Target, page 26
“I have more work to do, if you will excuse me,” said the Project Director, breaking the impasse.
“Of course,” agreed Muller instantly, relieved.
They stood silently in the corridor, watching her walk away.
“I’m very sorry,” said Muller, when she was beyond hearing. He waved his arms, hopelessly. “What can I say?”
“The emotion at the beginning of a launch,” reminded Gerda, recalling their discussion at the start of the day.
“You’re very understanding,” said Muller.
“We’re scientists,” said the girl. “Perhaps employed differently from yourself and Dr. Bloor. But scientists, nevertheless.”
“This hasn’t been as I intended,” said the old man, apologetically. “I would like there to be another meeting very soon with Dr. Bloor. Tonight, in my suite perhaps. We’ll eat there again, as we did last night.”
“We’d be very pleased to accept,” said Bohler, for both of them. Gerda nodded.
“Again,” said Muller, “my apologies.”
“I don’t consider that you have anything to regret,” said Bohler, the formality of his speech indicating otherwise. “As Dr. Lintz has already said, we understand perfectly.”
He turned, taking Gerda’s arm, moving her away to maintain the Director’s uneasiness. Without question this time she turned to the left, towards his quarters. Gerda managed to contain herself until they got into the suite and then she turned, seizing his hands with almost childlike excitement. “You were magnificent!” she said. “I don’t know why you did it to her, but you were magnificent.”
“A card,” said Bohler, simply.
“Card?”
“The admission disc, into the launch area. Unless we have access, we might as well pack up and leave now. I reckon we’ve got Muller so edgy, he’ll give us one without fully being aware of what he’s doing.”
“That’s very clever.” The enthusiasm had gone now; in its place was quiet admiration.
“The opportunity presented itself, so I took it,” he said, simply.
“I think she hates you,” said Gerda. There was satisfaction in her voice and Bohler smiled.
“I don’t think she does,” he said. “I think she was just overly defensive. I can understand it.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Nice body, though.”
Her face stiffened momentarily and she instantly tried to relax the expression, belatedly aware that he was mocking her. She tried to retreat behind her barrier and this time Bohler made it easier for her.
“Work,” he said, simply.
As she had done the previous day, Gerda moved to the door, to provide a warning of any unexpected entry. Bohler made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was writing out the information that they had discovered, putting it in the form of an official report of the sort that the authorities within the complex would imagine he had to compile. It took him almost an hour and then, silently, he offered it to Gerda. For a further thirty minutes, with
Bohler at the door this time, she added the technical details she had learned from her separate discussions with Hannah Bloor and inserted in his account the gyro anti-spin fitment to the satellite which he had forgotten. It took a further fifteen minutes to dictate the report into the special radio and another five to transmit it. Bohler finally sat back in his chair, aware of the ache in his shoulders from the tension of what he had been doing. Needing no prompting this time, Gerda came further into the room.
“It isn’t like they believed it would be, is it?” she said.
He frowned at her, not understanding.
“Who’s in charge of whom,” she expanded. “You’ve taken control.”
“It didn’t happen consciously.”
“I didn’t say I minded.”
“You spoke to Dr. Bloor more than I did,” said Bohler. “What’s the most obvious sabotage?”
“Gyro settings,” said Gerda immediately.
Bohler shook his head. “I got closer than you did to the satellite,” he said. “They’re already housed within the cone. There would never be sufficient time to locate them, unscrew the guard plates and re-set them.”
“Fuel then,” said Gerda. “Try to make it misfire. Or burn up on launch.”
“What about the television monitor? The silo’s under constant observation.”
“What’s your idea?” demanded Gerda.
“Something far less ambitious,” said Bohler. “It would only take a slight over-tightening of one of those protective plate screws and the satellite wouldn’t open properly, once it was placed in orbit.”
“But it would still operate partially,” argued the girl. “Surely we were told it had to malfunction completely.”
“What we were told to do and what we can do are two different things,” said Bohler.
“The satellite isn’t closed yet,” reminded Gerda, accepting his argument. “Could we misalign the omnidirectional aerials?”
“Probably,” said Bohler, doubtfully. “It would probably be picked up during the final check through and corrected.”
“You’re being very defeatist,” she protested suddenly.
“I’m trying to be objective,” insisted Bohler. “We came here expecting fireworks in a tin shed. Not this degree of sophistication. To be effective, we should have got in here months ago, during the early construction stages.”
“But we didn’t get here during the early construction stages,” said Gerda. “And the satellite pictures didn’t show tin sheds, either. They showed us what we’ve found.”
“OK,” agreed Bohler. “So I underestimated.”
She indicated the radio. “Shouldn’t we warn them how difficult it’s going to be?”
Bohler considered the suggestion. “That would be defeatist,” he said. “Let’s see if we can do something, first.”
“All right,” she said.
“I like your hair,” he said suddenly.
Instinctively her hand went to her head and she smiled and then flushed, as she had done in the Director’s suite.
