The call had come in from the Director of the Institute, routinely, almost casually.
"We've been invited to attend the signing of the new research bill," the director had said. "The usual political show. Frankly, it's a lousy bill. But every little bit helps."
At first, Alex had tried to decline, but it was made quite clear that this was a command performance. Most civil servants would have considered it a plum, to be in the ritual photograph of the doctors standing behind the President as he signed the bill. But Alex had never enjoyed such occasions.
About thirty senior men from the various institutes had driven downtown in an agency bus. The East Room had been converted to an auditorium, complete with podium and microphones. It is, Alex had thought, hardly a bill warranting such fanfare. In fact, the President himself had seemed halting and preoccupied as he recited a series of platitudes about the, "necessity of unlocking the secrets of man's destroyers." Then the President signed the bill and they all adjourned across the marbled vestibule to the Green Room for coffee and cakes. A receiving line had formed and Alex had taken his place obediently. "Dr. Alex Cousins," an aide next to the President announced and he had found himself facing the tall, clear-eyed man. He felt the pressure of a strong handshake and watched the President's smile break evenly as the eyes narrowed.
"Dr. Cousins," the President had replied, and then, in a whisper he added, "Would you please stay on?" He was still smiling, and looked so casual that Alex glanced over his shoulder, thinking that the remark was directed at someone behind him.
"I must see you later. Make some excuse to hang back," the President whispered again, noting Alex's confusion. He felt his heart begin to quicken its pace. Was he hearing things? The President turned away quickly and stretched out his hand to the man next in line as Alex moved toward the coffee cups. His hand shook as he lifted one, and he quickly put it down. There must be some mistake, he had thought, although the President's conspiratorial manner had seemed palpable. He put his shaking hands in his pockets, surprised by his sudden lack of control.
"I promised my wife I'd pick something up for her at Garfinckel's," he told one of his colleagues. "I'll get a taxi later."
He hung back as the crowd began to thin and his group began to file downstairs. Watching them, he reached over to pick a little cake from a paper doily on the table when a tap on his shoulder startled him.
"Follow me," a tall man said. Alex popped the cake into his mouth and followed. The President was already gone; he had left the room as soon as the receiving line had finished. The tall man stopped abruptly, waved Alex into a small elevator, and stepped in after him. Motors whirred and in a few seconds the elevator door opened again, and the man leading him to a thick white door, knocked softly, and admitted him without waiting for a response.
Alex found himself in a cheerful, quite comfortable living room, the President's private quarters. On a piano in a corner, directly in front of him, stood a forest of family photographs. The President stood up, grabbing Alex by the forearm and directing him to face a man who was sitting quietly in a wing chair. It was the Secretary of State.
"Dr. Cousins. This is Secretary Carlyle."
"Mr. Secretary," Alex said.
Secretary Carlyle nodded. The President ushered Alex to a couch and sat down beside him.
"You've got to believe we're all a little touched in the head," the President began. "All this hocus-pocus. All this subterfuge."
"Well, it is a bit out of the ordinary," Alex said, feeling surprisingly calm. He appreciated the President's attempt to put him at ease.
"I assure you, Dr. Cousins, that your visit here is purely professional," the President said.
Alex searched the two faces before him for symptoms of leukemia.
"Neither of us," the President said, reading Alex's thoughts. "Thank God."
Alex remained silent, watching the President fidget, uncross his legs and stand up. He walked toward a table and picked up a heavy large envelope, which he tossed on the couch next to Alex.
"The patient's records," the President said. Alex reached over for it instinctively. "Not yet," the President said gently, looking toward his Secretary of State, who raised his head and began to speak.
"The balance of foreign affairs is as tenuous as life itself," Secretary Carlyle said. He seemed fatigued, his voice strained. He removed his glasses and wiped them clear with a handkerchief, his pale blue eyes squinting into Alex's face. "We reach agreements, sign treaties, most of which are only as good as the man in power at the moment." He paused.
