Target, p.10
Target, page 10
Peterson was early, but the appointments secretary was standing at his desk, apparently eager to hurry him into the President’s office. Fowler rose from his chair as Peterson entered and the Director saw with immediate relief that the man was alone.
“Damned glad you’re back,” said Fowler. “Didn’t like having you so far away.”
Criticism or a casual remark? wondered Peterson. He would have to be careful of such nervousness. It was the sort that generated mistakes.
“I think it was a very worthwhile trip,” he said.
“It had better be,” said the President. “Let’s have it.”
The tapes, remembered Peterson. “May I ask you something, Mr. President?”
Fowler, who had been returning to his chair, turned to him inquiringly.
“Could we walk in the Rose Garden?”
A politician less astute than Fowler would have reacted to such an apparently bizarre request with the surprise it deserved, but the man showed little response. He remained by the side of the desk for a few minutes, appearing to consider the question, and then said, “Might it be a good idea?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” agreed Fowler. He led the way through the French windows and out into the arbor. He got some way from the building before turning.
“Well?” he demanded.
Peterson felt a sudden wash of fear, strong enough for the briefest impression of actual dizziness.
“Well?” repeated the President, with the first hint of impatience.
Peterson began to speak, fighting against a flurry of words because he knew it would disclose the doubt he felt at what he had done. He decided that there was no point in explaining it as if there were a need for a defense, and instead he recounted the meeting as factually as he was able, consciously avoiding any words or expression which might be construed as his personal reaction to Petrov’s suggestion. Aware that a good liar tells as few lies as possible, the only falsehood Peterson attempted was the circumstances of Petrov’s approach, which would have revealed the intention before he left Washington.
The fear returned the moment he stopped talking. Fowler stood before him quite motionless, his face blank of any expression, the stance of someone shocked into disbelief. Then he said: “Holy Mother of Christ!”
“Yes,” said Peterson. “It’s difficult to accept, isn’t it?”
The President looked back towards the Oval Office.
“Thank you for your suggestion to come out here,” he said, his very first reaction taking into account his own political safety.
There may be a chance, thought Peterson. The uncertainty stayed with him.
“You took a very great risk,” said the President.
“I was as careful as possible.”
“It was still a risk.”
“But worthwhile,” insisted Peterson. “We know now the extent of the Soviet concern from an unimpeachable source.”
“Worthwhile,” nodded Fowler. Then, heavily, he added: “Just.”
The President remained looking at him, very steadily. Peterson stared back, his face expressionless. This was the moment, he thought — the time for any challenge or accusation.
Instead Fowler said: “What about this idea of a joint operation? It’s a trap, isn’t it?”
Peterson felt the tension begin to go. “I had Petrov under observation from the moment he arrived in Austria and got some reasonable material for a smear dossier, if that becomes necessary. Why couldn’t we use their presence on any incursion as insurance protection?”
“The law states that the President has to approve any covert action,” he said.
“And under the Hughes-Ryan amendment I must go through eight separate congressional committees,” said Peterson, “which means a total of 163 legislators and 41 staff members. It would be impossible to prevent a, leakage.”
“The test firing indicates something pretty soon?”
“Yes,” said Peterson.
“What about Germany?”
“We couldn’t stop it from there by ourselves,” said Peterson. “Not in the time that seems to be available.”
“But the Russians have got an entry that we haven’t.”
“So Petrov claims.”
“If he’s ahead, why doesn’t he do it alone?”
“We couldn’t sit back, in the expectation that the Russians would succeed,” pointed out Peterson.
“No,” accepted Fowler.
“So there’d be a chance of our ruining it by trying to run some sort of parallel operation, whatever it might be.”
The President stared at him, doubtful. “That isn’t a very strong argument,” he said.
“It’s the only one I have.”
“The Secretary of State won’t like it,” predicted Fowler. “Or Herbert Flood.”
“No.”
The President fixed him once more with a direct look “You took a hell of a chance,” he said again.
Peterson felt the renewal of unease. “I purposely avoided consultation,” he said. “Had anything gone wrong, I didn’t want any risk of your involvement.”
Not quite a lie, Peterson thought. Not quite the truth, either. The President was examining him, quizzically.
“That was thoughtful,” said Fowler.
Had there been suspicion in his voice? If there were going to be outrage, it would surely have come by now.
“It seemed a sensible precaution,” he said.
Gesturing Peterson to remain where he was, Fowler strolled away towards an arrangement of rose trees, hands clasped loosely behind his back, head forward upon his chest. He stopped, unaware of the flowers, and began absently stubbing his toe into the border, gradually creating a groove. It was almost ten minutes before he returned to where the Director was standing.
“If you sought congressional approval, it would take weeks, even if there were no leaks,” he said.
