Target, page 19
“There’ll be a further meeting, before you go,” promised Petrov at the door. “Until that time you stay here, together.”
In the anteroom in which Peterson and Blakey had first met, Petrov said, “The biographical details are in the computer; apparently there was no problem.”
“It’s beginning to look quite good,” said Peterson.
“Yes,” agreed the Russian. “After so much difficulty, it’s almost a surprise.”
Bohler had waited for the moment of relaxation, but it never came. Gerda remained courteous but always formal, as if she saw herself as the superior partner in the operation and was guarding against any familiarity. Almost immediately after the two Directors had left them alone she had corrected him, insisting that from then on any conversation should be in German. She had responded politely but without humor to his attempts at lightness, refused wine with any of the meals, and during a walk they had taken through the fields bordering the house she had torn her skin on an awkward fence, having refused to accept a helping hand across.
“Have I annoyed you in some way?” he asked, at dinner the second night.
“No.”
“You seem reserved.”
“We’re engaged in a job, even here.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to smile occasionally.”
“It might,” she said, seriously.
“What do you mean?”
“In a month, maybe two, it’ll all be over.”
He shrugged, disconcerted by her attitude. “I was suggesting a friendship, not a marriage.”
She smiled briefly, then immediately seemed to regret the expression. “It’s a job,” she said again.
“Nervous?”
“Very,” she admitted. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been waiting for this moment, for a long time,” she said. “And now that it’s arrived I don’t feel at all as I expected to.”
“Nor do I,” confessed Bohler, remembering his conversation with the CIA Director.
“It doesn’t seem …” she paused, trying for the proper word. “… real,” she completed.
“It’ll seem real, soon enough.”
In the capital, fifty miles away, Peterson opened the door to Richard Brownlow and ushered him into the suite. The Austrian resident remained nervous, his nail-bitten hand close to his mouth even before he had sat down in the chair that the CIA Director indicated.
“The man’s name is Bock,” reported Brownlow, hurriedly. “Otto Bock.”
Peterson smiled, a self-satisfied expression. “Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent! What about the Russians?”
“Photographs of them all,” said Brownlow. “Two appear to have been brought in from outside, Moscow probably. The one who set himself up as Bock’s boyfriend is a chauffeur attached to the Soviet embassy in East Berlin.”
Peterson’s expression widened. “It couldn’t be better, could it?” he said.
“It’s a very complete dossier,” agreed Brownlow.
“You got off to a bad start with the Agency,” said Peterson. “After that mistake in Prague, there was even some discussion of withdrawing you back to Langley.…”
Brownlow swallowed, uncomfortably.
“… and now I want you to know that I’m glad we didn’t,” took up the Director. “You’ve done a magnificent job on this one. Truly magnificent.”
Brownlow’s hand came away from his mouth and he smiled. It was the first time that Peterson could remember the younger man relaxing. He had crooked teeth when he smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“I’m going to see to it that a special commendation is attached to your file,” promised Peterson. “I think you are going to go a long way with the Agency.”
“I’d like that, sir,” said Brownlow. “I’m very keen on the job.”
Once, reflected Peterson, he had been too.
18
Although he had anticipated the attitude, the degree of hostility between Colonel Bradley and the Russian soldier surprised Peterson. Even a formal greeting had appeared difficult for them and so far they had refused any direct conversation, always addressing each other through their respective Directors.
Both men seemed uncomfortable out of uniform: they shifted frequently in their seats and Sharakov kept smoothing his hand over his civilian suit, as if he needed reassurance that it was there at all. Peterson thought there was an odd similarity between the two men which went beyond the rigid, military bearing — hardness. Peterson thought irrationally that their skin would be tough and unyielding if he reached out to touch them. There was also another impression, which the American Director could not immediately identify, and when the thought came to him he frowned at it, unable at first to accept the description. But it was the word that fitted, he decided at last. There was a brutality about them.
The meeting was in the second of the American houses and quite unlike the others that had preceded it. Bradley and Sharakov sat tensed on opposite sides of the table. Both showed the proper deference when either Peterson or Petrov addressed them, but most of the time, although refusing conversation, they stared at each other as if expecting some sudden movement. Both Directors had adjusted their own demeanor, maintaining a curt gap of authority from both the soldiers and conducting the meeting as if it were a military briefing.
“For an operation of this sort, a split command is impractical,” protested Bradley, after the function of the deep penetration unit had been explained first by Peterson and then elaborated on by Petrov.
“We’re aware of the difficulties, but there can be no other way,” insisted Peterson. The man’s unease extended beyond the Russian soldier, Peterson realized; Bradley appeared suspicious of everyone on the room.
“There should be an opportunity for a practice joint exercise, at least,” said Sharakov. His English was thickly accented.
“There isn’t time,” said Petrov. “You’ll have to improvise whatever is necessary once you get to Chad.”
“Who makes the decision to move against the installation?” asked Bradley.
