Target, p.21
Target, page 21
“Ingenious,” supported Borrosuba reluctantly.
“Comrade Litvinov?” invited the chairman.
“I congratulate you,” said the liaison man frigidly.
“I’m glad not to have disappointed you,” said Petrov, enjoying the moment. He hoped he would not have to do this to Peterson; he genuinely liked the man. Would Peterson have established a similar sort of campaign against him? Unquestionably, decided Petrov realistically.
Epilogue
Because of the distances they had to travel after the incursion, both groups of soldiers left forty-eight hours before either the scientists or the importer priests.
One of the storms which are so frequent over the Azores had broken just before Hank Bradley had concluded his briefing and he had to shout to make himself heard over the thunder.
“Any questions?” the colonel had demanded.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” a man immediately before him had said. Richard Banks was a squat, bullet-headed career soldier, proud at having risen to the rank of marine sergeant.
“No, Bradley had replied. “I’m not kidding. For quite a while there aren’t going to be many laughs.”
The Tupalov had refuelled in mid-air, so they had been airborne for several hours. The ration trays lay discarded around them, the Russians had arranged their packs and were mostly asleep. At the rear, Sharakov could see the glow of a cigarette. He had decided that there was a simple way to resolve the problem of a split command. If the American colonel were to die, then he would automatically assume leadership as the most senior officer in the field.
Michael Bohler and Gerda Lintz flew from Bonn. He became aware of her nervousness soon after take-off. He instinctively reached out to squeeze her hand reassuringly.
“It’ll be all right,” he said.
She took his fingers anxiously and he became curious at her touch. She looked up, aware of his attention.
“Just friends,” she reminded.
“Sure.” But maybe something more, he thought.
Henry Blakey and Vladimir Makovsky flew from Rome. The cassock kept catching between the Russian’s legs and he walked awkwardly, like a small boy who had wet himself and had sore thighs.
“Will I have to wear this damned thing when we get there?” he said.
“No,” assured Blakey. “It wouldn’t be practical. Maybe not even the collar.”
“Thank God for that,” said Makovsky.
“You’re supposed to believe in Him, not blaspheme,” corrected the American.
“I’ll try to remember,” said Makovsky.
Book Two
We have seen
Good men made evil wrangling with the evil
Straight minds grown crooked fighting crooked minds
Our peace betrayed us; we betrayed our peace
Look at it well. This was the good town once.
— Edwin Muir, The Good Town
21
Michael Bohler had seen the watchtowers just before the driver’s warning that they were approaching the complex, and the nervousness that he had felt ever since the landing at N’Djamena worsened. He looked across the vehicle at the girl. Gerda was staring fixedly ahead, refusing to respond to his attention. She was very pale and still appeared wilted by the airport heat, even though they had been travelling in the refrigerated air-conditioning of the Mercedes for over an hour. He made to reach across but she pulled away, refusing the intimacy she had allowed during the flight. He turned from her, gazing out of the car again.
Everything seemed bleached and crushed by the heat. He could see the necklace of islets along the edge of Lake Chad and occasionally there were cattle and goats. They seemed to move very little, as if the effort of grazing was the most they could manage. The villages through which they had passed had been smaller than he expected: encampments of four or five mud and rush huts, each with a palm and rush lean-to providing shade. The women at their pots had watched without expression as they had swept through, but the children had risked the choking swirl of red dust to run after them, shouting and screaming.
The BADRA complex had been constructed away from the lake’s flood plain and Bohler was conscious of the car climbing up through the savannah grasses; once, very close to the road, they surprised a colony of giraffes feeding from some trees. They immediately started away in long-legged flight, trailed by two skittering babies. Bohler looked at Gerda again, expecting some response, but she seemed oblivious to everything around her.
Although he knew the size from their satellite reconnaissance, the area covered by the installation still surprised Bohler. The ground was comparatively flat, yet from the perimeter it was impossible to see anything of the main buildings. The approach road was dominated by a watchtower, and far away to the east Bohler could just detect another, not forming part of any corner of the surrounding wire but introduced into the fencing to provide continued surveillance. The protective fence was fine mesh, rising for about fifteen feet and topped with barbed wire. Before they had got through the strip of land that had been cleared in front of it Bohler had isolated the junction boxes and leads from which it was obviously electrified. He studied the cleared area intently — the savannah had not just been cut down. The earth beneath had been ploughed and then raked, creating a dusty area maybe six hundred yards across. From the watchtowers, the track of anyone crossing would be immediately visible. Bohler wondered if the clearing was mined.
The entrance construction was elaborate. There were guardrooms on either side, and concrete obstructions were arranged between them so that it would be impossible for any vehicle to go through at speed; the driver had to ease his way through the dog’s leg at little more than a walking pace. Bohler watched the guards as the car number was checked against a record sheet and their faces compared with the photographs which were attached to clipboards. The ordinary security officials were clearly African, but in the guard-room he could see people of different nationalities. The officers and soldiers were mostly Arabs and as the car began moving forward, he saw one of them go to a telephone, obviously warning the main building of their arrival.