“We haven’t got weeks.”
“You’ve told me everything?” Fowler demanded, hinting at the suspicion which the Executive always felt for the CIA.
“Yes,” said Peterson, immediately.
“Do you think we need to go in?”
“You said yourself we’ve got to do something.”
“If we are going to by-pass Congress, then I can’t know of anything officially.”
Peterson felt the stir of a different son of concern. “I suppose not,” he agreed. He was being further abandoned.
“I’ve got to come out clean, if the shit hits the fan.”
“I understand.”
“This part of our meeting never took place. We just walked in the garden, reviewing the facts that exist so far.”
“Yes,” agreed Peterson.
Fowler suddenly looked down at the Director’s clothing, as if trying to locate the bulge of any pocket recorder with which Peterson might have been trying to protect his future.
“What about the Secretary of State? And Mr. Flood?” asked Peterson.
“That is my problem; something about which you’ve no need to know.”
“All right.”
“If it goes wrong … publicly wrong, I won’t make any move to save you.”
Again Peterson felt the sweep of dizziness. “I wouldn’t expect it,” he said.
“You would,” disputed the President. “But I wouldn’t do it.”
The election at which Fowler would be attempting a second term was only two years away, remembered Peterson; it was almost time for the man to begin his campaign. He was obviously planning it carefully.
“I’m to go ahead?” asked Peterson.
“You’re to do everything and anything you consider necessary to take out that installation,” said Fowler. “I’ve already made that clear, on several occasions. In front of witnesses.”
“Yes,” remembered Peterson. The man was a consummate professional.
“It frightens the hell out of me,” admitted Fowler, with an unexpected smile. “You poor bastard.”
“We are working to turn any disaster into a Russian responsibility,” repeated Peterson.
“You’d better plan to,” said the President, sincerely. “You’ll need your hand over your balls all the time. Even if the Russians mean everything they’ve said, they sure as hell don’t intend to be left holding any can.”
“I know the problems,” said Peterson.
Fowler shook his head. “No you don’t,” he insisted. “None of us can guess this thing through.”
Fowler straightened, taking Peterson’s arm to lead him back towards the Oval Office. “Let’s go inside and talk about Africa,” he invited.
So posterity — or any investigation — would have its proper record, recognized Peterson.
Back where their conversation was being recorded. Fowler and Peterson talked their way through an apparently fresh review of the Chad complex and the Director’s visit to Germany. Twice, Peterson realized, the President repeated the instruction that everything had to be done to abort whatever might be planned there. Would he be able to turn that into some son of explanation for what he was intending to do if there were later any congressional inquiry? Perhaps, he thought. Realistically, he doubted if anyone would believe him naïve enough to be so lacking in understanding. The interview ended with the President appearing forcefully to remind Peterson of his concern, with orders to keep in constant contact.
Peterson crumpled in the back of the limousine taking him past the sentries and then out through the high barred gates. Easier than he had expected, decided Peterson — far easier. But he was hardly in any better position than he had been before the President knew. He’d merely swapped one potential catastrophe for another.
Fowler would not do anything to curb his foreign affairs advisor’s rumors, even if he had ever considered doing so. It would be useful protection for him, if the American and Russian liaison were to become known. The President had been right. None of them could think it through with any hope of an accurate prediction. There was only one certainty at the moment: his exposure. It was like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded machine gun.
He had warned Lucille of the time he expected to be home before leaving Langley, and although he was fifteen minutes early she was standing in the hallway as if she had been waiting for him.
She stared past him, anxiously, and Peterson realized she was completely sober.
“Where is she?” said the woman.
“Who?” Momentarily, Peterson was bewildered.
Lucille came back to him. Her face began to break into an almost childlike expression of disappointment.
“Beth,” she said. “Where’s Beth?”
“Who told you?”
“Paul came. Stayed. Showed me a letter.” Her words came jerkily, as if she had difficulty in assembling her thoughts.
“I’m trying to find her, Lucille,” he said, reaching out for her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “I’m having her traced, wherever she is in Arizona.”
“Why didn’t you go? I thought that’s where you were!”
Despair was etched very deeply into her voice. She made the questions an accusation.
“I was in Europe,” he reminded her. “I told you.”
“Thought you were going to surprise me … bring Beth back”
Had the alcohol affected her mind? he wondered, caught again by the childishness.
“I’ll bring her back,” promised Peterson. “I’ll find her and bring her back and we’ll be a family again.”
Lucille gazed around, as if she were seeking something. Then she moved towards the kitchen. So that’s where she keeps the vodka, thought Peterson.
