“Mr. President, I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but I need to talk to you again,” I said. “We both heard what Schultz, McFarlane and Reagan said. But they don’t have any idea what’s going on with the coats. None of us focused on this until now, but it could become a major thing when you step outside for the first greeting.”

Reagan dismissed my concern.

“Well, don’t worry about it, Jim,” he said. “I’m fine, and we’re ready to go.”

“Mr. President, this is the last thing I’m going to say.”

The president, who rarely got angry, was getting irritated.

“What is it now?” he said. “It’s not the coat again, is it?”

“Yes, sir. But let me ask you one final question,” I said.

“What?” Now the president was definitely irritated.

“Suppose I’m right about the coat,” I said. “And Mr. Gorbachev gets out of the car with just his business suit on, looking strong and ready to go. And you’re all covered up the way you are as if you can’t be outside for a few minutes without this heavy wrap on. If that’s the case, then who’s going to look stupid before the whole world? You or Gorbachev?”

The president gave in.

“All right, dammit, Jim,” he said. “Have it your way.” And he ripped off the scarf, pulled off his coat and tossed it into my arms.

“There, is that what you want?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. ” Now, you’re ready to go.”

Gorbachev wore a dark overcoat. A scarf was tightly wrapped around his neck.

At the top of the stairs, they stopped and turned for photographers. And that was the photo that ran on the front page of every newspaper and newsmagazine, and in every news telecast. Ronald Reagan, dressed in his finely tailored blue suit, towering over the stocky Gorbachev, who looked like something out of central casting-a stodgy Russian who has just arrived from snowy Moscow.

We had ended up rolling the Soviets big-time. Without intending to, we had hit them hard. We got off to a great start.