Barron, you are responsible for the judicious management of project funds.
"Do you see my position on this?"
"Of course, Mr. Massey. I understand fully."
"Good. I was sure you would. I'll be in the steam room and then with the masseur for a while. After that I expect to spend most of the day with Barnes at the computer. As soon as you and Mr. Jaubert have completed your business, I'll want to talk with you personally. Do not hesitate to interrupt me then.
"Meanwhile please give Mr. Jaubert my best regards."
"Yes Mr. Massey." As if, thought Tallmon, Alain wasn't right here listening.
***
When Massey broke the connection, he sat contemplating the carpet for a minute. Scandal didn't have the impact it used to, unless it was flagrant. And anything flagrant would bring investigation, which could prove dangerous if the scandal was bogus.
I suppose, he thought, it would be well to have Barron prepare contingency plans for the demise of this Haugen.
But it wouldn't do to bring the subject up in the presence of an extraneous third party, and murder was not Alain Jaubert's kind of business.