The Lie (23 page)

Klaus glanced at his grandfather and found his good eye staring back at him.

The old man shrugged.

A short while later, the German foreign secretary chairing the session picked up a signal from Chancellor Eisner and abruptly
ended the parliamentary discussion.

The room buzzed with expectation. Then it went silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman, speaking German, “I have the singular privilege and pleasure of presenting
the president of the United States, Mr. James Dunster, one of the prime initiators of this first Wannsee Conference on Human
Rights.”

The applause was instant, enthusiastic, and grew into a standing ovation.

Jimmy Dunster rose slowly from his seat. He looked at his wife, who was standing and applauding along with everyone else in
the huge chamber. He saw that her eyes were streaming, and he felt his own eyes mist over.

Thou moveth me
.

Jimmy Dunster walked toward the podium and lectern that had been set up for the German chancellor’s opening remarks.

When he reached the podium he just stood there, letting the sound of applause pour over and into him.

He spread his carefully prepared speech on the lectern, but he suddenly had no interest in it. With his eyes blurring again,
he doubted whether he could see well enough to read it anyway. He knew the cameras were picking up his tears and carrying
them to uncounted viewers everywhere, and he was ashamed of the satisfaction he felt at such knowledge.

What’s wrong with me? Why should I have such needs?

The world swam and his knees shook under him. Every breath he took felt like a blade making a cut, and he went through his
recurrent nightmare of suffering a public angina attack. Then it passed and the room slowly became quiet, until only the soft
whirring of the cameras and camcorders was left.

No platitudes
, he told himself.
If that’s all you’ve got, go home right now
.

He began slowly, softly building the force to cry out against the continuing slaughter of millions simply because of their
race, religion, or nationality.

He invoked images of the mutilated and the dead in all their frightful numbers, showed their bones lying in unmarked graves,
and the black holes where their eyes had been.

Gazing out over his audience, he had the sense he was actually seeing one of the corpses sitting right there in the
room: the mutilated face and body of a white-haired old man stared back at him.

God save me, he’s really out there
.

The old man was backlit by a high, arched Palladian-style window, his mane of white hair luminous in a stream of sunlight.

Jimmy Dunster looked deep into the old man’s eye, noting the grievous events recorded there.

“Sir?” he said. “Am I right in assuming you’re a war veteran?”

The words hung in silence.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the old man replied in English.

They might have been alone together. The media, taken totally by surprise, were busy shifting their attention and cameras
from one man to the other.

“Would you do me the honor, sir,” said Jimmy Dunster, “of joining me here on the podium?”

The old man sat unmoving, his head turned just enough to let him focus on the president. He seemed to be weighing the situation.

“The honor would be mine, Mr. President.”

Major Schadt spoke his single line grandly, with a kind of old-fashioned courtliness.

He took a long and apparently difficult time getting out of his chair. With Klaus helping to support him, the two men deliberately
made their way across the floor toward where the president stood waiting.

Every camera in the conference room was focused on them now, and Dunster could hear the old man’s labored breathing.

Sweat quivered on Jimmy Dunster’s forehead.

Here I am, manipulating and using him
.

The two men stepped onto the podium and the president of the United States had more critical things to worry about.

It all happened so quickly that Jimmy Dunster did not have time to be afraid. One moment he was standing in the glare of media
floodlights, facing a bunch of cameras and a room full of people. The next moment he had a 9-millimeter automatic pressed
so tightly against his throat that it lifted his
chin, while a second piece was jammed at his right temple. Klaus held one weapon. His grandfather held the other.

“Nobody move or draw a gun or the president is dead.”

Klaus Logefeld’s voice was sharp and hard. The words were in English.

“We intend President Dunster no harm,” he said. “But even if we both die, he dies with us. So I beg all security, please,
don’t do anything foolish.”

No one moved.

Poor Maggie, Jimmy Dunster thought, and silently prayed that whatever happened, she wasn’t going to have to see his head blown
apart.

