by Allen Drury
“We do!” President Shulatov said triumphantly. “We do! And now, perhaps that is enough for the first session? You must all be very tired. Perhaps a rest—then cocktails—then dinner? We will show you that the new Russia still knows how to feed her friends well, Mr. President! You will enjoy it.”
“I know we will,” he said. “I agree, this is probably enough for a preliminary session. Your social program sounds fine to us. First, though, I expect we will have to meet the world press.”
“They are waiting in the Great Hall of the Kremlin,” Shulatov said, rising; and all down the table, his Cabinet followed suit. “We knew we must accustom ourselves from now on to their kind attentions.”
Orrin and his party rose, too.
“I’m afraid so,” he said with a smile he permitted to appear fully relaxed again. “You may have the first word.”
“After you!” Shulatov said with a sudden boisterous laugh. “After you!”
But in the Great Hall, when Orrin insisted, his host did speak first.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he said to the eager audience in which could be seen Walter Dobius, Frankly Unctuous, the Times, the Post and nearly six hundred others, many familiar, many not, “we have opened our discussions on a friendly and constructive note. We do not yet have specifics to announce to you but the mood is good, my friends. The mood is good!”
“Do you agree, Mr. President?” a British voice called out, and he faced them with an easy smile and nodded.
“Oh, yes. We are well under way. My colleagues and I are convinced we can make speedy progress in the next few days.”
“No swifter timetable than that, Mr. President?” Walter Dobius asked.
“It will be as swift as both sides can make it, Walter,” he replied. “I think the world can be sure of that.”
“Come drink with us at eight p.m.,” Shulatov called out with a cheery wave, taking Orrin’s arm as they turned away. “We will have a real Russian banquet for you!”
And so they did: an hour of preliminary drinking, seven courses of food, vodka, mixed drinks, wines, liqueurs, cigars, much standing about with the media afterward, many questions, all blandly fielded by both Americans and Russians: an air of friendship, understanding, joviality. For all that it seemed to have affected the comfort and well-being of the new government of Russia, the war might have been on another planet. So also, thought the President with misgivings he knew were shared by his colleagues, might have been any real progress toward understanding and agreement. But so skillful were both sides in maintaining the façade of cordiality that the first wave of headlines served only to increase the world’s hopes and allay to considerable degree its fears:
Knox, new Russ government in cordial first meeting. Both sides report “friendly and constructive progress” toward agreement. Americans say Russian leaders are “determined to have peace.” Russians say Americans “come in genuinely helpful spirit, as true trustees for the world.” Optimism reflected by both sides.
At 10 a.m. the next morning they met again.
“Mr. President,” Orrin said when they were seated, “before we turn to other subjects I have a matter which has been presented to me by a committee from the press. I think it is important enough to discuss right now.”
Shulatov looked surprised for a moment. Then he laughed with an easy amusement.
“I was told there was some disagreement over something, but my people said it had all been settled.”
“Apparently not,” the President said. “At least, not to the satisfaction of the media.”
“Are they ever satisfied?” Shulatov inquired with a comfortable chuckle.
“Nonetheless,” he said firmly, “this time they have a point. I understand your government is refusing them permission to visit the countryside. Not only that, but they have been refused permission to visit even the city. They tell me they are confined to the Kremlin.”
“They will be taken on a tour of nearby villages this afternoon,” Shulatov said with some impatience. “What are they complaining about?”
“They don’t want a formal tour,” the President said. “They are a free press. They want to see for themselves. It was our understanding that this is now a free country and a free people. Are we mistaken in that?”
“Of course you are not mistaken!”
“Then why must the press of the world be restricted in what it does here?” the President inquired.
“You must understand, Mr. President,” Shulatov said slowly, patience abruptly replacing impatience, “that conditions are still very chaotic, in the city, in the countryside and indeed throughout the whole country. It is only forty-eight hours since the last atomic bomb from China fell on us, you know. Many areas are still literally unsafe for anyone, let alone reporters, to venture into. Other areas are still in a state of flux. Still others require firm controls to stop looting and restore civil order. It is all very chaotic still. We cannot be responsible for reporters wandering about.”
“I think they can understand and accept the reasons why they cannot yet be allowed to go east to the actual war zones,” the President said, “but I don’t think they can understand why they cannot go into Moscow itself or into a reasonable radius around the capital to see what actual conditions are in the countryside. They aren’t going very far, they want to stick close to what we’re doing. But they can’t understand why they can’t be free to see for themselves what is happening in nearby areas. Nor,” he added firmly, “can I.”
“We do not want to be responsible—” Shulatov began in the same patient way. But the President interrupted.
“These are grown men and women, Mr. President. They can be responsible for themselves—with, of course, adequate protection, which I am sure your government will furnish them. I think you had better let them go; otherwise, I know them, and I can assure you that there is going to develop very rapidly the suspicion that your government has something to hide.”
