Target, p.40
Target, page 40
“Trouble?” asked Paul, as his father replaced the instrument in its securing clip.
“Probably,” said Peterson. “It usually is. I’ll have to drop you at a bus stop.”
There was an air of anticlimax about the rocket installation, despite the monitoring of information that had commenced within twenty-six hours of launch. With unrestricted access, Bohler was able to see nearly everything that came in; when the first pictures started to arrive, Mullet actually summoned him, to boast of their clarity. They were as good as any the American had ever seen at either Houston or Cape Canaveral; the quality of some of the television transmission was even better. Even without the benefit of proper analysis, Bohler could identify the troop movements in the Negev and Sinai deserts and on the Golan Heights. He knew of the world response from easily obtainable newscasts, and guessed that his reports to Langley over the once-a-night radio link-up would increase the anxiety in Washington.
He was by the swimming pool, actually assembling the report in his mind, when he heard a sound and turned to see Hannah Bloor approaching. She was wearing the briefest of bikinis beneath a silk wrap and the American felt a stir of excitement.
“Any news of your recall yet?” she said, choosing a reclining bed beside him.
“No,” said Bohler. “There’s a lot of reaction. I’m probably still regarded as useful here.”
“More reaction than I anticipated,” agreed Hannah. “Perhaps I’ve been cut off here for too long.”
“The satellite is proving remarkably effective.”
“Better than I’d dared hope,” said the woman.
“Should bring you more customers,” encouraged Bohler, seeking additional material for his report.
“Too soon to guess,” she said. “I’d hope so.”
She slowly covered her body with suntan-oil, looking up suddenly and smiling at his embarrassment at being caught watching her do it.
“If you’re kept on, perhaps there will be time,” she said.
“Time?”
“For the camera safari we talked about.”
“Yes,” agreed Bohler slowly. “Perhaps there would be time.” Could it only be four days ago that Gerda had died?
37
Dimitri Petrov managed almost a casual entrance into the cabinet room, completely concealing his unaccustomed nervousness. The debacle in Africa was the first traceable mistake of his career. And pragmatic as always, he accepted that it would provide the focus for all the resentment and dislike which had for so long been directed towards him by those offended by his refusal to conform to the pattern of the Kremlin hierarchy.
The Politburo committee had already assembled, waiting for him. It had been several weeks since he had seen Boris Dorensky, but he had been aware of the rumors. The chairman sat wheyfaced and unmoving, his eyes freqently unfocused and a palsied shake in his left hand. Ivan Borrosuba was to his left, neat and precise as always, note-pad before him as if he were about to take a deposition of some crime. Litvinov was to the left and, as he approached the table, Petrov detected a slight smirk of satisfaction. At the KGB chief’s approach, Dorensky made a conscious effort to compose himself, gesturing the man towards a seat that would put him immediately before them.
“We were assured, both by yourself and by Comrade Litvinov after his visit to you in Odessa, that the African operation would be successful,” accused Dorensky. There was a slight blur in his voice, as if he were finding difficulty in pronunciation.
“The death of Dr. Lintz was a tragedy,” said Petrov. “And the assault was impeded by an Israeli commando attack that we were unable to prevent.”
“Unable to prevent,” attacked Litvinov immediately. “Are you telling us that a unit as highly trained and as expert as ours was unable to defeat a rabble of Israeli and Arab soldiery?”
“The Israeli soldiery is not rabble,” said Petrov, getting an advantage from the other man’s extravagance. “At the very moment of attack, our people were disclosed by their independent action. We lost the benefit of surprise and were caught in crossfire: there was nothing they could do but withdraw.”
“The history of this miserable affair seems to be that of your telling us there was nothing you could to,” interrupted Borrosuba.
“That is a gross exaggeration,” fought back Petrov. “An operation was mounted and achieved a very high degree of success.…”
“… and then a very low level of failure,” cut off Litvinov. “The point was to prevent the launch of a satellite over the Middle East. That satellite is now in position, and once again the Soviet Union is being drawn to the point of confrontation with the United States of America. Where’s the success in that?”
The way in which Litvinov and Borrosuba were conducting the attack was almost rehearsed, thought Petrov. Having lost so much, it was difficult to provide any sort of defense.
“I was not attempting to argue that there had been any ultimate success,” said the KGB Director. “I was attempting to balance the affair by pointing out the considerable success in the initial stages.”
“The only point of which was to abort the launch. And it wasn’t aborted,” retorted Dorensky, making the opposition to Petrov absolute.
“Something of which I am very well aware and deeply regret,” said Petrov. As always, he found humility very difficult.
“What proposals do you have for exposing the American presence in Africa, to get some slight advantage out of the whole thing?” demanded Litvinov, overconfidently.
“None,” said Petrov, immediately aware of the other man’s slip. “Surely I don’t have to remind you that there is an operative still undetected within the installation!”
“An American,” said Litvinov, trying to retreat.
