Third World War (59 page)

'More than three hundred confirmed here, plus sixty-five in Britain - and it's moving across Europe and down to Latin America.'

'Get me a suit,' said West. 'And when I'm there make sure I have time alone with Caroline. John, as soon as I get back, a live address to the nation, from the Oval Office. Then Air Force One to Oakland.'

'Mr President,' said Patton. 'Sorry, but we need to get you to a secure location.'

'I didn't hear that,' said West. 'I didn't hear it at all.'

'Jamie Song. Line three, Mr President,' said Kozerski.

West took the call. 'Jamie,' said West, trying to keep it friendly.

But instead of Song, he heard the voice of an interpreter, translating, then Jamie Song's voice speaking in Chinese, and then the translation. 'Yes, President West, how can I help you?'

West pressed on, trying to cut through the formality. 'Jamie, let's do a deal on Cuba, and unwind everything else from there.'

He waited for the tortuously slow translation process, drumming his fingers on the telephone receiver. 'Cuba is a sovereign nation and a close ally of the People's Republic of China,' came the reply.

'Jamie, if you're hearing this--' he glanced at Kozerski, who nodded, meaning that the voice signature matched that of Jamie Song. 'Jamie, you are hearing this. So I'll say again. You know that some elements of Cuba are non-negotiable. But if you want, we can talk about it. OK?'

West gripped the receiver and looked down at the floor. Far from being angry, he was sounding desperate. It wasn't as he had planned.

'President Song will speak to you shortly.' It was the voice of the interpreter. Song had delegated. West dropped the receiver into its cradle. 'OK,' he said slowly. 'I'm not sure this is going to work. I need to talk to Kozlov.'

****

73*

****

Moscow, Russia*

Kozlov recognized what Ekatarina was practising as Haydn's Second Cello Concerto. He had asked and she had told him. At any another time, Andrei Kozlov would have put his daughter's name down for the Conservatoire in Paris. He would have liked her to have studied in New York, too, and known the nervous energy of that city. He had understood she would never be able to do that at the moment when he knew the threshold had been crossed. For a hesitating instant, Andrei Kozlov wondered why it had come to this. Six times already Yushchuk had opened the door of his study, walked over to where he was sitting in a hardback chair, twenty feet away from where his daughter was playing, and whispered in his ear that the White House, that President West, that Secretary of State Newman, that Chief of Staff Kozerski was on the line wanting to speak.

Each time, the only thought in his mind was the darkness moving across the world and forming itself into new borders, immigration posts, bleak metal structures, uniforms and armies. Ekatarina looked briefly up at him without missing a note. He tried to find a metaphor for her love of music and for what was swirling around in his head. But there was nothing at all, which was surely why no accomplished musician had ever become the leader of a nation. If you are lucky enough to be born with talent, you cherish it and find sanctuary there. You do not volunteer for a life of office.

A shaft of light came through from the study, casting Yushchuk's flitting shadow across the room. Kozlov stood up quietly, put his fingers to his lips long enough for Ekatarina to see and walked to the study. Yushchuk handed him the telephone.

'Jim,' said Kozlov softly. 'At Camp David, I told you Russia was resting. I might have been wrong. I'm sorry.'

'We're giving China until the top of the hour to hand over Memed, and we're taking out their missile sites in Cuba. Out troops are on the outskirts of Pyongyang. We will stop there, if China wants to talk.'

Kozlov detected anger and hesitation. West was threatening, but with reluctance in his tone.

'Are you talking to Jamie?' asked Kozlov, keeping his voice measured and low. Through the closed door, he could still hear Ekatarina's cello.

'Yes, we've got through. If we can deal on Cuba, maybe the rest will fall into place.'

'Good. Good,' said Kozlov. 'Then perhaps Russia can rest.'

'Have you talked to him?'

Yes, Kozlov thought to himself. Many times, but he would not tell West. Three hours last night. An hour this morning.

'This is between you and him,' said Kozlov.

'And if we fail?'

'They will hand over Memed. But they will not do it immediately. They will allow you to take Pyongyang. But not immediately. They will pull out of Cuba. But not immediately. They will stake their position from a moral high ground, and you must listen. They will claim that instead of arguing, America threatens to murder them. You must not give them the opportunity to say that. They will say that China and America are the civilized world, and that China's views must be treated equally. They will argue that poverty has not been solved because America has stopped caring, that America has had it too good for too long, and that it has fallen to China to protect the poor from darkness and give them hope. Let them speak, Jim. Listen. Be patient. You Americans are always in such a rush.'

Kozlov had spoken with a brooding authority. West's own patience was on the edge.

'If your citizens were being bombed and dying from an incurable epidemic, wouldn't you be in a rush?'

'Jim, I was elected with a specific mandate to make Russia less reliant on the West. I have put in place substantive policies to honour that mandate. Included in that was a defence treaty with China. I cannot change all that just because it is becoming difficult. If the US and China cannot resolve their difference, then Russia will support China.'

'Come what may?'

'Yes.'

'It's madness, Andrei. Utter madness.'

'Some spark of purity might come from it,' answered Kozlov. 'But empires are never founded on sanity.'

****

74*

****

Washington, DC, USA*

Tom Patton had been shielding them from the worst. Or perhaps he hadn't known. Mary Newman helped Jim West adjust his NBC suit. She sealed his gloves around his wrists, checked his suit for punctures and adjusted his air mix. Lazaro Campbell did the same for hers and then the President and Secretary of State went together into the isolation ward.

