Total War

Chapter Three

"Mr. Ambassador, wake up sir, please!"

Stromberg rolled over. The weak-bulbed bedside lamp was on. He closed his eyes against the dim light. "What the hell are you doing here at-" Stromberg glanced at the watch on his nightstand-"at three in the morning? My God, man! Where's Mrs. Stromberg?"

"I knocked and she let me in, sir. When I sort of told her what was going on, she said to wake you myself-she was going to make some coffee for you. I said I could get someone from the staff, but-"

"Never mind that, Hensley! What the hell are you waking me up for, to begin with? You know I've got that trade conference tomorrow morning at nine-this morning!" Stromberg yawned, found his glasses and put them on, at the same time running his spatulate fingers through his thinning gray hair.

"Sir, it's an eyes-only message. You're going to have to decode it. It's direct from the president, not the secretary. But it's signed by him too, sir."

"Oh, hell," Stromberg groaned. "Probably forgot to send somebody an anniversary card or something."

"But, sir," the young cipher clerk insisted, "the code is Maximum Priority. You've got to read it now."

"Hensley," Stromberg said, trying to roll over between his blankets, then pushing himself into a sitting position. "You've got to learn one thing, young man. Nothing in the State Department ever happens that won't wait until morning. Well, I shouldn't say that," he added as he started to come awake. "There's only one reason they'd send a message like that, and that's imposs-" He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a cigarette from a small jade box. Hensley lurched forward and lit it. "There's only one thing, as I said that-" He stared at the message. "Good God! Hensley, get my robe!"

Stromberg was halfway to the door before Hensley could intercept him, helping him on with his robe as the ambassador fumbled with the doorknob, then threw open the door to his private office.

Inside, Stromberg took the Andrew Wyeth painting from the wall behind his desk, then felt along the joint of the wall paneling. A piece of the paneling slid away, revealing a small wall safe.

"Sir," Hensley said. Then, clearing his throat, repeated himself, "Sir!"

"What is it, man?"

"I shouldn't be here when you go into that safe, sir-that's against security-"

"The hell with security, Hensley," Stromberg said.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Stromberg half-shouted.

"Coffee, darling-hot." Mrs. Stromberg was young-Stromberg couldn't help but be reminded of that as she entered the room. Hensley stared at her. Her robe was more revealing than Stromberg would have liked.

She started to leave the room, and Stromberg said, "No. Wait here."

He had the safe open, then sat down at his desk. Looking at Hensley, he said, "Let's see that message again."

"Here, sir," Hensley said. "Should I go now?"

"No-wait. Let's see what this sucker-sorry dear," he said absently to his wife, then, "Let's see what this is all about."

Stromberg's wife stood beside him, lighting another cigarette, then putting it between his lips as he worked at the tiny, gray canvas-bound code book. Stromberg could taste her lipstick on the cigarette filter.

He stopped halfway through the message. "Hensley, get the embassy security chief up here, pronto. You come back, too. On the way, go down to the code room and get Washington to retransmit this, to be sure. Verify that they haven't changed Sigma 9, RB 18 since the last time my book was updated."

"Should I say that, sir, I mean en clair?"

"Yes, Hensley. They can always change the code later." And as Hensley left the room, Stromberg muttered, "If there is a later-"

After several minutes he looked up from his desk, stared across the room and saw his wife sitting in the chair opposite his desk, smoking one of his cigarettes. She only smoked his cigarettes, never bought any of her own because she smoked so seldom. He had often wished he could control smoking the way she did-half a pack or a pack one day, nothing for several weeks, then a single cigarette. She had will power.

Stromberg looked across the message in his hands, saying, "I'll read this to you, Jane. If it's an error, it doesn't make any difference. We'll know that in a minute. If it's true-" he shrugged- "doesn't make much difference, either."

"Security will be miffed with you, George," she warned, smiling.

"Piss on security," he grunted. "Here-listen. 'Instruct you to advise Soviet Premier, formally, in person, following. Ongoing Soviet invasion of Pakistan begun zero eight forty-five Washington time must be halted immediately. Troops must be withdrawn to Afghani border. United States views Soviet aggression in Pakistan as gross violation of Geneva Accords and threat to United States security. STOP. Severe international repercussions will result. The possibility of United States and other NATO power armed intervention not ruled out. Word it tactfully but strongly, George. End it.'"

"My God," the woman whispered.

"It's signed by the president, Jane."

"Do you want me to pretend to be a secretary and call the premier for you?"

"What?" Stromberg said. "Oh, yeah-please. Good idea."

He stood and walked to the window, staring out onto the embassy grounds below. "This could mean a world war, Jane," he whispered. His breath clouded the window pane.

"I know, George." He heard her answer over the clicking of the telephone dial.

"No-wait," he said suddenly. "Hensley hasn't verified the Sigma 9, RB 18 code yet." But he knew the wait was a waste of time. The message was correct.