Target, p.42
Target, page 42
“It’ll be difficult to control,” said Levy sympathetically.
Weismann leaned across the table to emphasize what he was about to say. “Everything is at a very critical state, David. One wrong, ill-considered move and we could be facing one of the biggest crises since 1948.”
“I know,” said the Mossad chief solemnly.
“Over the next three or four days we must be more careful than we’ve ever been in our lives.”
“I know that, too.”
Weismann smiled, an unexpected expression. “I don’t envy you, confronting Peterson.”
“It won’t be easy,” agreed Levy. “But then nothing has been easy, from the start.”
Two-way communication meant that the transmission to Langley took much longer, and Bohler signed off drained and damp with perspiration from the tension of half-listening to any sounds from the corridor outside. He supposed the Director’s demand that he attempt to do something to the control system to make the satellite malfunction was predictable — particularly after the information that the quality of the intelligence being relayed back was so high. But the order still unsettled him, adding to the nervousness of open radio links. He showered and changed and remained in his quarters, trying to calm himself. It was almost an hour after his conversation with Langley before he felt sufficiently recovered to move towards the control chamber. Gerda had possessed far more courage than he did, Bohler decided. The despair, such a frequent feeling during the last four or five days, came to him as soon as he entered. At every control section sat an operator, assigned solely to that particular function. Directly behind them were liaison technicians, assessing the operation and performance of the satellite as a whole. And there were more Libyans than there had been immediately after the launch, at least five assembled at various spots around the room; Bohler glanced along the corridor to the smaller room which had once held the satellite and thought he detected more soldiers there as well.
Bohler strolled in, answering nods of greeting. It would have been intrusive of him to attempt to get anywhere near the operating mechanism of the satellite; to attempt some sort of sabotage would be utterly impossible. He felt a curious relief at the realization and again thought how much braver Gerda had been.
He remained in the control room long enough to avoid the visit appearing unusual, then took the elevator back up to the ground level. There was an internal telephone system, but Hannah Bloor did not respond when he called her quarters. He found her beside the pool.
She squinted up at his approach and then, once she had identified him, smiled. “Wondered if you’d come out today,” she said.
“Thought I might find you in the control room.”
“I’m doing the early evening shift.”
“Maintaining a twenty-four hour monitor?” said the American.
She frowned up, at the question rather than the sun. “Of course,” she said.
“Lot of Libyans around,” said Bohler.
“Everything has gone so well I suppose we should expect it,” said Hannah. “I gather there might even be some sort of official government visit in the next few days. And there have been some inquiries from elsewhere.”
“Oh?” said Bohler, guessing the woman would not need too much prompting.
“From somewhere in Asia, according to Dr. Muller.”
“To purchase time in this one. Or have another?”
“Another,” said Hannah. “I believe Libya intends increasing the time they’ve purchased on this rocket for a further six months.”
More intelligence to worry Peterson, Bohler knew. There would be increased demands that he attempt something with the controls.
“Put some oil on my back,” demanded the woman suddenly.
Bohler stooped beside her, applying the protection. Her skin was soft but very firm.
“Undo the strap,” she said, “otherwise there will be a line.”
“That’s nice,” she said drowsily.
He massaged from her shoulders down to the small of her back, aware of what was happening and enjoying it.
Unexpectedly she moved onto her side, careless that it showed the ripeness of her breasts. “I finish at about nine tonight. Why don’t we eat together, late?”
“I’d like that,” he said.
“Yes” she said, holding his eyes. “I think I would too.”
She turned back onto her stomach. “Don’t stop rubbing,” she commanded.
40
Dr. Harrap had stressed the importance of the outing for Lucille and Peterson had determined there would be no disappointment. And then Bohler had made the unexpected transmission, very early their time, and the Director had judged it sufficiently important for him to detour to Langley before going to the clinic.
“Asia,” said Walter Jones incredulously, looking up from the transcript of Bohler’s message. “Can you imagine the President’s response to that! It’ll be Vietnam, all over again.”
“I wonder which country it is,” said Peterson.
“I can guess any one of three or four who might want a satellite,” said Jones. “But I wouldn’t have thought any of them had the money.”
“What if it isn’t their money?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if they’re fronting for China?” demanded the Director.
Jones physically shuddered. “You’re frightening the ass off me,” he said seriously.
“And it’s going to frighten the ass off Fowler: he started his re-election moves a month ago.”
The Deputy Director went back to Bohler’s intelligence. “And he’s not going to be happy at Bohler’s insistence there’s nothing he can do to screw the satellite.”
“It’s coming very close to getting out of hand, isn’t it?” said the Director, remembering the President’s behavior at their last meeting.
“It’s not good,” agreed Jones.
Peterson stood up from his desk, an abrupt movement. “I want a hold on this,” he ordered, gesturing to the latest intelligence report. “I don’t want it to to go the White House for three hours, and when it does, attach the request for an immediate meeting with the President. You can get me in the car.”
