Dr. Abdoul Kirwani, ambassador of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to
the United States of America, sat rigidly facing the small desk in the
Oval Office. When the call requesting a meeting had come from Johan
Hansen's chief of staff the previous evening, he had hastily sent a
secure telex to Islamabad to inquire if he needed any updating.
He did. And it was a disaster.
"It's past due time we met personally, Mr. Ambassador," President Johan
Hansen was saying. "I regret that the press of affairs over the last
month forced me to postpone receiving you sooner. State tells me your
credentials are impeccable and you're doing a first-class job of
getting up to speed."
Abdoul Kirwani nodded his thanks, modestly but with ill- concealed
pride. He was a tall, elegant man with a trim mustache and deep,
inquisitive eyes. Some said he could have been a double for Omar
Sharif. A deeply guarded secret was that he cared more about the ragas
of Indian classical music than he did about diplomacy. He had made no
secret, however, of his admiration for Johan Hansen. The American
President's refocus of the superpower's priorities was a refreshing
breath of rationality and sanity in an irrational, insane world.
All of which made this particular meeting even more distressing.
"Thank you, Mr. President. My government wishes me to express its
appreciation for the excellent cooperation we have received and the
traditional American hospitality my family and I have enjoyed since we
arrived. Shireen, I must say, loves this country as much as I do. She
studied at Smith many years ago, and is especially fond of New
England." He smiled. "We Pakistanis always yearn for places with a cool
climate."
"Then perhaps someday you'll accord me the honor of letting Christin
and me show you my new presidential hideaway in the Berkshires." Hansen
smiled back, chafing to cut the diplomatic bullshit. "Perhaps sometime
this autumn. We think it's one of the most beautiful spots on earth."
"We would be most honored." He nodded again, reading the President's
mind-state perfectly.
"Now." Hansen could contain himself no longer. "I want you to
understand, Mr. Ambassador, that what I am about to say is not directed
toward you personally. My staff tells me you have been a private
advocate, for some years now, of reducing and even eliminating nuclear
weapons worldwide. That, as you know, is my desire as well. So you and
I see eye to eye. Unfortunately, however, we live in a world where
realities still assume precedence over noble ambitions."
"I agree with you, Mr. President, sadly but wholeheartedly." The
Pakistani ambassador nodded lightly, dreading what he knew was about to
come. So the U.S. already knows, he realized. This disaster is going to
turn out even worse than I'd feared.
"The topic of nuclear proliferation brings us, I am afraid, to the
subject at hand. You will forgive me if we set aside our views on the
scenic American countryside for another day. Time, unfortunately, is
short. I think you will understand why when you hear what I have to
say." Hansen leaned back in his heavy chair, hoping he had given the
right signals. He had been entirely sincere when he said he liked
Kirwani and did not relish the task immediately at hand. "Mr.
Ambassador, you will not be surprised to learn that this country is
well aware of the gross violations of the nuclear nonproliferation
treaty that have taken place since Pakistan refused to sign in 1968.
The entire world knows about your uranium hexafluoride plant at Dera
Ghazi Khan, and the Kahuta facility where it is enriched using German
centrifuges. We also know what that enriched uranium"--he glanced down
at his notes--"in the ninety-five percent range, is being used for.
However, we have not been able to dissuade your government from the
course it has taken." He paused. "Quite frankly, there's not a hell of
a lot we could do about it without having to make some very
undiplomatic accusations against our staunchest ally on the Asian
subcontinent."
Kirwani turned slightly pale. Although he worried about India's growing
nuclear capacities as much as the next Pakistani, he still did not
particularly like the idea of his country having its own secret nuclear
program, developed in part to counter India's. The world needed more
dialogue, he believed, not more destruction.
However, he wasn't being paid to defend his personal views. "Mr.
President, I'm not authorized to discuss the strategic security
arrangements of my country, as I am sure you can appreciate."
"Yes," Hansen said, "I can appreciate a hell of a lot, Mr. Ambassador.
For instance, I can appreciate the multi-billions in military and
economic assistance we've lavished on Pakistan over the years. There
are those in this administration who think that gives us the right to a
hearing. You know, back when Ronald Reagan was President, his
administration argued that we could slow down Pakistan's nuclear
program by giving you every other possible kind of military aid. So we
poured in everything you asked. However, all that aid seems not to have
slowed your government's nuclear efforts for so much as a minute.