“There is still contact between myself and the Director of the CIA,” said Petrov. He hesitated, aware that Litvinov was still unbalanced and waiting to increase the awkwardness. Stressing the sarcasm, he went on, “And surely there is no need either for me to point out that the satellite is still controlled from within the complex.”
“You don’t have to tell us that,” agreed Borrosuba, coming to his colleague’s rescue. “But you do have to tell us if there’s the slightest chance of the men still being able to interfere with the operation of the satellite.…”
“… and let me make it clear,” said Dorensky, before Petrov could make any response, “that we want a very accurate and considered reply. Because whatever action the Soviet Union takes in the event of some clash between Israel and the Arab nations may well depend on it.”
Petrov stared back at them uncertainly. The assurance might give him a temporary respite from their pressure, but if they did gauge their response from it and Bohler failed, then there would be no way that Litvinov would allow him to survive.
“I still hope there is a possibility of his causing it to malfunction,” said Petrov.
“You hope there’s a possibility,” sneered Litvinov at once. “Oh come, Comrade General! It’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to believe that you comprehend the gravity of what’s happening.”
“It’s because I’m fully aware of the gravity that I made the reply I did,” said Petrov. “The fact that the man still in Africa is American is quite immaterial: from our liaison, we know that the United States is as anxious as we are for this launch to fail. We have to look upon him as the best possibility still available of causing some kind of problem with the satellite.”
“Look maybe,” said Litvinov. “But not rely.”
“May I ask what other proposals are being considered?” said Petrov, without sufficient thought.
Instantly Litvinov came back at him, making the relegation very obvious. “No, Comrade General, you may not. The Politburo gave you the opportunity and you failed. There would be no point in involving you in any further discussion.”
Petrov felt the flush burn through him and regretted that they would be able to see his reaction to the dismissal. “I do not yet consider that I have completely failed,” he said, hoping they would not discern the desperation in the protest.
“Are you asking us to allow any policy decision we might take to be affected by the presence of that one man? And an American, at that?” said Dorensky.
“I am asking you not to overlook his presence,” said Petrov.
“And how long must we sit and hope?” said Borrosuba.
He’d been forced into a cul-de-sac, Petrov recognized. “I cannot properly answer that question until I have further contact with the CIA Director,” said Petrov, aware of how weak it sounded.
“Magnificent!” said Litvinov. “Now we are being asked not only to depend upon an American in Africa, but to accept guidance from an enemy’s intelligence organization before making a policy decision.”
“That’s a very wrong interpretation of what I said,” protested Petrov.
“Provide another,” challenged Borrosuba.
“Permit me contact,” pleaded Petrov. “Permit me time to consult and let there be another meeting, at which I hope to tell you more.”
Litvinov stared across the table, without any pity. “How much time?” he said.
The man intended to allow him no time to escape, Petrov recognized. “Twenty-four hours,” he said urgently. “Just allow me twenty-four hours.”
Dorensky looked at the two men sitting either side of him and then gave a curt nod. “A day,” he agreed. “But let me warn you, Comrade General, that by that time we shall want positive answers to positive questions. We do not intend to make any more mistakes.”
“I repeat what I said earlier,” assured Petrov. “I fully understand how this matter might seriously affect the country.”
“And not just the country,” said Litvinov, unable to stop himself. “Don’t forget how it might affect you, Comrade Petrov.”
The omission of his rank was intentional, the KGB chief decided, back in his office in Dzerzhinsky Square. The first indication that a purge was underway. Petrov decided he wouldn’t concede anything — certainly not to people like Litvinov and Borrobusa. Would they attempt a show trial? It would be the sort of humiliation that Litvinov would enjoy. He would be too proud to stand in the dock and parrot a list of supposed crimes, Petrov knew. What then? There was only suicide.
The idea of defection came to him with startling suddenness. He could do it, he knew. It would be particularly easy, with the contact he still had with Peterson. America would give him anything he wanted. Protection. A new identity. Enough money to live for the rest of his life. And Irena was in America. Then he shook himself, a physical movement. The pride that would prevent him from appearing before any mock judgment would also prevent him from becoming a traitor to his country. And there was more than just the refusal to betray Russia. No matter what protection the Americans gave him, his own service would trace him, in a month or a year or maybe two years: it was inconceivable that they could allow their controller to escape, unpunished. And if Irena were with him, then she would be punished too. Petrov sighed, irritated at the direction in which his mind had wandered. There was no escape for him.
Dr. Harrap had been waiting for him, so Peterson’s meeting with Lucille was foreshortened even more than he had feared it would be. As soon as he entered the ward he was conscious of the improvement about which the doctor had spoken. Lucille had lost her attitude of furtive awkwardness: she looked directly at him now, not letting her eyes slide nervously away, as she had done before. She rose to greet him and he kissed her spontaneously. She seemed surprised.
“You look well,” he said.
“I feel fine. You look fit, too.”
“I’ve been in the sun.”
“And now you’re back.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?” Before, there would have been a challenge in the question, but not now.