Jones sat regarding him doubtfully. “What happens if someone demands all the details … the time of the transmission, for instance?”
“We were seeking clarification before making any sort of scare announcement,” answered Peterson easily. He returned Jones’ look. “Fuck them all,” he said, in sudden vehemence. “I’ve made a promise to Lucille and I’ve made a promise to Beth. And for once I’m going to keep them. Three hours isn’t going to make any difference. They’ll still be running around like chickens with their heads cut off, not knowing what to do.”
“You don’t sound very impressed,” said Jones.
“I’m not.”
“And they’re not very impressed with us,” reflected the deputy.
“So the disappointment is mutual.”
“I hope they’re getting on OK … Lucille and Beth, I mean,” said Jones.
“Yes,” said Peterson sincerely. “So do I.”
He was two hours late at the clinic. Lucille was waiting on the very edge of a chair in the communal room, hands gripped against her legs, her handbag beside her. Her morning dress seemed freshly pressed and she wore a hat which suited her. She was lightly and very carefully made up. The furtiveness was still there.
“Something came up,” she anticipated, not looking directly at him.
“I’m sorry. I called Dr. Harrap.”
“He told me.”
“Shall we go?”
He helped her from the chair and, as they started to walk from the ward, he felt her hand against his arm, holding him tightly. He pressed it against his side in reassurance. There was no conversation until they got into the car and then Lucille said, “I’m very frightened, James.”
“What of?”
“Myself. How I’ll behave, when I see her.”
He turned towards her to stress the importance of what he was saying. “You mustn’t collapse, Lucille. Beth is more ill than you, far more ill. And she’ll go backwards if she realizes she can’t rely on you.”
“I’m not strong enough,” protested the woman weakly. “Not well … not better.…”
Peterson reached out, squeezing her hand. “You’ve got to be,” he said. “Dr. Harrap says you can do it and I think you can do it. You’ve got to think of Beth now, that’s all.”
She looked at him, damp-eyed and accusingly. “Who are you going to think of?”
“Both of you,” he said. “I’ve made you the promise and I don’t intend to break it.”
The car pulled up at the clinic entrance and the driver opened the door on Lucille’s side. She remained sitting where she was, staring straight ahead.
“We’re here, Lucille.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.” “No.”
“Get out of the car!”
“Please, James.”
“Beth is waiting … she’s waiting for you.”
The woman stayed frigid for only a few seconds, but it seemed much longer. Then, falteringly, she left the vehicle, turning immediately to Peterson and reaching out for his arm. He waited while she prepared herself, and then they slowly walked towards the building. She stayed withdrawn and aloof from the admission procedure, almost as if she were unaware of its happening, but when they started out towards Beth’s room he felt her pinching at his arm in her nervousness. He halted outside the door.
“Ready?”
She nodded, her lips hard together, her gaze fixed straight ahead again.
Beth was in the chair in which she had been sitting when Peterson had made his first visit, but she’d changed from the towelling robe. She’d given her dress size to Paul unthinkingly, and because of her thinness the new garment draped around her, accentuating the emaciation. Peterson noticed immediately that his son had had the forethought to buy something with long sleeves, so that the needle scars were covered. Beth’s hair was plaited, as it had been before. She wore no make-up.
Lucille stopped, resisting Peterson’s pressure to go further into the room, so that they bunched together awkwardly in the doorway. Beth was trying hard to keep any emotion from her face, but Peterson was aware of the flicker of disappointment.
“I’m not contagious, Mummy.”
Peterson felt a sudden swamping of anger and was about to thrust past the obstructing figure of his wife when she moved hesitantly into the room. She stopped, as Peterson had done that first day, a few feet away, unsure what to do. Inevitably, the greetings were banal.
“Hello Beth.”
“Hello Mother.” The girl looked beyond Lucille, smiling to her father. Peterson thought that her teeth seemed bad and was reminded of the photograph of his daughter at Paul’s graduation. She’d worn a brace then, he recalled again. Two years ago. She looked much older now — almost as old as Lucille. Careworn and used, too, like someone who had known only a life of drudgery.
Lucille went towards the girl in a sudden rush, the sobbing bursting from her, and Beth reached out to receive her and began to cry as well. The two women clung together, weeping unashamedly, and Peterson shifted self-consciously, feeling the intruder. When they parted after several minutes, Beth was red-eyed and Lucille’s make-up was streaked and smeared. Each looked into the other’s face and laughed, embarrassed.
“You look awful,” Beth said to her mother.
“So do you,” said Lucille and they laughed again, less nervously this time.
“I’m sorry you’ve been ill,” said the girl.
“I’m sorry, too. About you I mean.” Lucille became aware of the yellowness of hepatitis about Beth’s skin for the first time and touched her face curiously.
“I can get better,” said Beth, hopefully. “They say I can get better.”
“I know, my darling.”
“It’ll take a long time, though.”
Peterson remained on one side, detecting the switchback of his daughter’s moods, one moment confidence, the next doubt.
