The Red Horseman

22

Boris Yeltsin was a bear of a man, a burly, fleshy Russian with a bulbous, veined nose that one hoped did not indicate the condition of his liver. He shook Jake Grafton’s hand and waved toward a chair as he traded Russian with an aide who didn’t bother to translate. The interpreter who had led Jake into the room also remained silent.

The sun streamed between the drapes of the tall window on Yeltsin’s left. Blinking in the glare, Jake Grafton looked around curiously. It was a good room, a man’s room, tastefully decorated and heaped with piles of paper.

Yeltsin kept glancing at Grafton as he spoke. Finally one of the aides said, “President Yeltsin wishes to thank the American government for its help in this crisis.”

Jake Grafton nodded pleasantly and glanced at his watch. The first edition of the Post carrying Jack Yocke’s story was probably hitting the streets of Washington just about now. If the Post editors placed the story on the wires it was going to be on CNN and every other television and radio station in the Western world within an hour. Yeltsin’s phone should start ringing in very short order.

After Yocke sent the story to the Post in the wee hours this morning via modem, his editor, Mike Gatler, called back and questioned him for ten minutes. When Yocke was about to lose his temper, he passed the telephone to Jake Grafton, who told Gatler, “Yeah, I read the story. Every word’s true.”

“Saddam Hussein has two dozen nuclear weapons?”

“At least that.”

Gatler whistled. “Can this CIA source — what’s his name?—”

“Herb Tenney.”

“Yeah. Can Tenney be trusted?”

“I don’t know that I trust him, but I think he told the truth on this matter.”

“Can we quote you on that?”

“If you spell my name right.”

“Rear Admiral, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you and Yocke both saw the base where Hussein got the weapons? Weapons sold to him by the Russians?”

“Yes. Name of the place is Petrovsk. Yocke has it in the story. We went there in a helicopter.”

“This is a big story,” Gatler said.

“That’s what Jack said.”

“Put him back on, please.” Jake held out the telephone.

“This story just scratches the surface,” Gatler complained to Yocke.

“I know that, Mike. I’m getting all I can. I’ll send you more as soon as possible.”

“I want you to work with Tommy Townsend on this. Call him at his hotel.”

Yocke decided to call Townsend in the morning. He went to the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and was just stretching out on the floor with a pillow when Gatler called back. “The State Department refuses to confirm or deny this story.”

“Nothing I can do about that,” Yocke said, waving frantically to Jake Grafton. The admiral sat up on the couch and rubbed his head.

“Yocke, this is the biggest story since the Japs hit Pearl Harbor,” Gatler said. “Our White House guys can’t get any confirmation, State refuses to confirm or deny, the people at the Pentagon refuse to comment, the CIA press people refuse to confirm that they’ve ever even heard of this Tenney guy. And CIA says that none of their people would ever talk to the press — violation of security regs and all that crap. So we’ve got your story and a voice on the telephone who claims he’s Rear Admiral Jake Grafton. That’s all.”

“I heard the Tenney interview, Mike. I was there in person. I saw the tape being made. I saw the rubble of the Serdobsk reactor, I visited the base at Petrovsk. I saw some bodies. I saw some weapons. I talked to Jake Grafton on the record — he’s the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, for Christ’s sake! He explicitly agreed to be quoted. I talked to an Israeli Mossad agent who’s now dead — she was shot in my presence. I’ve got all that I can give you. If you haven’t got the balls to run the story, then don’t run it.”

“Don’t get testy with me, Jack. I’m just explaining how far out on the limb we are with this story.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, but it’s a good story. Every fucking word is true. I guarantee it. I don’t give a shit what anybody else says, General Shmarov sold Saddam Hussein those bombs and blew up the Serdobsk reactor to cover up the fact that the weapons were gone.”

“Shmarov is dead.”

“I know that, Mike.”

“Heart attack.”

“No, he was poisoned by Herb Tenney.”

“What?” Gatler roared. “Poisoned! By a CIA agent? That isn’t in this story!”

“I know that too, Mike. I can’t get any confirmation for that from anybody. But Tenney confessed to the killing in my presence. I didn’t put that in this story because I don’t know that anyone will ever confirm that Shmarov was even murdered, much less that Tenney did it. I’m telling you that the stuff that is in that story is confirmed gospel. I’ve got a mountain of stuff that isn’t in there because I haven’t yet got it confirmed.”

Gatler thought that over for five seconds, then said, “I want a copy of the tape of Tenney’s confession.”

“Grafton won’t release it. The White House might, but I doubt it. It covers a lot of ground, all of it classified up the wazoo.”

“I want more stories when you get confirmations.”

