‘Which is?’ asked Ben.
‘That my mother could still be alive,’ said Akiko.
‘I didn’t know her. Why should I care?’ Ben said.
The others turned to face him.
‘Hey, I’m not being an asshole, I’m just saying—why me? Why am I involved?’
‘That’s easy,’ Tex said. ‘You’re Akiko’s link to me, and hence to Lucas. You’re also all Curtis had.’
Ben looked down at his feet and took a long deep breath.
‘So, now you know, you find just one passenger who was on that plane,’ said Lucas, ‘and all the lies come tumbling down.’
‘Whoa . . . slow down, big guy. So Akiko and I are going to cruise into Russia and find someone who’s been missing for, like, thirty years?’ Ben asked, ridiculing the idea.
‘Well, you ain’t gonna find her in Key West,’ Tex replied.
‘We will need visas for Russia,’ said Akiko.
‘Hey, c’mon. This is going too fucking far,’ Ben protested.
‘You’ve got a point. Russia is a big place,’ said Lucas. ‘Where do you start looking? I’ve got a buddy, a former Defense Intelligence spook. He might have a few ideas. He worked out of the West German embassy in the late seventies and mid eighties, one of the top experts on the Soviets back then. He lives over in Gainesville. I’ll set it up.’
‘Okay, okay . . . Just stop for a moment?’ Ben demanded.
Akiko put her hand on his forearm.
‘Like I warned you, kiddo,’ said Lucas, ‘you can’t stuff it back in the cage.’
September 2, 1983
Rancho Del Cielo, Santa Barbara, California. President Reagan, freshly showered, his cheeks shaved and ruddy, his hair combed and smelling of tonic, finished a prayer of thanks to the Lord and picked up a slice of lightly buttered toast. ‘Judge, you don’t look like you’ve had much in the way of sleep. You neither, Ed. Why don’t you two join me in a cup of coffee while we talk? Orange juice, if you’d rather.’
‘Why thank you, Mr President,’ said William Clark, sitting on the President’s right.
‘Thank you, Mr President,’ Ed Meese echoed, also taking a seat.
They both gave orders for coffee to the attendant who’d suddenly appeared. He filled their cups and then melted away toward the kitchen.
The men sat at the old country table in the sun-drenched room. They could see a couple of chestnut horses being walked across the paddock beyond by a stablehand. President Reagan was dressed in loose faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, set for a relaxing day’s work around the ranch.
‘Well, looks like another morning in paradise, doesn’t it?’
‘Certainly does, Mr President,’ said Clark.
‘So what’s been happening in the wider world overnight? You two look like you’ve eaten something that hasn’t agreed with you. Any more news on that missing plane? Has it turned up?’
Clark and Meese exchanged a glance.
‘As a matter of fact, it has,’ said Clark, keeping the tone of his voice low and slow. ‘I’m afraid we are the bearers of news of a terrible tragedy, Mr President.’
President Reagan looked up, the smile faltering on his lips. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Sir, it looks like the Russians shot it down,’ Meese told him.
‘What?’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, there’s absolutely no doubt about it.’
‘How . . . ? Why . . . ?’
‘We think it got lost somehow, strayed into Soviet airspace, and they simply shot it down. We have a transcript here of the Russian fighter pilot speaking with his ground controller who gave him the order to fire his missiles.’
National Security Advisor Clark slid a sheet of paper toward the President, who put on his glasses, picked it up and held it out until the writing came into focus. His lips moving, he skipped over the Russian and read the English translation. Horror was mixed with disbelief on his face, the paper quivering in his fingertips.
‘That’s incredible . . . incredible.’
‘Mr President, there were 269 passengers and crew aboard the plane, sixty-one of whom were Americans. I’m afraid Congressman Lawrence McDonald was also confirmed on the passenger manifest.’
‘Oh, my . . . Larry McDonald?’ Reagan hung his head. ‘Where was it shot down?’
