Ice Age

by Brian Freemantle

  Partington remained with his head slumped forward on his chest, paring the words and the arguments for hidden meaning, which he didn’t find. ‘Paul?’

  ‘Some place has to be found for them until we’ve got a handle on this,’ granted the still grateful Spencer. ‘And Jack does need a secure link to Fort Detrick until it is. It sounds good to me, Mr President.’

  Partington began gradually to nod his head, in agreement. ‘It’s neat. Tidy. Let’s do that. There’s room to set them up at Blair House.’

  Where they’ll be totally under my control, translated Spencer. ‘I’ll fix it,’ he promised.

  The Lincoln Room had been chosen for the conference because of its size and when they got there, forty-five minutes early, the platform and podium had already been erected and the twitching Barry Tilson was checking a speed and clarity run-through of what he’d written on the podium prompt that would be in front of Partington. Technicians were running TV cables to electrical feeds and White House staff had started setting out rows of seating.

  Boddington came across as they entered and said to Stoddart: ‘You nervous?’

  ‘No,’ said Stoddart, honestly.

  ‘No need to be,’ said the professional, reassuring, you-can-trust-me man. ‘You’re not expected to say anything. I’m not allowing questions. It’s just a photo opportunity, you and the President together after his declaration.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Stoddart. He decided the other man could probably sound sincere breaking wind.

  ‘Smooth as clockwork,’ declared a satisfied Tilson, from the podium.

  Stoddart and Spencer withdrew at the pre-arranged gesture from the earpieced Secret Service attendant but remained in the expansive approach corridor along which Henry Partington, accompanied by the Secretary of State and Richard Morgan, appeared almost at once. The president had changed from the morning encounter into a subdued, dark-blue suit and muted, unpatterned tie.

  ‘The President goes to the podium by himself,’ guided Spencer, quietly. ‘You stand with the rest of us to one side and only go up to join him when he signals.’

  Precisely on time and as choreographed by more earpieced Secret Service men, the double doors swung open and Partington strode forward to the respectful standing ovation from a room that had become filled with people and whitened by intense TV lights. Only when he edged in, initially unrecognized, behind Robin Turner and the White House group, did Stoddart see a narrow, elevated platform was built directly behind the podium to give Partington the appearance of height to everyone in the room beyond.

  Although he’d twice read the speech in its entirety and even wondered at some of the actual phrasing, Stoddart had failed totally to anticipate how it would be performed – and performed, he decided, was the apposite word – by a politician as consummate as Henry Partington. The intonation was faultless and every pause, each a prelude to an empty but resounding sound bite, meticulously timed.

  The world had for too long ignored its responsibilities to the young and the still unborn – to the planet itself – of global warming and America was the chief and guilty culprit. Today, this moment, he was calling a halt (delivered with a two-handed, palm outwards stopping gesture) by announcing the convening of a conference, the date yet unscheduled, at which all the industrialized countries of the world – with observers and representatives of the innocent but just as badly endangered Third World – were to be invited to commit themselves unequivocally to reduce emissions. Partington proposed that United Nations and world environmental auditing groups be given legally binding authority to enforce what it was essential to agree. For America, for its part, he intended a new environmental governing body, headed by someone whom people both within and beyond America would recognize as the man who for far too long had been warning, unheard, that the world was destroying itself. Here the delivery was accompanied by a gesture to Stoddart who made to move but felt his jacket held by Spencer, stopping him.

  At the identification Stoddart abruptly became the attention of cameras and television and a lot of the hurriedly writing, seated journalists. Just as quickly Partington brought the focus back to himself, beginning to speak but then faltering, as if troubled by emotion or uncertainty. There was, the president resumed, a real and potentially frightening reason to move as quickly as possible to adopt the measures he was talking about today. There was evidence that ice-cap melting at both Poles was releasing into the oceans the disease of influenza, which America – with some other involved countries – had already notified to the global monitoring bodies. In the preparation Stoddart had earlier read the 1918 death toll had been kept at forty million, but now Partington quoted one hundred million with the hope that a pandemic of such proportions would not result from what he was disclosing. Partington waited for the stir to subside. The transmission of influenza from sea animals to humans was the most worrying and threatening. But there was more. Solemnly – prophetically – the man enumerated the other inexplicable marine manifestations, making the pause between each announcement like the chime of a warning bell.

  ‘These are things – frightening, unanswerable things – that we so far know about,’ concluded Partington in another departure from the text. ‘There could be others even more horrifying, even more dangerous. That is why I am taking the lead I am today – urging the other nations of the world to follow me – and appointing this country’s foremost advocate against man’s destruction of his own planet to lead what I refuse to call an effort but instead pledge to be a determination …’

  Spencer’s restraint became an encouraging push and Stoddart’s arrival beside Partington coincided perfectly with the man’s gesture of invitation. There was an explosion of flash guns and the glare of television illumination. Stoddart was careful to avoid the elevated podium step keeping the president at his level for the renewed crackling of side by side photographs. Despite the earlier insistence that there would be no questions, there were isolated, unheard shouts, and from the corner of his eye Stoddart saw Boddington come up from the huddled, head-nodding conversation with Spencer, his wrist still bent from him obviously timing the camera access.

