A Thing of State, page 39
Behind the scenes, which is where the basic bloody work of politics and government takes place—when it has to be bloody, which is far more often than the public realizes—there were small cries of futile protest and helpless terror, rather like the small rodent whose namesake was most directly involved. No one outside the abattoir heard them; only the most sophisticated observers drew the logical conclusions from the way events unfolded. The Mouse, caught in the middle of a game he understood all too well but was powerless to escape, was about to utter his last futile squeaks before he and his colonial-accident country passed from the international scene forever.
Sidi Issues Twenty-Four-Hour Ultimatum to Lesser Lolómé: Surrender or A-Bomb Falls
Mustafa Makes Urgent New Appeal to United Nations. He is Told It is in Recess Until Next Week
3
“Ray,” the President said next morning, “get over here and bring Eulie. I think we’re approaching the end of our little episode in the Lolómés.”
And so obviously they were as the NSC gathered for the last time to consider The Matter of Lolómé, which had now become, if only very briefly, The War Between the Two Lolómés.
State was there, the Secretary and Deputy Secretary looking deeply concerned and not happy; Defense was there, Arlie McGregor and Bill Rathbun looking relieved that the turn of events had removed them still further from responsibility; the CIA, Eldridge Barnes looking cynically unsurprised and unperturbed; the Vice President, looking troubled as his personal instincts told him he did not like such ruthlessly cynical proceedings, while his political instincts told him he had no choice but to pretend approval and support; Jaime Serrano, still tired and jet-lagged, obviously uneasy and unhappy about the part he had played in the past two days’ events; and the First Lady, who had canceled a luncheon with two female friends of hers in the Senate because, as she told her husband, “I want to watch how you perform the surgery on poor old Mustafa.”
The President did not like this, and had come to the meeting in an unpleasant humor as a result; but it was obvious by the time they were all in place around the table that his equanimity was restored.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said with the unnecessary but flattering deference with which he always started their meetings. “As you gather from the news, things have moved very fast in the Lolómés since we met a couple of days ago. Mustafa is obviously on the run, Sidi is clearly winning; it will be only a matter of hours. The specific reason I called you together is because Arthur Burton called a while ago and said Mustafa wanted to speak to me. I imagine this is to seek my active intervention, which I am ready to give. The UN resolution gives me authority to propose a settlement, and I am ready to do so. I wanted you all here as my witnesses and also, of course, to put forward any suggestions that may occur to you to help clear up this most unfortunate business.”
He looked around the table as if he expected challenges; and got one.
“Mr. President,” Ray Stanley said, “did you ask the UN to put off Mustafa’s appeal so the Council couldn’t debate it until it was too late?”
“I have had no contact with the Council this morning,” the President said flatly.
“That isn’t what I asked you, Mr. Pre—” the Secretary began.
The President cut him off.
“I know what you asked.” His voice turned cold. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters!” the Secretary said, not giving an inch.
“I don’t see how,” the President said. “The outcome is inevitable. Why prolong it? Anyway,” he added as the Deputy Secretary, the First Lady, and Jaime Serrano all appeared visibly disturbed, “the Sheikh has been in the embassy waiting for me for the past two hours—”
“Have you deliberately kept him waiting, Mr. President?” Eulie inquired.
“I had to have time to round up you people,” the President said. “It hasn’t hurt him to wait.”
“He’s only desperate,” the First Lady remarked.
“I’m putting it through now,” the President said blandly. “Excuse me.” And he picked up the phone, contacted the Signal Corps, sat back, and waited.
They all felt a rising tension, compounded partly of suspense about what Mustafa might say and do, partly, on the part of the more sensitive, a feeling of disgust at what they were apparently about to witness, the murder of a small, helpless country to save the reputation of a major world leader. History was full of examples: it was not the first time international decency and morality had been sacrificed for such an objective. But it was shocking to have to be present and witness it firsthand; and even more shocking to have to accept that it was one’s own President who was doing it.
“Mr. President,” Arthur Reeves Burton said, dignified tones undisturbed by the fact that the thump of conventional bombs dropping on the capital could be clearly heard in the background. “His Majesty wishes to speak to you.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the President said; and could not resist adding dryly, “I hope I shall not be too perfidious for you today.”
“Oh, stop it!” Helen exclaimed angrily. “Just stop it! Of all the unworthy, unbecoming—”
“All right!” her husband snapped, momentarily pressing the mute button. “All right!” He waited for a moment, breathing heavily; took his hand off the phone and resumed in a calmer and more businesslike tone.
“Yes, Your Majesty. What can I do for you in this unfortunate situation?”
Again the slither of Arabic, urgent this time, openly anxious, frightened, beseeching; no more insults now.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter said, voice equally distraught, “he cannot continue to submit his country and his people to such punishment by the forces of the evil one of Greater Lolómé as you can hear happening right now. He say he must surrender unless he have help right away from you and your great country. He urge you to intervene and save our poor, helpless country. He beseech you, Mr. President. He beg you.”
