“We were panicked,” the secretary of state replied. “We weren’t thinking rationally. Of course we just wanted the whole thing to go away. But Doug here went over everything with us, calmly, rationally. The potential upside remains extraordinary. It’s like atomic energy—of course there’s always the risk of a catastrophic mishap. None of us are debating that. Yet the potential benefits to humanity are even greater.” As he spoke, his voice grew smoother and more sonorous: the senior diplomat of the press conferences and television appearances. He seemed hardly the same man who had been so frightened at the Hempel estate. “To turn our backs on it because of something that didn’t happen would be to abdicate our responsibility as political leaders. You can see that, can’t you? Are we on the same page?”
“We’re not reading the same goddamn book!”
“Get over yourself,” Albright snapped. “Fact of the matter is, we owe it all to you—you handled things perfectly. You’re the one who made the resurrection possible.” He did not have to refer to the details: that two men had quickly been removed from the Secretariat Building, each draped with a sheet, headed for very different destinations. “The understudy has recovered nicely. He’s been kept in one of our security facilities, subjected to extensive chemical interrogation. Just as you surmised, he’s terrified, absolutely ready to cooperate. Demarest never entrusted him with the command codes, of course. But that’s OK. Without Demarest around to constantly rescramble them, our technicians have been able to penetrate the systems. We’ve regained control.”
“That was your mistake in the past, imagining that you had control.” Janson shook his head slowly.
“We’ve certainly got control over Demarest’s understudy,” said the gray-faced technician Janson remembered from the Hempel estate gathering. “A fellow named Laszlo Kocsis. Used to teach English at a technical school in Hungary. He went under the knife eighteen months ago. A carrot-and-stick situation. Make a long story short, if he went along with Demarest’s plans for him, he’d get ten million dollars. If he didn’t, his family would be slaughtered. Not a strong man. He’s pretty much under our thumb now.”
“As you anticipated,” the DIA man said graciously. “We’ll be offering him a small island on the Caribbean. Fitting his reclusive ways. He’ll be a gilded prisoner. Unable to leave. Under twenty-four-hour guard of a Consular Operations unit. It seemed appropriate to borrow some funds from the Liberty Foundation to pay for the arrangement.”
“But let’s not get sidetracked by formalities,” the president said with a tight smile. “The point is, everything’s in order.”
“And the Mobius Program is back in business,” Janson said.
“Thanks to you,” Berquist said. He winked, a show of his characteristic affable command.
“But better than before,” Albright put in. “Because of all that we’ve learned.”
“So you grasp the logic of our position,” the secretary of state said.
Janson looked around to see what the president saw: the complacent faces of the men and women assembled in the Meridian International Center—senior civil servants, senior administrators and analysts, members of permanent Washington. The remains of the Mobius Program. They were the best and the brightest, always had been. From childhood, they had been rewarded with the top grades and test scores; all their lives they had received the approbation of their superiors. They believed in nothing greater than themselves. They knew that means were to be assessed only in relation to their ends. They were convinced that probabilities could be assigned to every unknown variable, that the wash of uncertainty could be tamed into precisely quantified risk.
And despite the fact that their ranks had been decimated by unanticipated vagaries of human nature, they had learned nothing.
“My game, my rules,” said Janson. “Gentlemen, the Mobius Program is over.”
“On whose orders?” President Berquist snorted.
“Yours.”
“What’s gotten into you, Paul?” he said, his face darkening. “You’re not making sense.”
“I get that a lot.” Janson faced him squarely. “You know the Washington saying: there are no permanent allies, only permanent interests. This program wasn’t your devising. It was something you inherited from your predecessor, who inherited it from his predecessor, and so on … .”
“That’s true of a lot of things, from our defense program to our monetary policy.”
“Sure. The lifers work on these things—as far as they’re concerned, you’re just passing through.”
“It’s important to take a long view of these things,” President Berquist said, shrugging.
“A question for you, Mr. President. You have just received and accepted an illegal personal contribution of $1.5 million.” As Janson spoke, he imagined Grigori Berman guffawing back in Berthwick House. It had been the sort of outsize mischief that pleased him beyond measure. “How are you going to explain that to Congress and to the American people?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a big-time Beltway scandal—Watergate times ten. I’m talking about watching your political career go up in flames. Call your banker. A seven-figure sum was wired to your personal account from an account of Peter Novak’s at International Netherlands Group Bank. The digital signatures can’t be faked—well, not easily. So it sure seems like a foreign plutocrat has put you on his payroll. A suspicious-minded member of the other party might start to wonder about that. Could have something to do with your signing that banking secrecy act into law the other week. Could have something to do with a lot of things. Enough to keep a special prosecutor busy for years. It’s looking like a four- or five-column headline in the Washington Post: IS PRESIDENT ON PLUTOCRAT’S PAYROLL? INVESTIGATION PENDING. That sort of thing. The New York tabloids will run with something crass, like RENT-A-PREZ. You know those media feeding frenzies—there’ll be such a din, you won’t be able to hear yourself think.”
“That’s bullshit!” the president exploded.
