Behold a Pale Horse

by Franklin Allen Leib

  THE NEW ZEALOTS in the van drove out to Fort Marcy Park and pulled Charles roughly from the back, rolling him onto the muddy grass. “You bin warned once, boy,” the big one who had led the team at his apartment, kicking Charles sharply beneath the ribs. Charles gasped as his breath rushed out. “You got a story that don’t want to be told.”

  Charles got a breath tried to sit up. A boot pushed him gently back down. “I’d stop the story if I could, but it’s already filed.”

  “Then why you need that girl?”

  “She knows certain details,” Charles said, hating his cowardice.

  “Where’s the story filed?”

  “The Washington Post.”

  “Shit,” the big man spat and turned away. “You really stuck your foot in it, boy. I’m tempted to drag your ass over to Vince Foster Corner and kick you to death. Won’t be no story without a reporter.”

  “They’d print it if I was murdered,” Charles said quickly, his guts turning to water. “They’d figure out the missing pieces quickly enough, and the murder itself would make it news.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. You ain’t big enough to be remembered long, boy,” the big man said. “You figure out some way you can help me with my problem?”

  “I’ll rewrite. I’ll tell the Post I couldn’t prove the most damaging parts. It’ll run on page thirty if at all.”

  “That’s a start. Now, who was that girl? By now the boys will have dropped her home, so we know how to find her.”

  “Her name’s Julia. I-I don’t know her last name. I don’t know her well at all.” The man kicked him in the stomach, much harder, and Charles doubled up and vomited. When he was empty, he began to sob. “Please—”

  The big man turned Charles over with the toe of his boot, and squatted beside him, careful to avoid the mess. “Tell me,” the man said, just above a whisper, “that the name is not Julia Early.”

  “Yes,” Charles sobbed, waiting for the next kick. “Yes.”

  “Boy, you are one troublesome little cootie, you know that?” he rose and called to his team. “Get him up.”

  “Hell, no,” one of them said. “I ain’t havin’ him back in my van smellin’ like that.”

  The big man looked down at Charles, who was still sobbing. “Then you got a walk ahead of you, boy. Make you feel better. And you got no need to be looking over your shoulder to see if we be around for a while, because we will be.”

  The Mormon got into the front seat of the van and they drove off, leaving the reporter in the deserted park. Jesus Lord, I hope them others didn’t rough up Jubal John Early’s kid. There’d be hell to pay if they had.

  19

  MALCOLM JAPES AND Ambassador Collins were ushered into one of the Kremlin’s great dining halls exactly at nine. The Russian Foreign Minister, Dmitri Shepilov, stood to welcome them, while a uniformed steward served tea in silver-bottomed glasses. Shepilov was a short, fat man who frequently mopped his brow in the overheated room. Behind him stood a tall, balding man in an ill-fitting suit. Shepilov introduced him as his interpreter as they all took seats at the head end of the long polished birchwood table.

  Strange, Japes thought, sipping the sweet tea. He had met with Shepilov on several occasions, and the minister spoke perfect, unaccented English. Japes, for his part, spoke passable Russian. The two diplomats exchanged bland courtesies in both languages; the interpreter, if so he was, did not interrupt.

  After Japes thought they had danced around long enough to be polite, he came right to the point. “You’re reinforcing the Kaliningrad District, and readying a large fleet for sea. May we ask why?”

  Shepilov shrugged. “Our brothers in Cuba complain they are being attacked by bandits, inserted, supplied, and protected by your naval and air forces. Surely you wouldn’t have us abandon our brothers.”

  “In fact,” Japes said dryly, “that would be our strong recommendation. They may be your brothers, or have been before you abandoned the creed of International Communism that they still preserve. But brothers or no, they’re a thorn in our side.”

  “Does that mean, dear Malcolm, that your fleet will interpose itself between a Russian friendship mission and the Cuban people, who have asked our aid?”

  “We must protect our national interest. Surely you would feel the same if NATO forces were to march into Belarus or Ukraine to greet our many friends there.”

