Target, page 28
“Whadya want?”
The question made him jump, echoing around the cavernous building. Knowing they’d sense any fear and try to use it, Paul immediately went to the largest group. About them clung the odor of urine and dust and body smells.
“Looking for a girl,” he said. “Beth Peterson. Anyone here know Beth Peterson?”
There were four men and the fifth was probably a woman, although he wasn’t sure. In the middle of their circle the neck of a bottle stuck out from a brown bag. They stared up at him sullenly, not answering.
“Beth Peterson,” he said again. Should he offer them money? Around him the nest moved and heaved. They’d rush him, if they openly saw money.
“My sister,” he tried again. “I’m looking for my sister.”
A raincoated man, face streaked and ingrained with dirt, reached forward for the bottle, shaking his head. Paul was unsure whether it meant ignorance of the girl or rejection.
He moved on. A boy, hair streaming down his back, barefoot and wearing just jeans and T-shirt, watched birdlike as he approached.
“What have you got?” demanded the boy and Paul recognized the voice which had shouted, startling him.
“Got?”
“Coke? Horse maybe. How about grass? You got any grass?”
“I’m looking for my sister. Do you know a girl here called Beth Peterson?”
“You ain’t got anything?” the boy seemed aggrieved.
“No,” said Paul, shortly. “I haven’t got anything.”
“Betcha got the money to buy something, though?” the boy leered, a cunning look.
Paul knew he could have defeated the boy easily enough, if he had made any sudden grab — he was emaciated, almost skeletal. But others would have joined in, the moment any fight began. He backed away, moving further along. Dotted about were odd scraps of furniture and bedding and occasionally a packing case, upended to form a table. Halfway along a metal stairway thrust up to nowhere, the floor to which it had once led long ago removed or collapsed. At its base was a side door and he was actually in front of the figure slumped there, about to ask his question, when he realized it was his sister. She was wrapped in a greasy, once-red-but-now-brown poncho. The jeans were frayed and tattered at her ankles and she wore sandals with no securing straps, just a small toe hook. Her hair was banded with dirt. Her face was smeared, too, and there were yellowing spots in the crease where her nose met her cheek and in the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were vacant and unfixed.
“Beth,” he said, going down on to his knees in front of her. “Beth.”
Her mouth moved, in a haphazard smile. “Hi,” she said, in a faraway voice.
She had not recognized him, Paul realized. He reached out into the folds of the poncho, trying to find her hands to squeeze some response from her.
“Beth,” he said again. “It’s me, Paul. I’ve come to take you home, Beth.”
He found her hands, pulling her forward eagerly. The movement shifted the poncho and he saw the black needle marks near the big vein in the bend of her arm. There were ridged bruises, too, where she’d hurried to tie the tourniquet, and in several places, particularly on her left arm, some of the puncture marks were scabbed and festering.
“Jesus Christ!” he moaned.
She was blinking, squinting her eyes together at the growing awareness of someone before her.
“It’s me, Beth. It’s Paul. Come on; we’re going home.”
With an effort, she concentrated upon him. “Not my daddy,” she said, accusingly. “You’re not my daddy.”
“It’s Paul,” he said, cupping her face and holding it in front of his, urging her to recognize him.
“Wanted my daddy. Wanted him to come.”
“He couldn’t make it, not this time,” said Paul, bringing the girl to her feet. “I came instead.”
This time the effort was so great that sweat broke out on the girl’s face. “So glad you came,” she said. “So glad.”
26
Now that the Russians had washed away the dirt and camouflage of their ambush, Bradley could see how close they were to complete exhaustion and realized the pace at which Sharakov had forced them, to make this possible. He could have done it, the American decided. He could have forced his unit the previous day, after the initial acclimatization, and made the rendezvous first. But he’d consciously held back, to keep them properly fighting fit. And his had been the right decision: troops as drained as the Russians obviously were could perform no useful function. Without any embarrassment or reflection on his own intentions, not three hours earlier, Bradley decided that Sharakov had managed a cheap advantage and gained nothing by it.