  As the man moved towards the podium to quell the demands, Stoddart shouted above the hubbub: ‘I want to say how honoured and pleased I am to accept the position I have been offered by the President …’

  The noise faltered and so did the media spokesman, halted by the risk of appearing to cut Partington off if the man chose to go even further beyond his prepared speech.

  Hurriedly Stoddart went on. ‘… I do so because I believe as fervently as the President that there is a need for urgent and binding action, action to which no industrialized country has so far done anything more than pay meaningless lip service …’ He was close enough to Partington to feel the man stiffening and Boddington was edging closer. ‘… Many of you here today will know how long I have been sounding the warnings that the President has endorsed here today. My record is a matter of public record and that is how I intend it to remain. Public. And I want to make a public promise about the responsibility I have today been accorded and today accepted …’ Boddington was beside him now, fidgeting to intervene. Partington was rigid, fingers white where he was gripping the podium edge. ‘… With the complete backing and authority of the President of the United States I will evolve, with the Environmental Agency of the United Nations and of every involved country in the world, restrictions and conditions and monitoring to halt what is happening to the earth’s resources—’

  ‘I think …’ tried Boddington, but the man was too far away for the microphone to pick up the interruption.

  ‘… And here is my undertaking,’ Stoddart forced on. ‘If I come to the belief that the efforts that have been pledged today are being sabotaged or treated contemptuously by any of the bodies or countries invited to participate, then I will publicly name them at the time of my even more publicly resigning. And that resignation will be the signal and the proof that the pressure of industria
lized commercialism has defeated the obligation that the President has so rightly identified today, to the newly born and the unborn, babies who might enter a world to diseases not yet known and others, like cancer, virtually inevitable from unfiltered sunlight …’

  Partington actually stepped back from the podium to make room at the microphone for Boddington as Stoddart finished. The eruption of questions was so loud nothing was intelligible and Boddington stood with his hands outstretched to quell the noise. Partington was already off the dais, hurrying back towards the corridor and Stoddart followed. Almost at once Turner, Morgan and Spencer created a protective cordon behind them.

  Partington halted just beyond the quickly closed double doors, wheeling to confront Stoddart, white-faced, physically shaking in his fury. ‘You smart-assed son of a bitch! I’ll bury you, for what you’ve just done! Bury you without a trace …’

  Twenty-Two

  Richard Morgan physically intervened between Stoddart and the president – although touching neither – in an effort to stem the far too public tirade and Spencer grasped Stoddart’s elbow to lead the man into the side corridor and the basement elevator.

  ‘My office,’ Morgan called after them. Partington’s voice became indistinct but Stoddart heard ‘son of a bitch’ repeated and ‘fix’. There were two cleaners in the lift and Spencer and Stoddart rode down unspeaking.

  It wasn’t until they were inside Morgan’s suite that Spencer said: ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing!’ He was ashen and his voice trembled.

  ‘Matching the President’s determination is all,’ said Stoddart. Partington’s unrestrained fury astonished him.

  ‘You knew you weren’t to say anything! I told you!’

  ‘The President’s just made a long overdue commitment. I gave the man every credit for it and made one of my own.’

  ‘BullYou publicly trapped the President!’shit!

  ‘That’s bullshit. Unless, of course, the President didn’t mean anything he just said. Which I can’t believe. You telling me something I need to know?’

  Spencer looked steadily at Stoddart, visibly tensing to recover his own self-control. ‘Let me tell you something you do need to know. You need to know you’ve just made one of the biggest mistakes of your life. I don’t know – can’t guess – what the President’s going to do, but he’s a bad man to cross and he sure as hell thinks you’ve crossed him. If there’s any future for you in this thing after today, then you’d better listen to everything you’re told and if you’re told something the President wants or doesn’t want, you make damned sure you follow it to the letter. And—’

  ‘Paul!’ stopped Stoddart. ‘Here’s something I think you need to know. Or remember. I’ve been fucked over for years by people who refused to hear what I had to say because it affected their balance sheets, which I very well know fund political parties and political campaigns. Something else I very well know is precisely why Henry Partington wheeled me out today. And you know it, too. So let’s be honest with each other, you and I. I respect the office of the presidency and I’ll do nothing to show disrespect to it. What you regard as trapping the President I consider maintaining my own independent integrity and refusing to become anyone’s talking doll …’ Stoddart stopped at the entry into the room of Richard Morgan and Carson Boddington.’ … We’re clearing the air here. You think it might be an idea, Paul, if I repeated what I’ve just said …?’

  Before Spencer’s shrug Stoddart said it again anyway and when he finished Morgan at once demanded: ‘Who said anything about the President being trapped?’

  There was an echoing pause before Spencer said: ‘Maybe I said something like that.’

  ‘I think there’s been some misunderstandings,’ calmed Morgan, looking at his former deputy. ‘The President feels that maybe, Jack, you weren’t properly briefed upon what was expected up there today.’