“I felt I had to meet the competition,” she said. She attempted to make it sound a joke, but Bohler knew she meant it seriously.
“What competition?” he said, going along with her mood.
“We hadn’t met her then,” said Gerda, coquettishly.
This time she didn’t remain still when he went to her. She reached out for him eagerly, pulling his mouth to hers, holding his head between her hands and kissing him again and again. He matched her frenzy, lifting her from the chair so that they were both standing, bodies close together. After a while they stopped, breathless, and he guided her unprotesting to the divan. He laid her down, gently, and began kissing her once more, more softly now. She lay with her eyes closed, one hand caressing his cheek, the other looped around his neck, as if she feared he might pull away. She moved her body, to make it easier when he began undressing her. He had expected her to be shy, but she lay naked before him almost proudly, one arm behind her head so that her breasts were lifted for examination. He bent, trapping a nipple between his teeth and she mewed and circled her hand around his neck, pressing him down upon her. He snailed his tongue lower and she opened her legs: her hand was firmer on his neck, guiding him to where she wanted him to go. It wasn’t a mewing sound any longer. She was groaning, the emotion shuddering from her. Her body began to thrust into him, in urgent, arching movements. Her nails were biting into his neck, holding him there. He was nervous of hurting her with his teeth, but she drove his head into her body until it was difficult for him to breathe, then she gave a tiny scream and the thrusting gradually subsided. He looked up. Gerda’s face was flushed and her hair lank with sweat.
“You’ve still got your clothes on,” she complained. Her voice was thick.
“You didn’t give me time.”
“I’m giving you time now.”
He hurried his clothes off, easing onto the bed beside her. She felt out for him, her fingers and mouth butter-flying over his body.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said, the words blurred against his stomach. She seemed to get as much enjoyment giving as receiving pleasure. He started to move very quickly and she straddled him, bearing down and groaning afresh when he entered her. She controlled their pace, hands pressed down against his shoulders, saying, “No, no,” when he tried to go too fast. They exploded together, clutching each other and she still kept moving, not wanting him to stop.
“My God!” he said. It was a disbelieving sound.
She pulled herself from his shoulder, holding her head just above his so that they were nose to nose. “Was that a note of criticism, sir?” she said, lightly.
“That was definitely not criticism,” he said. She seemed very pleased with herself.
Her mood suddenly changed. “I’m still very frightened, being here,” she said.
“But this wasn’t because of nervousness?”
“No,” she agreed immediately. “This was because I wanted to.”
“Why all the rejection, before?”
“Because I didn’t want it to happen. I knew it would, but I wanted to avoid it.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“So am I.”
She was so close that he only had to move his lips to kiss her. “Be very careful,” he said, tenderly. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“And you,” she insisted.
“We’ll both be careful,” he said.
“For what?” she demanded, in sudden complete awareness.
“Let’s not think about what happen afterwards,” he pleaded hurriedly.
This time she kissed him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to stay in here forever, with the door locked?” she said.
“That wouldn’t get a rocket off its axis.”
She got off him, grinning down. “We destroyed one projectile pretty effectively,” she giggled. “I wonder if that’s an omen.”
The Israeli Premier entered the room with his customary fluster and David Levy wondered why the man constantly felt the need to indicate the pressure on his time.
“Sorry to keep you,” said Weismann, automatically.
“I know you’re busy,” said the Mossad Director.
Weismann indicated the file on his desk. “They’ve got an amazing amount of intelligence out of the installation,” he said.
“It’s a very good operation,” agreed Levy.
“What about the other groups?”
“So far there’s been no cause for them to be used. They’re in position, according to the last report I got from Washington.”
“Are the Americans telling us everything?”
“I think so,” said Levy.
“What about our own group.”
“Fifty-five man unit,” reported Levy, immediately. “I’ve had them training for a week. The desert area near Beersheba is sufficiently large for us to have built a complete mock-up of the installation, created to scale from the satellite reconnaissance the Americans provided.”
The Premier nodded. “What about refuelling?”
For a moment, Levy appeared embarrassed by the answer. “The Egyptians have given us permission to establish a fuel dump right on the border with Libya and the Sudan, about two hundred miles southeast of the Dakhilah oasis.”
Weismann smiled, knowing the reason for Levy’s discomfort. “So there is a point for establishing treaties with Egypt, after all,” he mocked.
“They’ve been very helpful,” said Levy, stiffly. “We’re airlifting Sikorsky helicopters in, by C-130. We’ll be able to refuel in midair, too. Logistically, we’re in a much better position than we were in Uganda.”
“When do you go?”
“Not yet,” said Levy cautiously. “Let’s see what progress the Americans and the Russians make first. We might ruin everything by moving too quickly.”
