Target, p.3
Target, page 3
“Our lucky night,” said the large man, “even if it wasn’t for poor Otto.”
They both moved without haste along the bar until they got to the boy. They made their approach obvious and he smiled — he was very handsome.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said the small Russian. His German was perfect, without a trace of accent.
“Noticed you earlier,” said Jurgen. “Like it here?”
“Not much,” said the larger man. “There’s a much nicer club. We’re just on our way.”
His companion allowed just the right amount of hesitation. “Like to come?” he invited.
“Lovely.”
The Russians had a BMW parked almost directly outside. The smaller man got into the driver’s seat and the other into the back with the German boy. The Russians had already reconnoitered the club area of Bonn and reached the alley very quickly. Jurgen appeared to become aware of the danger at the last moment and tried to yell but the larger man had been sitting with his arm around his shoulders and now gripped the nerve cluster near the boy’s collar bone, immobilizing him with pain.
“Please,” said Jurgen. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He was crying.
The smaller man was waiting by the rear door and he hit the youth as the other man thrust him out. Jurgen crumpled, breathless. Carefully — because they didn’t want to mark his face — the taller one supported him while the smaller man hit him repeatedly in his stomach. Jurgen was unconscious surprisingly quickly, so they lay him in the back of the car to recover. It took almost an hour. One of them smoked, listening to a Beethoven concert on the car radio; the other put on the interior light and read a German language edition of Time magazine.
Jurgen groaned back to consciousness. He remembered where he was and tried to scramble away, hunching himself against the far seat and crying out again at the pain from his bruising.
“We want to show you something, Jurgen,” said the smaller man. He held out some photographs and the youth screamed out in horror, putting his hands to his eyes.
The bigger man reached over the seat, forcing Jurgen’s hands away so that he had to look.
“It’s acid,” said the other Russian, conversationally. “See how his nose has gone and all that scarring. And he’s blind, of course. We’re going to do that to you, Jurgen. We’re going to do that to you unless you end your association with Otto Bock. We want him. You understand?”
“Oh yes, please yes. For God’s sake, let me go.”
“End it,” insisted the Russian. “End the friendship immediately.”
Jurgen nodded dumbly.
Six miles away in the residential area of the West German capital, Otto Bock, unaware of how he was about to be manipulated or of the effect that it would have on him, stalked into the living-room of his apartment without any greeting to his wife.
“Do you want supper?” asked Gretal.
“No.”
She frowned at the abruptness. “What then?”
“To be left alone.”
Gretal turned away to hide her reaction to his attitude. It was the work, she tried to convince herself. Otto worked far too hard and if he were not careful, it would make him ill.
3
The others were already assembled when James Peterson entered the Oval Office. He paused just inside the door, recognizing them one by one and assessing from their presence how seriously the President regarded the situation. It was very serious.
“Glad you’re here. Come in, come in,” greeted William Fowler. It was a practiced, insincere folksiness. Fowler was a tall, gangling man who had thrust his way to the Presidency with the single-minded ruthlessness with which his forefathers had established the largest cattle holding in Texas; he was nostalgic for the frontier life and fond of boasting how his grandfather had pursued three cattle rustlers into Mexico and lynched them all from the same tree. Lobbyists for the National Rifle Association had rarely known a more receptive Executive when any antigun legislation was proposed.
Henry Moore, who sat in a chair to the left of the presidential desk, was a plumply indulgent senior partner in a New York legal firm who had taken leave of absence to serve as Secretary of State. It was no secret in the capital that he regretted the decision, particularly now that his absolute authority had been eroded by the appointment of Herbert Flood as foreign affairs advisor. Flood was a stooped, bespectacled lecturer from Harvard who still adopted the attitude of an academic: the crumpled sports jacket, wool shirts and loafers were practically a uniform. It was a calculated deceit, Peterson knew. Since his arrival in Washington, Flood had developed an intense ambition and whatever happened in the next election, he had no intention of returning to any Massachusetts university. Without having any positive grounds for the belief, Peterson didn’t think Flood respected his ability. He was certainly unsure about Flood, but like all Washington professionals he took care to conceal the attitude.
Peterson went to the chair indicated, carefully placing his briefcase beside him and straightening his trouser crease.
“You got a can of worms for us this time,” said the President.
“It would seem so,” said Peterson.
“Have we got in yet?” demanded Moore.
“In the car on the way here I got a call that our third man was in trouble.”
“Dead?” asked the President.
“Probably,” said Peterson.
“What the hell!” erupted Fowler. “That makes three, in under two weeks.”
“Yes.”
The President turned to Moore. “What do the Germans say?”
“That it’s a legally established consortium of recognized companies working outside the laws or jurisdiction of Bonn and apparently doing nothing illegal.”
