Target, page 11
“There’s no need to be.”
“Probably not. But I can’t seem to help it.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” invited the blond man.
“I was about to ask you.”
“Let’s not argue about it,” said the other man. “You’re not in any hurry to leave, are you?”
“No,” said Bock. “No hurry at all.”
“Then you can buy me a drink later on.”
“I’d like that.”
“Why don’t we move to one of the booths, away from all these bright lights?”
Bock smiled, gratefully. It had really been so much easier than he had expected. Already it was difficult to believe that he had cried over Jurgen’s rejection. Too old, Jurgen had said. But he was not too old. His new friend was about the same age as Jurgen, but nicer — far nicer.
“Yes,” Bock accepted. “Let’s go to one of the booths.”
“Glad now that you came?” said the man, as they moved away from the bar.
“Very much,” said Bock.
“My name is Klaus,” said the new friend.
“I’m Otto,” said the computer chief.
It was typical of Petrov’s professionalism that having had his meeting with the CIA Director he went ahead with further proposals and did not wait for Peterson’s response. If Peterson agreed, then it meant that he, Petrov, was that much further ahead in any joint action they decided on; if Peterson refused, then he had not wasted any time.
There is nothing within the Soviet Union beyond the influence or attention of the KGB and during this period of leadership Dimitri Petrov had fully utilized the facility. Very early in his directorship, he had decided to use it to provide himself with a particular type of operative — people who would not normally have been considered suitable for intelligence work but whose technical ability fitted them for a specialized assignment which might be the only one in which they were ever involved. There were some within the Presidium, Litvinov foremost among them, who argued against wastefulness of manpower and accused him of empire building. The events in Chad and his decision, three years earlier, to take Gerda Lintz from Baikonur was a complete answer to any criticism about the system, and when the problem in Africa was resolved, Petrov thought he might argue it before an open meeting to prove his critics wrong. Then again, he might not. It might be interpreted as nervousness in the face of the opposition — bad psychology.
He pulled her file towards him, examining the photograph which was on top. The spectacles and the functional way she wore her hair — strained back into a bun at the nape of her neck — gave her a severe appearance which was misleading. With a different coiffure and clothes chosen for their style rather than for their practicality, Gerda Lintz would have been an attractive woman. The Director at Baikonur had described her as an excellent physicist, with an apparent knowledge and expertise extending far beyond what would have been expected in someone of thirty-five. After her transfer from Leipzig to Moscow University, she had always been among the top five in any class she attended and had graduated with honors. Petrov turned back to her biography, noting her birth at Falken-see and the fact that her move from Leipzig had not come until she was eighteen. Would the fluency of her German have suffered in the seventeen years she had spent in the Soviet Union? He would have to have her returned to East Berlin for assessment before attempting to infiltrate her into the Chad complex. Unbeknown to her, the woman had been under close observation for the preceding week and Petrov noted that there was no record of any sexual involvement, either male or female. He was glad. He was always frightened of personal interests conflicting with the complete attention necessary for any operation.
It would have been unthinkble to put her within the installation without providing some sort of exterior support, which means another deep penetration attempt. Petrov sighed, still not completely sure about the decision he had made. The three men who had already attempted to reach the site had been described by their jungle training instructor as the best graduates he had. And each had been caught. Which meant that there had to be somebody better. The only person who fitted that criterion was Oleg Sharakov, their instructor.
Petrov began reading the second dossier, frowning down at the uncompromising face of the commando school head. Petrov had never met Sharakov, but it was a familiar face. He had only been a boy at the time, but he could still remember all the other faces like it, in the final horrors of Stalingrad, when the veneer had cracked and the animalism had taken over. The survivors had been the first to accept the necessity of cannibalism, to stay alive. There had been two instances of recruits dying under Sharakov’s tuition, Petrov saw, and another had been crippled. Sharakov himself had fought as an advisor against the British in Aden and again in Angola and distinguished himself in both operations.
Sharakov was the only man, Petrov decided finally. He would allow him to select his own unit, once the operation had been fully explained to him. And he would delay, for a few days at least. Just in case there was the hoped for response from the Americans.
The decision made, Petrov pushed aside the files. That of Gerda Lintz fell open at the section containing her photograph and Petrov smiled, caught by a thought. It was in his power to have photographs of anyone in the Soviet Union, the world even. Yet he could not have the one picture he wanted, because to have possessed it would have been dangerous. He had actually resisted taking Irena’s defection folder from the records, in case Litvinov discovered a clerk’s listing of its withdrawal. There had been a photograph there, Petrov knew. Several. Why not? It would be a chance in a million of Litvinov ever learning about it.
11
Peterson knew the argument with Paul had been his fault. He had raged on the telephone accusingly without allowing the boy to speak of the second letter from Beth, but he had found it impossible to apologize. Even though the second note had been more coherent and the wish to return home made plainer, Paul should have waited until he got back from Europe and kept it from Lucille.
