“I can only answer it by saying that if war comes, it won’t come in the way you postulate.”

“In other words our troops are prepared to counteract any small-scale exploratory probes the Chinese may send into the disputed territories, but if it came to an all-out invasion we would not be ready to repel it.”

“That’s not what I mean either.”

“Then say what you mean.”

Grigorenko leaned forward. “You’re trying to trap me. If China rains nuclear missiles on us they will not follow it up by invading Soviet territory with ground troops. They will wait for us to invade them, because that’s the way they have always fought. China swallows all its invaders. China has never invaded alien territory.”

“I submit Tibet.”

“A triviality, and beside the point. My information confirms that in the unlikely event of wholesale war between our countries the Chinese will simply wait to ensnare us in their net. On their own home ground they can defeat us. On our ground they can’t. They know that. They won’t invade. Now on those terms I can answer your question: yes, we are prepared for it. We are prepared for the Chinese to invite us to penetrate their frontiers with mass armies. Our preparation is in the nature of rejecting the Chinese invitation. If war comes we will not make the mistake of marching our armies into China’s rural countryside. We will not allow them to draw us into their brand of fighting where every Chinese farmer becomes a guerrilla resistance soldier. We will spearhead directly into their centers of industrial production and military communications. We will destroy their productivity and smash their industry and then we will withdraw to our own borders and wait for them to sign a peace.”

Rykov murmured, “And what if they roll into Mongolia and Siberia in spite of your projections to the contrary?”

“They won’t.”

“I only suggest you prepare contingency plans to deal with the situation.”

“You know perfectly well such contingency plans have been drawn up for years and periodically updated.”

“Then let me suggest you dust them off and supply your field commanders with copies of them. What harm can it do to be prepared?”

Grigorenko was studying him with renewed care. Perhaps Rykov knew something Rykov Wasn’t telling him.

Rykov added, “Recall the proverb. ‘The road to Siberia is wide; the way back is narrow.’ The penalty for unprepared-ness can be severe.”

Marshal Grigorenko left, walking heavily on his heels. Andrei escorted him out and returned, shutting the door. “He’s got something to think about.”

“The question is, will he act? And will he act in time?”

Andrei stood in front of the desk with his hands clasped behind him. His round bookish face was tipped to one side in the pose that meant he had something to say.

Rykov sat back. “Let us hear what’s on your mind.”

“Only this. What if they are right and we are wrong? They have seen all the evidence we’ve seen. They’ve reached a different conclusion.”

Rykov regarded him thoughtfully, lips pushing out, eyes squinting. “They’re frightened. They believe what is most comfortable to believe. They’re products of the assembly line of government we have here in which every functionary has a limited area of responsibility and therefore feels immunized from overall accountability. They have no policy but to remain in power. They are riding a bicycle—they don’t seem to realize that when it stops rolling along it falls down. They seem to think as long as things can be kept the same, nothing bad can happen to them.”

“Yet it is still possible they are correct in this instance. The facts are open to more than one interpretation. It’s possible the Chinese are getting ready to attack us. But it’s also possible they’re only trying to frighten us into making border concessions.”

“No. That’s what they want us to think.”

“I am not sure of that, Viktor Ilyich.”

“When has my intuition been wrong?”

“Never,” Andrei conceded, and added, “up to now.”

“I regret deeply your lack of confidence in me.”

“I only wish I could be as certain as you are. Probably it is my weakness.” Andrei came forward and put his hands on the front of the desk. His face hovered close to Rykov’s. “I think I know your plans.”

“Then perhaps you’d better tell me what you think they are.”

“I think you’re going to order the Amergrad group to launch American missiles on Chinese targets.”

“Go on, then,” Rykov breathed.

“It has to be so. The Chinese will believe they’ve been attacked by the Americans. Naturally China will retaliate with its own ICBMs against the United States. There won’t be time for the Americans to convince the Chinese it was a mistake. The Americans will see the Chinese missiles coming in and of course they’ll react—they’ll launch their missiles against China in force.

“In the meantime their President will be on the hot-line telephone to us, but Premier Kazakov will know nothing. Whether their President will believe him is open to question, but as long as we do not join in the Chinese attack the Americans will be obliged to concentrate their counterattack on China. Quite certainly Comrades Kazakov and Yashin would not be inclined to join the Chinese in such a conflict; we would either remain neutral or even perhaps join forces with the United States to crush the perfidious yellow enemy for all time. American missiles will destroy China; Chinese missiles will cripple the United States; the blame for the initial attack will rest on the United States; and the Soviet Union will emerge unscathed, untouched by nuclear craters—the single surviving great power.”

Andrei’s jaw crept forward. “It’s a brilliant plan, Viktor.”

Rykov was sitting back and his eyes were almost shut. “But.”

“But. Yes. I have reservations.”

Rykov’s heavy lips parted. “You have a superb mind, Andrei.”

“Then I am correct in my conclusions?”

Rykov’s answer was some time in coming. But finally he opened his eyes and spoke in his hard Georgian voice. “You are correct.”

Chapter Eleven

“Spode,” Hathaway announced, coming in the side door. “His name’s Jaime Spode. He’s a Navajo Indian.”

Belsky was irritable, maddened by the hours of hiding. He turned his head balefully. “Is he federal?”

“No. He used to be. Nowadays he’s on Senator Forrester’s staff.” Hathaway sat down on the bed. It was the spare room in Ramsey Douglass’ little house on Water Street. Hathaway’s uniform was starched and the iron had pinched a hard crease into the sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves.

Belsky said, “It could be a cover.”

“I doubt it. He appears to be independent as a hog on ice.”

“Spode?”

“Yes.”

“He struck me as a professional.”

“Sure. He dates back to military counterintelligence—Korean war. He cracked a few North Korean POWs, I hear. Forrester was his CO out there; they’re old buddies.” Hathaway looked at his watch. “Torrio ought to be along with the package pretty quick now.”

Belsky grunted. “But Spode may have contacted the federal people.”

“Why should he? He didn’t know who you were.”

“We don’t know that.”

“If he’d made you, the Trumble place would’ve been crawling with Federal cops by now.”

“Possibly not. They may be being clever.”

“If Spode reported back to anybody it was to Forrester. Don’t forget you caught him breaking and entering. He wouldn’t take his story to the FBI because he’d have to admit that.”

“There are agencies other than the FBI.”

“The FBI’s charged with internal security.”

“Was Spode an FBI agent?”

“No. Trumble was.”

“I know that,” Belsky snapped. “At least we’ve got sources on Senator Forrester’s staff. We can find out how much Spode told Forrester and whether or not it went any further than Forrester.”