“You will lose,” the Secretary-General predicted, still angry. “China and Russia will veto.”

  “Then we may have to act independently of the United Nations,” the Secretary said, in a voice so cold and matter-of-fact that the Secretary-General was genuinely at a loss for words.

  “You would not dare,” he said at last.

  “Tell them to try us,” the Secretary said in the same cold voice.

  “You would not dare,” the S.-G. repeated.

  “You don’t know what we would do, do you, Kwazz?” Ray Stanley inquired blandly. “Hadn’t the UN better think twice before it really tries to find out?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Kwazze Kumbatta repeated, sounding still half-stunned. “You just wouldn’t dare.”

  “I hope you all don’t have to find out,” Ray Stanley said cheerfully. “See you next Friday, Mr. Secretary-General.” And hung up before Kwazz could rally himself for another riposte.

  * * *

  He only wished, the Secretary thought with a frustrated annoyance after he had hung up, that he was as certain of America’s course as he professed to be—as he had to be, given his position. He was dealing with an uncertain and unknown quantity on which he was not entirely sure he could rely. Act alone if the Security Council did not agree?

  Promise or bluff?

  He picked up the phone that linked him directly to the Oval Office and asked the White House operator to put him through. Perhaps he could prod the uncertain and unknown quantity in the direction he felt to be the right one. All he could do was try. The decision rested elsewhere.

  “Ray!” the President’s cheerful voice came over, apparently without a care in the world. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m up to exactly what you told me to be up to,” the Secretary said, unable to keep a certain starchiness out of his voice. “What else would you be expecting me to do?”

  “Tut, tut,” the President said comfortably. “I can tell it’s been a long day. The Big Four and the S.-G., right? All being obdurate and uncooperative and frustrating and generally acting like bastards, right?”

  “Not Britain,” the Secretary said, “and, basically, probably, after they’ve satisfied their egos by trying to make us sweat a little, not the French. China and the SSR will be problems, yes. And Kwazz Kumbatta—you know how he is.”

  “He’s a flouncer,” the President said. “Afrikaner obduracy used to be hard enough to deal with. Mix it with black hypersensitivity and you’ve got a real combination on your hands. What date for the Security Council?”

  “He says next Friday, but of course we can insist on an earlier date if we want to. Do we?”

  The President thought for a moment. Ray imagined he could hear the wheels turn with an audible click.

  “No,” the President said finally. “I think Friday will be fine. That will give us time over the weekend for the programs, and time for a little reaction to build up in our favor. This first wave of opposition was to be expected from people like Concerned Citizens Against and We Protest, but there’s bound to be a groundswell. And also, it will give me time to dicker with Sidi a bit.”

  “I thought you were going to talk to the Prime Minister, and the President of France, and the Chairman in Beijing, and the President in Moscow,” the Secretary said, reeling them off with deliberate emphasis. “Have you given up that idea?”

  “Nooo,” the President said. “Not exactly. I’d like to try some personal diplomacy with Sidi first, though.”

  “What makes you think it will be any more successful than it has been so far?” the Secretary inquired.

  “He’ll begin to think better of it as the international pressure grows,” the President predicted.

  “Oh?” the Secretary said, and took a chance on bluntness. “So far, he’s responded by announcing he has four A-bombs, threatening to jump on Lower Lolómé, and ordering the murder of Creed Moncrief. How successful can personal diplomacy get?”

  “Nonetheless,” the President said, beginning to sound a little irritated, “I still think the personal approach can do a lot, particularly when it’s backed by united world opinion.”

  “Which is the furthest thing from what we’ve got,” the Secretary remarked, a little surprised by his own independence; but Tony Marsden had perhaps hit home harder than he knew. The President chose to remain optimistic—or sound like it to his Secretary of State, anyway.

  “Nonetheless,” he said again, “I think I’ll keep on working on it. We can ratchet up the pressure along with it. There are the aircraft carriers, after all. There’s a good bit of pressure right there.”

  “Have they reached Greater Lolómé yet?” Ray inquired. He could sense a sudden reserve in the President’s tone. He knew from experience that an evasion was coming.

  “Nooo,” the President said, in the same thoughtful tone he had used before. “Not—exactly. I’m holding them at Suez, for the moment.”

  “What?” Ray Stanley demanded, too startled and annoyed to be polite. “I thought we agreed in the NSC that they would go straight through and take up stations off Pointe Sinistre just as they did a couple of years ago in the second Gulf War—”

  “They’re only five minutes away by jet,” the President said calmly. “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is—” Ray began in an exasperated tone, then caught himself up more mildly, “the difference is that in this kind of game, physical presence is all. Out of sight is out of mind. If Sidi can use a pair of good binoculars and see them sitting off Pointe Sinistre, that’s one thing. If they’re invisible, except by radar, off there on the other side of the landmass, their presence isn’t going to weigh too heavily.”