“We do,” said Peterson, immediately. “There’ll be a constant VHF radio link. There’s to be no assault mounted until you receive our authority.”
“A joint decision?” queried Bradley, looking from one Director to the other.
“Yes,” said Peterson. “A joint decision.”
He hesitated, uncertain whether to continue: the two soldiers were a weak link, he decided, suddenly nervous. “Understand one thing,” he went on, “and understand it very clearly. The success of what we are trying to achieve depends, on this one occasion, on our two countries working together. I know it’s alien for both of you; perhaps more so because of your military training than for others who are involved. For the period of this assignment, you are to subjugate any dislike … any differences … everything, in fact, which might jeopardize that success.…”
Bradley sat regarding him blank-faced and totally unmoved by the warning.
“Is that clear?” pressed Peterson.
“Quite clear,” said Bradley.
“Did you understand?” Petrov asked the Russian colonel.
“Yes,” said Sharakov, shortly.
“Then be aware of something else,” said Petrov, staring fixedly at the other Russian. “If anything were to go wrong and subsequently be traced to any fault of yours through some stupidity about working together, then you would be answerable not to any military tribunal.…”
For the first time Peterson detected a change in the man’s attitude. Not fear, he decided. More an irritation at such a warning being given in front of him and Bradley. He was surprised Petrov had done it so openly.
Petrov ended the artificial pause. “You would be accountable to me.”
“From me, there’ll be no cause for complaint,” said Sharakov.
“Or from me,” said Bradley hurriedly and Peterson winced, first at the Russian’s formality and then at Bradley’s need to match the other man’s assurance; it was childish, like counting sweets in a bag, to see who had the greater number.
“There’s only one consideration,” said Petrov. “And that’s to prevent the rocket launch. Never forget that for a moment.”
“I won’t,” said Sharakov. Bradley nodded.
Peterson stared at both officers: the warnings and the threats had achieved nothing, he decided. The distrust was too deeply ingrained in both men; their reaction to each other was instinctive. Thank God their presence was only for emergencies.
“Other deep penetration units were sent in,” he said. “All failed.”
“Combined?” queried Bradley.
“No,” said Peterson.
“We both lost the same number of people,” supported Petrov. He looked again at Sharakov, who had trained them. “They were your best people,” he reminded.
“Yes,” conceded Sharakov, uncomfortably.
“And they were detected,” said Petrov. “There’s logic in your combining.”
Both men reacted to the remark, each wanting to insist on his ability to perform alone, but each held back his respect for authority.
“They must have made small mistakes,” said Sharakov.
“It won’t happen again,” said Bradley.
“It’ll happen if you go on behaving as you are now,” said Peterson, suddenly exasperated. He stood, hand against the table, leaning across towards the soldier to emphasize what he was saying. “You were transferred from the Army to the CIA for a purpose — this sort of purpose. Don’t foul it up by your inability to adjust to circumstances.”
Now it was Bradley’s turn to mirror the irritation at an open threat, as Sharakov had done before him. “You’ve already made yourself very clear,” he said.
“And I expect in return a clearer indication that you fully appreciate what I’m saying,” insisted Peterson. He paused again; the words were ready but he was uncertain whether to utter them. Deciding it was necessary, he continued: “This has the direct authority and backing of the President himself.”
“But it’s clandestine,” said Bradley.
“Of course it’s clandestine!” said Peterson, allowing the irritation. “Would you expect an open invasion?”
Bradley appeared to yield under the pressure. “Presidential authority?” he said.
“Yes,” assured Peterson. He hoped Fowler would never learn of the over-commitment. He was aware of Petrov’s attention and regretted the impulse to exaggerate.
“Any antipathy you show towards each other will immediately be visible to the units you control,” warned Petrov.
Unexpectedly, Bradley thrust his hand across the table towards the Russian. Sharakov stopped himself just short of starting away from the gesture. Instead he stared undecidedly at the American, then with seeming reluctance reached out and shook his hand. Peterson was aware of the tension going out to Petrov. He looked back to the two soldiers and their caricature of friendship. Was it genuine, he wondered, or merely a device to stop the haranguing? He had no way of knowing.
“Why did you join the CIA?” asked Makovsky.
“My father was in the OSS, which became the CIA after the war,” said Blakey.
“But you trained to be a priest?” There was as much disbelief as curiosity in the Russian’s voice.
“Yes,” said Blakey. “For almost six years.”
“Why weren’t you ordained?”
Blakely smiled at the other man. “I didn’t think I was strong enough to become one. The Agency seemed the only thing available when I quit the seminary. My father used his influence.”
“You think being a priest is more difficult than what we’re being sent in to do!”
“Oh yes,” said the American sincerely. “Far more difficult. To be a priest requires real courage.”
Makovsky shook his head, unable to accept the immediate assurance. “You’ll change your mind before it’s all over,” he said.
“I doubt it,” replied the American confidently.
