The General's President Page 11

  "For more than a week, no one held the reins, while unprepared candidates sought supporters. And during this hiatus of leadership, the army began to purge its political officers, starting in the important Moscow and Kiev military districts.

  "The Politburo, seeing this as a major army move for power, finally went into an all-night session and appointed Boris Alexeevich Kulish as Party Chairman. Kulish was an apparatchik, as Gorbachev had been; a bureaucrat you would say, one appointed to the Politburo by Gorbachev. But like Gorbachev, Kulish was not without steel; he too had been one of Andropov's people. The first thing he did as Party Chairman was to call in Marshal Pavlenko and threaten to turn the now considerably rehabilitated KGB loose on the army unless the Main Political Directorate—the Party's political-ideological network in the army—was fully reinstalled.

  "The army acquiesced, but unhappily. It wanted more than ever to hold power itself, and hated the KGB even more than before, fearing it would take power again. But the leading officers had to ask themselves who around them might be, in fact, an undetected KGB spy, waiting to pull the trigger. What entrance guard? What chauffeur? What member of his own staff?"

  Bulavin sat forward in his chair, sighed and raised his arms, rotating them to loosen tight shoulders again. "The recorder, Mr. President?"

  Haugen turned it off.

  "At any rate," Bulavin continued, "shortly after the army was brought to heel, I was appointed deputy ambassador here—First Secretary is the actual title. It is not uncommon for a GRU general to hold that position in an embassy. I defected within days of my arrival. And of course, I have not been personally close to events in Russia since then. However, as would be expected, Kulish quickly developed his own mafia, drawn mostly from the Leningrad District, and soon was displaying considerable leverage. But both agriculture and industry continue in serious trouble, thus Kulish's tenure is at risk. And his response has been the conservative one; he has in part repealed Gorbachev's reforms, which has placated the bureaucracy.

  "That is how things stand at present—or how they stagger at present. The internal problems undoubtedly account for the invasion of Iran."

  "Oh?"

  "You see, on the whole, the Russian people are only superficially ideological, but they are very patriotic and nationalistic. And it is an old Russian tradition to distrust foreigners. Thus very many Russian people see domination of all the surrounding lands, in these days including the western hemisphere, as their best national safeguard."

  Haugen frowned. "What about the hundreds of thousands who went over to the Germans in the first year of the Nazi invasion?"

  "Millions are more like it. Mostly though, they were Ukrainians. Many Ukrainians still consider the Ukraine an occupied nation, occupied by the Russians. Many Ukrainians but not many Russians went over to the Germans."

  "Hm-m. I knew that about the Ukrainians and other ethnic minorities. But I hadn't realized that the Russian people were especially patriotic."

  "They are, Mr. President, they are. And as a culture they are also xenophobic and more than a little apathetic. They feel that, as a people, they cannot solve their own problems. Thus they hope always for a strong leader to tell them what to do. That was as true in czarist times as now. The Bolsheviks won the civil war not so much because of their ideology as because they offered a strong man, V. I. Lenin, as ruler. The Mensheviks, on the other hand, offered freedom, social democracy, which to most Russians equates dangerously with anarchy, with chaos.

  "The Russian people, I regret to tell you, are more willing to start a war with the West than their rulers are. Their rulers better understand what war would do to the Soviet Union. It is not that the Russian people like war, but most of them believe that the rest of the world is waiting its chance to attack Mother Russia. As historically it has. Repeatedly. And a preemptive war seems acceptable to many of them, particularly if it does not bring nuclear devastation on the Motherland.

  "Traditionally the Russian people have transposed 'defense' and 'offense,' and the Western concept of defensive war is meaningless to them."

  Bulavin laughed silently, sardonically. "And now, particularly with the old butcher dead, they love Stalin! That was how Andropov won them over: He was brutal and overbearing, much like Stalin, and there was no nonsense about him. Tough! During his short rule, Andropov actually became loved. When Khruschev died, and Brezhnev, the Russian people shed no tears, but many wept at Andropov's death. We are all of us very fortunate that he had only fifteen months as Party Chairman. He would have tested your presidents severely, and there might well have been war.

