Target, page 43
“I mean it.”
“I’m sure you do, Jamie. At the time, I’m sure you mean everything you say.”
They completed the last mile in silence. He helped her solicitously from the car, and she smiled with almost exaggerated gratitude. He walked her back into the clinic and kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to her room.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Everything is going to be all right, Lucille.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“You must believe me.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I must try to believe you.”
On his way to the White House Peterson contacted Jones at Langly to update himself on any new developments, and learned that an Israeli delegation, including David Levy, had arrived at Dulles airport before noon. There had already been an approach from the Israeli embassy on Levy’s behalf for a meeting, and Jones had agreed on three o’clock that afternoon. There had been another approach through Vienna: Petrov wanted further contact.
Peterson arrived at the Oval Office at the same time as the Secretary of State and they entered the room together. Fowler was not sitting at his desk but striding up and down behind it beneath the draped American flag. He stopped pacing at Peterson’s entrance, but didn’t sit down.
“Anything new?” he demanded.
“You know about the Israeli arrival?”
The President nodded, almost irritably.
“David Levy is with them. I’m meeting him this afternoon. And there’s been another approach from Petrov.”
“Could the Russians be the financial backers for this Asian rocket?” asked Moore, taking his usual chair.
“They could be,” accepted Peterson.
“What are you doing?”
“All stations alert throughout Asia,” said Peterson.
“I’m hoping Bohler will learn more.”
“Why the hell can’t he bring down the satellite?” demanded Flood.
“Because the control room is crawling with guards and technicians twenty-four hours of every day,” snapped back Peterson. “The man is working near miracles as it is.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intended as criticism,” placated the President immediately. “I don’t think it’s going to help if we start losing our tempers.”
The rebuke was intended for the foreign affairs advisor, not him, Peterson realized.
“I think that what’s happened in the Middle East and what might be happening in Asia justifies my going to Bonn,” said Moore positively. “I don’t think the German government can evade responsibility any longer.”
“I agree,” said Fowler at once. “Lean on the bastards. If they’d taken the proper attitude when we first raised it with them, we wouldn’t be facing this now.”
“What about Chad?” said Flood. “Can’t we get more heavily involved there with foreign aid, create a dependence and then get control?”
“In time,” agreed Moore. “And I certainly think it’s worth the approach. But that isn’t going to help us with the immediate problem.”
The President sat down at last, leaning forward over his desk towards Peterson. “I’m seeing the Israeli people this afternoon,” he disclosed. “I’m going to have their ass for what they did in Africa.”
“It’s interesting that they’ve bothered to come,” said Moore, the better diplomat. “Why would they consider allowing the Deputy Premier to leave the country at the moment of crisis like this?”
“Because they know that there might not have been a crisis at all if they hadn’t interfered,” said Flood.
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” said Moore. “They’re not people given to apologies.”
“Perhaps they haven’t come to apologize,” said the President. “Perhaps they’ve come in an effort to get that additional aid — that’s worth the journey, crisis or no crisis. And if there’s war, they’ll need the tanks.”
“Perhaps,” said Moore uncertainly.
“Bohler talks about a Libyan government visit,” remembered Flood, gesturing with the CIA report that he held in his lap. “We going to do anything about that?”
The President moved uncomfortably and Peterson realized he was nervous of the recording devices in the room registering any interception or assassination attempt.
“Perhaps we could discuss that if I learned some more details,” he said quickly. “At the moment, it’s only a suggestion.”
“According to the Soviet ambassador, Russia is going to raise the matter at the United Nations,” said Moore.
“What did you promise?” asked the President.
“Our support,” said Moore. “We’ve also got assurances from Great Britain and France. And Israel has tabled a motion.”
“It’ll give the impression of action,” said Fowler, cynically. He stood and began pacing behind the desk again. “I’m not going to allow any goddamned rocket in Asia,” he said positively. “Whatever it costs, I’m going to take that installation out of Africa. I’m scheduling a meeting tonight of the National Security Council and I’m having every chief of staff there. I’m going to initiate contingency plans and, if there’s confirmation from Bohler, then I’m going to authorize them.”
“We’ll need congressional approval,” reminded Moore hesitantly.
The President moved to speak, then bit back the words. “I’m going to get contingency plans prepared,” he repeated defiantly. “By the time they’re asked for approval, we could have a full-scale conflict in the Middle East.”
The President thrust out his hand towards the Secretary of State. “I want you on a plane to Bonn by tonight,” he ordered. He moved his hand, stopping at Peterson. “I want you monitoring everything from Africa, maintaining contact with Petrov and screwing Levy for everything you can get.” The hand moved on, to Flood. “I want position papers and updates on every eventuality, both in the Middle East and Asia, ready for me an hour before the National Security Council meeting …” He paused, for any reaction. None of the other men in the room spoke.
“… and I think I’m going to speak to Moscow, direct.” He looked back to Moore. “Call in the Soviet ambassador to give them warning.”