“There’s all the time in the world,” assured Lucille.
“I’m sorry,” said Beth, contrite now. “It was very selfish of me to do what I did. Selfish and stupid and I wish to God I’d been stronger.…”
She started crying again and Lucille reached out for her, pulling Beth’s face against her shoulder. “Stop it, darling. Stop it! It’s all over now, all over. Just get better — that’s all that’s important. Getting better.”
Beth drew away, sniffing. “I want that,” she said. “I want that very much.”
“We’ll have to help each other,” said Lucille. “It isn’t going to be easy for me, either.” Lucille took her daughter’s face between her hands and kissed her, tenderly. “We’ll do it together,” she said. “You and me. Together.”
“I love you so much,” said Beth.
“And I love you.”
“I’ve done some dreadful things. Mummy.”
Lucille put her fingers to her daughter’s lips. “I said it’s all over. Talk about it if you want to, but not because you feel you have to. And not now. Later.”
The girl put her head against the older woman, so that her words were muffled. “I didn’t think you wanted me back,” she mumbled. “When Daddy didn’t come to Arizona I thought you didn’t want me any more.”
Lucille looked at her husband over their daughter’s head and Peterson was shocked at the look of dislike.
“He was coming,” said Lucille. “You left too quickly.”
Why had she spared him? Peterson wondered. Then he realized it was not him she’d spared, but Beth.
“I decided on one last try,” continued the girl. “The letter to Paul if he hadn’t come, I was going to kill myself.
Beth spoke so matter-of-factly that initially Peterson didn’t fully comprehend what she had said. When he did, he shivered. Lucille was holding the girl to her, eyes clamped shut against any breakdown.
“Shush, my darling,” said Lucille. “Don’t say such things.”
“I mean it,” insisted the girl calmly. “I’d worked it out … decided the way. Didn’t want to live, not any more.”
“You’re back with us now,” said her mother. “You’re back with us and you’re safe.”
Beth pulled back, so that she could look up into her mother’s face. “Look after me, Mummy. Please keep me safe.”
“You know I will.”
“And Daddy?” said Beth, looking over her mother’s shoulder.
Peterson moved closer to them, edging onto the bed and reaching out to take her outstretched fingers. “You know I will, darling,” he said.
“You don’t hate me?”
He was very near tears again, Peterson realized. “Why should I hate you?”
Beth made an uncertain movement. “For everything,” she said.
“We don’t hate you,” said Peterson urgently. “We love you.”
The three of them clung together like participants in some disjointed seance, and Peterson was seized by an overwhelming impression of failure. There was so little in which he had succeeded.
They let each other loose after a while and almost immediately the talk began to embarrass them, each bursting out with sudden, desperate topics of conversation which would not touch upon either Lucille or Beth’s reason for hospitalization and stumbling almost immediately to a halt because the attempts were so obvious. Peterson decided that the encounter had drained both his wife and daughter and moved gently to end it. They parted at last, Lucille promising to come on the next release day from her clinic and Peterson undertaking to visit the following day with Paul.
Lucille clung to him as desperately as before as they left the hospital and entered the waiting car.
“She looks as if she’s dying,” said Lucille.
“It’s the drugs. And the illness,” said Peterson. “I’ve spoken to the doctors. It’s curable.”
Beside him his wife twitched convulsively and Peterson looked at her curiously. “It was awful,” she said.
“Yes.”
She returned his look. “And it’s our fault.”
“Yes,” he said again.
“It was very difficult for me,” confessed Lucille.
“Difficult?”
“I didn’t …” she stopped, bringing her hands to her mouth and biting at her fingers. “Christ, Jamie, what sort of mother am I? I didn’t want to touch her; she disgusted me. I didn’t want to comfort my own, sick daughter!”
Peterson tried to keep any reaction from his face, but was unsure whether he had succeeded. “Shock,” he said. “It was bound to be a shock.”
She shook her head, reluctantly. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t think so.”
She looked steadfastly away from him out of the window, and Peterson guessed she was crying, although there was no movement in her body. The vehicle began picking up the route back to her clinic and after a while she said, “I don’t have to be back until nine tonight.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a complete day. Thought we could have lunch — dinner maybe.” She’d turned away from the window and was looking at him hopefully.
“I …” he started, then broke off. He opened his mouth to speak again but the car telephone purred, saving him. The President had agreed to a meeting immediately after receiving Bohler’s report.
“The White House,” he said, to Lucille. “The President.”
“Yes,” she accepted.
“Why don’t we try Paul?” Peterson made an effort to sound enthusiastic.
“He’s got a job to do,” she dismissed immediately. “He’s taken enough time off, as it is.”
“I’ll take a whole day on your next release,” he said.
“Sure.”
“I promise.”
She smiled, sadly. “It’s a new expression, to go with ‘I’m very busy.’”
He frowned, not understanding the attempt at sarcasm.
“‘I promise,’” she explained.