‘We’re not 100 percent certain on that point, Mr President. Somewhere in the Sea of Japan, off Sakhalin Island. The US Navy, as well as the Japan Defense Force, is conducting search and rescue. The Russians are also searching the same area. So far no wreckage has been found and no bodies recovered.’
‘What are the Soviets saying about this?’ the President asked, white circles of rage starting to surface on his cheeks.
‘Typically, they’re admitting nothing and denying everything,’ said Meese.
‘Why was the plane off course?’
‘The civil aviation corridor comes quite close to the Soviet Kamchatka Peninsula. As far as we know, it looks like a simple navigation error on the part of the Korean pilots. In fact, we’re sure the flight crew had absolutely no idea they were in any danger.’
‘The Soviets didn’t warn them?’
‘No, sir,’ said Clark, taking over. ‘It looks to our intelligence sources as if the Soviets tracked the plane for a full two and a half hours before shooting it down. Their fighters got right up close to it, close enough to see it was a civilian passenger plane. They fired no warning shots, as they were required to do by international aviation law. Then, just as the airliner crossed over into international airspace, the Soviet fighter fired two missiles at it and the 747 plummeted into the water.’
Reagan took a deep lungful of air and expelled it. ‘An awful, awful business. Couldn’t we have warned it?’
‘Unfortunately, no, sir. The plane was flying beyond the range of civil aviation radar. We’ve got a lot of military intelligence-gathering assets in that part of the world—as you know—but none of them track civilian air movements. We did have an RC-135 spy plane in the vicinity of KAL 007 at one stage, but it was tracking Soviet intermediate- range ballistic missiles at the time. And, in fact, it was in its hangar more than an hour before the Soviets shot down the airliner. Frankly, Mr President, we only knew there was trouble after the Soviets took action. We have here full written assessments prepared by the NSA and the CIA for you to read at your leisure, sir.’ Clark placed a thick folder on the table.
President Reagan eyed the formidable stack of paper. ‘That won’t be necessary, Judge. Just tell me the facts.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘George Shultz is in Washington,’ said Meese. ‘He wants to make a statement on this incident to the media. Jump on it before the rumors start.’
‘Of course, Ed. You tell him to go right ahead.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has Kathryn McDonald been informed?’
‘Yes, she has,’ said Clark. ‘With your permission, Mr President, we’d like to lay the facts of the case before the United Nations Security Council later today. At least make some kind of a statement. The Soviets can’t be allowed to get away with this despicable act.’
‘You do what’s necessary, Judge. Apply the blowtorch. Let’s bring Jeanne Kirkpatrick in on this. As the UN ambassador, she’ll need to prepare a response.’
‘Sir, we thought of giving the job to Charles Lichenstein—he’s the American delegate. He’s a great performer and can write one heck of a speech. Let him fire the first shot across Moscow’s bow. Then, when we have a better grasp of the situation and all the facts are available, we can bring Jeanne into the fray.’
‘Okay, I agree. Go with Charles first.’
‘We also think it would be worthwhile if you made a statement, Mr President,’ said Meese. ‘Perhaps later this afternoon. Larry Speakes is nearby, staying over at the Sheraton. Since he’s the official White House spokesman, we could have him call a press conference and deliver your views on this senseless attack.’
‘Good advice, Ed. That�
��s why you’re my counselor. Let’s do that.’
‘We’ve taken the liberty of drafting some initial thoughts for you to go through with Larry,’ said Clark, taking a couple sheets of paper from a briefcase and handing them to the President.
‘Mr President, I know you’re on vacation, but this is going to heat up,’ said Meese. ‘We’ve spoken to State. They’re talking about the possibility of you cutting your vacation short—to deal with this disaster directly from the Oval Office.’
The President jealously guarded his downtime. He frowned and clasped his hands in front of him on the table. ‘Let me talk that over with Nancy.’
‘And, depending on the Soviet reaction, we’re all thinking it would make a powerful impression if you were to go on television. The American people, indeed the free peoples of the world, will need your guidance and reassurance.’
‘Yes, I think you’re probably right,’ the President agreed.