“Chancellor Eisner,” said Klaus Logefeld. “I want to hear you give the orders that will keep President Dunster alive.”

“Who are you two and what do you want?” asked the German chancellor.

“I’m Professor Alfred Mainz of Rome University. And this is my grandfather, Major Helmut Schadt, formerly of the Wehrmacht.
As for what we want, that comes later. For now, just do as I say. These first few minutes are on a hair trigger. I don’t want
any idiot would-be heroes spattering blood.”

“Major Dechen?” said Eisner.

“Yes, Mr. Chancellor.”

“Talk to your people.”

Klaus saw the security chief’s face. He saw the faces of the armed guards scattered about the room, and the faces of others
whom he knew to be carrying weapons. If any one of them decided to make a move, it could all go to pieces right here. The
urge was so strong they were shaking with it.

“You all heard Chancellor Eisner,” said the major in German. “Nobody makes a move without orders from me.”

Jimmy Dunster felt the nervous pressure of the automatics ease slightly and he was able to see his wife. Maggie sat white-faced,
one hand pressed to her mouth.

“Very good, Major,” said Klaus. “Now let’s just take it one small step at a time. How many men do you have monitoring your
surveillance room?”

“Two.”

“And they’re seeing and hearing everything going on in here?”

“Yes.”

“What are they carrying?”

“Semiautomatic pistols.”

“What we want now, Major, is for you to order your two men in the surveillance room to leave their weapons on the floor and
join us out here.”

Dechen glanced up at the lens of a closed-circuit television camera set in the ceiling. “Did you men hear that?”

“Yes, sir.” The answer came in an uneven duet from a hidden speaker.

“Then do it,” said the security chief.

Moments later the two guards entered the conference room and joined Major Dechen where he stood.

“How many men do you have stationed in the entrance lobby and main corridor?” Klaus asked Dechen.

“Three.”

“With sidearms?”

“Yes.”

“Please go out and bring them in here without their weapons.”

Dechen left the room and returned almost immediately with the three disarmed guards.

“Here’s what happens next,” said Klaus. “We’re going to very gently walk President Dunster out of here and into the surveillance
room. Then with the door closed behind us, and everyone more relaxed, we’re going to explain what this is all about.”

There was a slight stirring in the room but no one spoke.

Then Maggie Dunster rose. “Please, Professor,” she said.

Heads and cameras turned.

“Oh, Christ,” Dunster whispered.

Klaus looked at her. “What is it, Mrs. Dunster?”

“You have to take me with my husband.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, madam.”

“Professor Mainz, this is very important. And I’m determined.
Take my word for it. You wouldn’t want me to make a bad scene over this, would you?”

Klaus’s eyes were flat. “You would do that?”

“As God is my witness.”

“And risk your husband’s life?”

“My feeling is that his life would be at much greater risk if I weren’t with him.”

Dunster’s neck was stretched so taut it twitched. He tried to speak but couldn’t.

Klaus Logefeld stood very still, understanding that this bizarre little scene had to end at once or threaten everything.

“All right,” he said. “When we get started, just walk slowly in front of us.”

They finally moved, the four of them bunched together, with Maggie Dunster in the lead, Klaus and the president following
close behind, and the old man as rear guard.

The two automatics were still pressed to Jimmy Dunster’s neck and temple, but he was hardly aware of them. He was most conscious
at that moment of the particular way his wife held her head, keeping it sightly tilted to one side. Like a lily on a stalk,
he thought. The strength of her love warmed his heart.

Walking, he tried to keep his breathing easy, quiet.

He took as much air into his lungs as they would hold and slowly released it as the four left the conference hall, crossed
the marble-floored lobby and corridor, and entered the surveillance room immediately beyond.

Then all he heard was the small, final sounds of the old man closing and locking the door behind them.