“Mr. President—” Shulatov said with a flare of anger, controlled but emphatic.
“Do you have something to hide?”
“Mr. President—”
“Then,” he said calmly, “I think you had better let them go.”
Once again their eyes locked across the table. But the President of the United States of America did not yield, and presently the President of the United States of Russia flushed and glanced away.
“Vorosky!” he snapped. “Go and do as the President requests.”
“Hal,” the President said quietly, “I think you had better go along and report back to me that it has been done.”
“Yes, sir,” his son said; and in a moment he and an obviously disgruntled, but perforce compliant, Russian walked together out the door.
The room was silent for several moments. Finally Shulatov leaned forward.
“Mr. President,” he said carefully, “I told you yesterday that you must not patronize or order my government to do things. We are a free country now, a free government and a free people, and it will only disturb our negotiations very seriously if you persist.”
“I shall certainly persist in standing up for what is right,” the President said calmly. “And ‘being free’ is more than words, Mr. President. It is actions and it is good faith and honesty. My colleagues and I—and I think the world—intend to hold you to it. So if it annoys you, I am sorry. But I suggest to you that the situation is frightful enough, here and in China and potentially in the whole world, so that you must not only talk freedom, but be free. Isn’t that right?”
And again he stared impassively at his host, whose eyes this time did not drop. Instead they crinkled suddenly into amicable laughter, and all along the table his tense and uncertain colleagues took their cue and began to chortle too.
“Of course you are right, Mr. President,” Shulatov said, “of course you are right. It was a momentary annoyance on my part because the press is so—so insistent. We do not like them to tell us what we have to do!”
“I don’t like it either,” Orrin said, laughing with a deliberate amicability also, “but they do it to me all the time. So, then”—he leaned forward briskly, his tone becoming businesslike and matter-of-fact—“there are certain necessities for peace which we hope your government will willingly and speedily agree to. Are we ready to discuss them?”
“As you like, Mr. President,” Shulatov said, and sat back in his chair in a relaxed and expansive way. All down the table his Cabinet did the same.
“Very well,” he said. “When the state of war between the former Communist government of Russia and the former Communist government of China reached an impasse after the atomic exchange, and the leaders turned to me to arbitrate, I announced certain conditions. Some of you may have heard of them in the past several days, some of you may not, depending upon where you were and what you were doing prior to taking power.”
“Most of us were quite busy, Mr. President,” Shulatov interjected in an amused tone. “Quite busy.”
A little ripple of laughter went up and down both sides of the table.
“Yes,” the President said, “I imagine. Let me review them for you, then.
“The first was that the government of Russia and the government of China would immediately withdraw their forces from Gorotoland and Panama and give to me a formal statement that it has been done. I assume—?”
Shulatov nodded.
“It is moot. We are out of both places. We have no intention of returning. It is no longer a concern to the new government and the peoples of Russia. The Foreign Secretary”—he looked down the table to a bushy-haired, middle-aged figure who nodded vigorously—“will furnish you your statement by the end of the day.”
“Good,” he said. “And you will recognize the legitimate governments of Gorotoland and Panama, and will pledge your support and assistance in an international commission to supervise free elections in both countries.”
“Assuredly,” Shulatov said with a dismissing wave of the hand. “And, Mr. President”—he smiled—“it will be real cooperation, from this government. We have enough problems right here. Russia’s days of fishing in troubled waters are over, we hope forever.”
“We hope so too,” Orrin said with a humorous exaggerated relief that brought answering chuckles from many along the table. “There were several conditions outside the competence of your two countries, such as internationalization of the Dardanelles, Suez and the Panama Canal. Thanks to the prompt cooperation of the governments of Turkey, Egypt and just yesterday the restored legitimate government of Panama, this has been agreed to.
“There was the establishment of an International Relief Commission under United Nations supervision to assist your stricken peoples and the stricken peoples of China, and also peoples of the South Pacific Basin who might be injured by the atomic cloud thrown up by the war. The cloud has fortunately dissipated but the need in your two countries remains. All the other nations in the world have pledged monetary and medical assistance. I assume your government will do whatever it can to aid its own people in cooperation with the international commission.”
Again his host gave the little dismissing wave.
“We will certainly do everything we can for our own people, and we welcome with the utmost gratitude the assistance of the nations of the earth. We will cooperate.”
“Good,” Orrin said. “The next proviso, which has already been met by the Secretary-General and the willing contributions of more than sixty nations as of this morning, with more scheduled to announce their contributions very soon, is the establishment of an international peace-keeping force to patrol the frontier between Russia and China.” He paused and looked at the faces across the table. He could see that a curtain, subtle but unmistakable, had come down. “This will require,” he went on calmly, “the full cooperation and support of both governments. I trust yours can see the necessity of such a cordon sanitaire, and I trust it will assist fully.”
