Target, page 13
“Doesn’t make any of this easier for you.”
“No.”
“I want you to know you have my full and complete confidence,” said Fowler, with his politician’s sincerity.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Peterson. Until it became politics for the man to adopt another stance, he thought. The President’s attitude had forced him into the risk in the first place.
“Tell your deputy I want daily liaison.”
“I will.”
“Who’s going to be in overall control?”
“Sir?” queried Peterson.
“Of the operation in Africa,” elaborated Fowler. “You? Or the Russian?”
“We haven’t got to that stage yet,” said Peterson.
“I don’t want an American contingent under any Soviet command,” said Fowler.
“No,” accepted Peterson.
“I’m insistent on this,” said the President.
“We’re matching them, operative for operative. The command decisions will be joint, too.”
“How long will you be away this time?”
“I’m unsure,” said Peterson.
“I’ll help all I can,” said Fowler. “Without getting into any actual involvement.”
“I appreciate it,” said Peterson.
“Try not to become distracted by the gossip.”
“I’ll try,” said Peterson. Just as he would try not to become distracted at the thought of a wife drinking herself into insanity or a daughter becoming some sort of religious groupie.
“My full confidence, remember.”
“I’ll remember.”
Peterson was at Langley earlier than he had expected, but Jones was already there.
“We’ve got a man who trained to be a priest, one of the highest decorated officers to come out of Vietnam, and a scientist who’s worked at Cape Canaveral as well as the Houston Space Center,” reported the deputy, offering the dossiers.
“Sounds impressive.” Jones was proud of his selection, Peterson realized.
“I think it is. Will you brief them?”
Peterson considered the question, calculating the time it would take. If he couldn’t raise Paul by telephone, he would have to go either to his apartment or his office.
“No,” he said. “I’ll leave it to you.”
The surprise on the deputy’s face was only momentary.
“What did the President say?” asked Jones.
“I had his full support and he’d try to counteract Flood’s rumors.”
“Bullshit,” judged Jones.
“Convincingly said though.”
Jones indicated the files on the operatives. “Shall I tell them it’s a joint operation with the Soviet Union?”
“Only the soldier,” decided Peterson. “He’ll have to know, because he’s got to select a unit that will be most affected by what’s going to happen. The others can wait, until I’m ready.”
Jones picked up one of the folders. “The man who nearly became a priest is called Henry Blakey,” he said, reading from it. “I wonder if he’ll have any religious objection to impersonation.”
“Override it, if he has,” ordered Peterson. “I don’t care how you do it, but bring him into line if he gets awkward.”
“Nothing fresh from Arizona,” said Jones.
“It’s taking a long time.”
“She should have left.”
Paul had said the second letter had been posted four days before, remembered Peterson. “I don’t think so.”
“Lunching?”
Peterson shook his head. “One or two personal things to settle before the plane,” he said. “I’ll be at Andrews by three. Get me either there or in the car.”
Again there was some indeterminate reaction from Jones. “What’s wrong?” challenged Peterson.
“Wrong?”
“You seem surprised.”
“Nothing. Really,” assured Jones.
Peterson had told his driver to remain at the main entrance. A fine, persistent rain had started, shrouding the countryside in greyness. Peterson shrugged his coat around him, hurrying into the car. Jones had every reason for surprise that he was not personally briefing the people they intended moving into Africa, he reflected as the vehicle moved off. There would be subsequent meetings with all of them, at which the final instructions would be given, but he should have conducted the initial interviews. Personal control, the President had said. Not said — ordered. For the first time he was ignoring an instruction. It seemed he was doing many things for the first time.
Peterson knuckled his eyes, confronting the fact; he had put his family before his commitment to the Agency. To what purpose? Was it possible, really possible, to help Lucille? Or rebuild bridges with Paul? Or recover Beth, from whatever Godforsaken existence into which she had plunged herself? Perhaps Herbert Flood was right. Perhaps he had lost his grip. How Flood would use what he was doing today, just hours before flying off on probably the most important operation to affect America for a decade!
Peterson had never been to his son’s office and was bewildered by it. He was used to lawyers working in corporate partnerships with secretary-thronged suites behind glass-fronted, marbled entrances. To reach Paul’s room in the clapboard building near the Greyhound bus depot, he had to pass along an uncarpeted corridor from which each door offered a different business: pest control and office cleaning to the left, abortion advice and small stockholder investment advice to the right. There was a sour smell of uncleared garbage, cooking and urine.
Paul occupied what had originally been one room but was now divided into two by a reeded glass partition. Along the wall of the outside section, filing cabinets stood with their drawers half-open. Facing it was a file table and some half-empty library shelves; some back numbers of Rolling Stone appeared to occupy one space. There was an unsteady, plywood desk in the center of the room, holding an old, upright typewriter, a defiant daffodil in a coffee jar and a wire basket no longer able to contain all the papers, which leaked over the edge and onto the table. The girl behind the typewriter was bubble-haired, wore steel-framed spectacles, no make-up and was shapeless beneath layers of jumble-sale clothing.