“They won’t interfere in any way?” asked Flood.
Moore frowned at being asked a direct question by anyone other than the President. “They say they have no cause.”
“I want Bonn leaned on,” insisted Fowler.
“I’ll take it as far as I can,” said Moore, “but I doubt that we will be able to make them do anything effective. So far there is no illegality.”
“Have we gone back to source?” asked Flood, staring intently at the CIA Director.
“On several occasions,” said Peterson. “The Israelis say they can’t learn anything further. They’re as worried as hell at the prospect of a spy satellite over their territory.”
“The information came from them in the first place,” pointed out Flood.
“Only that they believed there was an installation somewhere,” qualified Peterson, irritated at the other man’s attitude of constant criticism. “They didn’t even know which country; it took a satellite to identify Chad.”
“What do we know?” demanded Flood. He managed to infuse sarcasm into the question, anticipating the limit of Peterson’s knowledge. Henry Moore was right in disliking the man, decided the CIA Director.
Peterson lifted the briefcase to his lap, taking out the information clip that had been prepared in anticipation of the query. “It would appear to be a highly technical, well-built, very modern installation,” he said, glancing between the men and the notes upon his lap. “It’s large, something like eighty thousand square kilometers. It has its own air strip and they apparently use helicopters as well as aircraft. The satellite pictures show a very extensive and elaborate communications section, including radar. The consortium, BADRA, is registered in Bonn and formed from six German rocket-related companies. The function in their prospectus is given as the development of advanced communication systems. They appear to have survived the ’79 fighting between President Malloum and the guerillas of Hissene Habre. And the religious genocide the same year between the Muslims and the Christians.…”
“So everyone is on the take?” interrupted the President, as if to confirm some private impression.
Peterson smiled bleakly. “Seems that way,” he agreed. “The company is to pay the government $40,000,000 a year, from the date of the first successful launch, for the right to be there, though I don’t expect it to go into the economy of the country.”
“Why can’t we bribe our way in?” demanded Flood.
“There’s no trouble getting into the country,” said Peterson, patiently. “It’s entering the complex.”
“We’re sure it is rocket construction?” said Moore.
“We’ve identified at least six silos … there could be more. Our analysts are positive about them — they are unquestionably for rocket storage.”
“Our intelligence is poor,” criticized Flood.
“I know,” said Peterson, accepting the rebuke. “It’s proving more difficult than I expected it to be.” He paused. “The Soviets have involved themselves,” he reminded, “and like us they’ve put a satellite over the complex.”
Fowler looked first to Moore, then to Flood. “Any point in attempting some sort of consultation?”
“Too early, “said Moore at once.” We’d be approaching from a position of weakness and if the Soviets realized it, they’d screw us.”
“I agree,” said Flood, reluctantly. “We need more intelligence.”
“I don’t like this,” said Fowler. “I don’t like this one goddamn bit.”
Everyone remained silent, none wishing to be the first to make a suggestion and risk being wrong. The President looked towards Peterson. “I want you in personal control,” he ordered quietly. “I don’t care what it costs or what it involves, I want it stopped. I’m not having some shit-kicking country getting access to any sort of rocketry and risking the balance of power we’ve established.”
“Me!” said Peterson, bewildered. “What about the Operational Director?”
“You,” insisted the President. “This is big — too big. You’re the man at the top.”
Peterson knew the Secretary of State and the foreign affairs advisor were as surprised as he was at the decison. They would have appreciated Fowler’s reasoning, though, just as he had. If the affair were big, then any scapegoat had to be correspondingly important. William Fowler, President, was prepared to take a fallback position, and James Peterson, CIA Director, had been put into line to protect him from all the crap.
“If that’s your wish,” said Peterson, allowing the doubt to show. “It’s a little against standard practice.”
“I don’t give a damn about standard practice,” said Fowler, angrily. “I want you in personal control, at all times.”
“I understand,” said Peterson, tightly.
“Glad you do,” said Fowler. “I want to be kept fully informed; I shall be available at any time.”
In the car going back to Langley, Peterson again closed the glass partition between himself and the driver. It had been a bad performance, he conceded to himself. One of the unwritten dictums of Washington politics was that a person did not show his doubts, and Peterson knew that he had just failed to observe it. The President’s edict worried him. Of course, as Director, he would ultimately be responsible for whatever happened in the name of the Agency. He would expect that. But the President’s decision established a personal link, removing any room for maneuver. So he wasn’t allowed any mistakes. He sighed and checked the time. Lucille would be awakening now. He looked towards the car telephone, wondering whether to call her. Better to wait, to give her more time. If she were up, she’d still be in a bad way.
He summoned Walter Jones the moment he entered his office. “The President has put me in personal charge,” he announced.
“You’re not an operational man,” said the deputy immediately.