As the car passed through the control point, Bohler leaned forward, using the Mercedes mileage gauge to judge the distance to the installation. It was three miles before there was any sign of construction and when it came Bohler squinted, despite his sunglasses, at the sudden harsh whiteness of the buildings.
There had been an attempt at creating some sort of garden approach along the driveway, but only near the buildings had it really succeeded. Here sprinklers had been installed and appeared to be in constant operation, producing a sudden flare of green lawns which skirted the complex. Climbing plants were being trained up some trellis work and immediately outside the entrance there was a fountain attempting to convey an impression of coolness with its perpetual play of water.
The glass of the windows and doors was smoked, so Bohler could not distinguish the man waiting for them until he and Gerda had made their way through the double-doored entrance. They stopped immediately inside, momentarily disoriented by the shade, and then Bohler saw the man approaching, smiling.
“I am Dieter Muller,” he said, “The Director here. Welcome to my establishment. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
As he shook Gerda’s hand, Bohler wondered if the name and description would be sufficient for Langley to trace any record in their files.
He took Muller’s hand, conscious of its dryness and therefore of his own perspiration.
“I’m suffering from the heat,” he apologized.
Muller continued to smile. “It’s always the immediate problem,” he agreed. “Quite often the constant extremes of air-conditioning and climate cause some respiratory problems.”
Behind them Africans were bringing their luggage from the Mercedes.
“I thought you’d probably like to shower and change, then we might talk again,” invited Muller. “Dinner perhaps.”
“That would be fine,” accepted Bohler.
Muller solicitously took Gerda’s arm, leading her along the wide corridor.
“A good flight?” he inquired.
“Tiring,” said the woman. “I always find it very difficult to rest on aircraft.”
Bohler had been concerned from her attitude in the car that the nervousness would show, but there was no indication of it in Gerda’s response.
“How long do you think you will remain with us?” said the Director.
Bohler looked across sharply. The question had been asked of Gerda, and appeared to be nothing more than the continued politeness, but Bohler wondered whether he should intrude. Before he could speak, Gerda was responding.
“I’ve been asked to prepare a thorough report,” she evaded, easily. “So it really depends on how long it takes to assemble.”
They reached an intersection.
“Women to the right, men to the left,” guided Muller. He indicated the men carrying their luggage. “They’ll take you to your rooms and I shall expect you in an hour.
Bohler waited just inside the lobby while the African deposited his bags and then as soon as he had left, began a close examination of his quarters. To his right, a door led to the bathroom. On the other side of the lobby was wardrobe space and the main room, designed to be a living area during the day with a divan that converted into a bed at night. Bohler was surprised at the television set — video casettes, he presumed. The air-conditioning was beneath the window and he turned it to high. He unpacked his clothes quickly, leaving the case containing the radio until last. It was a very elaborate portable, with VHF as well as medium bands and a directional aerial. It had a solid, sealed case to guard against any close examination and each of the outside dials and switches performed the function ascribed to them. Only when the controls were pulled out in a particular sequence did the radio that formed the undetectable core of the set become activated and link him with Peterson on the missile destroyer. Momentarily Bohler stared at the set, wondering whether to record the information about Muller and the perimeter precautions. Later, he decided: there was still the meeting with the Director. Instead he located a Munich station with only minimal interference and carried the set with him to the bathroom to hear the news broadcast.
Bohler was out of the room again within thirty minutes. As he walked back towards the main part of the building, he saw Gerda approaching from the opposite direction and smiled. She responded wanly. He reached the Director’s suite ahead of her and stood waiting outside until she reached him.
“All right?” he said, quietly.
“Much better,” she said.
“Good.”
“Sorry about earlier,” she said, looking directly at him. “It suddenly came to me, what we’re trying to do. I got very frightened.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be very easy.”
“No.”
They stood staring at each other. Even with her practical hairstyle and spectacles, she really was a very attractive woman.
“We’d better not keep the Director waiting,” he said.
“No,” she replied.
He led the way in. Muller was already waiting at a table on which drinks had been arranged. It was an L-shaped room, the desk, filing cabinets and working area separate from the long lounge. Beyond where Muller sat there was another larger table already laid for a meal. The fading sun flashed off the crystal glass and an African was fussing around the settings, rearranging small pieces of silver.
Seeing Bohler’s attention, Muller said: “We try to live as well as possible.”
“And seem to succeed,” said the American.
The Director smiled towards Gerda. “More comfortable now?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
Muller indicated the bottles. Bohler took whiskey, but Gerda insisted on mineral water. Muller was drinking from a half bottle of wine.
“It takes some adjustment,” said the man. “If you’ve any thoughts of sunbathing, leave it until the late afternoon.”