“Hi,” she said brightly.
Beyond the secretary, Peterson saw Paul talking into the telephone. His son watched him enter, without expression.
“Can I help?” said the girl.
Peterson came back to her. “I’d like to see my son,” he said politely.
The girl looked from Peterson to Paul and then back to Peterson again.
“Oh,” she said. She seemed embarrassed by Peterson’s presence, reaching out to restore the spilled papers into the wire tray. “Didn’t expect you,” she said.
“No.”
She was about to speak again when Paul replaced the telephone. He remained behind his desk, making no effort to get up to greet his father.
“Have you an appointment?” he called through the half-open door into the second half of the room.
Peterson walked across to it, unwilling to shout over the girl’s head.
“I apologized,” he said at the door.
“It was very moving.”
“I meant it.”
“Sure,” said Paul, with his usual disbelief.
“I’m going away,” said Peterson.
“But not to Arizona.”
“No, not to Arizona,” said Peterson. “But I’ve had the commune there located. As soon as I’m positive Beth is there, I’ll go to get her.”
Paul gazed steadily at him for several moments. “Yourself?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Christ, I wish I could believe you.”
“I’ll get her,” repeated Peterson. “I give you my word.”
“You have before,” reminded Paul. “Something more important nearly always comes up.”
“This time it won’t.” Was that an undertaking he could keep, Peterson asked himself, worriedly.
“You could have telephoned to tell me,” said Paul.
“I didn’t come for that. I came about your mother.”
“She’s bad,” accepted Paul. The antagonism had left him.
“I want to give you power of attorney, so that you would be able to authorize any treatment which could become necessary while I’m away.”
Paul frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not suggesting that it will,” stressed Peterson. “It’s just a precaution.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I don’t know.”
“I didn’t think she was that bad.”
“She’s been very much worse, since the disappointment with Beth.”
Paul moved, an uncertain gesture. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.
It was very difficult for his son to apologize, Peterson realized. Perhaps as difficult as it had been for him to do the same thing.
“It’s done now.”
“I gave her no reason to believe that was what you were doing,” said Paul. “I told her to stop her drinking … for her to realize there wasn’t any reason any more. That Beth didn’t want to stay away any longer.”
“I know. She doesn’t think as clearly as she once did,” said Peterson. Hurriedly, he added, “Sure Beth wouldn’t come home with you?”
Paul took a very worn piece of paper from his inside pocket, frowning down to find the place he wanted. “‘… tell them I’m so sorry. Tell Daddy I want him to come and get me … to come home …’” read the younger man.
He offered his father the note. The handwriting was spiked and unever, completely different from the orderly exercise books Peterson remembered from her school homework. The paper appeared to have been torn from an accounts book; on the reverse side there was a jumble of figures, arranged in a haphazard calculation. The answer was wrong, Peterson saw. It was a very brief letter, but coherent; three paragraphs of apology and then the plea for forgiveness.
“She hasn’t called?”
“Not yet,” said Paul.
“Tell her I’m coming,” said Peterson, swallowing heavily. “When she does, tell her I’m coming.”
“You mean it?”
“I’ve promised.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Will you take the power of attorney?”
“Do you think it’s necessary?”
“Yes.”
Paul nodded, shouting beyond his father for the girl to come into the office. It only took a few minutes to dictate the formalized document and, despite the appearance of the secretary and the typewriter, a perfect copy was produced very quickly. The abortion advisor and the office cleaning manager were summoned as witnesses; from their behavior, it was obvious it was a regular function for them.
“I hope I won’t have to use it,” said Paul.
“So do I,” agreed Peterson. “If you want to get any message to me, call on the private office number. Walter Jones will pass it on.”
“I couldn’t know where you’re going to call direct?”
Peterson shook his head. “I’ll be contacted faster through the Agency.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” said Paul, distantly.
“What?”
“To be a family again.”
“We’re going to be,” said Peterson fervently. “Believe me, Paul, it’s going to happen!”
Walter Jones felt exhausted but happy: it was unfortunate that Peterson had not conducted the briefings personally, to have appreciated how good the choices had been. Jones had attempted to remain quite objective — critical even, to identify any doubts or problems now rather than later, when it would be too late. Each man had conducted himself far better than the Deputy Director had hoped. Of the three, Jones had been most impressed with Michael Bohler, which is how it should have been, because Bohler’s was to be the most difficult part in the proposed operation. The security file assembled without Bohler’s knowledge had commented quite a lot on the man’s sexual activity and it was easy to see why he had so much success with women. Blond, fair-skinned, yet without the bulk that so often marked people of German heritage, Bohler had an utterly misleading ambiance of helplessness about him, which Jones knew many women found attractive. He supposed a psychiatrist would call it a mothering complex. But there had been no helplessness when it came to the man’s ability. When there had been questions, he had shown the concern Jones had anticipated as appropriate, yet not a nervousness he would have judged as dangerous. There had been a separate, technical interview before his encounter with Bohler and from the report of the experts, Jones noted that no gaps had been found in the man’s knowledge.
