Target, page 16
“Gerda Lintz,” announced the Russian.
Peterson nodded, but once again Bohler reached out. The woman’s falter was more marked than Petrov’s had been: she started looking sideways, as if seeking some guidance, but Bohler spoke before she completed the movement.
“We’re going to have to be friends,” he said.
She took his hand at last and although it was difficult to be sure, Peterson thought she was blushing.
“Let’s sit down,” said Petrov.
“Your file is impressive,” said Petrov, speaking to Bohler.
“Thank you,” said the American. He looked towards the woman. “It must have been fascinating, working on your Cosmos series,” he said.
“Roughly comparable to your Vela program,” she said. She had a soft voice and Peterson wondered if there were the trace of a lisp; would her German be as fluent as her English?”
“We don’t designate by that name any more,” said Bohler. “Now it’s a number reference.”
“We never used Cosmos as a program identity.”
Peterson and Petrov remained silent, both aware that the two scientists were testing each other out, like prize fighters at the beginning of a bout.
“The test firing indicates preparedness for a launch,” said Gerda.
“Yes,” said Bohler. He spoke quickly, to anticipate her point: “So it can’t have been a normal research program.”
“An established rocket, then?”
“That’s the only inference. From the silo scorching, it must be solid fuel.”
“Isn’t that the tendency among smaller rockets, with the development of new plastic-base compounds?” asked the woman, eager to score.
“We don’t know the size of this rocket,” reminded Bohler, “nor the stage of the technology within the installation.”
“High, I would have guessed,” said Gerda.
“It could be hybrid-engined then,” said Bohler. “In America we’ve developed an engine working off liquid fluorine-oxygen oxidant mounted above a cylinder of lithium, lithium hydride and polybutadiene solid propellant, with the combustion chamber at the lower end.”
“With stop-start capability?” asked the woman curiously.
“Yes,” said Bohler. “We can also vary the thrust by using a throttle to control the supply of oxidant flowing from the tank to the solid fuel.”
It was becoming ridiculously dark in the room. “Couldn’t we have some light?” complained Peterson, anxious to see the Russian scientist more clearly. Petrov made a movement with his hand and Peterson became aware for the first time of attendants in the room. A man pulled the curtains and then put on a series of side lights.
“There are drinks,” said Petrov, “and some caviar.”
Peterson and Bohler shook their heads. The woman said: “No thank you.”
There was a marked deference when she spoke to Petrov, Peterson noted.
“I know you’ve had a separate briefing,” said Petrov, talking again to Bohler, “but it’s imperative that there should be no misunderstanding, so I’ll go over it again, even at the risk of repetition. Both of you are to be introduced into the complex as West German government officials, scientists attached to the Defense Ministry. You’ll carry every accreditation document necessary and there’ll be back-up precautions in Bonn: it’s almost inevitable that there’ll be a check from Chad.”
“What’s the back-up?” demanded Bohler.
“Your biographies are being introduced into the Defense Ministry computer file: it’s got a very high classification. Automatic verification would act as the best reference possible.”
“What about photographic verification?” asked Bohler. “What would happen if there’s a demand for our pictures to be wired from Bonn?”
“I’ve already considered that,” said Petrov. “Pictures of both of you are to be filed, as well. The computer would produce the reference and send your pictures quite automatically.”
“Will we know, if a check is made?” asked Gerda.
There was a lisp, decided Peterson. And she had blushed, too, asking a direct question of Petrov.
“Yes,” assured the Russian Director. “Our man within the Ministry will be instructed to tell us.”
“Does he know the extent of his involvement yet?” Peterson asked.
Petrov smiled sideways at the other Director. “Not completely,” he said. “But he’s agreed to introduce the biographies and once he’s done that, he’s increased his dependence upon our discretion.”
Peterson turned to Bohler and the woman. “What have you deduced from the photographs of the site that you’ve seen so far?”
Bohler shrugged. “Almost impossible to judge anything, merely from the size of a silo,” he said. “Could be something as big as 4000 lb, like a MIDAS. Or as small as 500 lb.”
“The Vela rocket which America launched in 1970 weighed 500 lb,” said Gerda, appearing eager to support the other scientist. “It had a 90 lb pay-load capable of detecting a nuclear explosion as far away as Venus.”
“Can we make an intelligent guess, working on the assumption that the satellite is to be positioned over Israel?” asked Petrov.
Bohler turned towards the woman, inviting her to respond.
“No,” said Gerda, immediately. “For near-static observation, I’d go for a geostationary orbit, but that involves a big rocket, to achieve the lift through the atmosphere. A smaller thrust would achieve a lower, polar orbit but that doesn’t allow constant surveillance.”
“How much?” demanded Peterson.
“Three months, over a complete range of local times,” said Bohler. “You can increase the cover, by gearing your rocket for sun synchronization.”
“What sort of monitoring would be possible?” said Petrov.
Gerda responded immediately and Peterson was aware that as she became engrossed in the discussion, her reticence was diminishing.
