Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [78]
“We’re ready to go, Mr. President. All we need is for you to give the word,” Templeton said.
Ashmead turned to his attorney general. “Give it to me,” he said. “What’s your read on this?”
“We should establish a deadline for Jasper,” he replied, “and stick to it.”
Cammanati said, “There could be considerable political ramifications, Mr. President, if things go sour.”
“Those eighty-seven people in the airplanes who lost their lives weren’t thinking about politics,” Ashmead growled. “I’ve made my position clear to everyone involved, that I want a peaceful resolution, and continue to. But there comes a point when… There comes a point when the American people lose patience with killers like Jasper, and I lose patience, too. Give Jasper and his people forty-eight hours to come out peacefully. Use that time to try every negotiating trick in the book. But if that doesn’t work… Well, if negotiations fail at the end of forty-eight hours, do what you have to do, and use all necessary force to accomplish it.”
Chapter 29
The Next Night
Moscow
Max Pauling awoke at ten in his room at the Metropol Hotel, beating the wake-up call by fifteen minutes. He’d forced himself to take the nighttime forty-five-minute nap. Now, wide awake, he remained on his back, eyes open wide, arms stretched to the sides, the city’s lights through the open windows creating shifting patterns over his naked body.
After drawing a series of slow, measured breaths, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and went to a window. Things had moved faster than he’d expected, engendering conflicting emotions. If things went as planned tonight, his assignment to Moscow would come to an end. That was good, of course, except that it also meant he would be sent back to Washington, which was also good in some ways—Jessica and his Cessna coming immediately to mind—but bad in other ways, the potential for a dull daily existence at the State Department and reporting to Colonel Walter Barton topping the list of negatives.
When he left Washington for Moscow, he’d assumed his task of identifying the source of the missiles would be long and arduous, characterized by false turns and disappointments. That hadn’t turned out to be the case. Lerner had so effectively paved the way through his banker friend, Miziyano, that Pauling found himself having only to run local CIA checks on Miziyano and the mafioso Misha Glinskaya, and to make a few informal queries about them through old “friends” in Moscow’s criminal underbelly—and, of course, follow through with the exchange of money for names. Piece a cake.
But he also knew that having things go smoothly was a recipe for complacency. Complacency was dangerous. Complacent agents working underground seldom survived long enough to grab the pension and live out their final years in the sun, on some island. Although he was not introspective by nature, being on assignments like this generated changes in Pauling that were readable to him. He was aware of how leaving Washington and arriving in Moscow had altered his perceptions of things, and of himself. In Washington, it was as though his senses had shut down, like those of a hibernating animal secure in its winter burrow. Unless you were a politician attuned to subtle shifts in the political wind, there was no need to be on the alert, look over your shoulder, put everyone and everything to the test. It was like dying, he sometimes thought, the body put on idle until finally running out of gas.
But on assignment in Moscow and elsewhere,