The Russians appeared to have realized it. Sharakov had openly shown the irritation and his men given indications of it as they had labored to erase the traces of their trap under the gaze of the Americans. Sergeant Banks had intercepted Bradley’s look and correctly assessed it; he’d let the men settle themselves. They sprawled and lounged against the trees and undergrowth, waiting with apparent patience while the Soviet group refilled their trenches, replaced the top covering, brushed the footprints away and then washed in a pool similar to that in which the Americans had cleaned up, a mile back along the track.
The Russians were slow reassembling. Their movements were uncoordinated and they all appeared drooped and listless with fatigue. Bradley timed the moment perfectly. Just as they had managed some sort of assembly and were looking towards Sharakov for the order to rest, as the Americans had been doing for the past hour, Bradley moved forward with sudden urgency and said, “Shall we move out then?”
There was just a moment of perceptible hesitation before Sharakov turned, to look at him.
“Move out?”
Bradley waved generally towards the dark overhanging jungle. “This is no good for any sort of camp,” he said. “And there’s only three hours of daylight left.”
Bradley stared blankly at the Russian, waiting. There was no way that he could be challenged: it was a bad spot at which to remain and it would be dark in three hours.
Sharakov nodded, snapping a command without looking at his men. He stayed gazing at the American, an expression of baleful dislike.
“Man for man, front and rear?” said Bradley, appearing unaware of the other man’s feelings.
Sharakov nodded, shouting again to his men without looking at them. Two men detached themselves from the group. Bradley gestured to Logan and Sweetman and the four men moved together; Logan nodded and smiled in a lopsided way and Sweetman appeared embarrassed. The two Russians stayed open-faced. Bradley signalled Logan to set out first and Sharakov picked out a man to accompany him. Sweetman and the other Russian moved to the back of the clearing, waiting for the main group to file out ahead of them. There was a confused milling and Bradley realized the men were waiting to see how he and Sharakov would move out. The American strode to the head of the group without any consultation; Sharakov followed. Bradley consciously moved fast, setting the pace. Where the jungle growth permitted it, they walked side by side, but at the places where it closed in, making single file necessary, Bradley allowed almost elaborate courtesy, gesturing the Russian ahead of him. Every time it happened, Sharakov made a conscious effort to slow the speed of the march. They travelled without any conversation, the only sound apart from the shouts and screams of the jungle was the occasional creak of some loosely-tied webbing or the chink of improperly secured metal. Sweat engulfed them; Bradley could feel the wetness squashed against his back as his pack lifted with each step. He guessed it was the fear of ridicule by the Russians that prevented his men using their head-nets against insects.
It was Bradley who called the halt, after an hour. His men immediately spread themselves and so did one or two of the fitter Russians, but the majority of the Soviet group merely halted, heads hung, as if they were unaware of the stop. Sharakov jerked a command at them and they seemed to pull themselves awake, then immediately slumped to the ground.
“Your men seem tired,” Bradley said to Sharakov.
“And yours careless,” came back Sharakov.
“You knew the coordinate,” argued Bradley. “It was an easy ambush to set.”
“So were you aware: it should have been as easy to detect.”
“My men are working under orders to cooperate — we weren’t anticipating amateur theatricals.” Bradley had intended sarcasm but it came out badly.
“You’re in hostile country on a hostile mission,” Sharakov scored, easily. “You should anticipate everything.”
Logan’s Kentucky twang spurted out from the radio, sparing Bradley the difficulty of a reply. The camp site was about six hundred meters ahead, where a knoll had suddenly thrust up in some geological freak, creating an area that was both dry and easily guarded.
“Mah friends agreed it’s good,” came Logan’s voice, as if aware of Sharakov’s attention to the transmission.