  “I understand all that, Ray,” the President said mildly. “I’m not a fool, you know. On the other hand, as I’ve arranged it now, I can ratchet up the pressure with a one-two punch. I’ve sent orders through Bill Rathbun at the Pentagon that they’re to maintain open communications for the moment and do a lot of talking about their plans to depart soon for Sinistre. If Sidi doesn’t come around, he knows that all I have to do is say the word and they’ll be on his doorstep in twenty-four hours. Let’s try it my way for the moment and see what happens. Carrot and stick, you know. Carrot and stick.”

  “What’s the carrot?” Ray inquired.

  The President’s tone became positively airy.

  “Oh,” he said cheerfully, “probably money. Money always works, doesn’t it? A big loan from the World Bank, a big line of credit from us—‘financial assistance,’ in all its myriad, wonderful forms. You know the sort of thing. We’ve done it before.”

  “So many times,” the Secretary said dryly, “that it must make the world’s collective head swim. To say nothing of the potential recipient’s. And if that doesn’t work, then—”

  “Then there are the carriers,” the President said.

  “Yes,” the Secretary said. “The stick. And when they’re on his doorstep, then what will they do? Anything? Or will it just be another threat from the US that never comes off—as, again, so many times?”

  “You’re being very critical,” the President observed, “for a Secretary of State. Do you want to resign, Ray? Am I getting too far out of sync with the State Department?”

  “If you want to fire me, Mr. President,” Ray said with a calmness he did not entirely feel, but he seemed to be on some sort of roll, so unexpected he couldn’t quite define exactly where it came from, “go ahead. Meanwhile, part of my job as I conceive it is to be the devil’s advocate. And to try to maintain some strength of policy out of Washington.”

  “I’m not strong?” the President inquired, amicability gone, an ominous note in his voice.

  “No one doubts it,” the Secretary said, amazed at his own serenity in the face of his formidable employer’s annoyance; he seemed to be buoyed up by a confidence in his own position that he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Mary and Eulie would be proud of him now.

  “Words are beginning to be not enough. Lately, American words are beginning to be not enough. It’s a problem—for us and, I think, for the world, which ought to be able to depend on some degree of American strength and consistency.”

  “I intend to be strong and consistent,” the President said, more mildly. “Hang in there, Ray. You’re doing a fine job of keeping me on track. Just let me do it my way though. You tuck in the edges.”

  “Mr. President,” Ray Stanley said, starting to laugh, “you’re something else.”

  “I’m President of the United States,” the President said with an answering chuckle. “That accounts for a good deal.”

  “Even when it doesn’t explain a great deal, sometimes,” Ray said.

  “I love being an enigma,” the President said with another chuckle.

  “Fine for you,” Ray said. “Not always so easy for us.”

  “Poor things!” the President exclaimed with mock commiseration. “I feel for you. Good luck with Sally Holliwell’s show if we don’t talk before then.”

  “And good luck with Able Montague and the call-ins,” the Secretary said.

  “I’ll snow ’em,” the President said with a cheerful certainty that carried, still, the elusive note of mockery that held them all captive to the fascinations of his erratic but powerful charm. “I’ll just absolutely snow ’em.”

  * * *

  But when he prepared to leave the Oval Office and go upstairs to join Helen for one of their rare private dinners alone, he was not at all sure. And despite the teasing fun and games he liked to play with subordinates such as Ray who were inclined to be, the President felt, too serious when he himself wanted to be light and facetious, he was not at all sure that the gamble he was taking with Sidi would pay off.

  “Light and facetious” was a false description, anyway. Underneath it all he was dead serious and approached his job that way. It was just that lightness and facetiousness, after all these years, were such a habit that he was not entirely sure himself where they ended and the seriousness began. He had realized often in his successful political life that this could be a handicap. Helen often told him so.

  Tonight she did so again. She performed her usual duty of mixing “the best martini in Christendom,” as he often told their guests, set it down on the end table beside his armchair, took her own armchair opposite with her usual mild vodka and tonic. In the kitchen the staff was busy preparing the light meal that would presently be served them on television trays.

  “Well,” she said, “have you had a busy day running the world, today?”

  “Call me Atlas,” he said, lifting his glass in toast and taking the first, stomach-thumping sip. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” she said, returning the gesture with her usual relaxed, self-contained smile. “Visited a school in Maryland for retarded children—‘disadvantaged,’ as they call it, one of those words we hide behind these days to escape the world’s realities. These kids, however, were really retarded, but most of them nice and lovable, as they often are. Then I had lunch with the Supreme Court wives and the two lady Justices here at the house, very relaxed and pleasant, they’re a nice group. Took a nap, called up a limousine and had the Secret Service take me shopping at a couple of bookstores in Georgetown, causing a minor traffic jam and dazzling a few tourists. Came back, went over some White House accounts, read awhile, watched the news, wondered what my husband was doing to save humanity from its errors. Checked the social schedule, saw we were free tonight, ordered dinner in here, relaxed, and waited for the arrival of my lord and master.”

  “Ha!” he exclaimed with an amicable grin. “That would be the day. Sounds as though you managed to keep busy.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “I’m not shy, like some, or brash, like others. I try to keep a balance between fading into the woodwork and climbing a new mountain every day.”