Because of the priority of the cables, the CIA Resident in the US embassy in Benghazi began spending heavily among his informants. Just twenty-four hours before he was due to depart, he learned of the Libyan courier’s visit to Zürich. He liaised with the embassy in Berne, so that when Muhammed Talil stepped off the aircraft, he entered a surveillance operation involving thirty people. The Libyan went straight to the Baur au Lac, on the Talstrasse.
Talil enjoyed the foreign visits because they freed him from the Islamic restrictions that the President had imposed upon Libya after the overthrow of the Shah in Iran. Talil was in the bar within an hour of his arrival, in conversation with an exciting-looking brunette. She disclosed during dinner that she was a buyer for a West German diamond firm, lonely on her first visit to Switzerland, a cover which would not have withstood too much scrutiny but which had been the best the CIA had been able to come up with in the time available.
Talil persuaded her to go to a club, but they were both disappointed by its dullness and the Libyan was impatient anyway, because he was certain the woman would come to his room with him. She put the apomorphine into his drink as he was settling the bill and the stomach cramps began when they were in the lift at the Baur au Lac. The first spasm gripped him as they got to his suite. She helped him to the bathroom, dampening a towel for his head as he clutched over the bowl, unable to stop the violent retching. It had been a strong dosage and he was soon too weak to protest effectively when she called the hotel doctor. The physician arrived very quickly and excluded her from the bedroom while he carried out his examination. The girl was able to copy with the Minox camera every document in Talil’s briefcase before the doctor emerged to tell her that he suspected a burst ulcer and was moving him to the hospital.
“Are you his wife?” he asked the girl.
“A friend.”
The doctor nodded, understanding. “He seems very concerned about a briefcase.”
The girl looked inquiringly around the room. “This must be it,” she said, as if aware of it for the first time.
10
Otto Bock convinccd himself that he had tried very hard. And not just because of Gretal and the children, but because of the danger of his position, which he recognized with frightening clarity. Yet like a child reaching out for a candle flame it has been warned might burn, he could not stop himself. It might have been easier had he not been so upset, but Jurgen Beindorf’s unexpected behavior had been terribly cruel. He thought they had been friends, real friends. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the memory of the boy’s rejection, the sneers and the laughter: it had been horrible, truly horrible.
Bock remained in his office near the Defense Ministry computer room long after most others had left, staring at the telephone on his desk. To call his wife and utter the lie would be the first step, putting the thought into some sort of determination. That wasn’t quite true. Bock remembered. Every night now for a week he had driven home by the circuitous route which took him past the club where they gathered. But he had never stopped; the first night, he had not even looked towards it.
He snatched the phone up, hurrying with the number before common sense overcame his desire. Bock, who was the senior computer programmer for the Ministry, frequently had to stay late for some sudden crisis involving his country somewhere in the world, so the woman accepted without question that this was just another such occasion. She was to eat without him. Bock said. And apologize to the children that he would not be home until they were in bed.
He passed out through security with a perfunctory, yet efficient examination, offering his briefcase for scrutiny at the final check. There were some within the Ministry, certainly at his level of clearance, who resented the intrusion, but Bock regarded it as a necessary imposition. In recent years there had been far too much leakage of information into the Eastern bloc: traitors were even discovered among respected employees.
He drove slowly, still attempting to keep his mind clear of any positive intention. If there was not a parking space available, he would drive on. If there were too many people grouped around the door, he wouldn’t stop. There was a meter free almost opposite. A discreet light burned, from which it was just possible to read the sign. There was no one at the entrance. Bock braked, turned off the ignition and remained in his seat. In the office, he had gazed at the telephone; now he studied his hands, gripped against the wheel so tightly that they hurt.
He moved at last, trying to imagine some reluctance that wasn’t there. The receptionist was polite and friendly, discerning his embarrassment: his lack of membership was not a problem. He completed the form with the carefully selected alias, which was accepted without challenge, paid his twenty marks and within ten minutes was through into the main room. A long bar ran along the wall to the left, the lighting behind it subdued and unobtrusive. There were books set into a far wall and tables of various sizes arranged around a small dance area, illuminated by soft candles. Hidden in an alcove, a quintet was playing slow music and on the dance floor several couples were moving, close together.
Self-conscious about remaining within the immediate visibility of the entrance, Bock went impulsively to the bar. The barman came to him immediately and without thinking Bock ordered a whiskey. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he saw that nearly everyone was dressed very conservatively in subdued suits. There were just a few in jeans and those who had affected women’s clothing had done so by wearing tailored trouser suits.
“Hello.”
At first Bock didn’t respond.
“Hello.”
He looked cautiously to his left. Slim, neatly dressed, his blond hair closely cropped and not even a ring to hint at any flamboyance.
“Hello.”
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No.”
“So you’re nervous?” It was a kindly question, not an accusation.
Bock sniggered, confirming the impression. “Yes,” he said. “Very.”