Bradley rose at once, knowing he had put himself at a disadvantage with Sharakov and unwilling to continue the discussion. The other Americans came up instantly, ready for a sudden movement, and then the Russians dropped unsteadily into line. There was an anxiousness about the Soviet soldiers, eager to reach some sanctuary, but unsure if their strength would last out until they got to it.
It was a good site, the best they had had since their parachute drop, and Bradley nodded appreciatively towards Logan. The knoll rose up, a gradual sweep of dry, firm ground topped by a thatch of trees and undergrowth from which a sentry would be aware of any approach for over a hundred yards in any direction. The incline wasn’t regular but broken in the middle, creating a cupped area of perfect protection between two small ridges.
Aware of the scrutiny, Logan nodded his head beyond one of the ridges and said, “There’s even a stream: water’s fresh and good.”
Without any apparent intention and certainly without orders from either Bradley or Sharakov, the Russian and American soldiers spread out over opposing ridges, like the formation of some biblical encounter. The Americans at once began erecting tents and cover sheets but the Russians sat dully on the grass, recovering. There was no conversation between them.
“Time to talk,” Bradley invited Sharakov.
The Russian nodded, following Bradley further up the slight hill. Bradley stopped where the two ridges joined, before climbing up onto the tiny coppice at the top. He turned, gazing down: the Russians were to the right, the Americans to the left. On higher ground, it was easy to detect the defoliation to the east.
“Your men should get their tents up,” said Bradley, squinting towards the sky; the sun had already gone beyond the tree-line and the shadows were spreading out towards them.
“Time enough,” said Sharakov.
Fearing that the Russian was going to resume their earlier dispute, Bradley began talking urgently, outlining what he had learned from his radio contact with Peterson in the Gulf of Guinea, with no way of knowing that he was merely providing a confirmation of what Sharakov had been told during his radio discussions with Petrov in Odessa. Sharakov listened intently, knowing of Peterson’s honesty from the KGB’s interception of the broadcast from the complex, and wondering whether Bradley would attempt to hold anything back. He didn’t.
“They seem to be doing well, inside the complex,” judged Sharakov.
“Remarkably so.”
“A week isn’t a lot of time — for any of us.”
“It’s got to be,” said Bradley.
Below them there was movement from the Russian side as the soldiers began assembling their tents.
“Libyan officers commanding African irregulars shouldn’t be much opposition, if we’ve got to go in,” said Sharakov.
“If we lost the element of surprise, they’d have an advantage with whatever firepower they’ve got established in those watchtowers and beyond, nearer the complex,” said Bradley cautiously. “Bohler thought the approach might be mined and certainly the wire is electrified.…” He paused, thoughtfully. “With that degree of protection, I think we should expect some other sort of electronic surveillance. Sensors maybe.”
“Sensors would make any sort of nighttime reconnaissance difficult,” said Sharakov. “And we’ll have to establish an entry path, in case we’ve got to go in.”
“We’ll have to do both,” suggested Bradley. “Daytime, for sensors. And then nighttime, to get in close.”
Daylight was almost gone now; everything stretched before them in greys and blacks. Sergeant Banks had posted a sentry near the jungle edge from which they had emerged, and they were suddenly aware of the man gesturing into the camp, beckoning other men forward. As Bradley and Sharakov stood up, they saw Sweetman and the other rear guard Russian. Sweetman was carrying both packs and rifles and supporting the Russian’s lolled, almost collapsed body. Americans and Russians moved from both sides to help. By the time the two commanders reached the spot, the Russian had already been laid out, his boot and sock removed and his trouser opened to the knee. It was so dark they had to use a flashlight to see the injury. The man’s leg was swollen from ankle to knee and very inflamed; just above the ankle there was a contrasting patch of white about two inches in circumference. In the middle were two puncture marks. Between them was the incision which Sweetman had made with the scalpel from his first aid kit, and there was a perfect circle around the wound where he had clamped the extraction tube and immediately attempted to withdraw the poison by drawing the vacuumed plunger upwards.
