Читать книгу Ultimatum 2 - Richard Rohmer - Страница 12

The flight across the Atlantic was routine. The Gulfstream was out of Andrews Air Force Base at 8:05 a.m. and arrived in early evening at Biggin Hill, the small but famous wartime Battle of Britain airport just a short distance southeast of London’s west end. Ambassador Rob Ross’s pilot had discovered this gem of an airfield on a recent trip to the U.K. when she couldn’t get her passenger, the Secretary of Defense, into Heathrow, Gatwick, or Stanstead because of a combination of heavy traffic and bad weather.

A waiting Embassy limousine took the newly appointed ambassador and his executive assistant straight to the Stafford, where Terry Moore, the managing director, was waiting to receive them at the front door on the quiet St. James Place, a cul-de-sac just south of the Ritz on Piccadilly.

The only space that Moore had been able to open up was a small suite on the third floor with a king-size bed. Which was highly acceptable to Rob Ross and his aide, Sue Long, who was indeed long — six feet without shoes, almost reaching the height of her boss.

After a quick welcoming glass of champagne with Moore in the Stafford’s American Bar, Rob and his assistant went straight to their third-floor suite, ordered up dinner, tried out the bed, ate dinner, and were back in the bed again just before midnight.

The appointment with the Prime Minister was set for 10:15 the next morning. If nothing else, Ross was prompt. He was out of his taxi at the world-famous door of 10 Downing Street at 10:13 and in the Prime Minister’s office exactly on time. He had met the PM some months before when the British leader was in Washington for a meeting with the President in which the issue of the availability of North Sea oil for the U.S. market was on the agenda. Ross attended that meeting in the cabinet room as the President’s energy advisor and was invited with other staffers to an informal luncheon with the PM and the President. What a tower of strength the British PM had been in the war on terrorism, the hunt for bin Laden and the resolution of the Afghan conflict, and the assault on Iraq and its bloody “democratization.” America had no better ally than Britain.

After warm words of greeting, the PM — perhaps just a bit older than Ross, an aggressive talker, exuding energy, outgoing personality, bushy-haired, big smiling teeth — asked to be fully briefed on the American approach to Russia’s nuclear waste. Ross had been given permission to disclose the general purpose of his trip to Russia, which was nuclear waste inspection and a possible new international nuclear waste disposal initiative that could well be of service to the U.K. and European nations. Nothing more.

The briefing was just that, brief and to the point, with the PM shooting questions at him from time to time.

“That’s it, Prime Minister. That’s where we’re going with our new approach to nuclear waste with the Russians. Your approval in principle is necessary because the President is most anxious to have your support, just as he had your immediate and total support after September eleventh and, most importantly, in Iraq.”

“He stood by me during those July 2005 bomb attacks on London. Yes. Of course. Of course he has my support. We’re a relatively minor player in the nuclear league, be it weapons or waste, but I think his initiative is splendid. Cleaning up the Russian mess is an absolute must.

“Where do you think your project would take place? What country has all the physical, geological requirements and would be considered trustworthy by the Russians?”

“Try Australia or Norway, Prime Minister. Maybe Canada.”

“And it will be the President who decides. Right?”

“Exactly. But I expect after he has consulted with you.”

“So what you’re telling me, Dr. Ross, is that if I want to have input at this early stage then I should deal directly with the President.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if I want to see Canada involved in some way in the nuclear waste solution, again I should raise it with the President, right?”

“But Canada’s not very high on the President’s ‘like’ list.”

“Because of Canada’s refusal to be part of the Iraq war coalition?”

“Exactly. The Canadians have a left-wing government that has played footsie with Cuba ever since the arrival of Castro. Now they’re refusing to back the President’s missile defence system. The problem is NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defence Command. The Canadians have been nominal but almost full partners in NORAD since its inception — in the fifties, I think.”

The PM nodded. “Correct.”

“The second in command at NORAD is always a Canadian Air Force lieutenant general, and Canadian officers hold responsible positions throughout NORAD. The new MDS would be under NORAD’s control. It follows that if the Canadians don’t support our new limited MDS then the old protocols and agreements will likely be scrapped and Canada will be out of NORAD.”

“That’s rather serious, isn’t it? I can see why the administration would be annoyed, particularly over Iraq. I must confess I was very unhappy when Chrétien, then prime minister, said he wouldn’t send troops.”

Ross went on. “There are other things, other issues in the trade and commerce fields, in publishing and culture. The Canadians are always trying to invent new taxes and penalties to protect their so-called culture, whatever that is, and basically there’s always a lot of arguing going on about wheat imports, pigs, lumber, that sort of thing. And, of course, the Canadians have cut their military spending to the point where their force is pathetic. So who are they relying on for defence for free? Uncle Sam.”

“So the Canadians aren’t popular in the White House. That’s what you’re telling me. But surely the new prime minister’s changing that.”

“He’s making a real effort, but my reading is that to bring Canada into our nuclear waste planning right now would be to invite an anti-American reaction from them that would destroy any possibility of success. That’s the danger. So the President wants the planning to be top secret and he wants all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed before he goes public.”

The PM was not convinced. “I’ll speak to your President. I think the Canadians should be given an opportunity to be part of your scheme right now. If they say no then he can keep them out of the picture, out of the planning. Yes, I’ll call him.” Britain’s intelligent, pragmatic leader was emphatic. “I will indeed. Well, old chap, you’ve painted a rather clear picture, one that I hadn’t seen before. Most valuable. You can count on me.”

Ross responded, “I’m pleased that’s your decision and I’m sure the President will be as well.”

The Prime Minister stood up, giving Ross a toothy smile. “Well there you are, Mr. Ambassador. I’m delighted to be brought into the net. And I hope to hear from you often. There will be many decisions for which you or the President will want my input. My door, my phone, my fax, and not-secure email and I are always available.” He escorted Rob Ross to the door. Shaking his hand, he said, “Have a successful and safe trip. Watch those Russian buggers. And next time stay longer and bring your golf clubs. We’ll do eighteen at Stoke Poges, James Bond’s favourite course, where he aced Goldfinger.”

Back at the Stafford, Ross went to the American Bar, asked the head waiter, Pierre, to call Sue to tell her he was there and to ask her to join him, please. He would have the best white wine, her noon favourite, waiting.

When Sue arrived the usual luncheon crowd of English and American men, in for their two-hour drink-eat sessions, swivelled their heads in near unison to watch this brunette beauty glide past them, her long legs perfectly shaped as they disappeared beneath her brief miniskirt. “Lucky sod,” one observer was heard to say as she nestled in beside Rob in the comfortable, cushioned far corner.

Over two glasses of white wine from Montrichard, Rob’s special town in the Cher River area of France, he gave her a muted — so as not to be overheard — full report on his meeting with the Prime Minister. “He’s really quite a guy,” he admitted. “Bright as hell. Very perceptive.”

“Which means you and he got along very well and you persuaded him to do something you wanted him to do.”

“You’ve got it, sweetheart. And after I have a dozen oysters and another glass of wine there’s something I’d like to persuade you to do.”

She sat back, her foot suggestively touching his leg. “Dare I hope, dare I wish, that this something you want can’t happen in this bar?”

“Again you’ve got it. It can only be on the third floor in an appropriate horizontal conference position.”

“Where I can take dictation?”

“No. Where you can receive it ... and thank God my meeting with old what’s-his-name isn’t until four.”

“Wonderful. We can conference upstairs probably twice — if you and the oysters are up to it!”