“Tell His Majesty he need not do that,” the President said. “We will do what we can. Would it help if we were to send Lesser Lolómé planes and troops from the two carriers we have in position off Greater Lolómé—”
“Mr. President!” Arlie McGregor exclaimed in alarm.
The President winked and held up a restraining hand; mouthed the word “Wait”; and did so, an expression of bored patience on his face.
A silence in Lesser Lolómé followed, then a murmur of consultation. Ambassador Burton came on the line, voice for the first time showing a trace of urgency
“His Majesty says he did not mean sending help to Lesser Lolómé, Mr. President. He says he means an attack on Greater Lolómé. He says this is the only way to stop Sidi. He says if you will launch an attack from the carriers immediately upon Greater Lolómé City and the military airfields around it, and simultaneously bomb troops now advancing in the Middle Range, it will effectively stop him. That is what he meant.”
“Oh,” the President said, sounding disappointed but friendly and concerned. “I had not contemplated aggression myself, which would violate everything I stand for and believe. I had thought that if I were to provide arms to Lesser Lolómé, then Lesser Lolómé would be able to defend itself and could defeat Sidi on its own as any self-respecting sovereign state should be able to do. His Majesty does not believe himself capable of that, even with arms from me?”
Again the Arabic rose and fell, rose and fell, melancholy and beginning to sound hopeless.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter said finally, “that his people are not prepared for war, Mr. President. He and his family are not prepared for war. They look to you to save Lesser Lolómé. There is nowhere else to turn.”
“I see,” the President said thoughtfully. He paused, and allowed the pause to grow until his wife, the Secretary of State, Eulie Montgomery, and Jaime Serrano all began to shift restlessly in their chairs. Then he spoke with a sudden decisiveness.
“I will tell Your Majesty what I can do,” he said. “I will renew my offer of two days ago which you saw fit to reject so summarily out of hand: I will see to it that you and your family are rescued from your capital by my planes and paratroops from the carriers, and I will see to it that you have safe transport to some other country of your choosing—”
He was interrupted by a burst of excited Arabic.
“His Majesty say they can go to England,” the interpreter said. “He say they go often to London.”
“Yes,” the President said dryly, “don’t we all. A lovely city. But”—there was a sudden dismayed silence in Lesser Lolómé—“but before His Majesty starts packing, a few things will be required of His Majesty.”
There was another silence, followed by a short burst of Arabic, obviously protesting at first, sinking almost immediately into an acquiescence despairing and devoid of fight.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter relayed, sounding equally bereft of heart, “what are they?”
“I have been in contact during the night with President Sidi,” the President said, ignoring the reaction this caused in the Roosevelt Room. “I wanted to explore with him under what conditions he would be prepared to enter into an agreement with Your Majesty to terminate his present attempt, singly, by himself, to right the wrong which he sees as having been done by former colonial oppressors to your mutual ancient homeland, Great Lolómé. He assured me that he believes that you and he have the same objective, the same desire to right this wrong, and reunite your tragically shattered nation into the single Great Lolómé which once was the pride of your ancestors and the dream of all your peoples. He says he is confident you agree with this.”
He paused. This time the response was excited, emphatic, obdurate.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter reported, “that he is the sole bearer of the flame of Great Lolómé, and he and he alone has Allah’s charge to reunite it. His Majesty say he denies utterly any right of Sidi, who comes from a desert tribe that never held power in Great Lolómé, to be part of this. He say Sidi is a liar and a criminal. His Majesty say he will die in the glory of Allah before he will accept partnership with Sidi, whom no man trusts and who kills as he smiles and would kill His Majesty as quickly as any man.”
The President looked thoughtful and for a moment did not reply.
“And yet,” he said presently, “and yet—I hear the bombs falling at this very moment on Lesser Lolómé. And just a few moments ago, I was told by Your Majesty that you could not hold out against President Sidi without my help, which I am unable to give you, to attack President Sidi. And I heard Your Majesty say that you would accept my safe conduct for you and your family to go to London rather than stay and fight President Sidi with the weak and inadequate forces Your Majesty has—to say nothing of the terrible vengeance that may be wreaked on you and your family by the people of Lesser Lolómé when your weakness becomes apparent. What am I to make of Your Majesty’s contradictions?”
Again there was silence in Lesser Lolómé, followed by another spurt of Arabic, but, again, flat, dull, dispirited.
“His Majesty,” the President said softly, again touching the mute button, “is apparently a realist.” And winked at his wife, who, staring down thoughtfully at the table’s polished surface, did not respond.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter said finally, “what are the conditions Your Highness suggests? And why should His Majesty trust Sidi, who is less than a dog’s turd in the path of the righteous?”
At this the President could not resist a quick smile, nor could the others refrain from amusement. The moment passed immediately and he responded with suitable solemnity.