“Snake?” said Bradley.
“Didn’t see it,” said Sweetman. “Thought I would have heard the sound of it moving away, at least.”
“Perhaps a spider?” suggested Sharakov.
The Russian soldier had not lost consciousness. He was staring up at them without any real focus, groaning occasionally. He looked frightened.
“Smelt what I got out of the bite,” said Sweetman. “Couldn’t recognize anything.”
A Russian edged through the group and began strapping a premedicated poultice over the mark: the soldier tensed, as if the pressure were causing him pain. Everyone pulled back and two Russians lifted the man and carried him towards one of the tents. Sweetman handed the man’s pack and AK-47 to a third Russian who nodded and smiled, as if expressing gratitude.
Bradley moved towards their side of the camp and congratulated Sweetman.
“Heavy son of a bitch,” said Sweetman, mildly. “Apparently their colonel marched them right through the night without a stop. They’re bushed, every one of them.”
“How do you know?”
“Speaks good English,” said Sweetman. “Seemed a nice guy. None of them very keen on this, apparently. Suspicious of it.”
Bradley frowned at the intelligence. The day and night march didn’t surprise him, from the condition of the Soviet troops. But their uncertainty did.
“Sure he wasn’t bullshitting … leading you on?” he demanded.
Sweetman shook his head. “Just chatting,” he judged.
Bradley turned, aware of movement from the Russian side. Sharakov appeared through the darkness. He spoke to Bradley as military courtesy dictated, but looked twice towards Sweetman, nodding recognition.
“I’d like to thank you,” he said. “From what I gather, your man was very quick and did everything he could to help. We appreciate it.”
Bradley nodded at the gratitude, disconcerted by it. He indicated Banks. “I’ll let my sergeant liaise with yours about guard duty.”
Sharakov gestured agreement, looking directly at Sweetman. “Thank you,” he said again.
No one spoke for several minutes after Sharakov had moved away from them. Sergeant Banks got slowly to his feet and went to find the Russian sergeant. “Seems almost as if he wanted to be friendly,” he said.
“The orders talk of cooperation,” insisted Bradley. “They say nothing about friendliness.”
Walter Jones hesitated outside the President’s office and instead of turning left, which would have taken him through the corridors to the exit, went instead to the right.
He moved hesitantly because he had never before been to the office of the foreign affairs advisor. It was very close, which he supposed he should have expected. An aide smiled up as Jones entered and, before the Deputy Director could speak, the man said, “Mr. Flood told me to expect you. He asked if you would wait.”
Jones settled himself into the indicated chair and wondered about his pipe. It probably wouldn’t light anyway, so he decided not to bother. The President appeared encouraged by the briefings, reflected Jones. And with every reason — so far the operations was going remarkably well. He decided they had been due for some luck; it had been a disastrous beginning. He was surprised that Peterson did not appear to be happier about it. There again, there was sufficient reason. He would feel very cut off, stuck in the middle of an ocean: he might appear the fulcrum for all the information, but Jones guessed Peterson would be anxious about what was going on, back here in Washington. He had tried to indicate that some opposition was being mounted, during their last radio conversation, but he was unsure whether Peterson had properly appreciated what he was attempting to convey. He had had to be very circumspect.
Jones guessed that after his briefing, Fowler would have had a meeting with the Secretary of State and Flood, so he was surprised when the foreign affairs adviser bustled through the door after only fifteen minutes.
Jones rose as the man entered and Flood threw an arm around his shoulders, propelling him into the inner office. Jones moved awkwardly, uncomfortable at the gesture.
“Good of you to stop by,” said Flood, as if the Deputy Director could have considered refusal.
“I had to brief the President,” said Jones, joining in the charade.
Flood made a tower with his arms against the desk and sat with his head propped upon his hands. “Just seen him,” he confirmed.
