Target, page 39
“Spotters, from the complex,” judged Sharakov.
Bradley nodded. “They won’t detect us in the jungle.”
They had travelled for several hours before Sharakov pulled up level with the American.
“You didn’t do it,” said the Russian.
Bradley looked at him curiously.
“When you had the chance, you didn’t kill me.”
Bradley smiled, an expression of embarrassment. “It didn’t seem important any more.”
So complete was the army’s failure that there had been no point in an extensive radio conversation with Bradley. Peterson agreed on the pick-up coordinates and then for a long time remained slumped in the chair in the radio room, staring down at the report files which had begun so well and which now recorded a gradual culmination in complete disaster. He had to force movement into himself, encoding a message to Petrov and then to Washington.
After he had sent the messages, Peterson stayed on in the radio room, almost comatosed by a peculiar feeling of uncertainty. He tried to pull himself out of it, attempting to convince himself that there could be little other response to the domino-like collapse of everything he had attempted. He was scarcely aware of Captain Ridley entering the shack, blinking recognition only when the destroyer captain offered him coffee.
“Can I ask what happened?” said Riley.
Peterson concentrated fully upon the man. “I failed,” he said simply. “I failed in everything I set out to do.”
There was a sudden movement from the duty operator, who turned towards Peterson within minutes. “It’s for you, sir,” he reported. “It says you’re to return to Washington immediately.”
Epilogue
The observation room for the actual launch was above ground, a circular building with windows giving a 180-degree view of the silos from which Dr. Muller expected one day to launch more rockets. From where he stood, Bohler could see the slight discoloration in the ground, marking where the silo covering had been removed, in preparation for blast-off.
Muller was to his right, immediately behind Hannah Bloor. The Project Director was at a control console linked to the underground chamber into which they had seen Gerda fall to her death the previous day. Everyone’s attention was locked onto the digital countdown and when it came down to seconds, Hannah involuntarily began moving her lips in time with the figures flickering before her and then, at the very end, counted out loud.
Even through the concrete protection of the chamber they felt the vibration of ignition. Smoke and exhaust gases spewed up from the silo, and then from the middle of the clouds came the rocket, rising upwards in perfect trajectory.
Everyone in the room crowded forward against the windows. For several seconds the rocket was perfectly visible and then it was marked by exhaust flames and vapor gases and finally just the vapor. By the time Bohler turned back to the control panel, Hannah was already before it, counting now the time to first stage separation. It came precisely on time, without any fault. Mullet’s hand went out to her shoulder, resting there lightly. The second-stage booster came away ten minutes later, with the satellite perfectly on course. It was as if everyone in the room had been connected to an electrical current which had suddenly been turned off: they all slumped at the same moment, as the tension of possible failure left them. Hannah rose from her chair and Muller seized her hand, pumping it excitedly. Those from the project team who were not in the underground chamber crowded around her. She was very flushed and excited.
Muller had champagne in readiness on a side table. The Director poured it himself, clumsily, so a lot of the wine was spilled, and then carelessly handed it around. The exuberance faltered when he came to Bohler. Hannah appeared to become aware of him at the same moment and her smile also became uncertain.
Muller completed the movement he had started, handing Bohler a glass. Bohler took it. “Congratulations,” he said.
“I wish the occasion hadn’t been marred by the death of Dr. Lintz,” said Muller sincerely.
Bohler looked beyond the Director to the woman, slightly raising his glass in a toast. “You’ve had an overwhelming success,” he said. “You must be very proud.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Muller turned back to the others in the room, smiling again. “A triumph gentlemen,” he said. “We’ve achieved a resounding triumph.”
Russian and American satellites detected the launch at once. In Moscow the Politburo convened an immediate meeting. Litvinov was entrusted with recalling Petrov from Odessa. In Washington, the President had a meeting with Henry Moore and Herbert Flood and decided that Israel had to be informed of their satellite monitor. By the time the message was received in Jerusalem, Fowler was already chairing a meeting of the National Security Council.
It was from Israel that there came the public announcement of the launch. An emergency session of the Knesset was scheduled and the army, navy and air force were put on twenty-four hour alert.
The first pronouncement from any leader came from the Israeli Premier. Before the Knesset meeting, Shimeon Weismann made a television address to the nation. Not since the 1973 war had his country faced a greater challenge, he said.
He added: “Peace, which once seemed so close, is now in doubt again.”
Book Three
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive.
— Sir Walter Scott
36
Peterson paused at the exit from the aircraft, curiously reassured by the dishevelled figure of Walter Jones awaiting him. The deputy was huddled in the familiar, seemingly over-large overcoat and Peterson shivered in the cold — a bitter contrast to the weather he had known off the African coast during the previous week. The CIA Director hurried towards the waiting car, extending his hand to the other man as he approached. Jones took it. Neither man smiled nor spoke.