"In fact," Hansen went on, the memory still making him seethe, "what
you did was turn to China for the data you needed to manufacture
nuclear weapons without testing. That was the thanks we got. Then--"
"An unproven accusation, Mr. President," Kirwani interjected lamely.
"Yes, China denied it, too, but the Reagan administration took it
seriously enough that they halted formal approval of a trade pact with
China for almost a year in retaliation. We had hard evidence, believe
me. And then--"
"Mr. President, we are not, I'm sure, here to give each other history
lectures. Certainly neither of us has forgotten that during those years
there were 120,000 Soviet troops in Afghanistan, just over our border.
We had legitimate security concerns that could not always--I am speaking
hypothetically, of course--be addressed with a strictly conventional
deterrent." Kirwani tried to smile. "You do understand, of course, that
this conversation is entirely hypothetical."
"Of course, so let's travel a little farther into never-never land.
What we do know is that the Soviet threat in Afghanistan is now a thing
of the past; world conditions have changed dramatically; and there are
those in Congress who may choose to wonder why Pakistan still has any
justification to stockpile--hypothetically, of course--these
'unconventional' weapons. American aid is not written in stone. Now, is
that diplomatic enough for you, Mr. Ambassador?"
"We are allies, Mr. President," Kirwani replied calmly, "and allies
work in concert toward mutual goals, each bringing to their alliance
whatever contribution can further the ends of both. I do hope your
government believes it has received as much as it has contributed over
the years."
Hansen tried not to smile. We never "receive" as much as we
"contribute," he was thinking. But then that's how the damned game is
played.
"In the interest of diplomacy, Mr. Ambassador, I suggest we move this
'theoretical' discussion along. We have reason to believe that a
certain number of 'unconventional' weapons may now be in hands neither
of us would wish. The question is, how many weapons are involved and
what is their yield?"
Ambassador Kirwani had been expecting the inquiry. It was like waiting
for the other shoe to drop. The government in Islamabad was beside
itself, appalled that controls had been so lax and that now the world
was going to know exactly the extent of Pakistan's nuclear program.
Before this ghastly situation was resolved, years of secrecy were going
to be blown away. Yet in truth part of him was half-relieved that the
cat was out of the bag, finally. For either India or Pakistan to loose
nuclear weapons on the Asian subcontinent would be to unleash the wrath
of Allah upon billions of innocents. It was truly unthinkable.
"You do understand, Mr. President, that before this conversation
continues we must both agree that it never took place. Furthermore,
even if it should take place, it would be purely hypothetical."
After Hansen nodded grimly, Kirwani continued. "We both know the
Israelis have had uranium bombs, not to mention hydrogen bombs, for
many years and yet they have never
admitted it publicly. By maintaining a diplomatic fiction they have
kept their Arab neighbors quiet on the subject. They are never called
to account. The government of Pakistan merely asks to be accorded the
same latitude to conduct our security arrangements as we best see fit.
The Israelis know it is not in their interest to rattle nuclear sabers,
and we know that as well." He edged forward in his chair. "That is,
assuming we possessed such sabers, which I in no way acknowledge."
"I think we're beginning to understand each other." Hansen nodded. "So
perhaps that counts as progress. Of course this conversation never took
place, and lest you're wondering, I don't have the Oval Office bugged,
the way that idiot Nixon did. I believe terms like 'confidentiality'
and 'off the record' still have meaning."
Kirwani found himself yearning for a cigarette, though he knew smoking
was forbidden here in this presidential sanctuary.
"Very well, then, speaking hypothetically and confidentially, I am
authorized to inform your government that we have reason to believe
that there may be two uranium bombs, in the fifteen-kiloton-yield
range, that may be . . . in the wrong hands somewhere in the world.
Needless to say, my government is extremely concerned about this and is
currently taking steps to establish a full . . . accounting of the
situation." Kirwani realized it sounded lame. But his government had
authorized him to deliver those words only.
"God help us," Hansen sighed. It's true. Or maybe just a coincidence.
"When were these hypothetical weapons found to be missing?"
"If such a thing were to be true," Kirwani continued, ever cautious;
"it might well have been just over a week ago." A final pause. "And we
have no idea where they are."