“A long time, I hope.”
“Did it go well?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Beth is back,” declared Peterson abruptly. Would Dr. Harrap be behind the one-way mirror, assessing the impact of the announcement upon the woman? It had been the physician’s idea and Peterson suddenly accepted that he was taking part in an experiment on his wife. Lucille was blinking, nervously; she glanced instinctively over his shoulder, as if she expected the girl to be waiting in the corridor outside.
“Where?”
“Here, in Washington.”
“Then why isn’t she …?”
“She’s ill, Lucille. Very ill.”
She came up half out of her chair, her eyes flooding. “What’s the matter with her?”
As succinctly as possible, Peterson told her of how their daughter had been found and of the medical diagnosis that had been made. Towards the end she began to wince at his words, as if they physically hurt her, and Peterson wondered at Dr. Harrap’s insistence that she be told everything so brutally.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“But we’ve got her back,” said Peterson urgently. “We’ve got her back with us and she’s under expert care. We’re going to make her better.”
She tried to smile at his attempted reassurance but it came out as a crooked expression. “How long?”
“A long time,” he said. “She’s going to need a great deal of help.…”
Peterson paused, unsure. Harrap insisted that the interview be conducted this way and that he be the one to do it.
“… and the person who’s going to have to help her most is you, Lucille.”
“No!” The woman cringed before the demand.
“We’re all going to be here, you and me and Paul. But when she’s discharged you’ll be the person with whom she’s going to have to spend most of the time.”
“But I’m not … I can’t.…”
“Yes you can, Lucille. You can because you’ve got to. Beth isn’t strong enough, not by herself. She’s going to need you.”
The woman seemed to quiet, looking at him steadily. “What you’re telling me is no more booze.”
“I’m not telling you that,” said Peterson. “Dr. Harrap and the other counsellors tell you that. I’m telling you what there is for you to do when you get out of here.”
“Caring for Beth again,” said Lucille, wistfully. “It will have been such a long time.”
“And it won’t be like before — it won’t be easy.”
“No,” accepted the woman, still distant. “It won’t be easy.”
Peterson turned at movement behind him. His driver was standing, expectantly. “The White House,” the man reminded.
Peterson rose immediately and when he looked back, Lucille’s attitude had changed, “‘We’re all going to be here,’” she quoted, accusingly.
“I meant it,” insisted Peterson.
“Until something more important comes up,” she said disbelievingly. “Until you’re too busy.”
“Honestly, Lucille. It won’t be like before.”
A few feet away the chauffeur shifted impatiently.
“You hadn’t better keep them waiting,” she said.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised.
“I won’t hold my breath until you arrive.” It was little-girl cynicism and both were embarrassed by it.
He leaned forward to kiss her again and this time the movement was stilted. She half pulled away and their noses collided.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, turning away from her. Dr. Harrap had been wrong, he decided. The intention had been to give Lucille an awareness of responsibility — a purpose for which to be discharged. The last impression Peterson had had of his wife as he turned to leave was of the furtive awkwardness again: the furtive awkwardness that had always been obvious when she was going towards her first drink of the day.
38
It was an uncomfortable feeling, a numbing uneasiness. It came as Peterson approached the White House, staring from the car windows across the park to the illuminated Doric columns, and he frowned, trying to identify the cause. Apprehension at the coming confrontation with the President? Reason enough, certainly. But he did not think it stemmed from that. Distress at what he had just found: one hospital visit after another, seeing one sick member of his family after another? Maybe a contributory factor. But nothing more. What then? Without any positive calling to mind, he thought again of his complete analysis of the African operation and the amorphous, ungraspable impression that somewhere, somehow, something had happened which he had failed to recognize. There was something: the conviction was increasing in strength without his having the remotest idea of what it was. It was a belief he would have to keep to himself, or share only with Walter Jones, so that he would have a sounding board. He definitely could not introduce it at the forthcoming meeting. His credibility would be under enough strain, without attempting to introduce vague impressions when he was unable to explain what they were or even provide grounds for any doubt.
The limousine halted at the gate check and then continued on to one of the side doors from which there was easier access to the President’s working quarters. Peterson walked steadily behind the usher, returned the nod of greeting to the appointments secretary and was shown into the Oval Office. Everyone whom he expected to be there was already in the room, waiting. Fowler sat behind the huge rectangular desk, with Moore and Flood in their accustomed seats; they all turned, as he entered. Only from the President was there any other movement. He jerked his head in an odd, pecking motion and gestured the CIA Director to a chair which placed him like a witness before a tribunal. Peterson supposed that was how they regarded him. He seated himself carefully, positioned the briefcase beside the chair and looked up, waiting for Fowler’s lead.
“It didn’t work,” said the President. He made it sound like an accusation.
There was no longer to be any Rose Garden protection, realized the CIA Director. Everyone — the President, the Secretary of State and the foreign affairs advisor — was taking out publicly proveable insurance. He had no reason for surprise; the President had warned him.
