Target, page 9
“But not often.”
“No,” agreed Petrov. “Not often. It depends how you adjust.” In another of his unexpected statements, he said “Gadaffi can’t be allowed to disrupt the Middle East.”
“You knew then?”
“Yes. I wanted to see if you would hold back. You should try to convince your people.”
“I will,” said Peterson, meaning it.
“Brandy?” invited Petrov.
Peterson hesitated and then said, “Thank you.”
The Russian gestured, with just a hint of irritation, so that the waiter left the decanter upon the table. Peterson swirled the liquor around the bowl. “We’re supposed to be enemies.” he said, as if he were surprised at the realization.
“Why?”
“Opposing sides, at least.”
“Yes. It seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“There’s field level contact, of course,” said Peterson. “I suppose it’s inevitable, operationally, that paths sometimes cross.”
“I encourage it,” conceded Petrov. “Don’t you?”
“I choose not to know.”
“That might be the reaction of your President.”
“I hope it is.”
“What will you do, if it isn’t?”
“I can’t discuss that with you. Not yet,” said Peterson.
“I haven’t any good ideas, apart from some pre-emptive strike which can’t work without the risk of the Soviet Union losing prestige or leverage throughout Africa,” said Petrov.
Peterson accepted that he would have to be constantly upon his guard against the insidious effect of the other man’s apparent honesty. He didn’t even expect Walter Jones to be as open with him as Petrov appeared to be.
“I hope we can work together,” said Peterson.
“You really should have had the boar,” the Russian repeated. “It was delicious.”
Many people were to be affected by the first ever, very civilized encounter between the Director of the American Central Intelligence Agency and the head of the Soviet Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti in one Vienna’s better restaurants.
In Moscow, Gerda Lintz, a serious minded, bespectacled brunette who was learning to enjoy her transfer to the KGB from the Soviet space exploration headquarters at Baikonur, stared with appreciation around the unshared apartment that her position gave her, and wondered if she could satisfactorily carry out whatever function might be assigned to her. She then settled herself into an easy chair to enjoy Goethe in the original German.
In Washington, Michael Bohler decided that at last, as far as security would permit, he would have to write to his parents in Milwaukee to try to convince them that his departure from the Johnson Center at Houston, so soon after his transfer from the complex at Cape Canaveral, did not constitute a demotion, but was merely a sign of the attempt to adjust to America’s reduced space commitment. It would be difficult explaining that his new function in Washington utilized his qualifications as a physicist: he decided to write the letter in German, knowing that even after forty years they still had difficulty with any other language.
Vladimir Makovsky resented his transfer to Leningrad, although he was aware there was no protest he could make. He had passed every examination with top marks, and in the physical tests he had achieved almost optimum rating. He knew the reason for his relegation from Moscow, the stigma that would adhere to him throughout his career in the KGB. By now, he had stopped trying to argue against the disadvantage of the transfer, the implication that he might not be a true Communist. He hated the clerk-like job in Leningrad and the clerk-like mentality of those all around him. His grandfather had not really been a very devout Orthodox priest: he’d frequently been drunk on vodka and had even fathered two illegitimate children. But there was little he could do about it. It was in his dossier; the stigma was marked upon him.
Henry Blakey was extremely grateful to God for preventing him from becoming a priest, even though a parish might have been pleasanter than Washington. He only expressed his gratitude in prayers, of course, because he didn’t think that other people would understand. But God would. Henry Blakey prayed quite a lot. Not as much as in the seminary, because there prayer had been a ritual rather than a choice, but still more than most. He thanked God for giving him the courage to face his frailty, to realize that strong though his belief might have been, he still lacked the absolute courage to commit himself completely. He thanked God, too, for sparing him from the untenable vows of celibacy. He couldn’t imagine life without Jane and Samantha. Sometimes he wondered if God would understand the apparent dichotomy of the career he had chosen, having abandoned the priesthood. But then he remembered that God had spared him the mistake of attempting to become something for which he was not spiritually equipped and could only conclude that He had meant him to join his country’s security service. It was, after all, a form of guardianship.
Oleg Sharakov, who proudly boasted that his father had been one of the guards upon Tsar Nicholas at Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg and often hinted that the man might have been involved in the assassination, guessed from the lack of information from Moscow that the agents he had trained to such a high level at the KGB jungle warfare school on the outskirts of Odessa had failed in their African mission. This would cast doubts on his own abilities. The irascibility had grown with the days, until he knew that his judgment was being affected, but still he was unable to lift the pressure from the recruits. If those he had trained for Africa had failed, then it meant he had not been strict enough. He drove the newcomers to the very point of exhaustion and brought them to their feet at bayonet point. When a twenty-year-old, whom he had initially considered to be the one with the highest potential, collapsed on the ground in tears, Sharakov had smashed the pistol butt into his face, unmoved at the sound of the nose splitting, and walked away, leaving his adjutant to dismiss the assembly.
