Target, page 31
“Please,” said Paul, to the detective who had brought him in. “I want to get this over with quickly. My name is Paul Peterson. I’m an attorney.”
There was a slight change in the man’s attitude, but not that for which Paul had hoped. “Then tonight just ain’t your lucky night, is it?”
A second detective had heard the exchange and stared at Paul, curiously. “The drug-taker’s friend,” he said, in recognition.
Almost at once the attention switched from the Puerto Rican to Paul: the hostility was the same.
“Well, well,” said the man who had cracked the pusher’s fingers. “We got us the junkie’s friend.”
The detective who had arrested him thrust his hand into Paul’s jacket, extracted the billfold and gazed at the identification. “That’s what it says here,” he confirmed.
“We’re going to be famous,” said another detective. “After a year we get Arnold. And bag Peterson at the same time.”
The door behind them opened and from the change that went through the assembled detectives, Paul decided the man was of senior rank. Paul’s arresting officer went immediately to him; there was much gesturing and head nodding and the newcomer began to smile, looking first at Arnold and then at Paul. The briefing finished, he went first to the cage.
“I got you, Arnold,” he called, through the bars. “It’s taken a year, but at last I’ve got you.”
“You ain’t got shit,” said the Puerto Rican, still nursing his bruised hands. “It’s entrapment and you’ll be kissing my ass when I get to my lawyer.”
“Thought you had a lawyer,” said the officer, turning to Paul.
“My name is Captain Vincenzi,” he said, as if that should instill respect. “And I know all about you. Do you know what you’ve done, Peterson? You’ve cost us about thirty convictions in the past year.”
Paul suddenly realized that he was not going to be able to talk his way out of the situation. Until that very moment, confused as he was, he had believed that once he had explained what had happened he would have been set free. Now, suddenly, he knew that the men in the room felt almost as much hostility towards him as they did towards the Puerto Rican. There was a wall clock high up near the arrest cage. He’d been away from Beth for three hours.
He jerked his shoulders, wincing at the discomfort. “There is no need for these handcuffs,” he said.
“I’m the one who decides the need for things here,” said Vincenzi.
“Then it’s time for you to make a very important decision,” retorted Paul, forcing the demand into his voice and nodding to the wallet lying on the desk before him. “In there you’ll find an unlisted Langley number. It’s the number of my father, who is Director of the CIA. You’ll also find the number of the White House and if you call that you can get confirmation from the President’s office.…”
He moved his shoulders again. “I want these off, right now. And I want calls, first to the White House and then to Langley. The man you’ll speak to is Walter Jones. He’s the Deputy Director. Just tell him what’s happened and then listen.”
There was a stir in the room. The detectives were uncomfortable at hearing their senior officer spoken to with such disrespect, and Vincenzi himself was filled with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. Paul knew his face was burning and hoped they would think it anger rather than the embarrassment it was. He had done it. He had done what he had vowed he would never do — invoked the power and the influence of his father. So what would there be to sneer at now? Was Beth and whatever state she might be in sufficient reason to discard his training in legality and run instead down the familiar Washington corridors: you fix for me and I’ll fix for you?
Vincenzi remained standing before him for a long time, then nodded to the arresting officer who unlocked Paul’s hands. The Captain picked up the wallet and went without speaking into one of the side offices. Gauging his momentary advantage, Paul sat uninvited in a chair, trying to convey a calm he did not feel. His wrists were raw and he sat massaging them.
“How about me? What about me, for chrissake? Ain’t I got rights?”
The detective with the gun went to the cage, unstrapping it again as he walked. “You don’t shut up, Arnold, and I’m going to wack this right acros your mouth and ruin all those holiday snapshots.”
The other detectives began to move around the room, behaving almost as if Paul were not there. He sat watching the minute hand slowly ascend and then descend the dock face. Vincenzi’s door remained closed. Occasionally, from somewhere else in the building there came isolated shouts and once, from the street below, there was the sudden blare of a police siren as a patrol car went away on a call.
