Target, page 15
Because of the earlier reconnoitering and their awareness of the route the driver was likely to take on the return journey, Levy was able to estimate to within three minutes the time the van would travel along Bellerivestrasse, parallel to the lake. He was two minutes out. Just before two-thirty one of the vans pulled out in front of the bullion truck and was separated from it only by another Israeli-occupied car.
At that moment, Levy radioed instructions to the squads at the railway station and the tourist office. The railway station explosions were the more spectacular. The Israelis had placed one timed charge in a waiting-room and two people died when it erupted. A second ripped up the main Zürich-to-Geneva track, derailing a commuter train but fortunately causing no injuries beyond shock and minor cuts from broken glass. The third destroyed the signalling equipment for the entire station, producing a chaos that was to take almost ten hours to rectify. At the moment of the first explosion, the squad let off five smoke devices and then wrapped the red and white spotted kiffeya head-dress of Arab guerillas around their heads and ran screaming through the station concourse, firing the Uzzi machine-guns harmlessly into the air. They gained their waiting Mercedes quite uninterrupted and escaped without any interference.
Three people died in the tourist office explosion, one, ironically, a Jewish woman inquiring about return flights to Tel Aviv. The whole front shattered under the force of the blast and a gas main burst and then ignited, sending a spurt of flame twelve feet into the air and causing far more of a distraction than Levy had planned. The smoke was hardly necessary, but they released it anyway, causing traffic confusion immediately.
Two Israeli cars were following the bullion truck. Four hundred yards from the Kreuzstrasse junction, one of them pulled out as if to overtake and the vehicle in front swung wide, apparently to prevent it. The second car braked at the moment of impact, expertly bringing the rear across the road, blocking it completely. Both drivers maintained the pressure upon their accelerators, so that the fenders ground one against the other with a screeching, tearing sound of metal, locking both cars together. Immediately the drivers leapt from their cars and began a hysterical dispute.
The hired van preceding the bullion truck had been warned in advance by radio, so the stall was timed perfectly to coincide with the fake accident. The following Israeli car halted and the front-seat occupants got out, apparently to investigate. The bullion van had to stop as well. There were two Israelis still in the rear of the car, electronic jamming equipment unseen at their feet. Even before the bank guards imagined a need to use either, both their emergency radio frequencies were unusable.
The motorists wandered back from the stalled van, shrugging to the occupants of the bank vehicle in an invitation for patience.
The explosive devices had been developed by Israeli scientists to combat aircraft hijacking, particularly if the terrorist had locked himself somewhere within a plane. The effect was of an explosion, reverberating shock waves within a confined space and reducing anyone inside senseless. The grenade which the car driver placed against the cab window went off seconds ahead of the one which his companion placed against the rear of the van to incapacitate the unseen guard.
The van was already reversing, sweeping wide in the empty road and then coming up back to back with the bullion van. It stopped three feet away, but the opening of the doors prevented anyone on either Seefeld or Uto Quai from seeing the oxy-acetylene equipment flare into life and then start cutting into the bullion door. It would have been difficult for the Zürich authorities to have responded, because by now they were convinced of a concerted terrorist attack. Every available policeman, ambulance and fire brigade appliance had been drafted to the area of the railway station and tourist office, and reinforcements were summoned by road from Winterthur and Wodenswil and by helicopter from Berne and Geneva.
The interior guard was recovering by the time the doors were opened, but he was still too disorientated to offer any resistance, even against the injection which was administered by the first Israeli to enter the vehicle and which rendered him unconscious for a further three hours. The same Israeli unlocked the front cab and the two guards were injected, even though they were still unconscious.
Aware of the weight of gold. Levy had put eight men inside the van. They placed a roller track between the two vehicles and slid the gold across in hurried, one-to-the-other unison. The bullion was cleared in eight minutes. At the radioed alert, the arguing motorists four hundred yards away suddenly stopped shouting and sprinted towards the ambush. The decoy van emerged from Seefeld Quai, just as the vehicle containing the gold moved away. It crashed into the rear of the bullion van, causing a further obstruction. More smoke was released, giving the impression of fire. The driver joined the motorists in the waiting car and drove unhurriedly up Kreuzstrasse and then right into Seefeldstrasse, keeping the gold van just in sight. They went straight to the airport, where Levy was waiting with the Israeli embassy customs clearance for the cargo.
By five P.M. it was loaded aboard the Boeing 727 and half an hour later the aircraft was cleared for take-off. Forty-five minutes earlier, responding to the alarm raised by the Swiss Banking Corporation, a police motorcyclist had managed to penetrate the congestion around the lake and discover the looted bullion truck. It was a further two hours before the size of the robbery was realized and sufficient police and forensic scientists could be moved to the scene. By then, the Boeing was clearing Italian airspace and in beacon contact with Tel Aviv.
Levy had already held a mid-air debriefing, congratulating the men on the complete success of the operation, and now he sat in the first-class section of the aircraft, reflecting upon what had happened. It had been a very productive forty-eight hours, he decided; more than $20,000,000 into the Israeli exchequer.