The Secretary of State nodded.
Fowler went back to Flood, apparently making a decision. “And on your position papers, for discussion with the joint chiefs of staff, I want debating notes on the proton beam capability. If there’s no other solution, then we’ll take the satellite out that way.”
Moore lingered as they moved out of the room, and Peterson decided that the man wanted some conversation in the corridor. He caught up, falling into step with the Secretary of State. Henry Flood was striding on ahead, out of hearing.
“I gather there was recently an improper approach made to your Agency,” said the lawyer, nodding along the corridor to the foreign affairs adviser. “Something involving my personal affairs.”
“I understand there was,” said Peterson cautiously.
“I want to thank your people, for the correct and proper way they reacted.”
“There was no other way I would have had them respond,” assured the Director.
Again Moore gestured to the hurrying figure ahead of them. “Were you aware he had political ambitions?”
“I had heard suggestions,” said Peterson.
“He’s going to find it very difficult,” said the Secretary of State. “Very difficult indeed.”
“Does he know yet?”
“Not yet,” said Moore. “He hasn’t sought adoption anywhere yet. It won’t be long, though.”
Otto Bock had already been near to breaking point, before Gerda Lintz’s death. But when that had happened, there had come the demands that he remain in the computer room to intercept the messages from Africa. He was to adjust the records and respond according to the instructions which Klaus’ friends had urgently rehearsed with him, insisting on the proper answers without any mistakes and frequently slapping his face when he stumbled or forgot. And Klaus laughed at him now. Worse still, he sneered and ridiculed, letting him know that the whole thing had been a deceit, that there had never been any love or even affection.
Bock had prepared it very carefully because his insurance policies were nullified if suicide could be proved, and he wanted Gretal and the children to be cared for, because he loved them. Really loved them — not like it was with sex. Sex was disgusting now; filthy and repulsive and something he could never do again. Sex had destroyed him. God, how he wished he could have emasculated himself, or had a simple brain operation, or a glandular adjustment. But it was hopeless to wish. Or to grieve. He had to kill himself and hope that his death created as much anguish and harm as others had caused him. But in a way that protected Gretal and the children.
It had taken him several evenings to find the roadworks, on a side road leading down to one of the Rhine’s most attractive beauty spots, and then slightly longer to establish the departure time of the workmen and the traffic flow. There had to be no chance of rescue.
Bock felt an unexpected calm, driving out to die. He had expected to be frightened: sad at least, needing to stop perhaps, to cry or to reinforce his courage. But it didn’t happen. There was no light-headedness, no sensation of drugged euphoria. He was aware of the road along which he was driving and the scenery through which he was travelling. He obeyed all the traffic signs and did not exceed the speed limit and once, seeing a flower stall along the highway, actually started to brake, to buy a bouquet for Gretal, before he realized that he wasn’t going home to Gretal any more. Even that didn’t cause any collapse. It just increased his determination to succceed.
He would so have liked to leave a note. Not a note: a long explanatory letter, setting out in a limited way what he knew was happening and what evil people were attempting to achieve. But a letter of intent would prove suicide and destroy the chances of any better life for Gretal and the children. So he had to die without any accusation. He just hoped — dear God in whatever Heaven You occupy, deeply and fervently and sincerely he hoped — that the very fact of his death would wreck whatever it was they were hoping to make work.
The repair area was deserted when he got to it, as he had been confident it would be. It was a warm evening, with swifts and swallows diving and darting into the bunches of insects. Far away, maybe two miles, the Rhine eased its way between the hills and meadows. Nearer the water, he could see river houses and pleasure boats and activity. Gretal would be at home with the boys preparing the meal that she expected him to eat, probably considering the television program they would watch. She’d have the ice and the whiskey all ready, because she knew he liked whiskey, even though it cost a little more, being imported.
He stopped some way from the roadworks, getting out and checking something of which he was already sure. There had been a slight subsidence against the hill edge where the winter rains had caused a gully. Someone mistaking a turn, which is how he intended it to appear, would naturally skid and pull away from the hurdles towards the river’s edge. He stood at the lip, gazing down. It had to be a hundred feet, maybe more, to the water. He stood there, staring into the slow, oily progress of the river, wondering when the fear would come. Perhaps with the pain — and there would be pain. It had to be painful, trapped inside a tumbling car, bouncing and rolling down the hillside. But it would not come now. His only emotion was one of relief, the knowledge that soon, within minutes even, he was going to escape. That was worth any pain.
He went slowly back along the road, deciding when to slam on the brakes to make the skid marks, so that the authorities would judge it an accident. He could do it, Otto knew. Do it easily.
Inside the car again he steadied himself, breathing deeply. Forty yards, away the barriers were arraigned before him and the warning lights automatically blipped on and off.
He reached for the ignition key and then screamed in fright as a hand came across in front of him, taking the key from the lock.
“Can’t kill yourself, Otto,” said a voice, and the German looked up at the big man who’d been waiting for him that night in Klaus’ apartment.