“I made that point,” said Peterson. “He insisted — a presidential order.”
“Insurance, in case it goes wrong,” judged Jones.
“Yes,” accepted Peterson.
“I’m sorry,” said Jones. “That it happened that way, I mean.”
“So nothing must go wrong.”
“No,” agreed Jones. “Nothing must go wrong.”
“Anything from Williams?” demanded Peterson anxiously.
“Nothing,” said the other man. “We’ve tried constantly, since the emergency alert. His radio is out.”
“So that’s that?”
“It would seem so,” said Jones. “Your son came through, on the private line.”
“Paul called here!” Peterson had always discouraged any personal intrusion from his family; lately he’d come to regard the distancing as some sort of protection.
“Said it was important.”
“Sorry you were bothered,” apologized Peterson.
Jones looked at him curiously. “It was no bother,” he said. “He wants you to return his call.”
Peterson made an impatient gesture. “What about the people coming back from Africa?”
Jones looked apologetic. “Plane’s developed trouble in the Azores,” he said. “No chance of them getting here tonight.”
“Damn,” said Peterson bitterly. He looked steadily across the desk at his deputy. “We’re on the line over this.”
“I realize that.”
“It’s not just the President. That bastard Flood is playing politics with us, as well.”
“Are we going to mount another operation in Chad?”
Peterson considered the question, staring down at the picture of the mutilated body of the first agent.
“No,” he said positively. He saw Jones looking at him in anticipation of some alternative proposal.
“It could lead to a mistake,” explained Peterson cautiously. “After today’s meeting at the White House, we can’t risk mistakes.”
“I suppose not,” accepted Jones.
“We’ll have a strategy meeting once the people get back from the Azores,” decided Peterson. He saw the other man frown at the twenty-four hour delay before any fresh action.
“I want every appointment and commitment in which I might be involved delegated for the next two months,” Peterson hurried on, trying to convey the impression of activity. “And get back to Israel; see if they’ve come up with anything more.” Peterson wondered if his deputy was aware of how frightened he was.
“I’ll see to it,” said Jones doubtfully. He rose, to return to his own office. “I put your son’s number on the pad,” he said at the door.
Alone again, Peterson sat staring at the notation, undecided. It was two months since they had last talked, nearer three. Inevitably, it had ended in an argument. He dialled the number. Paul answered immediately, as if he had been anxious for the call.
“Still keeping the free world safe?” he said. It was a friendly attempt at humor, not sarcasm.
“You wanted me,” said Peterson, refusing the lightness.
“I’d like to meet you.”
“Why?”
“It’s important.”
“I’m very busy.”
“You always are.”
“What is it?”
“Important.”
Why couldn’t he go some way towards meeting the boy? Paul had made the first approach, tried to be friendly.
“When?”
“How about tonight?”
He ought to remain in the office, Peterson thought. But for what? The people who’d recovered the body of Brinton weren’t getting back until tomorrow. And he could easily do everything else during the afternoon.
“The Hay Adams,” selected Peterson. He was taken past the hotel on the way home; it would mean a fairly short delay.
“Do they admit people in jeans?” asked Paul, trying again to reduce the hostility between them.
“I don’t know,” said Peterson, refusing his son again. “I don’t wear them.”
“Perhaps you should,” came back his son, his temper going at last. “They keep your balls up under your chin, where everyone can see them.”
“Do you really want a meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Six then.”
“All right.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I’m being fitted with difficulty into the schedule?”
“I’m very busy.”
“So you said. I won’t be late.”
Peterson determined that tonight he would try, really try. He would permit the boy as much as he wanted and avoid any dispute. And not patronize him — treat him man to man. More than that, even. He would reach out, try to restore what had once existed between them. It was past one, he noted. Time for Lucille. She answered almost as promptly as their son had done, expecting the contact. Time for yet another little performance.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“You were sleeping when I left.”
“Thank you for not awakening me.”
The make-up would be repaired by now. The hair would be perfect, even though she was about to visit the beauty parlour. The afternoon dress would match the afternoon coat and she would have toning shoes and handbag. In the afternoons, the Washington women were always at their public best.
“So you’re all right?”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.”
“So it was a stupid question?”
“Yes,” he retreated. “I’m sorry. Have you had any lunch?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Please try something.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“I thought we’d stay in tonight … eat at home,” said Peterson.
“There’s a reception, at the French embassy.”
“I don’t want to go,” he said wearily.
“It’ll be fun.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. I might be a little later than usual.”
“Why?”
“A late meeting.” He wouldn’t tell her about Paul. Not until after they’d met, anyway.
“I want to go to the reception.”
“Later, I said.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“I didn’t say you would.”
“You’re frightened that I might embarrass you.”
“Don’t start, Lucille.”
“I didn’t start it.”