Peterson had offered him the gold shipment as a sop, Levy knew. He wondered if the American Director would imagine he was content to remain on the periphery. He had always regarded Peterson as astute: it would be a surprising error for such a man to make.
They ate at Duke Zeibert’s. It was Wednesday and Herbert Flood was on the Scarsdale diet, so he ordered lamb. Jones, who was uninterested in food, took the same.
“I find weight’s a problem in Washington,” confided Flood. “A lot of good parties.”
“I don’t go to many,” said Jones. The foreign affairs advisor intrigued him; it was difficult to believe there was so much ambition beneath that untidy, everyone’s-favorite-uncle exterior.
“You should,” advised Flood. “Important to be seen around.”
“I’m not a politician,” reminded Jones.
“Nor am I,” said Flood. The inference was very clear that the omission was only temporary.
The diet denied Flood alcohol, but Jones had ordered scotch. He was aware of Flood studying him as he drank.
“That’s another problem,” said Flood. “Booze.”
“Hardly confined to Washington,” said the Deputy Director.
“Far too much drinking goes on,” insisted the former academic.
“You’re probably right.”
“You’re not seen around much,” said Flood and the Deputy CIA Director realized a check had been made upon him; he was irritated that he had not discovered it.
“I’m not particularly interested in the social scene,” he said.
“You’re not married?”
“No.” It had been a very thorough check, Jones appreciated.
“Lonely life, then?”
“Not really.” Jones wondered if Flood was trying to run a check on his sex life.
“How do you spend your spare time then?”
“Easily enough,” said the deputy intelligence chief. “I read a great deal. I like opera, so I go to concerts. And I do my job; I don’t work nine-to-five hours, you know.”
“Doesn’t Washington excite you?” demanded Flood, in sudden urgency. He fashioned a cornucopia with his hand. “It’s all here,” he said. “All the power.”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Jones, unhelpfully.
“You should,” urged Flood. “With the proper ability and the right friends, it’s possible to do very well here.”
“So I’ve heard.” Jones wondered if he was annoying the other man with his platitudinous replies.
“This Africa business is disturbing,” said Flood. “It could create a lot of problems.”
“We’re fairly confident we’ll be able to contain it,” said Jones.
“Fairly confident isn’t good enough,” said Flood. “The President wants positive assurances.
“I’m hopeful the Director will be able to give them, very soon.”
“Are you?” challenged Flood.
“Yes.”
“He’s had a lot of time, already.”
“It hasn’t been easy.”
“I hear suggestions that Peterson has got some domestic problems.”
“No more than most people.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“It’s not affecting his work,” said Jones, loyally.
“I’ve never believed it possible for people to secure themselves in water-tight compartments, divorcing their private from their public life.”
“I suppose it’s a matter of opinion,” said Jones, carelessly.
“With Peterson it’s becoming a matter of record,” said Flood. “I’m not impressed so far. Not impressed at all.”
Jones deliberately ordered cheesecake with whipped topping for dessert, hoping to irritate the other man. Flood refused everything but coffee.
“I’m sure the President will be satisfied in the end,” said Jones. The snub that it was the President and not Flood who had to be impressed was very obvious, but the foreign affairs advisor made no response.
“I think you’ve got the proper ability,” said Flood, picking up his earlier point. “I think you could do with the right friends.”
“To achieve what?”
“A position to which you might be better suited than someone else.”
“I’m satisfied, the way things are.”
“You should never be satisfied in Washington; this place is fuelled by ambition.”
Jones pushed aside the dessert half-eaten; he hadn’t enjoyed it and recognized it now as a juvenile gesture.
“Yes,” the Deputy CIA Director agreed. “It’s certainly that.”
“It’s something more,” said Flood.
“What?”
“No place for losers.”
“No.”
“It’s very dangerous, to become associated with losers.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Jones. “I’ve never been linked with any.”
“There’s a chance of it happening now.”
“Isn’t that a premature judgment?”
“I don’t know,” said Flood. “You tell me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I wonder if Peterson would be as loyal to you.”
So did he, thought Jones. Immediately he became irritated at the doubt. Of course Peterson would have supported him.
“Don’t screw your chances, Walt,” advised Flood.
Jones registered the Christian-name attempt and smiled, and the other man misunderstood the expression.
“Ours could be a very beneficial association,” said Flood. “I could offer you a lot of administrative protection.”
“What could I offer in return?” He was still manipulating the other man, Jones told himself. He didn’t mean any disloyalty to Peterson.
“What could the CIA offer!” said Flood, stressing the incredulity. “I’m sure we could find something.”
A politician with the expertise and knowledge of the CIA at his disposal would be a very formidable figure in the capital, accepted Jones.
“It’s been a very pleasant lunch,” he said. “Thank you.”
“And an interesting one?”
“Yes, interesting too.”
“You should try the Scarsdale diet,” encouraged Flood, rising from the table. “I’ve lost ten pounds and I’ve hardly entered the second week.”
“I don’t seem to find the need to diet,” said Jones. “I think I lose all my weight in nervous energy.”