“No,” said Bock, whining. “Please no.”
“We’ll decide when you can die, Otto,” said the man, jingling the keys from one hand to another. “Trust me. When we’re through, you can kill yourself any time you want.”
Bock fell forward against the steering wheel, his head cushioned by his hands.
“And don’t try it again, Otto,” warned the Russian. “You could kill yourself, without our being able to stop it. We know that. But listen to me very carefully. If you commit suicide before we’ve finished with you, we’ll kill Gretal and the boys. And painfully, too. So stay alive, Otto. Stay alive and keep your family safe.”
41
David Levy walked aggressively into Peterson’s office, defying any criticism from the CIA Director. Peterson did not rise to greet him, nor relax his face into any welcoming expression. The Israeli hesitated at the work-bench which Walter Jones had established, looking first at the indexed arrangements of documents and then at the marked map showing the abortive penetration attempt. The portly, diminutive man gave an almost imperceptible sigh and continued on towards the Director. He extended his hand and Peterson pointedly regarded it before responding perfunctorily to the gesture.
“Isn’t it hypocritical to behave as friends?” said Peterson.
“I’ll concede an error of judgment.”
“Because of which we’re facing a war situation.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” said Levy. “Your people might have got through the wire, but there was still three miles to cover beyond that. They could never have remained undetected.”
“Then why did you try?” rejected Peterson at once. “It was a viable operation, and you know it. Just as you know that your crass interference ruined it.”
“I regret what happened,” said Levy.
“If that’s any sort of conflict, a proportion of the blame will lie with you.”
“That’s another exaggeration,” refused Levy calmly. “No one’s started shooting yet.”
“How long will it be?” said Peterson.
“My parliament is still talking.”
“Talking isn’t going to bring that satellite out of the sky.”
“What about the man you’ve still got inside?”
“He’s providing brilliant intelligence,” said Peterson. “But he can’t get anywhere near the controls.”
“I gather the Secretary of State has flown to Bonn.”
“Yes,” said Peterson. The decision to make the visit public had been taken to increase the pressure on the German government.
“Do you think they will respond?”
Peterson shrugged. “They’ve been unwilling to do anything so far.”
“We haven’t been so near a crisis before.”
“They might move against any further development. That won’t help the present situation.”
“No,” agreed Levy. “It won’t help the present situation.
“Why have you come?” said Peterson, careless of the rudeness.
“I felt there was some fence building to do,” said Levy. He hesitated. “And at this moment, more than any other, I need access to everything you’re getting out of Africa,” he added honestly.
“Christ you’re arrogant!” exclaimed Peterson.
“It’s not arrogance: it’s realism,” contradicted Levy. “I’ve admitted a mistake and I’ve apologized for it. I want to repair whatever damage has been caused between us.”
“Just like that!” said Peterson, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
“Yes,” said Levy, refusing to respond. “Just like that.”
Peterson shifted, exasperated at the other man’s attitude. He was behaving badly, Peterson knew. Childishly almost. In Levy’s position, he woulld have mounted a duplicate operation exactly as Levy had done. The only difference would have been that he would have hoped for more success.
“What are the chances of your country deciding to trust international pressure rather than go to war?” asked Peterson.
Levy moved his face into a doubtful expression. “Very slight, I would guess.”
“Is it a guess?” insisted Peterson.
The Mossad chief smiled. “I’m not admitted to the cabinet discussions,” he said gently. “You know about our troop mobilization.…” He stopped, then added bitterly. “Everyone knows about our troop mobilization!”
“You don’t need admission to cabinet meetings,” insisted Peterson. “You know which way the arguments are going.”
Levy nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “It’s a trade.”
“Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”
“I suppose not,” conceded the Israeli. “You’ve an advantage over me, though. You know the value of my information. I don’t know what you’re getting out of Africa.”
“You wouldn’t have flown six thousand miles if you hadn’t thought it worthwhile,” argued Peterson. It pleased him to be in a position of control and know he could force concessions from the other man.
“The Likud Party is pressing to go to war,” said Levy.
“That’s not intelligence,” said Peterson, irritably. “That’s a matter of common assessment; the Likud are always hawkish.”
“They’ve got a lot of support from the Labor Party.”
“What about Weismann? And the rest of the cabinet?”
Levy made a to-and-fro balancing motion with his hand. “Equally divided,” he said.
Peterson sighed, wondering if the other man were being honest with him. “What would tilt the balance?”
“It’s difficult to say.”
“No it’s not,” refuted Peterson. “Not for you it isn’t.”
Levy hesitated, a man making a decision. “We want to be sure of our friends,” he said. “America — and therefore the West — is being asked to make a positive choice, more positive than ever before. It’s the oil-producing states, with Gadaffi as the spokesman for once. Or it’s Israel. Which way is your balance going to tilt?”
“Israel has never wanted for friendship from America,” insisted Peterson.