Paul had expected movement from Vincenzi’s room, but instead it came from the door leading in from the corridor. Walter Jones entered almost unobtrusively but at the same time with a very studied demeanor of control. It was such that there was no immediate challenge from the assembled detectives. Before they could react, Jones had walked across to where Paul was sitting.
“You all right?”
Paul held out his chaffed wrists. “Just a little sore.”
The Deputy Director looked up into the room. “Where’s Gaptain Vincenzi?”
“In the office,” said the detective who had arrested Paul.
“Tell him I’m here.” He turned back to Paul. “Is it Beth?”
“Yes.”
“How bad is she?”
“Very bad.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
The detective returned and said, “He asks if you would go in.”
Jones moved, gesturing Paul to follow. None of the detectives attempted to stop him. Jones put out his hand as he went into the office and Vincenzi hesitandy took it.
“I’m sure this is a problem that we can resolve,” said Jones.
“I’m not,” said Vincenzi.
Jones paused at the rejection. “The Director’s away on assignment at the moment,” he said, “but I know he would be very grateful for your understanding.”
So this was how it was done, thought Paul, listening to the exchange. Quietly, calmly, using as many ambiguities as you could.
“What do you need?” asked Vincenzi.
“Quite a lot,” said Jones, moving to anticipate the other man’s protest.
“Like what?”
“It never happened,” said Jones, quietly. “No reports filed, no charges made. It just never happened.”
“No,” refused Vincenzi.
“That’s what I want.”
“I said no,” repeated the Captain.
The two men were still talking very quietly: it could have been a discussion about a baseball game or some very minor, unimportant disagreement in a political argument.
“The Director would be extremely grateful,” repeated Jones. “He’d make it personally clear to you as soon as he returns to this country.”
Vincenzi’s control began to slip. He leaned across the desk, finger outstretched towards Paul. “Without him,” he said, “I haven’t got that fucker out there in the cage. You any idea what that guy’s responsible for? I’ve been staking him out for a year — a year in which he’s pushed every sort of shit from sleeping pills to heroin into God knows how many kids. There are children ten years of age in psychiatric clinics because of what he’s done. I want him.”
“It’s a problem, I agree,” said Jones. His voice remained very even.
“Not my problem,” said Vincenzi. “I’m sorry. I really am. If I could help I would.”
“You must,” said Jones, an edge of insistence in his voice.
“We’re talking of favors,” said the policeman, warningly. “You don’t have any jurisdiction. No jurisdiction at all.”
Jones allowed a slight pause, as if the assessment were open to challenge.
“There are very special circumstances,” said Jones.
“I know the circumstances,” said Vincenzi. He looked at Paul. “If he were the President’s son I wouldn’t help. I’m not going to lose that pusher.”
“The one in the cage out there?”
Vincenzi nodded. “If I release him, he’d be back on the streets in an hour.” He gestured to a plastic possession bag lying on the desk, containing what had been taken from the Puerto Rican in the lavoratory. “Look at it,” he demanded. “Amphetamines, coke. Eight ounces of heroin, at least.”
“You want him off the streets?” demanded Jones.
“For a long time.”
“How about forever?”
Both the policeman and Paul stared at the Deputy Director, confused by the question.
“What?” said Vincenzi.
“What’s his nationality?” said Jones.
“Puerto Rican.”
“Hold him overnight,” ordered Jones. “By noon tomorrow he’ll be a prohibited alien. My people will collect him from you so he’ll have no time to contact anybody, collect anything. He’ll go straight to a ship and be dumped within twenty-four hours — without money, papers or anything. We’ll leave him stateless in Puerto Rico.”
Vincenzi sat back, exhaling slowly and trying to disguise his awe.
“I wouldn’t get a public conviction,” he argued, weakly.
Jones looked at Paul. “What have you got: one simple case of pushing? You’d be lucky to get two to four. He’d be back on the streets in eighteen months. My way it’s permanent.”
“I’d like to think about it.”
“I said there were special circumstances. There isn’t time.”
“You’d really do that to the bastard?”
“My word.”