“I understand. When and if, you’ll be the first to hear.”

They said their good-byes and Yocke told Jake, “He’s gonna print it.”

Jake Grafton had grunted from his position on the couch and pulled his jacket around him. He was asleep again in minutes.

This afternoon Jake idly wondered what Boris Yeltsin would do when he heard the story was out. Oh well, he was a politician, experienced in converting lemons into lemonade.

He settled back into the chair and crossed his legs. This afternoon President Clinton was supposed to call to talk to Yeltsin about the mess in Iraq. Last night Yeltsin invited Jake to come here to answer any questions his staff might have.

Now the telephone rang. One of the aides picked it up, said something, then Yeltsin took the other line. Jake looked at his watch. He wondered if the airplanes coming in from Germany would be on time.

But this wasn’t President Clinton’s call. The interpreter hung up his phone and Yeltsin fell into his chair as he listened intently on his own instrument. Occasionally his eyes swung to Grafton. This went on for several minutes with Yeltsin grunting occasionally. Finally he replaced the telephone on its hook and swiveled his chair to face Grafton. He wiggled his finger at the interpreter and spoke.

The intrepreter said, “A news story has appeared in the Washington Post. You are quoted. Did you release a story to the newspaper?”

Jake nodded. “I did.”

Yeltsin listened to the answer and swiveled his chair nervously. He toyed with a pencil, then stared at it, finally replaced it. He said something to the interpreter.

“The president wishes to know why you released the story.”

“As we discussed last night, it is of critical importance that those weapons be recovered or rendered harmless. We cannot go after those weapons without a public explanation of our actions. So the truth must be told. The truth is that a small group of individuals here in Russia sold weapons to get money to overthrow the elected government. They murdered hundreds of thousands of people to cover up their crime. This is the story. The sooner the world knows it, the better — for Russia, for the United States, for the people of the Middle East.”

“You released this story?”

“Yes.” Of course he had discussed it with General Hayden Land, but both men had agreed it would be best if Jake took the responsibility. If the story came from Jake it was deniable in Washington, and that might well be the first reaction of panicky politicians with a genetic aversion to telling the public about disasters. In the ordinary course of things weeks might pass before they screwed up the courage to talk publicly about this one. Yet Hayden Land and Jake Grafton knew they didn’t have weeks to clean up this mess: at best, they had hours.

“What is going on, Admiral?” In Washington, Yeltsin meant.

“Sir, we discussed this matter last night. Nothing has changed. U.S. Air Force planes are flying in from Germany to take me and the other foreign military observers to Arabia. From there we will go to Iraq to recover the weapons. You agreed that Marshal Mikhailov and General Yakolev would accompany our group on behalf of the Russian Republic.”

“I don’t want them talking to reporters.”

“I understand. I promise that they won’t.”

“I should have been consulted before you talked to the press.”

Jake acknowledged this. He apologized, though not very convincingly.

Yeltsin didn’t look too put out — the story Yocke wrote couldn’t have been more favorable to him even if he had written it himself. Complete innocence was a rare commodity, one to be savored. Being the unwounded target of a cutthroat power play that misfired was even nicer.

“I have a suggestion,” Jake added. “In an hour or so you, Mr. President, are going to be besieged by reporters wanting your comments. The reporter who wrote this morning’s story for the Washington Post, Jack Yocke, is downstairs. Why not get him up here, give him an interview, and get your side of this on record before the spin doctors in Washington and Baghdad get into the act? Mr. Yocke is knowledgeable about this matter and sympathetic to your government.”

The mention of Baghdad did the trick. Saddam Hussein would be on camera as soon as he heard about the Post story. Hussein had just two options, as far as Jake could see: deny he had nuclear weapons or admit it and claim that the government of Russia sold them to him. That government, of course, was Boris Yeltsin. Which option Hussein picked would depend, Jake suspected, on the amount of time he still needed to get the nuclear weapons operational. The nearer he was to being ready to push the button the more likely he was to admit that he had them. But this was speculation, and just now Jake was trying to cover all the possibilities.

In minutes Jack Yocke was being ushered into the president’s office. He glanced at Rear Admiral Jake Grafton seated at an oblique angle from Yeltsin’s desk, then turned his attention to the Russian president.

Yocke knew exactly what his editor, Mike Gatler, wanted — a gold-plated confirmation of the first story — and he went after it without making any detours. Point by point he led Yeltsin through the story and scribbled his answers on a small steno pad.

Yes, it was true that Shmarov had used the KGB to collect money from Saddam Hussein. He sold things that belonged to the nation that he had no right to sell. That was a crime. Such a thing would be a crime in any nation on earth.