Clark finished his cup of coffee. With a flick of his eyes to Meese, he said, ‘This is a terrible tragedy, Mr President, but perhaps some good can come of it. God willing, we’ll be able to turn the tide of world opinion against the Soviet menace and show them for what they really are—a cold-blooded and calculating peril, hellbent on world domination.’
Richard Burt, the assistant secretary of state for European and Canadian affairs, leaned over a desk strewn with newspaper clippings from well over two dozen countries. The Soviet attack on the civilian airliner was the world’s biggest news story. Burt picked through the clippings along with several other members of the task force. With rare exceptions, the headlines were uniform: outrage. A few with late deadlines showed maps of Sakhalin Island and KAL 007’s flight path across it ending in a jagged starburst over the Sea of Japan.
‘We’ve got the bastards!’ Burt exclaimed. He turned to Garret. ‘Roy, your role here is simple. We’ll be relying on the resources of the NSA to keep an ear to the ground. I want a daily briefing. What we’re particularly interested in hearing about is any divergence from the core issues, namely that the Russians brutally shot down a civilian airliner and killed several hundred innocent civilians. I note, for example, that there are a few articles and editorials questioning why the plane was off course and why the US military failed to warn the flight crew. We’ll have to head off that kind of enquiry, come down hard on it if we have to. It’s about keeping the media on message.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Garret, nodding along with the others.
Burt addressed the room. ‘I want the local press put under a microscope. Any deviation from the official line should be brought to my personal attention immediately. If individual journalists won’t play ball with the administration, we’ll make it difficult for them to get interviews—squeeze them right back. State has direct channels with all the major networks and media groups and we’ll use them if we have to. I don’t need to remind you that we are at war with the Soviets and they have just murdered sixty-one of our countrymen, including a congressman. They need to be shown that we’re absolutely unanimous about such behavior being unacceptable.’
He turned to Garret once more. ‘Roy, I was wondering if you could possibly help us out with some of the more intractable consulates? It would be helpful to know who’s not playing ball as soon as possible—get the drop on them.’
‘Can do,’ said Garret. ‘By the way, sir, has anyone contacted the National Transportation Safety Board?’
‘No, why?’
‘As of right now, the NTSB will be demanding all materials on this incident from every source it can think of in preparation for the investigation, which it probably thinks it’s going to handle. We’ll need to exert some influence there. The NTSB won’t give a damn about the national security issues at stake. The NTSB also has the power of subpoena and we don’t want this ending up in the courts.’
‘I hear you,’ said Burt, a hand on his chin, the other on his hip. ‘What should we tell them?’
‘There’ll have to be an inquest. Until we settle on the right body, tell them State is going to conduct the investigation.’
‘We don’t do air disasters.’
‘I know, sir, but State could certainly manage it into the hands of the appropriate body.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the United Nations.’
‘The ICAO?’
‘The International Civil Aviation Organization would be ideal—they’re even-handed, international, unbiased . . .’
‘And no power of subpoena?’
‘None whatsoever, sir. But, armed with the right information,’ Garret reassured him, ‘the ICAO would do a great job.’
‘For us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Then we’ll deal with that straightaway. Perhaps Lawrence Eagleburger can give the NTSB the news.’
‘I’ll give you the numbers to call, sir,’ said Garret.
‘You see?’ Burt exclaimed, facing the table. ‘That’s the kind of fore-thought we need on this. And while I think of it, if we get any calls asking for the latest information, the correct answer until further notice is that there is no new information. The press is going to move at our pace, not theirs. Like I said at the outset, it’s up to us to manage the official US response.’
A young woman in a tight knitted wool suit, her hair cut short in a bob, rushed through the door holding a sheet of paper. ‘This is just in from TASS, Mr Assistant Secretary,’ she announced. Burt snatched it from her. Everyone went quiet. It was the second TASS bulletin to be released, and it would reflect Moscow’s official line.
‘Gromyko. He’s at it again,’ Burt muttered once he’d skimmed it.