Hank Bradley had the feeling of having lived too long. He was some kind of a legend perhaps, but that meant fuck all apart from the occasional Green Beret reunions. As each year passed, ’Nam became that much more of a memory and the reunions that much more difficult to organize. He now felt like the one the elephants had forgotten to tell, on their way to the graveyard. It was a ridiculous attitude, he knew, for someone just forty-five years old, one of the youngest colonels ever to achieve the honor and to be seconded with rank, privileges and prestige to the Agency, with offices in Washington as well as Fort Worth. But he could not avoid it: he had been born out of his time, Bradley decided. He should have been a fourteenth-century knight, able to involve himself in perpetual warfare. He blinked at the thought, recognizing the effect of all the whiskey. He sniggered, and from beside him there came an answering laugh of misunderstanding. The Washington hierarchy would have his balls, if they knew what he was doing at this very moment, Bradley decided. But he had another use for them. He turned drunkenly on to the whore beside him and she closed her eyes and arranged the smile, for the practised expression of ecstasy, wondering why he still wore the army dog tags, which tickled her chin. Probably, like so many of them, he had never grown up.
In Chad a woman whose beauty was rarely appreciated because of the uniformity of her dress, her rejection of make-up and the severe way in which she wore her hair, calculated that the heat of the sun was finally safe and moved the sunbed out onto the patio of her quarters. She was aware of the attention of the few Africans working in the grounds and suspected too, that some of the European men would be secretly studying her, surprised and maybe even excited at the briefness of her bikini. For their benefit, but apparently unconsciously, Hannah Bloor pulled down the bra, so that it barely covered her nipples. The revised launch date was just a month away, she recalled, thinking back to that morning’s briefing. Everyone had worked with an admirable dedication; she wondered if it would all go satisfactorily.
In Washington, Herbert Flood listened patiently to the President’s analysis of what was happening in Africa, Peterson’s report from Europe and Walter Jones’ brief from Langley that morning.
“Are you sure Peterson is the right person for the job?” asked Flood, when Fowler had finished.
“What?”
“Peterson,” repeated Flood. “Are you sure he’s up to the job?”
“He hasn’t made a mistake so far,” pointed out the President.
“But he’s not achieved a great deal, has he? This could be a disaster and we’re not in any position to oppose it.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Fowler.
“Nothing,” said Flood, appearing surprised at the question. “Just felt the point was worth making.”
9
Peterson should have gone first to Georgetown, if only for a few moments. But he might have caught Lucille on the first drink of the day and they would have argued. Or she might have wanted to talk and extended it for longer than a few moments, shortening the time available for his briefing from his deputy on what had happened over the past four days. And he needed to be fully informed — as completely briefed as possible, in fact. From the White House reaction to his mid-air contact from the aircraft communications center, Peterson knew he had guessed correctly; Chad was category one priority. The President had agreed immediately to a three o’clock meeting.
It would be over by four, thought Peterson confidently; he could still be with Lucille earlier than normal. He would warn her by telephone, so that she would expect him and not be embarrassed by any surprise arrival.
He experienced a strange unease, going into the sprawl of Langley. It had happened once before, on the day when his Directorship had been confirmed. He had regarded it then as excitement, plus the uncertainty from not knowing how long he could hold down the job, after the failure of those who had preceded him. Now there was no excitement, just uncertainty — enormous uncertainty. He was anxious about the President’s reaction to what he had done, and to what he still hoped to do. If Fowler chose to regard the Viennese meeting as deceit, the Directorship could be taken away from him that day. Even if the President accepted it without any immediate challenge, it was still going to be difficult assembling a convincing argument for liaison.
Peterson had liked Petrov, and wanted to believe the man. But balanced against that attitude was the constant awareness that as genuine as the approach had appeared, it could still be a trap.
The Soviet Union, either direcdy or through its Cuban satellite, had been working to increase its prestige in Africa for over a decade. He had an assessment file inches thick of Moscow’s fear of the Chinese presence in Tanzania, Somalia, Ethiopia and the Yemen. Russia needed a convincing demonstration of its friendship throughout the continent. What better than to lure the United States into some kind of covert action against an African state, even one considered as minor as Chad, and then disclose it just when it would be impossible for the Americans to withdraw without positive identification?
From the car telephone, Peterson had asked Jones to be waiting, so the deputy had laid out on his desk all the material that had come in on Chad while he had been in Europe. It looked thin, thought Peterson, as he entered the office.
“Summarize it for me,” he asked.
“Very little,” responded Jones, immediately. “Most important is another aerial photograph, of the opened silo.…”
He indicated the picture and Peterson stared down, frowning.
“What is it, for God’s sake?” The open crater was only just visible, through charred and blackened surroundings.
“Test firing,” identified Jones.
“An actual missile?” Peterson looked up, concerned; please God don’t let me be too late, he thought.
Jones shook his head. “We don’t think so. Just a fuel test.”
“Can that be done, without any sort of projectile?”
“Apparently,” said Jones. “It could also have been to try some sort of firing mechanism. There would have been a dummy container, but it would either have incinerated on the spot, or just risen a few hundred feet into the air; our people say that in rocket terms it’s like firing a blank to test the mechanism of a gun.”
“So something is going to happen there soon?” demanded Peterson.
“That’s the obvious interpretation,” said Jones.
“The only one. What else?”
“Levy seems to be becoming increasingly irritated. Clearly thinks we’re holding out.”