"I've just come back from Russia," Secretary Carlyle said. The statement was a revelation, for Alex had not read of any such trip in the Washington papers.
"I didn't know," he said, thinking that perhaps he had overlooked it. He was, after all, locked into his own occupations, his research, his writings for journals. Politics, foreign affairs, were unimportant to him and what he knew was sopped up with the morning coffee and the idle chatter of colleagues at lunch. He was indifferent, as Janice had charged, to most things outside the intense, all-absorbing orbit of his own medical pursuits.
"It has been the most secret operation since Kissinger went to China," the President pointed out. "And probably under the oddest set of circumstances in the history of foreign affairs."
"Without boring you with the gritty details of global geopolitics, Dr. Cousins," Secretary Carlyle said, "the fact is that our carefully wrought policy of détente with the Russians is now in serious danger. Détente is the underpinning of everything we have striven for in the past few years. It represents one of the last hopes of mankind to move backward from the brink of nuclear annihilation. I know that sounds a bit frightening, but you must accept that statement. The danger is acute. Our intelligence has revealed that now there are men in positions of power in the Soviet Union who would like to carry out the final act of Lenin's revolution-global hegemony."
What has all this got to do with me? Alex wondered, looking at the large envelope beside him on the couch. He had heard enough about Lenin as a boy.
"When you are dealing with an oligarchy," Secretary Carlyle continued, "your position is far more vulnerable than when you are dealing with a single ruler. You cannot predict the dynamics of a small group interacting with each other. It is actually easier to deal with a dictator."
"Few understand it," the President interrupted. "You make a deal with one man, who represents the group, then you wonder how long the group will support the deal."
"In a nutshell, Dr. Cousins," Secretary Carlyle said, "the concept of détente rests in the hands of a single man-Viktor Moiseyevich Dimitrov, General Secretary of the Communist Party, one of the sixteen members of the Politburo. He is its architect and, within the Politburo, the guiding spirit." Secretary Carlyle paused and re-wiped his glasses, replacing them with a one-handed gesture. "It is no secret that our policy, by the very nature of the democratic process, is one of reaction. The Soviets always make the first move. We react. They move again. We react again. Dimitrov has apparently managed to consolidate a great deal of power within the Politburo. He has the most dominant, persuasive personality. He keeps the others frightened and divided and has convinced them that their greatest leverage lies in pursuing a policy of détente. To the Soviets, China is the real enemy. The United States can wait. But it is in China where the problem lies. The Chinese will never bend until the Russians give back most of the land they took from them in the past. And then there is the vital ideological question: Who shall lead the revolution?"
As Alex listened, he could recall his grandfather talking contemptuously about the Chinese and their sneaky ways. He thought he understood what Carlyle was trying to say.
"The Russians have been trying to dominate the Chinese since the seventeenth century," the Secretary continued. "You know that the Russians are the most notorious racial bigots in the world. For years, they have treated the Chinese as vassals, and from the Chinese point of view, the Russians still control great pieces of China. There have been pitched battles along the 5,000-mile border. Today, hundreds of thousands of men face each other across these borders, and missiles with nuclear warheads are poised to strike in either direction."
"It is a powder keg," the President said. "At the moment, the Russians have the advantage of range. They can send their missiles deep into China. They can knock out major cities, bases, ports, while the Chinese missiles cannot yet reach beyond the cities of Eastern Siberia. The landmass in that part of the world is incredible. The Russians could lose all of Asian Siberia through nuclear destruction and still have a huge population. Their big cities are concentrated far to the west. The Chinese, on the other hand, have vast populations within easy reach of Soviet missiles."
"Under that kind of pressure," Carlyle continued, "one would think that the Chinese might work for some kind of détente with the Russians. The fact is, the Chinese are not to be intimidated by words. Mao himself publicly expressed the opinion that nuclear war would still leave the Chinese with more manpower than the Soviets, enough to reproduce and eventually swallow the Russians, even if it takes another thousand years."