P
AULIE
W
ALTERS STOOD BETWEEN TWO WINDOWS
in the main conference room, sweating beneath his Kevlar body armor. He had taken no bullets intended for the president.
He had simply watched Jimmy Dunster and his wife being walked out of the room at gunpoint. As had everyone else present. To
have attempted anything more would have been disastrous. This way, the president and the First Lady were at least alive.

But I should have known
.

How? By a signal from God?

I knew Klaus Logefeld. I should have acted on that alone
.

And done what? Shot him in advance?

Why not?

You know why not
.

Of course
, he thought tiredly.
Kate
.

Such were Paulie’s reflections, with the silence so total about him that he could all but hear his own interior dialogue.

Then a door was opened and closed a short distance down the corridor.

They were there.

A moment later, Major Dechen broke the silence.

“Everyone please stay as you are,” he said. “When they start talking, I’ll handle it. There’s to be no random calling out
of questions or comments. That’s an order. Anyone who disobeys it will be ejected.”

A few throats were cleared and someone reacted with a dry, hacking cough. That was all.

Paulie rode the swells of his own dread and looked around. The media representatives fussed with their cameras and tape recorders.
Uniformed and plainclothes security avoided checking their weapons. Chancellor Eisner, ranking diplomats, and delegates sat
sober-faced and brooding. The more devout among them moved their lips in silent prayer. Others crossed themselves.

The silence was broken as Klaus Logefeld’s voice came through the public address system.

“This is Professor Alfred Mainz speaking,” he said in English. “Am I being picked up out there, Major Dechen?”

“We hear you, Professor. Now we would like to hear exactly what you and your grandfather want.”

“We want only what everyone else here allegedly wants. An immediate end to the killing in central and western Africa and a
human rights treaty with enough muscle to make it work.”

“And you and your grandfather will determine the agreement’s acceptability?”

“Now you’re with us, Major.”

“And your deadline for signing?”

“Exactly seventy-two hours from midnight tonight.”

“That’s very little time,” said Major Dechen.

“Not if people are serious about getting it done.”

“And if your deadline is not met?”

Klaus worked the silence until it ran out of air.

“Then President Dunster will be shot.”

A sigh passed through the room.

“And the president’s wife?” said Major Dechen.

“We’re not holding Mrs. Dunster. She’s with us only because she insisted. She’s free to go right this minute.”

“Let’s suppose you do get your treaty within three days,” Dechen said. “What’s to keep it from being scrapped as soon as President
Dunster is out of your hands?”

“We’ve already taken certain steps as a safeguard. But we’ll discuss all that later.”

There was another long pause.

“Please understand, Major,” said Klaus. “My grandfather and I take no joy in being branded villains. We’re asking nothing
for ourselves. We’ll either be dead, in prison, or hunted fugitives when these next three days are over. All we’re asking
is a long overdue end to the hate-driven killing that’s been turning so many of us into fratricidal butchers.”

“But isn’t that just what every delegate in this room is asking?” said Major Dechen. “You said it yourself, Professor. So
why not give them the chance to do it?”

“We are, sir. We’re giving them seventy-two hours.” Klaus breathed deeply. “Forgive my cynicism, Major. But we’ve all seen
these pathetic conferences before. They accuse, argue, make endless speeches—and do absolutely nothing. So my grandfather
and I are betting that a couple of guns at the head of the most important leader in the world today will do more. In fact,
sir, we’re betting the president’s and our own lives on it.”

M
AJOR
D
ECHEN CLOSED THE DOOR
and locked it behind the four men he had summoned to his office.

It was 2:45
P.M.
and Professor Mainz had just declared a break for what he described as “quiet thought and regrouping.” With Dechen were Chancellor
Eisner, Secretary of State Green, CIA Director Cortlandt, and Paul Walters, known to everyone there but Cortlandt as John
Hendricks.

“Vice President Fleming is on the line from the White House,” said the chief of security. “He’s been trying to get through
since the news broke. I’m making it an open conference call.”