  “Perhaps. But you’re suggesting a direct conflict between Russian and American forces, on the high seas; international waters that belong to neither of us.”

  “We’ll not allow Russia to land troops in Cuba,” Japes said, abandoning any pretense of diplomatic nicety. “That’s the message of my president. You know perfectly well your fleet wouldn’t last ten minutes if hostilities begin near our shores.”

  “A grave threat, my friend, against a peaceful, humanitarian mission. There would, of course, be the risk of miscalculation, and escalation of the conflict, even to the level of nuclear exchange.”

  “Russia won’t risk that to defend Cuba’s bankrupt revolution,” Japes said bluntly. “The United States will defend its near seas, including the Caribbean Basin.”

  “You’re relying on your antimissile system. The one you built in contravention of the ABM treaty you piously say you honor.”

  “We’ve conducted a few tests,” Japes lied carefully.

  “In contravention of the treaty,” Shepilov repeated.

  “Technically,” Japes admitted. “Russia also builds its antimissile forces, and has for years.”

  “We don’t,” Shepilov said, wide-eyed.

  “Of course we do,” a loud, hoarse voice called in Russian from the back of the hall. Shepilov leaped out of his seat. The interpreter came to attention and translated.

  Japes watched as Alexandr Lebed, President of the Russian Federation, marched the length of the room. Lebed was a compact man who looked as fit as the paratrooper he had been. His face was badly scarred and his black hair was thinning, but his eyes, so deep in their sockets as to be in shadow, gleamed with energy as if they had their own light source. He wore a perfectly tailored, certainly not Russian, double-breasted gray suit. He continued speaking in Russian, pausing between sentences to let the interpreter catch up. Japes caught nearly all of what the president said, and realized the interpreter was toning it down.

  “Russia has always opposed antimissile defenses,” Lebed said in his parade-ground voice, “because they make the unthinkable inevitable. Suppose your navy attacks my fleet and I decide to retaliate with a single nuclear missile, perhaps fired from here or from a submarine. I could fire that missile at your carriers, or at a city, perhaps one of your ungovernable ones like Miami, from whence I suspect this current madness proceeds. But I can’t do that, because your Aegis-system cruisers and destroyers would detect a submarine-launched missile as it broke the surface and shoot it down, and a missile launched from here to Miami would be shot down by your antimissile-missiles that don’t exist. Similarly, your President Tolliver couldn’t risk a surgical retaliatory strike at, say, one of our naval bases: Sevastapol, Kola Peninsula, Vladivostok, because our few antimissiles might get yours. So what alternative do we have, Mr. Secretary? The one nobody wants or has ever wanted: a full, overwhelming, nuclear exchange.”

  Japes used the time while the interpreter spoke to collect his thoughts. There was much logic in what Lebed said. Lebed, a former general, understood military realities and options; Japes knew that Tolliver did not. “The United States,” Japes said carefully, “wishes no conflict with the Russian Federation.”

  “Then quit fucking with Cuba!” the president shouted, after the interpreter translated Japes’s bland statement. The translator rendered the Russian’s outburst as “Please exercise restraint in respect of Cuba.”

  “I’ll consult with my president today,” Japes said. “If he agrees to reduce the interdiction of Cuban drug shipments and refugee boats, would there be anything our Russian friends could do to restrain Presiden
t Castro?”

  Lebed waited for the translation, then barked, “We’ll tell that fat sack of shit Castro to shut the fuck up. But if the Americans don’t cease the blockade and the overflights, much less the obvious support of so-called freedom fighters, our fleet will sail and there will be risk of war.”

  The interpreter stumbled through the president’s statement. Japes wondered: surely Lebed must have been told I speak Russian. Is he using the interpreter as a foil so he can say it as he likes and let the interpreter protect the niceties? To let me know he is serious?

  The president stood up. “A military secret, Mr. Secretary, so you won’t have to wait for your satellite photos. The load-out for the task force will take another four days. Then it sails to join submarine squadrons already in the Atlantic. Ten to twelve days at sea to reach Cuba, Mr. Secretary, so we have two weeks to reach an agreement or incinerate the earth. A happy result would be highly publicized joint maneuvers of our two fleets for training.” Lebed marched from the room while the translator droned.