  "About Stalin—The feeling in his lifetime was not so much love as fear, but it was a fear that contained a sort of adoration that an American cannot understand. I remember; I was eleven years old already when he died. In the Russian culture, fear of a cruel strong ruler has an element of love in it. You should read the life of Peter the Great."

  Haugen had, and he thought he knew what Bulavin was talking about.

  ***

  That night, in the privacy of their bedroom, Haugen listened again to Bulavin's briefing, this time with his wife. Haugen didn't think Bulavin would mind. And Lois was his confidante and sounding board, and ex officio advisor when she chose to be, or when he asked. As such, she needed to know.

  When it was over, she looked thoughtfully at him. "How different is this from what you were told in your State Department briefings?" she asked.

  "Quite a bit. I thought it might be. It's interesting that Bulavin didn't try to feed me policy or even try to evaluate policy for me. Mostly he gave me information and insights that presumably he felt were valid. State, on the other hand, did about the opposite. They've got an institutional viewpoint to support, and I suppose they'd prefer I have their opinions, rather than facts to draw my own. And they have a track record, plus current programs and procedures, that they feel they have to defend. Consciously or unconsciously."

  He sipped the expensive port they allowed themselves as a nightcap. "After hearing Bulavin, it was hard to sit and relisten to my briefing from Wachsman."

  "Is that the economic analysis you were scheduled for?"

  "Right."

  "How was it?"

  "That's a good question. I really gave him a hard time; I think he's used to snowing people. Every time he used a word I didn't understand, I'd pin him down for a clear definition. And every time I didn't follow an argument he gave, I wouldn't let him go on until he made it understandable. A couple of times he got confused and finally admitted he didn't understand either. He'd been reciting, not explaining, and hadn't even realized he didn't know what he was talking about."

  Haugen snorted, a sort of half chuckle. "Part of the time he was thinking in slogans, in a kind of rote. A common enough failing. I don't know if an actual understanding of economics is possible today. I suspect they only understand their computer models, not their actual subject.

  "Anyway I'm getting a briefing tomorrow from Roy Jones of the Federal Reserve Board. I've made up a list of questions I'll ask him, partly from what Wachsman told me. And day after tomorrow, in the morning, a Dr. Bill Finnegan will be here from Purdue, and in the afternoon a Dr. Murchison from Harvard Business College, to give me the really real scoop." He grinned. "None of them will know I've talked to the others, and I won't be telling them.

  "When I've finished hearing all of them, and getting my questions answered, I'll let things ferment for a couple of days and start writing up the economics policies of the Haugen administration. If I'm going to keep whatever public confidence I've got, I'll have to get moving on the economic problems pretty damned soon."

  THIRTEEN

  Paul Massey faltered, stopped, looked back at the mansion he'd just walked out of. Damn! He'd forgotten something.

  Without speaking to the bodyguard preceding him, Massey turned toward the wing of the house that held the servants' quarters. Where it joined the building proper were Barron Tallmon's office and apartment.

&n
bsp; The door through which Massey entered opened into a short cross-corridor; he strode the few yards down it to Tallmon's office door.

  It was locked. "Barron!" he called, and knocked firmly. "Barron, I need the summary report on Sumitomo Trust."

  For a few seconds there was no response. Then, as he fumbled out a key chain, a voice came, muffled by the solid teak door. "Just a minute, Mr. Massey. I'll bring it."

  Massey frowned, then pulled out the keys anyway and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he found Tallmon fastening his belt.

  "I was about to bring it, sir," Tallmon said.

  Massey's eyes fixed on him. "Who is in here with you?"

  "No one sir."

  The older man turned and looked back down the hall; his bodyguard was just entering from outside. "Wait for me in the yard, Mr. Mueller," he called. "I'll be along directly."

  He watched the large, neatly-suited man leave. Then he closed the office door behind him.

  "Who?"

  Tallmon only shook his head, his face flushed now.

  Massey scanned the office, then looked at the door to Tallmon's private restroom. Closed. He went to it and turned the knob. Locked.