Andrei Gromyko, thought Garret—the Soviet foreign minister. He’d authored the first TASS bulletin to comment on 007.
Burt read from the paper. ‘“In violation of international regulations, the plane flew without navigation lights and did not react to radio signals of the Soviet dispatcher services, and made no attempt to establish such communications contact. Anti air-defense aircraft were ordered aloft; they repeatedly tried to establish contact with the plane using generally accepted signals and to take it to the nearest airfield in the territory of the Soviet Union. The intruder plane, however, ignored all this . . . ” . . . et cetera . . .’
Garret had heard it all before. So far, TASS had merely rehashed its first press release.
‘“Over Sakhalin Island,”’ Burt continued, ‘“a Soviet aircraft fired warning shots and tracer shells along the flying route of the plane. Soon after this, the intruder plane left the limits of Soviet airspace and continued its flight toward the Sea of Japan . . . The US services followed the flight throughout its duration in the most attentive manner . . . a preplanned act . . . ”’ Burt gave a wry, lopsided smile. ‘Okay, this is new. TASS says: “It was obviously thought possible”—by the CIA, I assume this means—“to attain special intelligence aims without hindrance using civilian planes as cover.” They then go on to call the US response to this atrocity a “hullabaloo”. Can you believe that? A hullabaloo. It’s almost laughable.’
Burt lowered the paper. ‘Those bastards are going to lie and cheat and deny, deny, deny. At least we now know along what bullshit lines they’re going to fight this. But most importantly, we know the truth, people, we know the truth.’
Des Bilson sat in the gallery, looking down on the scene below.
The room that usually held the fifteen-member United Nations Security Council could not handle the number of representatives that wanted to have their say, so the extraordinary session dealing with the events off Sakhalin Island had been moved to the Economic and Social Council Hall. And now a capacity crowd awaited the initial United Nations reaction to the Soviet atrocity.
Bilson craved the horizontal comfort of his bed. Even in the air-conditioning, his skin felt oddly sensitive and was clammy with sweat, the only obvious outward symptom that his own body had turned on him. A team of doctors of various persuasions was convinced that he h
ad some kind of virus that was stopping his body’s ability to defend itself against disease. There were similar cases being reported around the country. Everyone was afraid. The doctors had given him a timeline that would come to an abrupt end in the not too distant future. While the doctors weren’t prepared to confirm why this virus had chosen to attack him, there’d been insinuations. Perhaps, after all these years, his secret was going to be aired.
Bilson listened intermittently, distracted by his own health issues, as the first speaker, the South Korean ambassador, Kim Kyung-won, angrily called for a full and detailed account of the downing of the airliner from the Soviet deputy delegate, Richard Ovinnikov. As expected, the Russian sat motionless, reacting to the demand with the alacrity of a granite block.
Next to speak was Canada’s delegate, Gerard Pelletier, who bluntly charged the Soviets with murder. Bilson noted that Ovinnikov, trying a different approach to what was going to be a difficult session, was now absorbed in the ritual of packing his pipe.
Australia’s delegate followed Pelletier, then Pakistan’s and Zaire’s, and a host of other nations. The language was unanimously anti-Soviet, and not a single delegate rose to speak in Moscow’s defense. Bilson took out a notebook and, with shaky handwriting, jotted down for his report to Clark some of the more potent words used to condemn the communists: ‘massacre’, ‘incomprehensible event’, ‘premeditated violence’, ‘an animal act’, ‘callous’.
He watched Ovinnikov lean back and regard the ceiling, the embers in the tobacco bowl between his thick thumb and forefinger glowing red as he puffed. Whether Ovinnikov reacted to the condemnation or not, it was all heading in the right direction, thought Bilson. The plan was working.
Charles Lichenstein, the deputy delegate of the United States, stood. The crowd held its breath. The heavyweight bout everyone had come to see was about to start. The undercard had finished and the main event had commenced.
The US delegate led with a flurry of body punches from the beginning. Gone was the usual equivocation of the diplomat. Lichenstein was going for the knockout.
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