“Have we shown him the satellite stuff on the silo?”
“Yes.”
“What does he expect, miracles?” said Peterson, irritably. “If his service is so damned good, why hasn’t he achieved more?”
“He’s asked for a meeting.”
“He’s in Washington?”
“He wants to come.”
“When?”
“Immediately.”
“I suppose we’ve got to agree. We might need them.”
“I’ll contact him then?”
Peterson hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. Anything from our own sources in Libya?”
“Nothing,” reported Jones, shortly. “The Defense Minister appears to be back; our people can’t get any confirmation of an African visit. There’s something, though.…”
“What?”
“The campaign against you appears to have been started.”
Peterson felt the burst of apprehension, almost a sensation of physical sickness.
“When?”
“Difficult to date,” said Jones. “The rumors just appeared to be there.”
“How strong?”
“All over Capitol Hill.”
Peterson nodded slowly, in growing appreciation. “If Flood prepares his ground work cleverly enough, any disaster in Africa will be CIA responsibility with no blame at all attaching itself to a foreign affairs advisor.”
“That’s my reading,” said Jones.
“How was your cocktail party?”
“Pleasant. But formal. No invitation to choose sides.”
“It would have been too soon,” assessed Peterson. “He would want to sound you out first. And there would be a danger, at this stage, in associating himself too closely with the Agency.”
“What about Petrov?” asked Jones at last.
For thirty minutes Peterson talked, welcoming the rehearsal for his interview that afternoon with the President. The deputy sat unmoving, for once not even bothering with the difficult pipe.
“You were right to go,” conceded Jones at the end of the account. “It’s useful to know Moscow is as badly placed as we are.”
“I hope the President agrees.”
“What about the suggestion of a joint operation?” asked Jones.
Peterson shrugged. “Appears genuine, but really it’s impossible to say.…” He glanced again towards the picture of the fire-seared silo. “I’d like to do it,” he confessed, suddenly. “We’ve got to do something and do it bloody quick!”
“Jesus, it would be a risk!” said Jones, as if the enormity of the idea had just registered.
“Do you think I haven’t considered that?”
“Will you tell Flood?”
“Not directly. The President will, probably. That’s what he appointed the man for.”
“Flood will veto it,” predicted Jones.
“Maybe not,” said Peterson. “Think it through … consider the leverage it would give him, if things go wrong.”
“What if it goes right?”
“Then he’d have lost out anyway. He’s got nothing to lose.”
“We have,” reminded Jones.
“Yes,” agreed Peterson sincerely. “We have.” Appearing to have been reminded of something, he said, “Let’s get an up-to-date dossier on Irena Sinyavsky. What she’s doing, how she’s living, any contact with ballet.…” Peterson paused. “Maybe even a phone tap.”
Jones frowned across the table. “That’s illegal.”
“So’s jumping a red light,” dismissed Peterson. “I’d like to monitor her calls for a week or two.”
“Why?”
“We can prove Petrov was in the West,” suggested Peterson.
“Yes,” said the deputy, with growing awareness.
“Irena Sinyavsky lives in the West,” said Peterson.
“There wasn’t any proof,” insisted Jones. “At the debriefing she denied all knowledge of him.”
“Innuendo would be enough,” said Peterson. He coughed, appearing embarrassed. “There’s something else,” he said. “Something personal.”
Jones waited curiously.
“In Arizona,” said Peterson, “somewhere near a town called Tonalea, there’s one of those freaky communes … you know the kind of stuff. Some sort of stud in leather and chains convincing a lot of kids he’s God and that it’s all right for him to screw as many as he can get his hands on.…”
Jones was nodding, his curiosity obvious now.
“I don’t know its exact location. But I want to. I don’t want any direct approach. I don’t want anyone aware we’re even interested.”
“What’s it about?” asked Jones.
“Beth.”
“Beth?”
“My daughter.”
“Oh,” accepted Jones. “You don’t want to involve the FBI? Or the police?”
“No. Entirely self-contained.”
“What do we do when we locate it?”
“Nothing,” said Peterson. “Just try to establish if she’s there. But not if there’s a risk of anyone learning of the inquiries. I don’t want her to run.”
“OK,” accepted Jones.
“And Walt.…”
“What?”
“Thanks,” said Peterson again. “It’s good to know you’re at my back.”
Jones appeared surprisingly discomforted by the gratitude. “Haven’t said I won’t become Flood’s man yet,” he said, trying to turn it into a joke.
“Would you like to be the one going to see the President this afternoon?”
“Christ no!” said Jones fervently and Peterson believed him.
Peterson went to the White House feeling an even greater apprehension than that he had felt earlier in the day. The rumors, that were obviously being created by Herbert Flood, frightened him. Politically, Washington was the smallest village in the world: as the Middle Ages had believed in witches, the capital believed in gossip. He had known men in the House or the Senate totally ruined by an innuendo no stronger than that being voiced about him. Whispers became fact and suggestions hardened into doubt; he would have to be cautious against over-compensating, like so many tried to do, worsening his position before those who would now be watching him with particular interest, anxious for indications to support Flood’s campaign.