Order had been maintained as much as possible, but too many patients were being admitted. Men, women and children were lying together, and mattresses were laid out in rows at the foot of the beds, leaving only a narrow strip of floor to walk on.

This whole level of the hospital was quarantined. Temporary biodecontamination showers had been set up outside the door of the ward, with a thick lead-lined curtain hanging between them and the stairwell. To begin with, blood samples from each patient had been flown to Fort Detrick for analysis. But now the numbers were so overwhelming that only basic care was being provided. The dead were taken out of the southern door, down to the basement and incinerated without any autopsy. The cause of death was only too clear.

Caroline Brock had been offered some privacy, but she had insisted against it. Now she must have been beyond caring. West could only recognize her bed by the picture taped to her headboard of her and Peter a couple of Christmases ago at the Georgetown house, her sitting on his lap in front of the tree. A couple and their child lay silent, weak and shivering on a mattress that West had to step over.

Caroline's pustules were clustered so densely that they ran together down her arms and across her chest. They were haemorrhaging and coating her body with a film of blood and pus. Her fever was so high that sweat ran down her face; none of the normal skin was visible, only the outlines of the mouth, the nose and the eyes whose lids were flickering, the force of life trying to open them but failing.

A feeding tube dangled useless above her, swinging and brushing her face. She must have ripped it out, because of the pain. Newman moved it to one side. She took a tissue to wipe Caroline's lips. Caroline screamed as the tissue touched her mouth. Her pustule-covered hand came up to push Newman away.

'Caro,' whispered Newman. 'It's me. Mary.'

Her head turned ever so slightly.

'It's Mary. And Jim.'

All Newman wanted to do was tear off the mask so that at least Caroline could see her. But to do so could be to sign her own death warrant. Caroline's eyes flickered open for a moment. Her mouth moved, but instead of speaking, a pustule broke and blood trickled between her lips. Caroline spat it out.

West turned to a nurse, hovering behind them. 'How long before she dies?' he asked.

'A day at the most,' said the nurse.

'Is she conscious?'

'Many patients remain conscious until their last breath.'

From across the ward, there was a wail. In the next bed, a groan, then a baby's cry, piercing and unrelenting, for there was no one to comfort it. Under the fluorescent light, West saw a buzzing fly which should never have got in. It flew down, circled and landed on a patient's shoulder. Then it hopped across to the forehead and ended up on the closed eyelid. It had picked up some pus on its wings and movement was more difficult. The patient lay there dull and not responding, even when the fly jumped again, landed in the inflamed mouth and became trapped.

One or two lifted their hands, begging for help. The nurse - there was only one - moved to them. She could do nothing. But at least she was there.

West returned to Caroline's bed. Newman was sponging her with cold water. Caroline's eyes were open and it seemed she knew who they were. West took a notepad by the bed and wrote simply, 'To Caro and Peter. My closest and dearest friends. Goodbye.'

He gave it to Newman, who read it and understood. Then West did one of the hardest things. He turned and walked out of the ward, leaving Caroline Brock to die.*

*****

'My fellow Americans, I am speaking to you from the Oval Office at the White House,' said West, keeping his eyes steady in the glare of the television lights for the practice read-through. He had changed into a dark suit, with a black tie hand-embroidered with the American flag. 'You know why I am making this address, and I do not intend to take up much of your time. I will begin by laying out the events which have led to this, and then tell you how we plan to move on.'

Without warning the lights cut off and West blinked. Kozerski stepped in front of the desk. 'Jamie Song from Beijing, sir. He wants to talk urgently. He's speaking in English.'

West could see Patton just outside the door talking to Campbell, Meenakshi and Lizzie. Jenny Rinaldi, looking back and forth to Patton, was on the phone. Newman walked past them, into the room and straight to West. 'Caro's gone,' she said quietly. Her hand, fresh from her NBC suit, was warm when she laid it on his. West's gaze was cast down like a man trying to ignore the truth.

Newman lifted her hand and moved away, loosening her scarf. Now that she had delivered the news of Caroline Brock's death, she was unsure of where she should go.

'I don't know what the Secretary of State thinks,' said Kozerski, scanning through the words on the autocue underneath the camera, 'but looking at this draft, my hunch would be that we don't apologize for anything. Let that come later. Not now.'

Newman stepped back. Kozerski had broken the strange interlude she had found herself in. 'I second that, Mr President,' she said. 'The American people want to know about your strength, not your regrets.'

'Let's hope I don't have to say it,' said West. He lifted his head and didn't bother to hide the tears that had come naturally with the news of Caroline's death.

'Do we have a deal with Jamie?' asked West, bringing out a handkerchief. Skilfully the make-up attendant was with him, combing his hair and dabbing the skin-toner around his eyes.

'He wouldn't say,' said Kozerski. 'He wants to talk to you.'

'If you'll all excuse me,' said West, unclipping his microphone and walking over the lighting and sound cables towards his private office. He caught Newman's eyes, her look of hope and curiosity, but he had no equivalent to return to her.

Fighter planes, patrolling Washington, flew loud and low over the White House as he opened the door to his private office.

The red light was flashing on the desk telephone. West picked up the receiver. He didn't sit down or perch against the side of the desk.

'Jamie,' he said softly. But he heard nothing except the sounds of an abandoned telephone line. He felt something well up inside him, ridding him of doubt and clearing away the brooding darkness that threatened to envelop him. It was the most basic instinct, the one that keeps a person alive, the one that rids him of hesitation and gives him complete belief in his own existence.