“And we’ll all enjoy watching you explain that to Congress. The details will arrive by e-mail tomorrow to the Justice Department as well as the relevant members of the House and the Senate.”
“But Peter Novak …”
“Novak? Not an angle I’d want to focus any attention on, if I were you. I don’t think either one of you will come away with your reputation intact.”
“You’re kidding me,” the president said.
“Call your banker,” Janson repeated.
The president stared at Janson. His personal and political instincts had gained him the highest office of the land. They told him that Janson was not bluffing.
“You’re making a terrible mistake,” said Berquist.
“I can undo it,” Janson said. “It’s still not too late.”
“Thank you.”
“Though soon it will be. That’s why you need to decide about Mobius.”
“But—”
“Call your banker.”
The president left the room. A few minutes passed before he returned to his seat.
“I consider this beneath contempt.” The president’s hard Scandinavian features were livid with rage. “And it’s beneath you! My God, you’ve served your country with incredible loyalty.”
“And was rewarded with a ‘beyond salvage’ order for my pains.”
“We’ve been through that.” Berquist glowered. “What you’re proposing amounts to nothing less than blackmail.”
“Let’s not get sidetracked by the formalities,” Janson said blandly.
The president rose, his face tight, blinking hard. Wordlessly, he sat down again. He had talked down recalcitrant opponents before, had directed the high beams of his charm at the disaffected and resistant, and had brought them around. He could do this.
“I have devoted my life to public service,” he told Janson, his rich baritone swelling with grave sincerity. “The welfare of this country is my life. I need you
to understand that. The decisions that have been made in this room have not been made thoughtlessly or cynically. When I was sworn into office, I took an oath to protect and defend this nation—the same oath my father had taken twenty years before. It is an obligation I take with utmost seriousness … .”
Janson yawned.
“Derek,” the president said, turning to the director of Consular Operations and the one man at the table who had said nothing so far. “Talk to your guy. Make him understand.”
Undersecretary Derek Collins removed his heavy black glasses and massaged the reddened grooves they left on the bridge of his nose. He had the look of someone who was about to do something he would probably regret. “I kept trying to tell you—you don’t know this man,” Collins said. “None of you do.”
“Derek?” The president’s request was clear.
“To protect and defend,” Collins said. “Heavy words. A heavy burden. A beautiful ideal that sometimes requires doing some ugly things. Uneasy rests the head, right?” He looked at Janson. “There aren’t any saints in this room, make no mistake about that. But let’s show some respect to the basic idea of democracy. There’s one person in this room who’s gone a long way on some scraps of common sense and some common decency. He’s a tough son of a bitch, and he’s as true a patriot as they come, and, agree with him or not, at the end of the day, this has to be his call … .”
“Thanks, Derek,” President Berquist said, solemn but pleased.
“I’m talking about Paul Janson,” the undersecretary finished, facing the man at the head of the table. “And if you don’t do what he says, Mr. President, you’re a bigger fool than your father.”
“Undersecretary Collins,” the president barked, “I’d be happy to accept your resignation.”
“Mr. President,” Collins said in a level tone, “I’d be happy to accept yours.”
President Berquist froze. “Goddamn it, Janson. Do you see what you’ve done?”
Janson stared at the director of Consular Operations. “An interesting song for a hawk,” he said with a half smile.
Then he turned to the president. “You know what they say: ‘Consider the source.’ The advice you’ve been given may say more about your advisers’ concerns than your own. You really ought to think in terms of alignment of interests. Goes for you, too, Mr. Secretary.” He glanced at the now queasy-looking secretary of state and returned to Berquist. “As I said, as far as most of the people in this room are concerned, you’re just passing through. They’ve been around before you, they’ll be here after you. Your immediate, personal interests don’t really mean a whole lot to them. They want you to take the ‘long view.’”
Berquist was silent for half a minute. He was a pragmatist at heart, and used to making the cold, hard calculations that political survival depended upon. Everything else was secondary to that essential arithmetic. His forehead gleamed with sweat.
He forced a smile. “Paul,” he said, “I’m afraid this meeting got off to a bad start. I’d really like to hear you out.”
“Mr. President,” Douglas Albright protested. “This is entirely inappropriate. We’ve gone through this again and again, and—”
“Fine, Doug. Why don’t you tell me that you know how to nullify what Paul Janson’s gone and done? I haven’t heard anybody here bother to address that particular matter.”
“These aren’t comparables!” Albright stormed. “We’re talking about the long-term interests of this geopolitical entity, not the greater glory of the second Berquist administration! There’s no comparison! Mobius is bigger than all of us. There’s only one right decision.”
“And what about, oh, a looming political scandal?”
“Suck it up, Mr. President,” Albright said quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ve got a decent chance of toughing it out. That’s what you politicians specialize in, isn’t it? Cut taxes, launch a decency campaign against Hollywood, go to war in Colombia—do whatever your pollsters say. Americans have the attention span of a gnat. But, if you’ll forgive my directness, you cannot sacrifice this program on the altar of political ambition.”