"Ghoulish," Alex mumbled. At the mention of Siberia, his heartbeat had quickened. Was it merely nostalgia or did he feel some strange genetic pull, as his grandfather had always claimed he would?
"There are those in the Politburo," Carlyle said, "who might opt for a quick strike now, a massive blow. They do not intend to occupy China. Their gamble is that, after the destruction, the Chinese would turn against the Maoists and turn over the rebuilding of China to Russian-oriented revolutionaries. Then China would become what it was always meant to be in Russia's eyes-a puppet state, like Outer Mongolia, like Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany."
"Now, one would think," the President said, "that the United States would be happy to stand by while the two great superpowers of the Communist world bludgeon themselves to death. Not at all. Our own scientists have told us that a huge nuclear strike in either direction would mean immense nuclear fallout, certainly over Alaska and parts of Canada, and very likely over the continental United States. The thing is, with the prevailing configuration of winds across the surface of the Earth, we would get more fallout than European Russia."
They had now crossed into Alex's own field. He was a member of the "Special Task Force on Evaluation of Nuclear Destruction," which studied the projected kill potential of radiation fallout from dirty bombs. It would destroy the blood as quickly and ruthlessly as any form of leukemia. But these studies had always been an unemotional exercise in probabilities, a game of bureaucrats. Alex had attended sessions of the Task Force for ten years, evaluating kill ratios, radiation intensity, the effect on the humanity. But it had only been theoretical, make-work, time away from his basic research. He watched the two men in the quiet room, the family pictures on the piano, the pleasant afternoon light through the tall windows. Faintly, from the distance, he could hear the rumble of cars and the occasional honk of a horn.
"So you see," Carlyle concluded. Alex seemed to have missed something. His attention had strayed. "It all boils down to time. In time the Chinese will develop a nuclear capability to reach into the cities of European Russia, complicating Soviet strategy. And Mao's death, of course, has a great deal of impact on the situation. He was one of the most implacable opponents of Stalin, and of the Russian brand of Communism. Now that he's dead, some experts think the Chinese might come back into the fold, good little Communists under Russian control.
"Now we are faced with a new question of time," the President reiterated. "It is no secret that Dimitrov is committed to détente with us. He is also committed, apparently, to a more moderate stance toward the Chinese. Considering all the dangers and possibilities, his is the approach we favor. Dr. Cousins, Dimitrov is our man in the Kremlin and he will be meeting in approximately seven weeks with the Politburo"-the President cleared his throat-"to recommend immediate negotiation with the Chinese to resolve all differences."
"Is that what we want?" Alex said thoughtfully. He had always assumed the opposite.
"Considering the alternatives," the Secretary of State said, "yes." He hesitated for a moment. Alex would remember that hesitation later, in the light of his own knowledge of the events. "He has assured me that he will act at the next Politburo meeting, that he will put the stamp of consensus on it."
"He is the man," the President said. "He controls. They may plot against him. They may rant and rave, but he is the dominating force. Dimitrov gets what he wants." The President shook his head and stood up, then pointed to the envelope.
"The problem is in there. His time is running out."
"I see." Alex nodded.
"What I saw," Carlyle said, "was an exhausted man, weakened to the point of total collapse. I was driven to his dacha, where he lives literally in a state of self-imposed siege, both mentally and physically. Add that to the traditional paranoia of Soviet rulers and you can imagine his mental state. The dacha has been fitted with a complete medical facility and all tests have been conducted with elaborate subterfuge."
"I don't understand," Alex said, eying the envelope.
"He trusts us more than his own people. That's not so strange. Many Russians are the first to admit that they don't trust each other," Secretary Carlyle said. "Oh, Dimitrov was quite frank about it. He said they were waiting like vultures to pick his carcass and he has warned us that his death will bring down the whole structure of our mutual policy.