She had become so drunk and then so deeply unconscious when she realized that he hadn’t brought their daughter home with him that at one stage Peterson had even considered getting her to a hospital, frightened she was suffering from alcoholic poisoning. Hospitalization would have to come, Peterson realized: probably very soon. He supposed he could commit her, even if Lucille refused her consent. Somewhere as discreet as possible. Peterson sighed at the thought; no matter how discreet, the news would be around Washington within twenty-four hours, something more for Herbert Flood to use in his campaign. Peterson thought he might wait a little longer, to see if Lucille could control the drinking, as she boasted she could. Certainly on the few occasions that she’d tried, she had appeared able to manage it.
Peterson looked up at his deputy’s entry. There was a broad smile on Jones’ face, but it faltered at the sight of the Director.
“What is it?” asked Peterson.
“You all right?” said Jones.
“Of course. Why?”
“You don’t look well.”
“Tired,” said Peterson. “Still a bit jet-lagged. You seem pleased.”
“We got a break!” said Jones, triumphantly. “At last we got a break.”
“What?” demanded Peterson urgently.
“Trapped a courier in Zürich,” said the deputy. “It was a combined operation, involving our people in Libya and Switzerland. Managed completed access to what he was carrying.”
“And?”
“Libyan government authorization for the payment of $20,000,000 in gold to a numbered account of the Swiss Banking Corporation in Zurich.”
“Twenty million!” exclaimed Peterson.
“Libya is buying all the time available, for six months,” said Jones. “Effectively, it’s their satellite.” He offered the Director the folder. “Everything is there,” he said. “Arab originals, as well as the translations.”
“It’s worse than we thought,” judged Peterson.
“There’s something interesting,” said Jones.
“What?”
“It appears that BADRA wants a physical transfer of the money.”
Peterson frowned up. “Trucked, you mean? What’s wrong with a paper transfer?”
Jones shrugged. “No idea. That’s the only inference from the documents the Libyan was carrying.”
“Any knowledge of our access?”
“We don’t think so.”
“Wonderful,” said Peterson, sitting back expansively. It was the first breakthrough in a fortnight of frustration. “Send congratulation cables to Libya and Switzerland.”
“Already sent, in your name,” said Jones.
“This is the information we wanted,” said Peterson, positively, patting the papers before him.
“It would seem so,” said Jones.
“What about Levy?” said Peterson.
“Confirmed his appointment from the embassy this morning. He’s part of some Israeli government delegation, apparently.”
“For what?”
“Aid.”
“What about Vienna?”
“Brownlow has made contact, passing on our agreement to Petrov of full cooperation and suggesting the positive planning meeting you porposed. There should be a reply sometime today.”
“It will mean another trip to Europe,” said Peterson. He wondered who would care for Lucille. He would have to apologize to Paul.
“I prepared a file of people to send into Chad,” said Jones. “You asked me to, remember?”
“Of course,” said Peterson, too sharply. Why should Jones believe he might have forgotten?
The deputy stared across the desk, his face unmoving.
“I need to know exactly what you want.” The tone of his voice and the time it took him to speak, after Peterson’s reaction, showed Jones’ surprise at the rebuke.
“Several things,” said Peterson, anxious to cover the awkwardness between them. “Petrov thinks he can infiltrate somebody into the complex. So we’ll need expertise. And I want a computer run on any operative with qualifications involving rocketry or missiles or anything that would give him the cover of a scientist.…” scientist.…”
“Right,” said Jones, making a notation on the pad he carried.
“Witchcraft,” said Peterson, in sudden recollection.
“What?” said Jones.
“Williams’ report, on the day he disappeared,” recalled Peterson, sifting through the dossiers upon his desk until he came to the one that dealt with the third agent they had sent to penetrate the installation. He scanned through the closely typed sheets, finally stabbing his finger against the page.
“Here …” he said. “‘Tortoise-shell symbol, with poisoned barb,’” he read. “‘Tortoise-shell, painted red and white. Hyena image, with inverted feet.…’” The Director looked up at the other man. “Witchcraft,” he said again.
“I thought the Chadians were either Moslems or Christians,” said Jones.
“Doesn’t matter, in Africa,” said Peterson positively. “Beneath the top layer of whatever belief they’re supposed to have, there’s still the belief in witchcraft. And BADRA seems to be utilizing it.…”
He indicated the page upon which the symbols were listed. “That sort of stuff would keep any curious native away far more effectively than reinforced wire.”
“So?” asked Jones.
Peterson sat back in his chair, gazing over his deputy’s head and speaking more as the speculation came to him than in any formalized proposal.
“Efficient and self-contained as they obviously are,” he said, “there must be some need to use the local population, either for laboring work or for obtaining a limited supply of provisions. Might be useful, if we could arouse some opposition from among the people.”
“How?”
“A priest,” said Peterson. “A priest who could explain that mishaps were happening because of witchcraft … witchcraft stemming directly from the BADRA complex. And insure that the Africans know it!”