“Again it’s almost limitless,” she said. “In the Soviet Union we bring our satellites back to earth after a certain period; in America, they eject a film capsule for lower air interception by conventional aircraft.”
“I don’t imagine the satellite would be brought down,” said Peterson. “And there would be no way Libya could expect to intercept ejected film.”
“Simple television,” said Bohler. “The definition wouldn’t be as good as high resolution still photography, but it would be adequate for whatever Libya wanted to learn about Israel.”
“How accurate can photography be?” queried Petrov.
Again it was the woman who answered. “A camera with a definition of two hundred lines per millimeter and an effective focal length of ten feet would be able to distinguish a nine-inch wide patch of light against a dark background from an orbiting position eighty-five miles from earth,” she said.
“Christ!” said Peterson, unthinkingly.
“And from that low-level orbit, ground radio communications could be eavesdropped,” added Bohler.
“I would also expect it to have infrared sensor devices,” said Gerda. “The chief function is to detect heat changes. From an eighty-five mile orbit they could locate any sort of industrial development or factory, even if it were concealed underground; the earth heat level would disclose it.”
“And it can detect a sea temperature change as low as 0.5°C,” elaborated Bohler. “Which means it can establish the passage of any submarine, because it creates a water-heating pattern.”
Petrov smiled at the dissertation. “So now I hope you’re convinced,” he said, to both of them.
“Convinced?” asked Bohler.
Petrov moved, to include Peterson. “We’ve let the discussion cover things we both knew already, but for a very specific purpose. We wanted you to realize how important it is that whatever the device being constructed in Africa, it must not be allowed into orbit over the Middle East.”
Bohler smiled, unoffended. “Very effective,” he said.
“I’d already realized the importance of the assignment,” insisted Gerda and Peterson looked intently at the woman, conscious of the stiffness. She had not liked being made the object of an exercise.
“What practical difficulties do you foresee, even before you get there?” demanded the American Director.
“The cover of Ministry officials should allow us access,” said Bohler, reflectively. “Otherwise I doubt that we would even have got near the site; projects are run by carefully selected teams who become xenophobic about outside interference.…”
He turned to look directly at Peterson. “From what you’ve told me already of the security, it’s still not going to be easy.”
“But if you get near enough, it should be possible to sabotage?” pressed Petrov.
“A rocket or a satellite is a very delicate piece of machinery,” said Gerda Lintz. “An infinitesimal miscalculation will cause it to malfunction.”
“And it must appear a miscalculation,” stressed Peterson, urgently. “We don’t just want to abort this launch; we want to create sufficient doubt about BADRA’s ability to prevent Gadaffi or anyone else from ever considering buying time from them again. The failure must appear to be their fault, not the rest of any obvious interference.”
Bohler unexpectedly addressed the woman in German. Peterson turned sharply, staring at the man. He was about to interrupt when Gerda responded in the same language and he felt pressure against his arm and realized that Petrov had leaned across to warn him against any intrusion: from the attention he was paying to the exchange, it was obvious Petrov understood the language. Peterson remained still, feeling slightly ridiculous. After three or four minutes, Gerda took pen and paper from her handbag and made a sketch: from what he could see, it appeared to be a drawing of differing orbital heights and space-window entries after launch. It was almost fifteen minutes before Bohler sat back in his chair. He looked across at Petrov and said, in English this time, “I think I will have that drink now. Beer.”
Petrov made another gesture to his people at the edge of the room, looking all the time at the American.
“Fifteen minutes of highly technical discussion,” identified the Russian and Peterson realized the man had spoken for his benefit.
“Very technical,” agreed Bohler.
“To what purpose?” asked Peterson.
“Another exercise,” said Bohler, accepting the drink that was handed over his shoulder.
“Go on,” instructed Peterson.
“I learned German in America,” began Bohler. “Admittedly it was the only language in the house and I maintained it when I went to college so it’s fluent.…”
“So what’s the problem?” intruded Peterson, concerned at what was happening.
“Gerda didn’t leave Germany until she was seventeen or eighteen,” reminded Bohler. “Her technical awareness and pronunciation in German is superior to mine.”
“Dangerously so?” asked Petrov, realizing the problem to which the man was alluding.
“Any doubt would be dangerous,” said Bohler.
“Do you mean you can’t do it?” demanded Peterson.
“No,” said Bohler, immediately. “But I don’t think we should present ourselves on an equal, comparable basis. I think Gerda should purport to be the examining scientist, the expert.”
“And you?” said Peterson.
“Scientific liaison, the link between the laboratory and the diplomatic service; I’m more than adequate for that and if there were a mispronunciation or error then it would be easily explained.…”
He turned to look directly at Petrov. “It won’t mean any alteration in what you’ve arranged in Bonn.”
“It’s not too late,” said Petrov. “And if we’re going to make the qualification, then it should be covered in your file.” The Russian smiled. “You’re a very astute man,” he said to Bohler.