"At this point he trusts no one," the Secretary continued. "He claims that there is a faction in the KGB working against him, but he has managed so far to keep them at bay. He also assures us that he still has the other members of the Politburo and the Army under his control. The only thing he has not been able to keep at bay is this." He pointed to the envelope. "Although he has maintained massive secrecy about the severity of his illness, his secret enemies in the Politburo, the KGB and elsewhere suspect he is suffering from some form of terminal disease. He distrusts Soviet doctors in the political sense."
"And he asked me to convey his medical records to the President, in the hope that we could prolong his life knowing we have, of course, a vested interest in it. At least until the Politburo meeting."
"And then?" Alex asked.
Carlyle shrugged, sidestepping the question. "I told him that we would submit his records to the foremost leukemia specialist in the country. I also told him that I would get word back to him within seventy-two hours. He is quite realistic about his condition, a most interesting man. 'You must find a way to buy me time,' he pleaded, time would allow him to cleanse the oligarchy of adventurers and handpick his successor."
Alex could feel both men looking at him, waiting. He felt inadequate in the face of the sudden barrage of information. As he struggled to assess the incoming details, the geopolitical realities, Machiavellian scheming so foreign to his experience that he felt reluctant to become involved.
"I do admit some expertise in the field of leukemia," Alex said. "But the study of this disease is still in its infancy. We have made progress. We have managed to achieve some remission with chemotherapy. But we can never promise recovery. In science, gentlemen, you are never an authority. You are always in a state of transition. There are others surely that are equally qualified for this job."
"You're being modest," the Secretary said. "Besides, we need someone who speaks Russian. We couldn't have manufactured a better candidate."
"So I've popped up on the computer," Alex said.
"You put it quaintly, Dr. Cousins," the President said, detecting his annoyance.
"When it comes to Russian ancestry, the CIA is ridiculously efficient. We know your grandfather was a Czarist exile, who beat the Bolsheviks out of Siberia. We know your father was with Graves. We were looking for you, Dr. Cousins."
"May I?" Alex asked, pointing to the envelope.
The President nodded. Alex broke the seal as they watched him. He pulled out the pile of papers, forms, X-rays. All of the notations were written in Russian.
I must remain detached, he told himself, concentrating on the reports and documents as his mind clicked into the Russian language.
Russian had been his first language. His mother had barely learned English by the time he was born. She had come from Vladivostok, where his father had met her in 1919. Only a schoolgirl then, she and the young officer had become correspondents. Ten years later he had brought her to America to become his wife. Alex had actually entered kindergarten knowing only a few words of English.
As he reviewed the documents, the President stood up and spoke on the telephone. He then nodded to Alex and left the room. Carlyle also reached for a phone and began talking in hushed tones. When the Secretary had finished his call, he walked to a sideboard and poured himself a drink.
"Brandy?"
"Thank you," Alex said. He could use one. He noted that the Secretary's hand shook as he poured. Sipping, he continued to read, and commented, "It is an efficient presentation," after absorbing the information in the documents.
The Secretary looked wan and exhausted. Clearing his throat deliberately, Alex roused him. "You should get some rest," he said.
"Normally, I sleep on the plane," Secretary Carlyle said. "But Dimitrov disturbed me. I couldn't get him out of my mind." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "What does that tell you?" he asked, pointing to the documents, which Alex had replaced in the envelope.
"From the information in these reports, I'd say the diagnosis of the Russian doctors was quite correct. Acute myeloblastic leukemia."
"Which means?"
"His condition is tenuous."
"How much time does he have?"