  Japes, Collins and Shepilov shook hands all around, then Japes and Collins made the short drive to the U.S. Embassy to use the secure satellite link to Washington.

  THE MORMON REPORTED to Clarissa Alcott Tolliver at 8 A.M., as instructed, the morning after the roust of the reporter Charles Taylor and the brief detention of Julia Early. The First Lady’s office in the West Wing was small but elegantly appointed. Jim Bob sat on the visitor’s chair in front of her desk; Clarissa sat on the forward edge of the desk itself. Her skirt was leather and very short; Jim Bob couldn’t help noticing she wore panty hose but no panties. He felt an urgent pressure in his groin.

  “A fuckup,” Clarissa said evenly. “You were specifically told to stay away from J J Early’s daughter. J J knows everything, and he’s the meanest man in Texas, including you.”

  “We didn’t know who she was, but she was in earnest conversation with the reporter. She had to be checked,” Jim Bob explained again. “She wasn’t hurt.”

  “But doubtless frightened,” Clarissa said, allowing her thighs to separate a few inches more. She could tell he was looking. “You’re going to find a way to lean on the Washington Post.”

  “Lord Jesus, Clarissa,” Jim Bob whined, watching her shifting legs. “Nobody leans on them; they brought down Nixon, and his people were a hell of a lot better organized than we are.”

  “Then kill the reporter.”

  Jim Bob squirmed. “I suggested that to him and he said that his death might kick the story onto the front page even without proof.”

  “Bullshit. Kill him and they’ll have nothing.”

  Jim Bob swallowed. Clarissa’s thighs parted farther. “What about the girl?”

  “Nothing. Leave her the hell alone.”

  “I don’t like this, Clarissa.”

  She kicked off her shoes and slid off the desk. With deliberate slowness, she hiked up her skirt and peeled off her sheer panty hose, then sat again. “Come here, Sugar Bear. Come get some honey.” She spread her legs wide.

  Jim Bob slid to her on his knees and pushed his head between her thighs. She was silk and warmth as he probed with his tongue. She moaned and gripped his curly hair, pressing him to her, and soon began to move to him. When she was finished, she pulled him to his feet. “Do it,” she said.

  “Dear God, Clarissa,” he said. His erection was painfully pressing against his fly. Clarissa seemed to notice it with surprise, but she deftly unzipped him and freed it. She touched the swollen tip with fingers that felt like feathers. “Save this for later, when it’s done,” she said, and turned away.

  Jim Bob Slate shoved his aching member back into his pants and fled toward his own tiny office in the basement. He went into the men’s room at the end of the hall, locked himself in a stall, and relieved himself with the sin of Onan, his face streaming with tears and red with shame.

  THE PRESIDENT BARELY waited until the navy steward left the Oval Office. Seated in a half circle in front of his desk were the vice president, Joseph Donahue, the Secretary of Defense, Carolyn White, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Josephus Daniels, and the Chief of staff, Ezekiel Archer. The Secretary of State, Malcolm Japes, was present via the secure video conference net from the embassy in Moscow. He looked tired and haggard; in fact, in the president’s eye, all his advisers did. “So what do we have?” the president asked. “The Koreans are telling us to leave; fine, money saved. The Russians are sending a fleet to Cuba.”

  Admiral Austin spoke first. “Let’s start with Korea. We cannot allow them to throw us out; Korea is our hinge in northeast Asia. If we go, they’ll integrate the best units of the old North Korean Army, including missile troops, into the already potent Republic of Korea Army. That’ll frighten the Japanese and the Chinese into increasing already large commitments to rearming and modernizing their forces.”

  “Comments?” the president said. All agreed, including the video image of Secretary of State Japes. “So what do we do? We’re in Korea at their request and they’ve asked us to leave.”