“We’ve come to work,” said Gerda and Bohler was aware of her increasing confidence.
“I’m not surprised at this visit,” said Muller, unexpectedly.
Bohler was instantly attentive. “Why not?” he encouraged.
“The attempted interference,” said Muller, as if the answer were obvious.
Bohler held the other man’s eyes, not trusting himself to look at Gerda. “There was concern, naturally,” said the American; it was ambiguous enough to prompt the Director further, he thought.
“It’s natural that the government should be concerned,” continued Muller. “Is there any indication who stole the money?”
“Not when I left Bonn,” said Bohler. If the old man was prepared to talk so openly so soon, why no mention of the attempted entries into the complex itself?
“Your security here seems very efficient,” said Bohler, taking the opening.
“The strictness is a recent innovation, since the Libyan involvement,” said Muller. Imagining an opportunity for conveying criticism back to people in authority, he added, “I’m afraid there are many instances where it’s too rigidly enforced. They seem to regard themselves as being separate from any control from within the establishment.”
The army officers at the gate, recalled Bohler. Could Muller be unaware of the attempted penetration?
“It surely frees you for more important considerations?” said Bohler.
“This is my establishment,” insisted Muller. “I like to be responsible for every part of its working.”
Bohler was suddenly conscious of the other man’s pride. And surprised at Muller’s ready acceptance of them. Bohler had anticipated some hostility. He was sure that neither Peterson nor Petrov had guessed the advantages of intercepting the bullion shipment, which would provide a reason that Muller could accept so readily.
Muller turned to include Gerda in the conversation. “The Project Director is a woman,” he disclosed. “Hannah Bloor. I thought you’d be too tired tonight, so I’ve arranged a meeting for tomorrow.”
Another name for Langley to check, thought Bohler. He was glad he hadn’t rushed into a transmission. There was no reason why there should be any monitoring within the installation, but it made sense to keep interceptible broadcasts to the minimum.
“I look forward to it,” said Gerda.
Muller finished his wine and looked towards the table. Bohler and the girl rose, following the old man. Immediately a team of Africans came in through an unseen side door. There was paté, with truffles, venison and strawberries; the wine was Moselle.
“It’s all imported,” said Muller, as they began eating. “We buy a few vegetables locally, but not much otherwise.”
“How many Africans do you employ?”
“Maybe two hundred, within the complex,” said Muller. “But since the German office agreement to allow the Libyans to take over security, there’s been an increase of about another two hundred; for perimeter duties. They’ve got their settlements outside and come in every day.”
“You don’t agree with the Libyan involvement?” demanded Bohler openly, assessing Muller’s feeling from his previous remark.
“No,” said Muller shortly. “Security was perfectly adequate before their arrival.”
Bohler was about to attempt to take the conversation further when the Director turned, pointing behind him. “This is why I like to eat at this time of night,” he said. “Isn’t it spectacular?”
It was a few minutes before complete sunset. Already the savannah and jungle beyond were thickly black, a stark contrast to the blood red of the sky which flared up to reflect the occasional scudding cloud. As they watched floodlights suddenly blazed on, obviously operated by a time-switch, and the effect was destroyed.
“Another Libyan innovation,” said Muller, seemingly annoyed.
“I hope our visit won’t cause any serious inconvenience to the progress of the project,” said Bohler.
The Director shook his head. “It’s been a splendid program,” he said. “We’ll launch on the schedule established eighteen months ago.”
Realizing what Bohler was attempting to learn, Gerda said, “There’s always the unexpected.”
“Not with Dr. Bloor in charge. It will be a week from now, I promise you.”
Peterson should be more than pleased at the progress on their first day, thought Bohler. Muller’s latest indiscretion was as worrying as it was informative; it gave them a very tight deadline to which they had to work.
“What are your window vacancies?” asked Gerda.
Muller smiled. “Four days, at least. Maybe five. But as I said, with Dr. Bloor in charge it will launch exactly on time.”
The Director turned back to Bohler. “Will there be any need for you to communicate with Bonn?”
“I don’t think so,” said the American immediately. “My instructions are to visit and then to prepare a report on my return.”
“I hope you won’t be bored here,” said Muller, polite again. “I’m afraid the insects from the lake marshes make the swimming pool uncomfortable, despite the insect lamps. There are film shows on most nights of the week and a fairly active sports club — they’ve even tried boating on the lake, but it hasn’t proved very successful. Now our new security regulations discourage it.”
“I’m surprised that any sport is successful in this climate,” said Bohler, happy to relax momentarily into pleasantries.
“It’s possible,” assured Muller. “And the gymnasium here is air-conditioned. I use it a great deal myself.”
Bohler was not surprised to learn that Muller was a health fanatic; the man’s appearance suggested fitness. It meant he would have to extend the age assessment beyond sixty when he sent the description to Langley.