Henry Blakey’s hesitation at impersonating a priest had been predictable from someone who had spent six years in a seminary and Jones had not worried about the initial objections. He had prepared his argument, stressing that the dangers could run as high as another Middle East war and a confrontation between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, and gradually Blakey had lost his reluctance. The regret would not be a hindrance in what he was being called upon to do.
Jones had expected less questioning from Bradley. Even though a colonel, the man was used to military discipline and the acceptance of orders from superior officers. The shocked, near-angry response to the announcement that he was expected to work with a Soviet penetration force was as predictable as Henry Blake’s instinctive objection to passing himself off as a priest. Throughout a military career spanning more than two decades, Bradley had been conditioned to regard Communism as the creed of the enemy. Any reaction other than outrage would have been unnatural. Once the surprise had passed, every argument that Bradley had put forward had been constructive. The man had insisted on the need for joint training and stressed the difficulty of split command and communication, operating in two languages. It had been the longest of the three meetings, but Jones had anticipated that, too. He was satisfied Bradley had left the room as committed as either Bohler or Blakey.
He checked his watch, calculating that Peterson had been airborne for two hours. Knowing the wavelength of the CIA plane to be secure, he didn’t bother to cipher the message; to anyone else it was meaningless anyway. “All absolutely satisfactory,” Jones cabled. He wondered if Peterson had yet consulted the dossiers that had been made available upon the aircraft.
The private telephone had an unlisted number and did not pass through the switchboard; few people had access to it. When it rang, Jones looked at in momentary surprise.
“Walter Jones?”
“Yes,” said the deputy. “Who is this?”
“Flood,” said the caller. “Herbert Flood.”
13
When the idea had come to him, Peterson had hesitated, wondering if the Russian would become irritated or even suspicious at the theatricality of the meeting spot, but Petrov had accepted without any objection. When Peterson entered the Volksprater, Petrov was already there, waiting. Peterson was purposely late, to give his photographers the opportunity of picturing the Russian with the funfair background.
“Traffic,” apologized the American. “I’m very sorry.”
Petrov shrugged. “They made a film here once,” he said. “The Third Man. It was very good.”
“I know,” said Peterson. He set out towards the booths and the Russian fell into step beside him.
“I’m glad we’re going to work together,” said Petrov.
“I hope it’s successful,” said Peterson. And he did, he decided. He wouldn’t enjoy exposing the Russian if things went wrong. He wondered how the Irena file was progressing.
“It will need very detailed planning.”
“Yes.”
“And complete liaison.”
“Of course.”
They hesitated near the giant ferris wheel; Petrov was perfectly silhouetted.
“It used to be the biggest wheel in the world,” said the Russian, staring up. “That was in the film, too.”
Peterson wondered if his surveillance had been identified; there seemed the vaguest trace of mockery in the Russian’s attitude.
Petrov turned away from the attraction to face the other man fully. “If it stands any chance of working, we’re going to have to trust each other,” he said. “Any suspicion we feel will permeate down to whomever we put into the field. And that will make it impossible.”
“You’re right,” said Peterson. Petrov was suspicious. Quickly he continued, “I was honest with you at the restaurant. If things go wrong, I might try to turn the relationship to my advantage, if I think it necessary to do so. And I accept that you will attempt to do the same. But until that moment, which I hope to God never arises, I’ll work openly with you.”
“No cameras?” demanded the Russian.
“No cameras.”
“No tapes?”
“No tapes.”
Petrov offered his hand upon the agreement. He gazed beyond Peterson into the crowd. “It’ll free a lot of people from rather boring surveillance,” he said. It was an assured smile this time.
“Same as the restaurant?” queried Peterson.
“Of course,” admitted Petrov. “In many ways, I’ve more to lose than you.”
“I think the danger is about equal,” said Peterson.
They began walking between the booths again. There was the smell of open air sausage cooking and children scurried between them; they had green tabs on their lapels and Peterson guessed they were part of an organized school party. He couldn’t remember having taken Paul and Beth to a fair. He supposed he must have done it sometime.
“Have you discovered a way to infiltrate the installation?” asked Peterson.
“Not completely,” said Petrov. “Maybe three of four days.”
“How?”
“We’ve found a homosexual in the West German Defense Ministry computer room,” said Petrov. “His clearance is sufficiently high for him to have access to all the programs. And to use any cross link between that and the computer that BADRA uses.”
At that moment, Peterson realized that he was being forced into a subservient role. “He could introduce biographies of both our people?” he anticipated.
Petrov nodded. “And then we can send them to Chad as government officials, secure from any official inquiry from the complex. And intercept any checks made on them.”