Yes, Shmarov allowed the removal of planeloads of weapons from the base at Petrovsk the day before the Serdobsk reactor was destroyed. Yes, Shmarov ordered Colonel Gagarin of the KGB to destroy the Serdobsk fast breeder reactor. And yes, Gagarin committed the crime. Yeltsin was not yet prepared to say what Shmarov did with the money he collected for the weapons — the government was investigating. The new fact to lead off this story — Yeltsin had ordered Marshal Mikhailov, commander of the Russian armed forces, and General Yakolev, commander of the Russian army, to accompany Rear Admiral Jake Grafton and a group of officers from Germany, Britain, France and Italy on a trip to Iraq to recover the stolen weapons.

“Stolen?” Yocke asked, looking up at Yeltsin.

“Stolen,” the interpreter repeated after a burst from Yeltsin. “The government of Russia has never sold and will never sell or give away nuclear weapons. We have given our solemn promise on that point to numerous governments throughout the world. We have signed treaties.”

Jack Yocke then asked the next logical question: what would Russia do to get the stolen weapons back if Saddam Hussein wasn’t gentleman enough to return them? The answer: “We are cooperating with the United States and the governments of other nations to secure the return of the stolen weapons.”

That should have been the end of it, but Yocke was Yocke and couldn’t resist asking one more. After a glance at Grafton, whose face showed no emotion whatever, he said, “General Shmarov allegedly died of a heart attack the night before last. Was it a heart attack?”

“I don’t know,” Boris Yeltsin said. “An autopsy is being performed.”

Yocke opened his mouth, glanced again at Grafton, then thanked President Yeltsin for the interview. He was ushered from the room. Jake Grafton remained seated.

Out in the waiting area Yocke grabbed his computer from the chair where he had placed it and opened it on his lap. In seconds he was tapping away while the U.S. marine captain, McElroy, watched over his shoulder.

When Yocke finished and looked up, McElroy and the four enlisted marines with him were no longer in the room. But there was a secretary behind the desk and she had a telephone in front of her. “May I make a collect telephone call?” he asked.

She merely grinned nervously at him.

“Use the phone?” He reached for it and raised his eyebrows.

She nodded. Yocke snagged the instrument and when he heard a voice addressing him in Russian, asked for the international operator.

The C-141 was somewhere over the Black Sea when Jack Yocke tired of looking out the window at the four F-15 escorts, their KC-135 tanker and the electronic warfare E-3 Sentry that formed this aerial armada. Jake Grafton obviously intended to make it to Arabia regardless of who had other ideas.

As they were boarding the airplane in Moscow, Yocke had asked, “You don’t really expect the Russian air force to try to shoot us down, do you?”

“With the story out, probably not. But we have Mikhailov and Yakolev. Who knows how that will play? It’s like trying to figure prison politics.”

Yocke had watched with growing wonder as the F-15s occasionally slipped in behind the tanker for fuel, then slid away afterward. The planes seemed to hang motionless in the sky, a perspective Yocke found unique and fascinating. The noise of their engines was masked by the background noise inside the C-141, so the show outside was a silent, effortless ballet.

He had already tried to interview Lieutenant Colonel Jocko West and the three bird colonels from Germany, Italy and France. None of them wanted to talk, on or off the record. They did spell their names for him, for future reference. Then they shooed him off. As he turned to go back to his seat, West told him with a grin, “Reporters are like solicitors and doctors — the less you see of them the more tranquil your life.”

Marshal Mikhailov and General Yakolev were in the back of the compartment surrounded by four armed marines. Captain McElroy was seated nearby; he had merely moved his head from side to side about half a millimeter when Yocke looked his way.

Up front Jake Grafton was in conference with Toad Tarkington and Captain Tom Collins. Yocke stood in the aisle and stretched. Even after that hassle with the story last night and just two hours sleep, he wasn’t a bit tired. How often is it that you get to interview the president of a big nation and write a story that will make every front page on the planet, then jump on a plane and jet off to do another? Ah, he could get used to this.

Better enjoy it while it lasts, he told himself, because when it’s over it’ll be really over. He would be back scribbling crime stories and the city council news that was fit to print all too soon.

Yocke passed by Grafton and his colleagues and went forward to the cockpit. Rita Moravia was in the left seat. She turned and flashed him a grin.

“She’s not really a pilot, you know,” Jack told the air force major standing behind Rita. “She was Miss July of 1991.”

“Careful, friend,” the major rumbled. “This is the new modern American military. Comments with any sexist content whatsoever have been outlawed.”

“Sorry.”