  “The Second Infantry Division and its supporting air must stay,” Carolyn White said. “We can’t let the Koreans become a new Hermit Kingdom with nuclear missiles.”

  Admiral Austin smiled. She’s finally getting to know her job, he thought. “We stall. Talk, talk, fight fight, like our old North Vietnamese adversary.”

  “And the Russians,” the president said, pointing at the camera that relayed the Oval Office meeting to Moscow. “Are they serious?”

  Japes cleared his throat. He had sent his report of his meeting with Lebed and Shepilov hours earlier via secure teletype. “I believe they are, Mr. President. Lebed’s position here, especially with respect to his military, is too precarious to allow him to back down. My gut says he doesn’t want to anyway.”

  The president stood and paced, rubbing his aching back. “So we stall the Koreans. Ungrateful bastards. What about the Russians?” He looked around the room.

  The vice president cleared his throat. It had been a long time since he had been asked for advice in this office. “The Cuban freedom fighters aren’t worth nuclear war, Mr. President.”

  “Bullshit,” Admiral Austin exploded. “The Russians can’t risk it. Their missiles haven’t been maintained for years, and neither God nor the Russians know whether they will fire at all or if they do where they might land. Any fleet they may cobble together in the Baltic would last less than ten minutes against even one of our carrier battle groups, and we have two in theater. Half their ships will never leave port, and another quarter will break down on the way across the Atlantic.”

  “I won’t let them send a fleet here,” the president said, once again pointing at the camera. “I won’t, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Why,” Carolyn suggested softly, “not offer half a loaf? Declare a two-hundred-mile exclusion zone around Cuba for drug interdiction; get the word out before the Russians can sail. Then invite their fleet to conduct joint exercises with ours, including port visits in Cuba and other Caribbean nations. Call their bluff, but not aggressively, and make Nieto Castro squirm as well.”

  “Brilliant,” Malcolm Japes said from Moscow.

  “We could live with it,” growled Admiral Austin. “But we should be prepared to bloody them if need be.”

  “Prudent,” the vice president said cautiously.

  “Recall,” Japes said. “President Lebed said he would restrain Castro.”

  “I like it,” the president said. “Carolyn, be sure the forces are ready. Secretary Japes, sell it, then come home.”

  WHEN THE VICE president reached his own office, he telephoned Alfred Thayer. “He’s being reasonable today. Perhaps we should delay.”

  “We can’t. Remember the security arrangements; the artist cannot be recalled.”

  “Surely his movements are known. You had people—”

  “He slipped them, several times. He’s as good as we wished.”

  “But—”

  �
�The die is cast,” Thayer said. “As it should be.”

  20

  JULIA WAS STILL AGONIZING about whether to call her father the morning after the attack when the phone on her desk rang and there he was. “I been anxious about you, Julia May.”

  She took a deep breath, and the story poured out of her in a whisper that couldn’t be overheard from the desks on either side of her. She apologized for lying to him; he said nothing about that. “Maybe you better come home and visit your Momma while I take a trip to Washington and sort a few things out,” J J said quietly. Julia could detect menace in his voice, danger.

  “Daddy, I’m going to Europe the day after tomorrow, for the bank. It’s a big break.”

  “How can you trust the people at that bank? You got to believe they know what you did.”

  “I’m guessing, but I think they want to keep me away from Charles—from the reporter.”

  “President Tolliver is a good man, though temperamental at times, but that Clarissa is utterly ruthless, and she has some mean sons of bitches working for her.”

  “I think I would be safe in Europe. All those people said was don’t help the reporter.”

  “All right. Don’t go out by yourself until you go to the airport. Hire a limo; don’t drive yourself. I’ll pay for it. While you’re gone, I’ll fly back and rattle a few cages. By the way, what’s this Charles Taylor to you?”

  “Nothing,” she said angrily. “He threatened to blackmail me.”

  “Keep well clear. Enjoy Europe; call me at the Mayflower Hotel in D.C. if you have any problems. I got friends in Europe.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. I’m sorry I lied.”

  “Tan your hide later for that one, young lady. Just now be careful.”