Vincenzi nodded, shortly. He looked at Paul. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing,” he said. “But you’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch.”
Once in Jones’ car Paul gave the address of his apartment, and as they drove towards it the Deputy Director used the car telephone to arrange a clinic and ambulance. They still arrived first. The bedroom was disordered, not so much by any pain-induced frenzy but more as if Beth had tried to move about to relieve her discomfort and had collided with things. She had collapsed very near the spot where Paul had left her. Her bladder and bowels had given out and she lay in her own filth. Her face was waxed and shiny and her eyes half open. She was still shivering and groaning, but appeared unconscious when Paul tried to speak to her.
Paul covered her again with a blanket and stood to face Walter Jones.
“Thank you,” he said, “for all you did tonight. Thank you very much.”
“I promised your father I’d help.”
“Will you tell him about Beth?”
“Only that we’ve got her back. He’s got a lot to worry about; this wouldn’t help.”
The lobby bell sounded and Paul pressed the button to admit the ambulance men.
“You’re quite a guy,” said Paul.
“There’s really not a lot to admire,” said Jones and Paul knew the man was being honest without trying to attain any false modesty.
28
Mosquitoes had got beneath Blakey’s net during the night and feasted off him, particularly around his ankles. The skin was puffed and red and when he tried to walk, little spurts of pain went up into his legs, making him wince. Makovsky became aware of the other man’s discomfort and did more than his own share of preparing their meal and then breaking camp. The final chore was to fill the petrol tanks from their reserve cans.
“Only two left,” warned the Russian.
“Mao then,” said Blakey. Fuel had been arranged for them there.
The Russian stared up at the sky and then, apparently dissatisfied, took field-glasses from the jeep and looked again. “Cloud’s building up on the horizon, just like the forecast said.”
Blakey took the binoculars. In the half-light it was just possible to pick out a great foam of cumulus where the plain edge met the sky. “More than I expected,” he said. “Unusual, for the season.”
“That’s what the Africans will think,” said Makovsky. “Something else we can blame on the complex.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult to achieve quite a rainfall from clouds like that.”
“Then that’ll be enough, won’t it?”
The American turned, curious at the suggestion from Makovsky. “Yes,” he smiled. “That’ll be enough for today.”
Makovsky sighed and the tension seemed to leave his body.
“Surely you didn’t think I’d argue,” said Blakey.
The Russian shrugged. “I hoped you wouldn’t. I didn’t know.”
“The plane will be dropping defoliant as well,” reminded Blakey.
“But we won’t.”
“Now who’s using a strange sort of morality to avoid responsibility?” demanded Blakey. There was no animosity in the question.
“Had a grandfather who was a priest,” reflected Makovsky. “Russian orthodox: thought it was a disadvantage and that I’d never get anywhere in the service. I actually wanted this.”
“And now?”
The Russian shook his head. “You know how I feel now.”
The first rays of sun were creeping across the plain when they set out northwards. Makovsky drove because of the American’s bites. To the west the mist was still capping the lake. For the first hour it was so cold that they repositioned the windscreen to keep the breeze off their faces and bodies. The heat was just getting into the day when they encountered a small encampment of Tubu; for the first time, word had not travelled ahead of their presence. Blakey supposed that being nomads, the Tubu had no links with the close, interlocking communications of the other villages and groups. The Africans had already parcelled up their tents and were moving out with their cattle when Blakey and Makovsky drove up. Only one man knew any French and he spoke it badly; the Africans stood around regarding them uneasily. Very early on in the conversation, Blakey discerned a reason for their apprehension. They talked almost immediately of the devastation through which they had travelled, further north — for two days now they had been unable to find even the minimal gazing for their animals. It led Blakey easily to the rocket installation and the suggestion that it might be responsible for the troubles. The tribesmen had passed it a week before. Less accustomed to it than the more settled tribes, it had frightened them, even before Blakey’s innuendo. And by now the clouds were ballooning in the sky, making it easy for the American to implant further fear.
“Made the biggest impression yet,” judged Makovsky, as they drove off. Spared the need to inflict harm physically, the Russian was in high spirits.