25
Across the other side of the hut, Makovsky slept with one arm over his face, as if he were protecting himself. Blakey stirred cautiously, concerned at the sound the rushes made and not wanting to awaken the Russian; they intended to get off early, before the heat of the day, but there was no reason to rouse him for another hour. The mosquito flare still burned and a lot of the vapour clung to the inside of the hut. It stung Blakey’s eyes, making them water, and he blinked against the discomfort. At least this was physical, something he could rectify. He wished it were as easy to resolve the doubts and uncertainties that had kept sleep beyond a dozing distance. It was not a new emotion, this stomach-emptying, numbed feeling of despair. Or even — yet — as bad as he had ever known it. At the seminary it had been far worse. A helplessness, he supposed. Certainly that was how he had identified it then, a helplessness to avoid hurting the fathers who had spent so much time preparing him, and his parents, who had sacrificed so much to keep him in the college. But hadn’t the seminary been easier? he demanded of himself. He’d agonized over the disappointments he would cause — wept over them, even. But beneath it all he knew that the priests who had tried so hard and his parents, who had wanted so much, would learn in time to accept his decision. Respect him for it, maybe. But this was far worse: the helplessness this time was in setting out knowingly to harm and not being brave enough to prevent himself doing it. No one would understand and respect him for what he was about to do.
He eased the wallet from his rear pocket and then, from one of the rear recesses, took out the picture of Jane and Samantha. He stared down at it, rubbing it free of imagined dust. The child on yesterday’s bus would have been a year older, perhaps a little more. Dear God, he prayed, what am I to do?
“What’s that?”
Blakey jumped at Makovsky’s question. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to awaken you.”
“You didn’t. What’s that?”
Blakey handed the photograph across the small hut. The Russian took it, gazing down expressionlessly. “Yours?”
“Yes,” said Blakey proudly. “Samantha is four. She can already read a few words.”
Makovsky returned the photograph. “What’s a Roman Catholic missionary doing with a wife and child?” he demanded.
“There’s nothing identifying them as that. It could be anyone — my sister, for instance.” He was irritated not so much by the criticism as by the other man’s apparent lack of interest.
“Jane — that’s my wife — she’s a kindergarten teacher.”
“Oh,” said Makovsky. He sat up, knocking the soles of his boots to clear them of anything that might have crawled in during the night.
“You married?” asked Blakey.
Makovsky looked up, frowning at the question. “No,” he said. “Never bothered.”
Blakey smiled at the man’s phrase. “It’s not a bother, believe me.”
Makovsky was back at his boots, unwilling to continue the conversation.
Blakey suddenly remembered the information he had received back from the missile ship the previous night, after reporting their arrival. He looked across to the Russian, wondering if it provided the excuse.
“They’ve managed to penetrate the complex,” he said. “And the commandos are in position.”
“You told me last night.”
“So we’re almost superfluous,” suggested Blakey, hopefully.
“Superfluous?”
“If they’re going to be able to sabotage the rocket from inside the complex, there doesn’t seem a lot of point in our creating all this misery for the people outside.” He shuddered. “That defoliation is terrible.”
Makovsky didn’t reply immediately. Instead he pulled himself over the floor until he was sitting only a few feet from the American.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Doesn’t it upset you, the thought of what is being done?” asked Blakey, openly. The wetness of his eyes was still being caused by the mosquito vapor, he was sure.
“No,” said Makovsky. “And it shouldn’t upset you.”
“It does.”
Makovsky reached across the short distance between them, seizing Blakey’s arm. “It’s too late for morals or conscience now,” he said sternly. “If you had any doubts, you should have said so in Vienna.”
“I did argue,” insisted Blakely.
“For the sake of conscience, not conviction,” said the Russian presciently. “You can’t run away from it now; it’s too late.”
“What we’re doing isn’t right.”
“You knew that in Vienna, too.”
“But it’s unlikely to achieve anything. Except unnecessary hurt.”
“It just might cause the installation a problem,” said Makovsky. “So therefore it’s worth doing. Just because they’re in the complex doesn’t mean they’re going to succeed in doing anything.”
Makovsky stood, nudging the American’s water bottle towards him with his foot. “Take a drink,” he said. “Then I’ll go to the well and fill them both up before we set off.”
Blakey did as the Russian suggested, handing the man the bottle without comment. Alone in the hut, Blakey began filling the bags of his pack with belongings, then set out ration cans for their first meal. They were army supplies, but the containers were labelled with proprietary brand names. He had them opened by the time Makovsky returned. They put chlorine into the bottles to purify the water and then swilled down their malaria pills; Blakey grimaced at the metallic taste that the cleansing tablets had given the water.
“The villagers are up,” reported Makovsky. “I saw Ndala. He asked if we wanted a guide and I said no. He’s told me the best way to go.”
Blakey attempted to eat but found it impossible.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Makovsky made as if to speak again but shook his head instead; it seemed a gesture of disappointment.
The African headman approached as soon as he saw them at the doorway. “I have told your friend the way to travel,” he said to Blakey. “Always to where the sun rests.”
“Thank you,” said the American.
“Will you return?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“You will be welcome.”