Peterson entered first and waited until Jones had followed and the door was closed, “How does it look?” he demanded.
“Bad.”
“I tried to call the White House three times from the plane. I was blocked off every time.”
Jones nodded. “The President is being very cautious, waiting to see which way it’s going to fall. If what we attempted becomes public, the Agency would be a big embarrassment.”
“Anything so far?”
“Not about us, no. Or the Soviets.”
“What has happened?”
“Israel is keeping the tension up, with some ambiguous statements. Syria, Iraq and Jordan have their armies on stand-by. Egypt is appealing for calm, but they’ve begun specialized mobilization. Libya has claimed full credit: Gadaffi even appeared on television. There’ve been messages of support for him from Saudi Arabia and the Gulf states.”
“Quite a coup,” conceded Peterson bitterly.
“But not for us.”
“Any response at all from Fowler?”
“Just that you be recalled immediately. And that we hold ourselves in readiness for any summons.”
“What about Flood?”
“Nothing from him either. But he’s the biggest danger. The moment he fears the criticism is getting personal, there’s the risk he’ll start to leak.”
“How well have we undermined him?”
Jones shrugged, setting out in fuller detail than had been possible in his messages to the ship the counterattack that had been made on the foreign affairs advisor. Peterson sat with his lips pursed, occasionally nodding at some point that the deputy made.
“Does Moore know of the income tax suggestion?”
“Not unless the President has told him.”
“It’s a good ace in the hole,” assessed Peterson. On the public highway, the vehicle was being slowed down by other traffic. The Director stared out, recognizing familiar landmarks: once he had felt an excitement in isolating them, but not any more.
He looked back into the car. “Have you set up a liaison with Bohler?”
“Fixed-time transmission, every night,” confirmed Jones. “Do you want him brought out?”
“No,” said the Director immediately. “Let’s learn how effective that damned satellite is.”
“Does it matter?”
“It might,” said Peterson.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you about fully on the ship,” said the deputy, unexpectedly. “About Beth.”
“What about Beth?”
“She’s ill … very ill.…”
Peterson flushed at the realization that he had not inquired after his family. “Why didn’t you …?”
“You had enough to think about,” said Jones, cutting off the protest. “She’s a heroin addict. She’s suffering from hepatitis, from some past injection or other. And there’s evidence of some venereal infection.”
“Oh Jesus!” said Peterson.”
“I told Paul you were home today; he’s waiting for your call.”
“What about Lucille?”
“No problems, as far as I know. Paul’s the one who has maintained direct contact with the clinic.”
“Does she know … about Beth, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Jones.
The limousine swept into the CIA headquarters and Peterson was already opening the door before the driver managed to get to it. Jones had set up a large work-table alongside his main desk; every report was assembled chronologically and cross-referenced to other information on which it had had a cause or effect. Although he had been in the control center and the conduit for most of the intelligence, it was the first opportunity the Director had had to consider it in its entirety. He went again through the whole operation, re-reading every message from within the African complex, then from the bogus priests and finally from Bradley, comparing them first separately and then together. Jones had added the President’s assessment as the affair had progressed and introduced Petrov’s reaction from Odessa, also his one contact with Levy in Jerusalem.
Peterson took two hours to re-assimilate all the facts, and he was frowning when he finally turned away from the work-bench. “What’s wrong with that?” he demanded, jerking his head back towards the files and folders.
“Wrong?” echoed Jones, confused. “It didn’t work, that’s what’s wrong.”
Peterson shook his head, reflectively. “Not that,” he said. “Something else.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the other man.
“Neither do I, not yet,” said Peterson obtusely. He sat down at his desk, but continued to stare at the records of the operation. “But there’s something we haven’t got right.”
Now Jones frowned. “I could recite almost every word printed over there,” he said. “I’ve checked it and I’ve cross-referenced it and I’ve collated it; if there were any inconsistency, I would have seen it.”
“I wonder,” said Peterson doubtfully. “I wonder if we both shouldn’t have seen it.”
Peterson straightened, casting off the uncertainty. “I’m going to see my family,” he said, conscious as he spoke that he was making it sound like a pronouncement.
Paul was waiting at the entrance to his apartment when Peterson’s car arrived. The boy hurried out immediately and got in beside his father. There was none of the customary antagonism between them and both seemed to want to acknowledge the other with some affection, but was unsure how to do it.
“Thank you,” said Peterson. “I gather you got Beth away from something pretty bad.”
“It’s going to take a long time,” said Paul. “A very long time. Methadone is addictive, too.”
“What about the other things?”
“Curable, in time.”