19
There was a bunk in the compartment aboard the CIA plane, already turned down in readiness, but Peterson ignored it, knowing that sleep would be impossible. He felt nervous, returning to Washington: more unsure than he had felt during any of the briefings in Vienna, even the unsatisfactory one with the two soldiers. There were causes enough, he accepted. For the past three days he had tried to put Herbert Flood’s campaign out of his mind, but as his aircraft crossed the Atlantic he thought back to Walter Jones’ account of the meal during which Flood had invited his deputy’s disloyalty. He was determined to fight Flood but realized that at the moment he didn’t know how. He sighed, changing position in his seat. Flood wasn’t his major concern, he decided. He was anxious about how Lucille would be, in the hospital. And about the President’s reaction to what he had done. He knew he had achieved a lot but it seemed oddly insufficient.
He thought again of his forthcoming meeting with the President, anxious for further guarantees. Fowler had had nightly briefings, Peterson knew. And an hour before his departure from Austria, Walter Jones had confirmed that the Arthur F. Grant, a guided missile destroyer, was being diverted from NATO exercises in the South Atlantic to take up station as the communications vessel in the Gulf of Guinea. So that must indicate some approval for what he had done. Yet the unease remained as strong as ever.
Walter Jones was waiting for him at Andrews airbase and Peterson experienced an unexpected feeling of encouragement at the sight of the man standing beside the car, hunched in an overcoat that appeared almost too long for him. There was an air of dependability about Walter Jones.
“Thanks for coming,” said Peterson.
“Thought there might be a lot to catch up on,” said the deputy. He stood aside, for Peterson to enter the car first.
“What happened in Austria can wait,” said Peterson, immediately after they had settled themselves and erected the glass screen. “What’s been going on here?”
“A lot of things,” said Jones. “Some of which I’m not even sure of myself.”
“Like what?”
“Lucille’s illness has been leaked to the gossip columnists. Described as exhaustion.”
“Bastard,” said Peterson, vehemently.
“Personal attacks are as strong as ever. The talk is of you being distracted by personal problems. I don’t imagine it will be long before something appears in the Post.”
“What’s the President’s reaction?”
“He’s said nothing about Lucille or the rumors. But I think he’s frightened that he’s over-committed himself in allowing us to go so far in Africa. Keeps talking of the law of congressional approval. I think he’s frightened he could be impeached.”
“Is he going to back down?” Peterson turned anxiously towards his companion.
“Hardly be in character, would it?” said Jones.
“To survive, Fowler would change character easily enough,” predicted the Director.
“Don’t show any lack of confidence,” advised Jones. “He wants to know he’s done the right thing, without risk of failure.”
“That won’t be easy,” said Peterson, honestly.
“Easy or not, I think it’s necessary.”
“I’ve got to oppose Flood,” said Peterson, positively.
“How?” demanded Jones. “You’re due aboard the missile destroyer in three days.”
Peterson turned to stare across the car again. “You could appear to accept Flood’s offer,” said Peterson, slowly. “We might learn which way the attacks were coming.”
“We might,” said Jones, doubtfully.
“It would mean exposing yourself,” said Peterson. “If Flood found out what we were attempting, he’d make you a target as much as me.”
“I realize that.” Jones was staring out of the window, as if unwilling to meet Peterson’s gaze.
“It would be asking you to take a big risk,” agreed Peterson.
“Isn’t that the business we’re in?”
“There’s a difference.”
Jones looked into the car, smiling. “What do you want me to do?”
Peterson felt a sweep of relief. “Protect me while I’m away,” he said eagerly. “We’ve as many media outlets as Flood, probably more. Let’s start to counter the stories … plant innuendo of our own.…”
He frowned, at a sudden idea. “Have we ever run an investigation on him?”
Jones shook his head, doubtful again. “There’ll be his security clearance file, of course.”
“Get it,” ordered Peterson. “Use it as the starting point. Look into his academic background, societies or organizations he might have joined at college. He might play the hawk now, at Fowler’s prompting, but I bet there’ll be the usual period of college liberal. We might even be able to find some Communist affiliation.…”
“He is the country’s foreign affairs advisor,” frowned Jones. “Sure you want to take it this far?”
“Yes,” said Peterson. “I want to take it this far. The son-of-a-bitch declared war, not me.”
“I’m sorry about Beth,” said Jones.
“Any leads?”
The deputy shook his head. “When we couldn’t trace her there, I had the local police pick up a couple of boys from the commune; hassled them a bit for vagrancy and marijuana possession. They said she just took off, without any warning. Didn’t say where she might be heading.”
“What about the ballet dancer?”
“Complete dossier,” said Jones. “Photographs, lists of all associates, bank records, transcript of telephone conversations.…”
“Any way we can tie her in with any Russian links?”
“Corresponds with two other dissidents, one who escaped on a later ballet tour.”
“Good,” said Peterson. “Very good. Does the President expect you to be with me?” he asked his deputy.
“Yes.”
“I want to thank you, Walt,” said Peterson. “For this family business … and the risk you’re taking with Flood.”