  Spencer’s face tightened again. ‘Jack was told he wasn’t expected to say anything.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s unfortunate it wasn’t stressed strongly enough,’ said Morgan, refusing to let go the blame he’d already planted firmly in Partington’s mind. ‘What’s important now is to keep things in proportion.’

  ‘I don’t consider anything’s out of proportion,’ said Stoddart.

  ‘That’s good to hear, Jack,’ said Boddington, easing into the soothing conversation. ‘That’s how we want to keep things, don’t you agree?’

  ‘What, exactly, is it you’re asking me to agree with? Or to?’ asked Stoddart.

  It was Morgan who replied. The President didn’t expect you to say anything. He was surprised—’ Again looking directly at Spencer, the Chief of Staff went on. ‘He’s asked me to make sure there aren’t any more misunderstandings.’

  Go with the flow, decided Stoddart. He’d made his point far more forcefully than he’d imagined. ‘I don’t see why there should be. I’m clear on what I am supposed to do and until I can get fully involved there’s Darryl Matthews and Harold Norris to get things up and running.’ It was important – essential – to ensure there hadn’t been a change of heart about that.

  Boddington made a vague gesture in the direction of the outer corridor. ‘We’re being inundated with personal interview requests.’

  ‘Which I’m not interested in doing at the moment,’ said Stoddart.

  The relief from the press spokesman was as muted as Stoddart’s qualified refusal. Boddington said: ‘You’ve been pretty approachable in the past. People have got your number. You’ll be chased.’

  ‘Not to Fort Detrick,’ Stoddart pointed out. The Fairfax apartment was too well known to the media, so checking that out wouldn’t be possible now. He was glad he’d arranged to meet Geraldine before setting out. He supposed there’d be a cancellation penalty for whatever hotel room had been booked for her but they could drive back to the installation that night. Even with the likelihood of rejection he should have suggested meeting Raisa Orlov.

  ‘That would be better,’ said Boddington, obscurely. ‘Not talking to the media any more, I mean. Not until—’

  ‘There’s something to tell them,’ provided Stoddart. ‘Relax, guys. I’m not trapping anyone or holding anyone over a barrel. As long as the game’s straight – or straight enough – I’ll play by the rules. That make everybody happy?’

  ‘There must be something!’ insisted Henry Partington. In his continued fury he was stumping around the small, private office, all his calls held.

  ‘Better to wait,’ urged Morgan. ‘He’s on side now. Best to let him have his moment, his fifteen minutes of glory, until we get a solution to whatever the damned Shangri-La strain is. Something goes wrong we need to offload, Jack Stoddart’s there for us.’

  ‘Okay, there’s nothing we can do at the moment but when he’s served his purpose I want Jack Stoddart buried … buried so deep he’ll think it would have been better if he’d died, with all the rest. And screw him at Blair House. Give his two pet monkeys space and secretaries but no other support staff. They’ll suffocate under paper.’

  Morgan let the threat hang in the air.

  ‘It’s Paul’s failure, more than anybody’s,’ continued Partington.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Is there anything for him to talk to me about other than to save his ass?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Then I won’t see him.’

  ‘You want me to tell him you’re too busy?’ offered Morgan, hopefully.

  Partington considered the question. ‘Not right away. Let him twist in the wind for a while.’

  Gregori Lyalin actually laughed as he tossed his copy of Raisa’s complaint on to the coffee table of his temporary office in the embassy. ‘Very forcefully expressed.’

  Surely the bastard wasn’t patronising her! ‘It was your right to be told my professional opinion.’

  ‘And your right to express it direct to Moscow,’ agreed Lyalin, easily.

  It was condescen
sion. It wouldn’t have been if he’d known – which he wouldn’t, until she was well and truly ready to tell him – what Sergei Grenkov had just told her: that in the tissue sample she’d held back from everyone at Fort Detrick there was a stain trace which her deputy was virtually sure had to be an antibody. Which meant she was right about the infection being viral and they had a route to follow. ‘I’m glad you accept that.’

  It wasn’t difficult, thought Lyalin, to suspect the woman had a genuine mental problem. He gestured towards the paper. ‘You haven’t said you’ve given me a copy, as a matter of courtesy.’

  Raisa hesitated, feeling the irritation. She’d intended to but had been distracted by her conversation with Grenkov. ‘An oversight. The importance is that I did show it to you.’

  Lyalin smiled again. ‘An oversight about an oversight! So they do occur. And like that of the Americans, no harm’s been done.’

  ‘I think that’s a facile comparison, scarcely worth suggesting.’Bastard!

  ‘So do I,’ said Lyalin readily. ‘You going to add to what you’ve already written to Moscow that you’ve copied me your note. The impression might be that we’re openly disagreeing.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ seized Raisa.

  ‘Not on the importance,’ qualified Lyalin. ‘Just on whether something that turned out to be a false alarm was worth commenting about as strongly as this.’

  ‘It illustrates the American inadequacy.’