“You want to remain politically correct and ideologically pure, don’t you? No more male and female pronouns. Everything is it. During the transition period you may say hit and sit instead of it, but no shit. One slip and the sexual gestapo will be on your case.”

“After they gets finished with you,” the copilot told him gravely, “you’ll have to Spiro Agnew.”

“Actually,” Rita Moravia said, patting her hair to ensure it was just so, “I was Miz July.”

“Where are we?” Yocke asked when the three stooges had calmed down. All he could see out the window was sea and sky.

“Thirty-three thousand feet up,” the copilot told him, and laughed shamelessly at his own wit.

The reporter groaned. Look out, Saddam! The Americans are coming again. Yocke left the flight deck and went back to the cabin.

Jake Grafton was seated beside Tarkington. Collins was back in his own seat reading something, so Jack sat on the arm of the seat across the aisle from the admiral. “How’s planning for the war?”

Jake Grafton examined Yocke’s face. “Our agreement is still in effect, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I mention it because last night you flapped your mouth to your editor about General Shmarov’s death. That subject was and is off limits.”

“Admiral, Gatler was on the fence over whether or not to run the story. I had to give him a hot off-the-record fact so he would think I had a lot more, that we were scraping the icing off a very big cake. And that tidbit about Shmarov was the only hot fact I could think of just then. I assumed you wanted the story in the paper or you wouldn’t have bothered to order it”—Yocke snapped his fingers—“like a ham and cheese on rye.”

“Then you tried to inch onto that subject with Yeltsin this afternoon with that last question, on the off chance he might spill his guts on the spot.”

“Admiral, I—”

Jake cut him off. “I saw you give me that guilty look, should I or shouldn’t I, just before you put your mouth in motion. Either you play the game my way or you can zip right over to the commercial airport when we land and ride your plastic right on back to Moscow. We are playing with my ball, Jack.”

“Yessir. Your ball, your rules. But for my info, are you ever going to let me loose on the CIA’s creative use of binary poisons?”

Grafton shrugged. “I don’t know. Doubtful. That situation will probably solve itself.”

“ ‘Solve itself,’ ” Yocke repeated sourly, and drew in air for an oration on the hypocrisy of not airing our dirty linen while we launder other people’s.

He never got the chance. Jake jerked his thumb aft. “Those two are a part of our international team.”

“The two Russian prisoners, you mean?” Yocke said, and instantly regretted it. Jake Grafton’s gray eyes looked like river ice in winter.

“This may be just a story for you,” Grafton said, almost a whisper, “but there’s a bit more at stake for everybody else.”

“I’m not writing fiction, Admiral. Not intentionally, anyway.”

“I’m not asking you to. But no interviews with them until I say so, if and when.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Yocke tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and succeeded fairly well. Tarkington gave him the eye, though.

Grafton went back to studying the photographs that lay in his lap. He used a magnifying glass.

“Aerial photos?” Yocke asked.

“Satellite.”

“May I look?”

Grafton passed him a couple. They looked like shots from just a couple thousand feet above an airfield. He could see the aircraft clearly, the power carts, the revetments, even people and the shadows they cast. “These are really clear,” he murmured. “Are the missiles here at this base?”

“I think so. The trouble with satellite surveillance is that you can rarely be absolutely certain of anything. It’s true, at times the resolution is so good that you can read license plate numbers, and if people like Saddam think we can see everything all the time, that’s just fine with us. But we can’t. There are very real technical limitations. The art is in the interpretation of what you can see.”

“So are we going to hit this base with an air strike?”

“That would be the easy way,” Jake acknowledged, then selected another photo and bent to examine it. When he finally straightened he added, “Nobody ever accused us of doing anything the easy way.”

Jack Yocke returned the photos and went back to his seat by the window. He sat staring at the two fighters he could see. They were in loose formation, so loose one was over a mile away.

The sun was setting, firing the tops of the clouds below with pinks and oranges. Beneath that the sea was a deep, deep purple, almost black. He stared downward, between the clouds. That looked like…maybe it was land. Were they over Turkey? Or was that ocean down there in the gloom?

He finally reclined his seat and tried to sleep.

Up forward Toad Tarkington muttered to his boss, “You may trust that jackass, but I don’t.”

“To which of our jackasses are you referring?”

“Yocke.”

“Oh, he’s got his rough edges,” Jake said, “but he’s an honest man. Rather like you in that regard.” When he saw that Toad was at a loss for a reply, Jake grinned and added, “You guys are Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. Amy says you’re both fun to have around. She’s still trying to decide which of you is Tweedledumber.”

“Thanks, CAG.”

“Anytime, Toad.”