“Always interesting to hear what you think I can and cannot do, Doug,” Berquist said, leaning over and squeezing the analyst’s beefy shoulders, “But I’ve think you’ve said enough today.”
“Please, Mr. President—”
“Put a sock in it, Doug,” Berquist said. “I’m thinking here. Doing some deep presidential-level policy reevaluation.”
“I’m talking about the prospects of reengineering global polities.” Albright’s voice rose to a squawk of indignation. “You’re just talking about your reelection chances.”
“You got that one right. Call me a stick-in-the-mud. I kinda have a hankering for the scenario where I’m still president.” He turned to Janson. “Your game, your rules,” he said. “I can live with that.”
“Excellent choice, Mr. President,” Janson said neutrally.
Berquist gave him a smile that combined command and entreaty. “Now give me my goddamn presidency back.”
The New York Times
PETER NOVAK TO YIELD CONTROL
OF THE LIBERTY FOUNDATION
BILLIONAIRE PHILANTHROPIST TURNS
OVER FOUNDATION TO AN INTERNATIONAL
BOARD OF TRUSTEES.
MATHIEU ZINSOU TO SERVE AS NEW DIRECTOR
By Jason Steinhardt
AMSTERDAM—In a press conference held at the Amsterdam headquarters of the Liberty Foundation, the legendary financier and humanitarian Peter Novak announced that he would be relinquishing control of the Liberty Foundation, the global organization that he created and ran for more than fifteen years. Nor would the organization have any foreseeable difficulties in funding: he also announced that he was turning over all his capital assets to the foundation, which would be reconstituted as a public trust. An international board of directors would include prominent citizens from around the world, under the chairmanship of the U.N. Secretary General, Mathieu Zinsou. “My work is done,” Mr. Novak said, reading from a prepared statement. “The Liberty Foundation must be greater than any one man, and my plan, all along, had been to delegate control of this organization to a public board, with broad accountability among its directors. As the foundation enters this new phase, transparency must be the watchword.”
Reactions were generally positive. Some observers expressed surprise, but others said they had long anticipated such a move. Sources close to Mr. Novak suggested that the recent death of his wife had helped catalyze his decision to retire from the operations of the foundation. Others point out that the financier’s reclusive habits were increasingly in conflict with the exposed and highly public position that his work at the foundation demanded. Novak was sketchy about his future plans, but some aides suggested that he planned to remove himself from the public eye entirely. “You won’t have Peter Novak to kick around anymore, gentlemen,” one deputy told members of the press with cheerful irony. Yet the mysterious plutocrat has long had a gift for the unexpected, and those who know him best agree that it would be a mistake to count him out.
“He’ll be back,” said Jan Kubelik, the foreign minister of the Czech Republic, who was in town for a G-7 conference. “Depend on it. You haven’t seen the last of Peter Novak.”
Epilogue
The lithe woman with the spiky brown hair lay prone and perfectly still, the four-foot rifle braced by sandbags fore and aft. The shadows of the belfry rendered her perfectly invisible from any distance. When she opened her non-scope eye, the cityscape of Dubrovnik seemed oddly flattened, red-tiled roofs scattered before her like colored faience, shards of ancient pottery. Beneath the bell tower where she had been positioned for the past several hours, there was a sea of faces that continued several hundred yards to the wooden platform that had been erected in the center of Dubrovnik’s old town.
They were the faithful, the devoted. It was lost on none of them that the pope had decided to start off his visit to Croatia by add
ressing an audience in a city that had come to symbolize the suffering of its people. Though more than a decade had passed since the Yugoslav army laid siege to the Adriatic port city, the memory of the assault remained undimmed among the town’s citizens.
Many of them had stamp-sized laminated photographs of the beloved pontiff. It wasn’t merely that he was someone known to be willing to speak truth to power; it was the unmistakable radiance he had about him—charisma, yes, but also compassion. It was typical of him that he would not merely decry violence and terrorism from the safety of the Vatican; he would take his message of peace to the very heartlands of strife and separatism. Indeed, word had already got out that the pope intended to address a history that most Croatians preferred to forget. In the ancient conflict between Catholic and Eastern Orthodox faiths, there was much cause for contrition on both sides. And it was time, the pontiff believed, for the Vatican and Croatia alike to confront the brutally fascistic legacy of the country’s Ustashi authority during the Second World War.
Though Croatia’s leadership, and much of its citizenry, was bound to react with dismay, his moral courage had seemingly only increased the devotion of his throngs of admirers here. It had also—Janson’s suspicions had recently been confirmed by his contacts in the capital city of Zagreb—resulted in a carefully organized assassination plot. An embittered secessionist movement of minority Serbs would avenge their own historic grievances by murdering the figure whom this predominantly Catholic nation venerated above all others. In silent collusion was a network of extreme Croatian nationalists: they feared the pontiff’s reform-minded tendencies and sought an opportunity to extirpate the treacherous minorities who had taken root among them. After such a monstrous provocation—and no provocation could be greater than the slaying of a beloved pope—none would stand in their way. Indeed, even ordinary citizens would willingly join in the sanguinary business of cleansing Croatia.
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