“Was she whoring, to earn it?”
“I guess so,” said the younger man, unconcerned. “I haven’t asked her.”
“Poor Beth.”
“She’s going to need a lot more than sympathy.”
“Then let’s see if we can provide it,” said Peterson, as the car turned into the grounds of the clinic. Paul entered familiarly and Peterson followed, conscious for the first time that his son had shaved off the drooping moustache. Peterson was introduced to the administrator and promised an interview with the physician and psychiatrist in charge of Beth’s case. Paul took the lead again, going into the ward section.
The girl had been moved from the admission area, where the security was strongest. Her room was brightly painted, almost garish. Beyond the mesh the windows were open. There were flowers on a side table and a bedside cabinet, a television set in one corner and a radio that worked through pillow-phones. There was none in evidence, but the cot was equipped with fittings for restraining equipment.
Peterson had expected to find his daughter in bed, but she was sitting out in a lounging chair alongside. She wore an all-enveloping terry robe and pumps with pink feathers at the instep. Her hair seemed freshly washed and plaited, little-girl style. She wore no make-up, and her face and even the skin of her hands was yellowed with the liver infection from which she was suffering. Peterson realized the dressing-gown looked large because Beth was so thin; what he could see of her arms and legs looked almost skeletal.
Peterson stopped just inside the door, unsure. Beth dropped the magazine she had been reading into her lap and gazed up at him, and Peterson had the impression that she was frightened. He forced the smile to his face, hurrying towards her. She made as if to stand, then changed her mind, going back into the seat again. He leaned forward, hands against the chair arms, to kiss her. She threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him.
“Daddy,” she said, in a tight whisper. “Oh, Daddy.”
“Hello, Beth.” His shoulders began to ache in the odd position in which he was standing, yet to put an arm around her would risk his collapsing on top of her. Slowly he lowered himself until he was kneeling before the girl and could reach out to hold her. He could feel the bones beneath the cloth. It was a long time before she released him and when she did, he remained crouched before her, guessing she didn’t want him to move away. Close up, he saw her eyes were pouched in blackness and that they darted from spot to spot in a nervous vibration he had never known before. Her fingers were stained with nicotine. She reached out, touching his face as if she needed physical reassurance of his presence: both were uncomfortable with the tongue-tied awkwardness of hospital visiting.
“How are you?” he said.
“All right.”
“I hear you’re sick.”
“Apparently.”
“But you’ll get better.”
“I hope so.”
“We’ll see it happens.”
“Will you, Daddy?”
“I promise.”
Her hands came up to his face again, imploringly. “I could do it, if you helped me,” she said. “I could really do it.”
He covered her hand with his, turning his head slightly to kiss her palm.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
She started to cry and then, although he tried to prevent it, so did Peterson. He thrust his handkerchief towards Beth and then realized he needed one for himself. She offered it back, giggling through her tears. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You ashamed, for crying in front of me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?”
He made an uncertain movement, uncomfortable at her questions. “Fathers aren’t supposed to cry.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Why?”
“It showed you cared.”
“Doesn’t it always show, that I care?”
“No.”
He blew his nose again.
“Have you seen Mummy?” asked the girl.
“Not yet.”
“Will she get better?”
“Of course.”
“You can’t be very proud of us … it’s a mess, isn’t it?”
“I am proud of you,” he said, trying to push the feeling into his voice.
“You mustn’t lie. Daddy. I’m not anyone to be proud of. Not now.”
“You will be, when you get better.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “When I get better. The doctors say I can … that I’ve got the determination.”
“Of course you have!”
“Will you help me, Daddy?” She was very close to tears again.
“I promise,” repeated Peterson.
“Really promise?”
“Really promise.” Peterson remembered his son and turned to where Paul had remained standing, just beyond the door. “And there’s Paul to help us, too.”
“Hi, big brother,” said the girl.
“Hi.”
“Know what I think?” she said.
“What?”
“That we finally might be getting it together,” she said.
They remained with the girl for another hour and the interview with the physician and psychiatrist in charge lasted a similar time. The man was guarded in his prognosis. Beth had built up a heavy dependency and been with them too short a time to enable an accurate forecast of a complete cure; even now she was inclined towards unpredictable responses to certain situations.
“You were right,” Peterson said to Paul, as they reentered the car. “It’s going to take a long time.”
“Can you allow enough?” asked the boy pointedly.
“Yes,” said Peterson. “I can allow enough time.”
“You’re looking very tanned.”
“I’ve been in the sun a lot.”
“Successful trip?”
Peterson turned sideways to the boy. “No,” he said. “A disaster.”
“At that moment the car telephone sounded. The President had summoned him to a meeting at eight; it meant he would have only fifteen minutes for Lucille.”