“Very well, I shall tell Your Majesty. These are Sidi’s conditions. I urge you to consider them most carefully.
“First, I am afraid that President Sidi, on penalty of using one of his atomic bombs on your capital, as he has promised if you do not comply, will require that Your Majesty leave the throne of Lesser Lolómé. He does not require that you leave the country, you may remain if you so desire—”
There was a sudden harsh snarl, scathing, scornful, mocking.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter said, “that he would not live one hour after Sidi entered the capital if he were to stay in the country.”
“That would be for Your Majesty to decide,” the President said. “I have told you we would assist in your departure if you deem it necessary. At any rate, your abdication is the first condition of President Sidi.
“Second, President Sidi is agreeable that Your Majesty, if you so desire, may appoint a council of regents to preserve the throne of Lesser Lolómé until such time as the reunification of Great Lolómé is complete and all its peoples have a chance to choose their own form of government.
“This council would consist of twenty members, of whom twelve would be appointed by President Sidi”—again the bitter response, no translation, none necessary—“and eight might be appointed by Your Majesty. Of Your Majesty’s eight, four might be drawn from Your Majesty’s family; the remaining four would be leading citizens of Lesser Lolómé whose names would be approved by the twelve members of the council appointed by President Sidi.”
The President paused. Again the scathing sibilance but no translation. He continued.
“In addition to the regency council, President Sidi agrees with me that it would be advisable to appoint an economic council to administer the oil revenues from the bountiful fields of Lesser Lolómé.”
There was a sudden angry burst of protest. Before the interpreter had time to report, which was not in any event necessary, the President responded firmly.
“I must point out to Your Majesty that by your own account you are in desperate straits. You are in no position to impose conditions of your own or to reject President Sidi’s. I am here to give you the guarantee of the United States that whatever is agreed to between yourself and President Sidi will be honored and maintained. I have his assurances of this.”
“Are you—” the Secretary of State started to demand, but did not quite add the word “crazy?” although he obviously thought it.
The President gave him a bland look and continued.
“The economic council will dispose of the oil revenues of the present country of Lesser Lolómé, and its successor country, reunited Great Lolómé, on the following basis:
“Thirty-one percent to the present national bank of Lesser Lolómé and its successor national bank of Great Lolómé, to be used solely and entirely for the betterment of the people of Lesser Lolómé; one percent to Your Majesty’s Swiss bank account for the personal use of Your Majesty and Your Majesty’s family, wherever you may be; and sixty-eight percent to the government of a reunited Great Lolómé, which shall have the right to enter into such international contracts for the development and distribution of the oil of the present Lesser Lolómé as economic necessity and political advantage shall dictate.”
The rush of syllables burst out and this time were translated.
“His Majesty inquire,” the interpreter asked, his own tone sympathetically acid, “what percentage President Sidi has agreed to give to the government and oil companies of the United States?”
“That is subject to negotiation,” the President said.
“But there will be such concessions?” the interpreter pressed.
“There may well be,” the President said crisply. “I would not want to betray my responsibilities to my country and my people by not securing whatever just compensation I can get for my assistance in solving the problem which faces Your Majesty. Finally,” he went on, ignoring the abrupt silence at the other end and in the Roosevelt Room, which held such a mixed-up whirl of emotions that no one there could have defined them exactly at that moment, “President Sidi has assured me that within two years of the end of present hostilities there will be a free, open, democratic referendum of the people of Lesser Lolómé to determine, one, whether they wish to remain a separate nation under the rule of Your Majesty’s family or, two, whether they wish to join the peoples of Greater Lolómé in a single reunited Great Lolómé under some form of government to be chosen by all the peoples at a later suitable date in a similarly free, open, and democratic election.
“These undertakings to be set forth in the form of a Declaration of Understanding to be signed at the White House by Your Majesty and President Sidi one week from today.”
At this there was a real explosion, loud and sustained.
“His Majesty say,” the interpreter related presently, voice frigid with his own outraged disapproval, “that he will not sign anything, ever, with President Sidi. His Majesty demands to know what assurance Your Highness has that Sidi will do any of these things even if he does sign such a declaration of understanding.”
“It’s ‘Excellency,’ not ‘Highness,’” the President corrected almost absentmindedly. “He has given me his personal word,” he said calmly; and added before there could be further explosion, “and I have already given you my personal guarantee that the United States—and I think I can speak for the United Nations as their representative on this occasion—together will monitor his compliance. We will even, if you like, append such a statement of guarantee to the body of the declaration.”
Another lengthy stream of syllables, scathing and sarcastic.
“His Majesty say” the interpreter reported, “that Sidi’s word is worthless. Why should His Majesty trust the guarantee of the United States, which has guaranteed so many things in recent years and has failed so many of them? Why should His Majesty believe that the United Nations, which has been so weak so many times, would be strong this time? His Majesty does not understand, either, what advantage there is for him in going through a play-act on the White House lawn to satisfy the ego of Sidi and Your Excellency.”