Petrov turned to Peterson. “It would mean an immediate change in what we’ve decided on,” he said. “It would appear to give Gerda superiority.”
Peterson considered the development, unsettled by it. Walter Jones should have discovered the weakness, before proposing the man for the assignment. But then so perhaps should he, during their discussion before the journey to Melk.
“You’re sure of the risk?” he demanded from Bohler, unwilling to make the concession.
“It’s very slight,” said Bohler, honestly. “But it exists.”
“Then we should guard against it,” said Petrov.
“Yes,” agreed Peterson. “We should guard against it.”
The success of the mission had to be the major consideration, more important than any misgivings. But he could not suppress the feeling of reluctance. “The different status wouldn’t exist in any private discussions or decisions between you,” he stressed, speaking to both scientists.
Bohler seemed curious at his chief’s attitude. “Of course not,” he said. “It would still be a joint mission.”
“I think Michael is being very sensible,” said the woman. “His technical pronunciation isn’t as it should be.”
“All right then,” accepted Peterson, at last. He turned at a movement from Petrov.
“Why don’t you and I take a stroll and allow these two to get to know each other better?” suggested the Russian.
Peterson hesitated, then stood, following the KGB leader from the room. It was the grey time of twilight, the sun’s redress still sore against the sky and deep shadows marked out against the surrounding hills. From the direction of the monastery came the muffled, half-hearted sound of a bell; evening prayers, Peterson assumed.
“I thought it went well,” said Petrov.
“Yes.”
“Had there been any discussion between you of this technical ability?”
“No.”
“Then he’s a remarkably well-adjusted young man,” praised Petrov. “There aren’t many men who would have done that, particularly not with a woman.”
“I suppose he is,” said Peterson, with growing awareness.
“I hope the other groups get on as well as these two appear to,” said Petrov.
“That’s unlikely,” said Peterson, objectively. “Have you found a priest?”
“He’s arriving tonight.”
“My man is already here.”
“So tomorrow it’s an American rendezvous?”
“The Israelis intercepted the gold transfer,” said Peterson. They reached the conjunction of the two roads and turned back towards the house.
“I know,” said Petrov. “Apparently it was brilliantly done. The authorities seem to think it was carried out by some dissident Palestinian guerilla group.”
“Levy’s a clever man,” said Peterson.
“I hope he won’t become a nuisance,” said Petrov. “This is going to be difficult enough as it it.”
Both Directors stopped, just inside the front door of the house. From the room in which they had left Michael Bohler and Gerda Lintz came the sound of laughter.
Peterson had not marked Bohler as a demonstrative man and so his enthusiasm in the car returning them to Vienna surprised the CIA Director.
“She’s good,” said Bohler. “An expert, in fact.”
“So are you.”
“I’m still impressed. She could be attractive, too. Doesn’t seem to bother about her appearance.”
“No.”
“A national characteristic.”
“What?”
“That’s what you called it, on the way here.”
“I’d forgotten. I meant what I said back there about it being a joint operation.”
“Were you annoyed at what I did?” demanded Bohler.
“Maybe off-balanced.”
“I felt it important.”
“You were right,” said Peterson. Bohler was unlike other operatives with whom he had dealt during his time with the Agency: Peterson was unsure whether the change was welcome or disturbing. It was past eight o’clock by the time they got back to the Intercontinental Hotel in Vienna; there were two outstanding messages from Walter Jones in Washington.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” said his deputy, as soon as they were connected.
“What?”
“Paul has had to have Lucille hospitalized: he thinks there was some sort of suicide attempt last night. Certainly she overdosed very heavily.”
“How is she now?” He would have expected to feel a stronger physical reaction to what Jones was saying but there was nothing, not even surprise.
“Out of danger — Paul’s had her transferred to a psychiatric wing. He wants you to come home.”
“I can’t, not right away.”
“I warned him.”
“What did he say?”
“That he expected there might be some excuse.”
“Tell him I’ll be back as soon as possible, within a couple of days, hopefully.”
“There’s something else,” said Jones.
“What?”
“Beth isn’t at the commune any longer.”
There had been five photographs in Irena’s dossier, all of them in staged, theatrical poses to illustrate some production of the Bolshoi in which she had been appearing. Petrov had insured that the file index had not listed the quantity of pictures and had taken the one which showed her face most clearly. As in the others she had been holding a professional stance, but it was still possible to see how beautiful she was. Five years, thought Petrov. How much would she have changed in five years? Did she think of him, wherever she was, as often as he thought of her? Or had she erased him from her memory — maybe even married and had children? There was a flare of jealousy at the thought. He replaced the photograph positively in his combination-locked briefcase, concealing it among some papers. The KGB chief realized he was allowing himself to become too immersed in nostalgia. The affair with Irena was over — finished. There could never be another meeting, another contact even. She had to be put out of mind, suppressed at least. What he was involved in now did not allow for any distraction. Petrov sighed; he felt so very lonely.
