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FORTY-ONE

The president's office phone buzzed. He reached, touching the flashing key. "What is it, Jeanne?"

"Mr. Guild is on line one, sir."

His legislative affairs assistant; he'd replaced Blake. "Thanks." He tapped line one. "What have you got for me, Manny?"

"Mr. President, I just got back from the Hill; I was talking with Speaker Lynch. He expects a new bill to be submitted today to repeal the Emergency Powers Act, but he doesn't expect it to get out of committee.

"He also commented that the repeal lobby is losing a lot of steam. The recovery is going so well, a lot of its business supporters have apparently decided to quit rocking the boat. He wanted you to know that."

"Thanks, Manny. Is that it?"

"Yes sir."

"Fine. Thanks for letting me know."

"You're welcome, sir."

Haugen tapped the key again, disconnecting. It still surprised him that Congress, as a whole, was agreeable to a president having so much authority. Of course, they were the ones who'd originated the Emergency Powers Act, and the vote for approval had been lopsided in both houses. And they had the power to repeal it! But still... He wasn't sure how he'd feel in their shoes.

He returned his attention to the intelligence summary. More than 60,000 white South Africans who'd applied for exit visas had been interned and their property confiscated. Presumably the Pienaar government considered it a matter of social discipline, but if you leave people no avenue of escape, you inspire mutiny, and if mutiny isn't feasible, then sabotage.

And 60,000 of them! A great time to be in the barbed wire business there, if you had a strong enough stomach.

He read on: Raiding out of the north had increased, mainly from Mozambique, and the raiders were routinely pursued across the border by South African defense forces without restriction. The South African air force had bombed and strafed raider staging areas in Mozambique. Several of their aircraft had been shot down by surface-to-air missiles.

It was easy to see why so many moderates wanted to get out. Things were sliding toward the day of final reckoning there.

He turned a page. Food riots in the USSR, even in Russia. And more sabotage. If it was true that the Kulish government had invaded Iran partly to stoke up Russian patriotism, what might the more militaristic Pavlenko government do? He wondered briefly what things might have been like if Gorbachev had lived. Gorbachev's reforms had gone even further than Khruschev's, and he'd been less reckless and more sagacious in foreign affairs. But Gorbachev hadn't lived.

He wondered where Kulish was now. Presumably still loose. If the Pavlenko government ever got hold of him, they were bound to make a big show out of it. It would be a distraction from the troubles there.

He read farther. The Soviets were still shifting their mobile missile launchers around. They hadn't orbited any more missile- and satellite-killer satellites for more than a week, but that could mean they didn't have more to send up just now.

Haugen became aware of physical discomfort: a weak watery feeling in his hands, and a knotted stomach. Anxiety, he told himself. He reached for his security phone and keyed Cromwell's Pentagon number. No answer. On the system line, Cromwell's secretary answered; the general, she said, was away from his desk. Could he call the president back?"

"Right," said Haugen. "On the security phone."

All he wanted to ask was if Cromwell had heard from Schubert/Bulavin. He could check with the OSS of course, but he didn't want them to know that the president was anxious. It'd be bad for his image.

***

Hammaker called him before Cromwell did. South African fighter planes had just bombed and strafed the government district in Maputo, Mozambique's capital. Haugen wasn't surprised; it was the sort of thing to expect. So why, he asked himself, does it make me feel so ill at ease? And what the hell is going on with me anyway? It seemed to him he'd never felt so negative before in his life.

Then Cromwell phoned him back. Schubert was still out of the country, and he hadn't heard from him.

The best thing for anxiety, Haugen told himself, short of resolving the problem, was work. Quickly, without further cerebration but simply recording mentally, he read through the rest of the intelligence summary. Then he began to outline his scheduled speech to the American Medical Association.

***

That evening, Gupta called the president. Immediately afterward, the president called an NSC meeting for 0800 the next morning. Pavlenko seemed determined to push him to the wall.

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Framed