“Where,” Shulatov inquired cautiously after a moment, “would this force operate, Mr. President?”
“Why,” he said, “along the border.”
“It is a very long border. Where?”
“At posts spaced out at regular intervals, I would assume. Perhaps a hundred miles apart, so that they could patrol fifty miles on each side.”
His host studied him thoughtfully, while along the table his Cabinet stayed very still.
“Who would establish the locations?”
“The United Nations general command,” the President said, looking deliberately blank. “Who else?”
“I had thought the governments of Russia and China, in consultation and agreement with one another,” Shulatov said slowly.
“Could you reach agreement?”
“I believe so.”
“I am afraid the world may not be so confident. I think it may insist upon an impartial body doing the job.”
“Would that not be a very substantial infringement of our sovereignty?” Shulatov inquired.
The President looked surprised.
“You are belligerents. I don’t believe the world would trust you to reach agreement, or, if you did, to establish patrol posts in any pattern that would really do any good.”
“Has the United Nations discussed this?”
“Establishment of the peace-keeping force, yes. Precise details, no.”
“Then this is really just America’s idea, just your idea?” Shulatov asked slowly.
“I believe it represents the consensus of the nations,” the President said, permitting a certain asperity to enter his voice.
“But you do not know,” his host observed calmly. “Perhaps it should be discussed in the Security Council.”
“It will be,” the President promised. “But,” he added as a certain aura of satisfaction flickered along the table opposite, “you know the veto no longer exists.”
“No!” his host exclaimed, and many others on his side echoed, “No!” and fell into agitated whisperings and murmurings among themselves.
“Yes,” he said. “The Charter was amended the night the former governments fell. There is no more veto.”
There was a pause while Shulatov stared very thoughtfully into the depths of the table’s gleaming surface. Then he raised his eyes, his face a bland mask that revealed nothing.
“We will have to consider this,” he said in an almost offhand way. “What else do you have for us?”
“Two final things,” the President said. “A pledge from your government, and from the government of China, that you are abandoning permanently, once and for all, imperialistic, expansionist policies everywhere in the world; that you formally renounce all desire and ambition to intervene in the affairs of other nations; that you will devote your funds, your energies, your purposes, to the peaceful development of your own societies.”
Again there was a silence while his host thought. Again he looked up with bland eyes in a bland face.
“I have already told you that the new Russia has no more interest in overseas adventures. Obviously, however, we do have an interest in the existence of friendly governments on our borders. We would like to be assured of this—if not through our own efforts, then through international guarantees from all the nations.”
“No nation at this hour wishes to be hostile or covetous toward any other,” the President said. “You do not realize the state of mind of the world right now. You do not understand the impact the outbreak of atomic war has had upon the world. Nobody wants conquest any more. Nobody would threaten you.”
“‘At this hour,’” Shulatov echoed. “‘Right now.’ Perhaps you speak truly, Mr. President. You wish guarantees against a renewal of imperialist conquest by us. Perhaps we have an equal right to ask guarantees against imperialist conquest by anyone else—even including the great United States of America.”
It was the President’s turn to look thoughtful; and after a moment he smiled, not without humor.
“Perhaps you do,�
� he agreed. “Certainly you will have this guarantee from the United States the moment you give a similar guarantee. I cannot command the other nations, but I think I can safely say that they will unanimously do the same.”
“But first we must give our guarantee,” Shulatov remarked slowly.
“Yes,” the President said crisply. “You are the belligerents, you have been the aggressors. You owe the world something, Mr. President.”
“My government and I have not been the belligerents,” Shulatov remarked, “nor the aggressors. We have been in power scarcely forty-eight hours. It is the old government you must blame, not us.”
“You are responsible now,” the President said. “Do not be disingenuous, Mr. President.”
Shulatov smiled, also not without humor.
“We are responsible,” he agreed. “For a great country and a great people. Forgive us if it makes us appear overly cautious, but it is a great responsibility.… This, too, we must consider.… Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” the President said, and along his own side of the table he could feel a tensing, a quieting, a suddenly wary watching; for this was the nub of it and no one could say what would happen next, though they all had their ideas.
“The final condition,” Orrin said, and his voice was level, firm and as calm as though he were discussing the time of day, “is that the United States of Russia and the United Chinese Republic will immediately reduce, by at least one-half, with further reductions to follow, their conventional armed forces, and will immediately and permanently eliminate, under United Nations supervision, all of their atomic weapons, atomic missiles and atomic submarines, and any and all stockpiles and weapons of germ warfare.
“The United States,” he went on, his voice rising a little in response to the sudden agitation across the table, but still firm and calm, “will participate in, agree to, and be bound by, exactly the same limitations, once our forces have been repaired to the parity destroyed by the fighting in Gorotoland and Panama. Congress has already approved the funds to do this, and we are therefore ready to commence these negotiations at once.”