"With chemotherapy, perhaps some. I could hardly give you a complete evaluation from this." He pointed to the envelope on his knees. "In any event the problem is that the chemotherapy must be carefully monitored. It could set off all sorts of debilitating reactions and, even under optimum circumstances, it is quite a risk. Unfortunately, Russian medicine is not sophisticated in its administration, but I'm sure that I can provide adequate instruction-"
"Dr. Cousins," the Secretary interrupted, "I don't think we've made ourselves clear. Dimitrov wants you at his side. In Russia. We're expecting you to fly to the Soviet Union in the next twelve hours. You'll have to wind up your affairs at home and keep your destination a secret. It won't be easy, Dr. Cousins, I know that. But as you now know, this is a matter of the gravest national security."
Alex had known. He had been waiting for this announcement and his mind had been turning over various methods of refusal. It was quite possible for the chemotherapy to be administered by a reasonably competent Russian doctor who was given precise instructions over the phone. Why do I have to be part of their political intriguing? He had, long ago, reached his own conclusions about the basic immorality of politicians and all their games. Besides, despite the careful arguments of the Secretary, he had remained skeptical. The whole scenario was too fantastic to be believed.
"I would be less than honest," the Secretary continued, "if I didn't tell you that this assignment may involve some physical danger." Such a possibility had also occurred to Alex, who had never felt himself to be particularly courageous. He knew the low threshold of his own tolerance for pain. "They will watch you constantly, listen to your conversations, follow you everywhere. They will search your possessions. The loyal intelligence under Dimitrov's direction will watch you, and the potentially disloyal intelligence will watch you. Dimitrov's enemies will want to know his condition. They will try anything to find out. After all, you will have in your possession the most important piece of information in the Soviet Union."
Alex wanted to laugh. It was absurd. He wondered if he was not dreaming this; if he would not soon awaken in his own bed and discover the whole episode was simply the result of too many Swiss cheese sandwiches before retiring for bed. But the Secretary was quite real.
"Really, Mr. Secretary!" he said finally. He had determined to show his skepticism in its mildest form.
"I assure you, Dr. Cousins, this is not speculation. I am merely paraphrasing Dimitrov."
"You know, of course, that a terminal disease affects a man's logic. His mental state might be drastically impaired. He could easily slip into paranoia." Alex impatiently tossed aside the medical documents. "I'm a doctor. That's all I know. All I care about."
"And that's all we're expecting you to be."
"It can be done long distance."
"I'm afraid not. Dimitrov would not trust your instructions coming through a third persons."
"You can't force me to do this. Not in this country," Alex said, surprised by his sudden outburst of belligerence.
"I know," the Secretary said calmly. "It's your choice."
Alex stood up. Damn them, he thought. He disliked being forced into anything, especially decisions outside the scientific realm of abstraction. He could be bold and courageous when dealing with theoretical conclusions amid the clutter of his charts, test tubes, and animals. But he had steeled himself against the cries of human suffering. He had seen too many men and women die, and he had hoped it had hardened him. The process had taken years of discipline, years of controlling himself as he watched the human body wither under the onslaught of mysterious forces. But even as he tenaciously pursued his scientific endeavors, he knew what he was sacrificing. He could see it in the faces of those who lived close to him-Janice, their daughter Sonia, his father. He felt isolated, blocked, cut off from humanness, as if he had forgotten its language.
He felt a shiver of that isolation now. Was there some mystical force that had sent this message to him halfway across the world, mysteriously pulling him back to his roots? No. It was just a crazy coincidence, nothing more. To believe anything else one would have to believe in fate and that was surely unscientific.
What did he care about all this intrigue, these political stupidities wrapped in academic explanations? Even the prospect of nuclear war was an abstraction. He had speculated on its results too often not to see it as an interesting abstraction. What did he care about Dimitrov, the besieged leader, the manipulator, the keeper of the flame of all their silly dialectics? Nothing. Politics was an annoyance, a babble of words that filled newspapers. But the giant land that Dimitrov governed was very real. It was the land that called him.
"At least until the Politburo meeting," Secretary Carlyle pleaded.
"I can promise nothing," Alex said. He was thinking about his roots, not Dimitrov.