  “You’re an effective First Lady,” he acknowledged with a smile. “Any time you feel you aren’t busy enough, let me know. In fact, there are a couple of things coming up soon on the Hill where I’d like your help in the way of testimony and perhaps some quiet lobbying among your friends.”

  “Yes,” she said. “The new environmental legislation and the National Endowment for the Arts. I’m available.”

  Aware of her extensive influence in both areas, he smiled again with real affection and approval.

  “You’re good,” he said. “And a great help. You really are. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d manage,” she said with a certain characteristic dryness. “However,” she added with a smile that softened it, “a girl does like to hear words like that … So what about Sidi?”

  “Oh, Christ,” he said with a sigh. “Seedy Sidi! Yes, what about him? I just heard from Ray a few minutes ago and he’s had an annoying day talking to the Big Four on the Security Council, and our flaming spear carrier in the front office, Kwazze Kumbatta. Rather frustrating, I gathered, particularly the Russians and Chinese and Kwazze Kumbatta.”

  “Not cooperating?”

  “Not exactly rushing to support the boy who has his finger in the dike, you might say.”

  She smiled and offered an imaginary quote.

  “‘Nice finger, nice dike. We’ll watch.’ That it?”

  “At the moment,” he acknowledged. “There isn’t exactly a great rush to support us.”

  “Support you,” she corrected.

  He shrugged. “In this office, it’s the same.”

  “That’s right,” she agreed. “Do you ever stop to realize the truly enormous power you have to change the world?”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “I do; indeed I do. That’s why I can never understand Presidents who make a big show of insisting that they just want to be ‘domestic.’ They can’t escape the world, it’s the height of naïveté to try. All their busy plans to stay out of it come to nothing: they can’t. Whether they like it or not, they sneeze in the Oval Office and somebody blows his nose in Borneo. Or the equivalent. It’s amazing.” He frowned, half-amused, half-regretful. “Except when it’s ‘Nice finger, nice dike. We’ll watch.’ Then it isn’t so easy.”

  She considered this for a moment; she had always been one of the shrewdest political minds he had ever known. Her expression now was thoughtful, concentrated on the problem of Sidi.

  “You can pretty well lay down the ground rules at this stage, though, can’t you? When you go on Able Montague’s show on Sunday, you’ll have the world’s attention. At that moment you’ll be in sole control of world opinion. It will be up to you then.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “I intend to frame the debate. But when the major pieces on the board come into play, it’s going to take a lot of hard-slogging diplomacy, plus a lot of bribery in some form or another, to bring everybody into line. They can all be bought sooner or later, some with money, some with flattery, some with appeals to self-interest—but it’s generically all bribery, whatever it’s called in polite society.”

  “And you think it will work this time?”

  He looked complacent for a moment, in a way he never permitted himself to do in public, where he had found earnest concern to be a more popular stance.

  “It always has.”

  “Well, don’t get too confident,” she said.

  “I’m not,” he said, “but I’ve found that when what you do is based on a bedrock of principle and integrity, it works, more often than not.”

  “It does,” she observed, “if you stick with it.”

  “Well!” he exclaimed with a half-laugh. “Are you implying I won’t stick with it—or just being the devil’s advocate like Ray, to prop me up so I won’t start to waver?”

  “Is Ray doing that?” she asked. “I’m glad to be in such good company.… I don’t see how you can waver. You’ve taken a position, in the statement, that you’ve pretty well got to maintain, haven’t you? Or make yourself and the country look pretty weak and wishy-washy.”

  “Some people think the statement was wishy-washy,” he said. “Eulie Montgomery and El Barnes, for instance. We had quite a go-round in the NSC. They wanted it to be much stronger, at certain key points, than I did.”

  “Yes, you told me about that,” she said. “I didn’t say anything then because it was a matter of record by that time, the statement was out, but I was a little curious as to why it wasn’t stronger, myself.”

  He gave her a long, shrewd look and the disingenuous smile she knew very well.

  “I have to have room to maneuver,” he said.

  She gave him a skeptical glance. “Maneuver for what? What are you going to do, let Sidi get away with it?”

  He looked annoyed.

  “No, I’m not going to let Sidi get away with it! But there are a lot of points of view that have to be accommodated in something like this. Eulie thinks it’s a fundamental turning point. I don’t take that view, myself. It’s important but not all-important. As I say, I believe in leaving myself room to maneuver.”

  “How?” she inquired, sounding genuinely puzzled. When he told her about his step-at-a-time policy with the carriers, and remarked with satisfaction that “by having Ray deal with the allies at his level, I’ve left my options open as to when I can appeal to heads of state—if I should need to,” the puzzlement deepened. With it came a skepticism he knew well. It had greeted many of his political assumptions over the years and was still there even though many of them had come true.

  “But,” she objected, “you obviously think Sidi’s going to give in. How do you know that? What makes you so sure?”

  “Oh, my political instinct,” he said comfortably. “He’ll come around.”

  “You’re always so confident,” she remarked. “Supposing he doesn’t, will you back down? It seems to me you’ve put yourself in a position where one of you is going to have to.”

  He smiled.