  "Open it!" No response. He rapped loudly. "Open this door!" Still nothing. Looking back over his shoulder, Massey saw Tallmon standing motionless. Once more he knocked. "If you do not open, I'll have my bodyguard force the door. You will then be in serious trouble."

  He waited. After three or four seconds he heard the lock slip; the door opened. Inside was a boy of about fifteen, Hispanic, from Waterbury probably, who Massey had seen working for the groundskeeper on weekends. His jeans were on, but his undershorts lay over the rim of the washbowl. Massey looked him over; the boy's cheeks darkened.

  "It's Wednesday, isn't it?" Massey said to him.

  Surprised at this seeming non sequitur, the boy nodded. "Yessir."

  Massey's voice was curious, rather than angry. "How did you get out here today?"

  "I caught a ride with the grocery truck, sir. That's how I always come out." The boy was looking past him through the door now; at Tallmon, Massey realized. "I tol' them I was suppose' to work today," the boy added. His nerve was already coming back.

  "Ingenious." Massey was aware of Tallmon's approach. "Aren't you supposed to be in school today?"

  "They don' do nothin' to you for not goin' to school, Mr. Massey. I skip lots of times; I tell them I was sick. My mother don' speak English, so they don' bother her about it."

  "I see. What's your name again? I may have heard, but I don't remember it."

  "Joey, Mr. Massey. Joey Jerez." He pronounced it in the Anglo manner—Juhrehz.

  "All right, Joey." Massey stepped back out of the bathroom. "I want you to go—Let's see. Just wait outside. And don't worry. You're not in trouble."

  Joey started for the bathroom door.

  "Oh, and don't forget your underwear."

  Turning, the boy looked around, confused for a moment, then saw the shorts, grabbed them and stuffed them in a pocket. Massey watched him almost to the hall door.

  "Joey!"

  Reluctantly the boy stopped and turned.

  "How much was Mr. Tallmon going to pay you?"

  The answer was little more than a mumble. "Thirty dollars, sir."

  Massey turned to Tallmon, impressed; these were hard times. "Is that right, Barron? Thirty dollars?"

  Wordlessly Tallmon nodded.

  "Then you should pay the boy before he goes. We can't have him come all the way out here and send him off without paying him."

  Tallmon's cheeks flamed at this. He dug his wallet from a pocket and drew forth three bills. The boy was standing straight when Tallmon handed him the money, pleased at how things had developed but being careful not to smile.

  "Now wait outside, Joey. In the yard. Mr. Tallmon has some things to do for me in town. He'll be out in a few minutes and take you in with him."

  Massey followed Joey Jerez to the door, watched him down the hall and out, then closed the door and turned to Tallmon.

  "Barron, I'm disappointed in you. I have never objected seriously to your liaisons with mature and competent adults like Jaubert, but really, this is not all right. How old is this Joey Jerez?"

  "Sixteen." Tallmon's voice was as expressionless now as his face.

  "Indeed? I'd have thought fifteen at most. Ah well, I suppose these adolescent latinos look younger than they are."

  Massey looked thoughtfully at the carpet. "I presume you've worked out how you'd handle things if the boy talked to the authorities. Or if his parents found out and called the police."

  "He wouldn't talk." Tallmon's voice was husky now. "He's Puerto Rican or Mexican. His father would kill him if he found out. And besides, the boy wouldn't jeopardize his source of money."

  "You've done this before?"

  Another nod. "Once. Last Saturday."

  "Hm-m." Massey's voice became curious. "Tell me, who plays which role?"

  "We take turns."

  "Ah. Oral or anal?"

  It took a moment for Tallmon to answer. "Anal."

  Massey's eyes examined Tallmon's face. Tallmon's eyes slid away. "Barron, I'm afraid you've overlooked some serious risks here. A boy like that will flaunt his money. Some bigger, rougher boy may make him tell where he got it. The story could spread. Or he could spend it on drugs, and babble. And I cannot risk the scandal." Massey shook his head. "No, we'll have to make sure that nothing like that happens."

  His lips tightened. "Take him to town. Waterbury?"

  Tallmon nodded.

  "But don't take him home. Drop him off outside his neighborhood. I suppose we have his address?"