“With little point,” said Blakey. “You saw what was happening. When they feel threatened, they move away. The opposition we want is from Africans who feel their homes are being endangered.”
The Russian’s lightness waned. “There’ll be quite a few people imagining that, by now,” he said.
There was a very large village about fifty kilometers from Mao where for the first time they encountered a witchdoctor. The man appeared to have been expecting them. A leopard skin, complete with head, covered his shoulders and back, the animal’s head arranged so that it made a cap. He wore several necklaces, made of animals’ teeth, one certainly that of a lion, and his chest was patterned in unguents of red and white and a thick, almost purplish, blue. He carried a fly whisk in one hand and an enclosed gourd rattle in the other. His thighs were streaked with the blue color and leaf fronds were tied around his legs, just below the knee. The man stood in the center of what appeared to be a committee of elders.
Blakey and Makovsky parked some way off and approached respectfully on foot. All except the witchdoctor were shifting uncertainly.
“I am Asaph Miburu,” said the African. “Your coming was known to me.”
Blakey wondered if the uneasiness of the other Africans arose from the shaman’s forecast of their arrival.
“Why do you come?” asked Miburu.
“To talk,” said Makovsky.
“Of God?”
“Yes,” said Blakey reluctantly.
Overhead, the clouds were so thick that the village was only patched with sunlight. Most of the Africans were glancing frequently at the sky.
“Soon there will be rains,” said Blakey.
“It is not the time,” said the African.
Blakey noticed a cleared area beyond them and he guessed the African had been incanting spells before their arrival. There was a pattern of crossed sticks to which chicken feathers had been attached by what appeared to be blood. A series of lines had been inscribed in the dirt, all drawn towards a blackened area where something had apparently been burned.
“I have said there will be no rain,” said Miburu.
“I believe there will be,” said Makovsky. The stir among the other Africans showed that several of them understood French.
Miburu hesitated, then stood aside, gesturing them into the long hut in front of which he stood, clearly the village meeting house. Blakey and Makovsky entered. There were rush mats arranged in a circle, with a raised dais of earth set slightly back. Miburu went towards it as if by right, gesturing again for the two men to sit by him. Blakey and Makovsky squatted, waiting for the African’s lead. The other villagers assembled respectfully on the mats.
“I have said it will not come,” repeated the man.
“There are moments when things happen that cannot be foreseen,” said the American. The witch-doctor would lose face if he were proved wrong.
“Here the seasons do not change.”
“Perhaps there are things to make them change,” said Makovsky. Blakey decided they were becoming very practiced at guiding conversations.
Miburu looked from one to the other for several moments. He was about to speak when there was a sudden rustle from above them and rain began to fall upon the leafed roof of the hut. There was a stir of murmuring among the Africans and several looked accusingly at Miburu. Blakey remembered the briefing from the expert in African studies before he had left Langley; weather divination was widely practiced by the wise men of the tribes, their accuracy enhancing their reputation. It took only minutes for Miburu to bring the conversation around to the complex and, despite his distaste at what he was having to do, Blakey felt a tinge of satisfaction as he realized how successful they had been in implanting doubts in the minds of the Africans. The African expert had insisted that in the beginning they should be seen as much as possible, but Blakey had never expected the stories about them to spread as widely and as quickly as they had. He thought back to Makovsky’s changed attitude and wondered if the Russian would agree that they had now succeeded sufficiently and did not need to inflict any more injury or hardship. As in all their encounters, Blakey and Makovsky were very careful to avoid voicing directly the suggestion that the installation could be the cause of harm, always allowing the thought to come from the African first, and then letting it become a conviction by refusing to argue against the possibility. During the rambling talk Makovsky produced cigarettes and the gesture was reciprocated with sweet beer. It was a long time before it emerged that over a dozen young men from the village worked in the complex, and even longer before Blakey realized why the Africans grouped around him were so easily susceptible to suggestions of evil: one of the men had returned home a week before, badly blistered by an accidental collision with the electrified fence. Miburu called it “wire that burned.”