“What have you got to be nervous about?” asked Flood at the door.
“Nothing, I hope,” said Jones.
15
The monastery dominates Melk, an enormous, many-storied rectangle of a building, with outcrops of unexpected construction added haphazardly, so that courtyards and entrance areas jut out, like architectural potholes. Peterson frowned up at it as they drove by, momentarily awed by its size; a container for clerics, he thought.
“Quite a building.”
Peterson looked away at the assessment, towards Michael Bohler: they had been together less than two hours but already he was impressed. He’d made a note to congratulate Walter Jones on the selection during their telephone conversation that night.
“Yes,” agreed Peterson. “Quite a building.”
“Not much further then?”
“No,” said the Director. “The Russian house is very near. Nervous?”
“Very,” admitted Bohler.
Peterson respected him for the honesty. “It’s right that you should be.”
Bohler talked looking down into his lap, almost as if he were reminiscing. “I’ve often wondered how I would feel on an assignment … whether I’d be frightened or able to do what was asked of me. But I never conceived an operation in which I would be linked with a Russian.”
“It’s not normal,” said Peterson. “The circumstances demand it.”
“Are they prepared to cooperate … as you are?”
“I think so,” said Peterson.
“Have you met her?” asked Bohler.
“No,” said Peterson. “Just photographs. And the case records, of course. I’ve made yours available to them.”
“Are these the records I’ve seen?”
Peterson nodded.
“She looks a very severe woman,” said the scientist.
“Russians often do,” said Peterson. “It’s a national characteristic.”
“She appears highly qualified.”
“So are you. That’s why you were chosen.”
“I hope I don’t fail you,” said Bohler.
“So do I.”
Bohler grinned at the Director’s response. “I mean I’m not really a CIA agent … not a proper one. I’m a little nervous I might not do the right thing.”
Peterson was not worried by the other man’s hesitation. Indeed, he welcomed it: he had always been deeply suspicious of operatives who disdained danger and offered as many assurances as were demanded of them.
“If there’d been any doubt,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, “you wouldn’t have been selected.”
“That’s not strictly true,” said Bohler and Peterson turned to him again, intrigued at someone who was prepared to argue so openly with him.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the only one,” said Bohler, without any conceit. “I know that. That’s why I’ve been chosen: that’s the extent of my ability.”
“You’re very objective.”
“Isn’t that how I should be?”
“Yes.” conceded Peterson. He decided that Bohler looked younger than his thirty-five years.
He was surprised to realize that it was someone like Bohler he had always imagined Beth marrying. He wondered whether she was still in Arizona.
The limousine skirted the monastery and came to a house so close that it could have been an outbuilding. It was well chosen, Peterson recognized. It was at the conjunction of two roads, with a view at least three hundred yards along each of them. There was open farmland on three sides, with sweeping fields on which helicopters could have landed and taken off in an emergency without encumbrance.
“We’re here,” anticipated Bohler.
“Yes.”
Petrov appeared at the doorway as they got out of the vehicle and Peterson was reminded of how the Russian had conducted their first meeting at the restaurant; once again Petrov had cast himself in the role of the solicitous host. Peterson turned sideways to the younger man. Bohler was staring at the Russian, but the expression was one of curiosity, not intimidation. Peterson realized that since they had been together, Bohler had shown him just the appropriate amount of respect; there had been no sycophancy.
“He doesn’t look like a Russian,” said Bohler.
“No,” agreed Peterson.
“More like the sort of Englishman Hollywood was casting as a typical butler in those 1940 movies.”
Peterson smiled at the description. “A very imposing butler,” he said.
“But still a butler.”
As they entered the garden, Peterson became aware of more vehicles and felt a momentary hollowness at the thought that, for the first time, he was about to enter a place that was entirely Russian-controlled. As if aware of the American’s feeling, Petrov said, “We’re well protected. Both of us.”
“General Dimitri Petrov,” introduced Peterson. “This is Michael Bohler.”
Immediately the American scientist thrust out his hand and Petrov gazed it, unused to such familiarity. The hesitation was only momentary; he returned the greeting, looking curiously over the younger man’s shoulder to the CIA Director.
“Shall we go in?” the Russian invited.
It was dark inside the building and briefly Peterson found it difficult to focus. There was a short corridor leading into a main room. The furnishings were functional but limited — a table around which were grouped six chairs, a couch against the wall beneath the main window, a side table on which were arranged bottles, glasses and a tray of food and two chairs bordering a fireplace. There was no fire and the house was cold; involuntarily, Peterson shivered. Petrov led the way forward, surer of his surroundings, and as he became adjusted to the room, Peterson saw that the woman was already there. She was standing by the fireplace, away from the window, so it was difficult to distinguish her features. She appeared to be standing stiffly, almost to attention. Peterson wondered if it was nervousness at what was being asked of her or uncertainty at being in the presence of her Director. At this stage it was more likely to be uncertainty, he decided; until they got to Africa, it would be hard for either of them to foresee the difficulties. Petrov motioned the woman away from where she stood and she came towards the center of the room.