Jones nodded, smiling. “It’s a great idea,” he said.
“Worth a try,” said Peterson. “Find out for me if we’ve anyone who could properly employ the cover. Denomination needn’t matter, particularly.”
Jones made a further note. “Anything else?”
“We sent in three deep penetration people working solo, and lost them all,” said Peterson, reminiscing again. “And so did the Russians. So solo operations won’t work.”
“What then?”
“A unit,” decided Peterson. “The sort of platoons that the Green Berets established in Vietnam, able to remain undetected in the jungle until they were needed, living off the land, equipped and trained to carry out one punitive action, if the occasion arose.”
Jones regarded Peterson doubtfully. “They have to be damned good,” he said. “It wouldn’t be easy, staying undetected, no matter how much jungle training they got.” Peterson suddenly noticed the photograph of the blackened silo lying on his desk. He picked it up, holding it so Jones could see.
“If this is a guide, they won’t have to stay there long,” he said. “But I want them to be more than just damned good. I want them to be the best.”
“How many?”
“Decision really for the unit commander,” said Peterson. “Maybe ten. I don’t think it should be more.”
“I’ll choose the commander first then?”
“Yes,” said Peterson. “And remember: I want the best man available. After Vietnam, there should be enough to choose from.”
Jones smiled, pleased at last at the positive decisions coming from Peterson. He had been afraid, in the past few days, that there was some substance to Herbert Flood’s innuendo.
“Need we communicate to the Russians the sort of things we’re considering?” he asked.
Peterson pondered the question. “Let’s see if we’ve got the right people available first,” he said, cautiously. “If we’re working with them, then it’s really going to be joint. I want to match them, man for man, expert for expert. There’s no point in giving them an idea they may not have had and then finding that we haven’t got the properly qualified agent while they have.”
Again Jones smiled. Peterson was once more operating with his old efficiency.
“When will you go back to Vienna?” asked Jones.
“Depends upon Petrov’s reaction. As soon as possible, I would imagine.”
Peterson realized he would have to contact Paul sometime during the day: he wondered when he would have time.
“So you want the plane kept in readiness?”
Peterson nodded. “And the same number of people I took with me last time.”
“Still not absolutely sure about Petrov?”
“As sure as I’ll ever be,” said Peterson. “But I don’t intend taking any chances.…”
He hesitated, remembering his commitments throughout the day. “Summon a conference,” he said. “I shan’t be able to, so I want you to address them. Their sole function has got to be guarding my back. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Jones. “Sure you don’t want me along this time?”
“Flood would want to know what the two top men were doing away together,” said Peterson. “And I think you’re more valuable here, as liaison man.”
“Christ, we’re going to be exposed if this goes wrong,” said Jones, voicing the constant concern.
“Yes.” accepted Peterson.
The intercom on his deck buzzed and Peterson depressed the receiver. David Levy had just passed through the entry gate.
“We ran the traces you wanted,” said Jones, at the door.
Peterson looked up from the paperwork before him.
“Irena Sinyavsky has tried to bury herself in Hartford, Connecticut. She’s changed her name and runs a ballet school. Involved with a guy in real estate.”
“How involved?”
“Seems their friends expect them to get married. Nothing’s fixed.”
“Anything else?”
“Our people have found the commune in Arizona,” reported Jones. “Still no identification of Beth. It’s difficult, not being able to make any direct approach. They’re having to hang around Tonalea, trying to get into conversation with people they think might be making provision runs from the place.”
“How long do they think?”
Jones shrugged. “Impossible to say.”
“Thanks,” said Peterson.
Before the Mossad chief’s entry, Peterson reassembled the files in the order in which they had been arranged for him and put them into a side drawer, so that his desk was empty when Levy entered the room. Peterson stood to greet him, studying the Israeli. A comparatively short man himself, Peterson was conscious of stature. In most people Levy’s lack of height would have made him appear almost dwarf-like, but that was not the impression the Jewish intelligence chief conveyed.
The man’s bulk compensated, Peterson supposed, but that wasn’t the only thing that covered the disadvantage of his size. One gained an immediate awareness of the man’s personality, so forceful that it made him appear taller than he actually was.
“Good to see you again, David,” greeted Peterson, moving across the room with his hand outstretched. Levy appeared to consider the offer, then responded. Peterson led him away from the desk, towards an area of the office where easy chairs and a couch were arranged for informal discussions.
“Is it good to see me?” demanded Levy.
Peterson allowed the curiosity to show on his face. “don’t understand.”
“There are many things I don’t understand,” said Levy awkwardly.
Peterson put himself in the chair facing the Israeli and let the smile leave his face.
“So we’re not going to waste time with any forced politeness?” he said.
“I think we’re too adult for that,” said Levy.
“Well?” demanded Peterson, curtly, matching the other man’s demeanor.
“Almost a month ago, I gave you information from which it became obvious that a very real threat existed in Africa,” reminded the Israeli. “And now there’s every reason to believe that the threat could be centered around my country.”