  "Edwards will have it in the employee files."

  "Good. When you get back, call one of the New York fatality contractors and arrange to have the boy disappear. Or die in some apparent mugging—whatever the contractor feels will work best. Just make sure it can't be traced to us. Do you understand?"

  Again the nod.

  "And Barron, something like this must not happen again." He looked hard at Tallmon, who in spite of himself allowed a meeting of eyes. "You do see my position, don't you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Massey."

  "Good. And Barron." He paused, shook his head. "You are very valuable to me; you are my right hand. We'll talk about this when I get back. There are physicians, you know, who can relieve you of these compulsions."

  "Yes, Mr. Massey." The voice was thick with emotion.

  Massey looked at him for another moment, then nodded and left. When he settled himself in the helicopter, Tallmon had not yet come out of the building. Poor bugger, Massey said to himself, then grimaced at the unvoiced, inadvertent pun. The man was losing his grip.

  He'd talk to Dr. Merriman about him. Maybe Tallmon could still be salvaged; he'd seen Merriman do remarkable things with PDH—pain-drugs-hypnosis treatment. Otherwise, well—Disposing of Tallmon should be no problem, but replacing him would be a real nuisance.

  FOURTEEN

  The president had drawn the heavy drapes back, and the dawnlight was stormy gray through curtains. Separating them, he peered out across sodden lawn. A blustery wind swirled the first falling leaves, and flung irregular flurries of raindrops sharply against the window. "Don't let me talk you into anything, Babe," he said.

  "No, it's a good idea," she answered. "I like this weather too, and I haven't had much exercise since we left home." She pulled running pants onto legs that were longer than her husband's. She was tall, and still fine looking. "I'm going to take it easy though."

  He shrugged into his warmup jacket, then sat down and put on jogging shoes. "Me too. But I really need it; all I've done lately is move papers. I'm going to start either jogging or swimming every day." Another spatter of rain rattled against glass, and Haugen grinned as he got up. "You don't suppose our guardians will try to protect us from the rain, do you?"

  She laughed at an image: two Secret Service men jogging beside them, umbrellas bobbing up and dow
n as they ran. "They take their work so seriously! All of them do. We shouldn't laugh, even privately between us."

  Moments later, four sober-faced Secret Service agents met them in the Stair Hall. Warned, they'd donned raincoats. No umbrellas were evident, but two of them held each a short jacket. The president hadn't seen one before, but he realized what they had to be: flakjackets.

  "We're supposed to wear those to jog in the yard?" Haugen asked.

  "Yes sir, Mr. President. Actually, Mr. Ashley would prefer that you stay indoors except when necessary."

  The president's expression became curious. "Is this standard, or what? What's the story?"

  "Well, sir, there've been threatening letters. Quite a few; more than usual. And while most of that sort of thing is just some nut blowing off steam with his pen, you can figure there'll be those few who'll try to follow through. And the FBI's reported more than the usual number of threats, too."

  The president nodded, thoughtful now. It made sense that this would happen with a president who'd entered office as he had, and with dictatorial powers, at that. Pulling off his warmup jacket, he put out his right arm and Wayne helped him into the flakjacket. It was moderately heavy, but not unreasonably so, considering its function. Haugen looked at his wife. She was doing the same. "Are you sure you still want to come along?" he asked. "You could be sitting in front of a log fire in the library, working on your book."

  She shook her head. "I have lots of time for that." She touched his arm, smiling. "Whither thou goest..."

  Protected now against worse than chill, they went out a south, ground-floor door and began to jog easily on the close-trimmed grass, the rain cold on their faces. It brought a scene back to the president's mind, of walking through autumn forest, a four-foot long, one-man crosscut saw over a shoulder, axe and pickaroon gripped in his other hand, handmade birch felling wedges tightening a hip pocket. The rain and the air had felt much like today's, but then he'd worn a lined denim barn jacket—of cotton, not some military high-tech material—and physically he'd felt strong, beyond challenge. And the smells had been different—wet balsam fir, balm of Gilead olive-barked and pungent, the thick layer of sodden leaves underfoot.