At that point she asked him, ‘Didn’t you ever want to rebel?’ and he looked at her, surprised. ‘Look,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette and turning towards her, ‘You had better not have any illusions about me. I was – how do you put it? – a clean-cut Russian boy, a Komsomol type, a Party member. Of course uranium enrichment is a sensitive area; it has as many implications for atomic weapons as for nuclear power. So I have had to be careful. Rebellion – whatever you mean by that – is not possible. Of course, inside, it is a different matter. You get sick of everything. You know the system is absolutely rotten, but on the other hand, you don’t think much of the West either. So you just carry on, but inside… inside there are these little devils lurking.’
Katie smiled; she could believe this.
‘Of course all the hypocrisy can’t help eating away at you. But I will say this for us, at least when we repeated all this stupid stuff we knew it was all shit. That’s why the Americans are so dangerous, because they believe their own propaganda.’
Katie turned to look at him. Forgetting what he had said earlier, he reached out for another cigarette. Playfully, she took it away from him. Then she asked, ‘But you didn’t ever work with nuclear weapons?’
‘No, not directly, of course – well, that’s not quite true. I did my military service in the Strategic Rocket Forces. I spent four months one summer in Novaya Zemlya – do you know where that is? It’s the huge island north and east of Archangel where they test the rockets, and nuclear weapons too, actually. We worked in huge concrete silos deep underground. The control post had to be manned around the clock of course, so we used to work eight-hour shifts, day and night.’
Katie moved closer to him, pressing herself against him; he rolled over, embracing her; she felt her skin melting into his. She saw a momentary playfulness in his eyes, as if he enjoyed shocking her by what he was saying. ‘We worked with the huge Scarp missiles which began to be deployed in 1965,’ he said softly. ‘They stood 34 metres high; the warheads were 25 megaton thermonuclear devices, equivalent to 1,250 Hiroshimas – they used to make obscene jokes about it as they lowered the warheads onto the rockets.’
Katie could barely imagine such a thing. She wondered what it felt like, to actually stand and look at such a bomb. Were you afraid? Awed? Disgusted? Could the imagination even take it in? She pulled back from him a little, asked, ‘But how could you stand it?’
‘Well of course I was not very happy about being there at first, but in fact it was not really such a terrible experience. A lot of people coped by not thinking about it, just drinking, playing cards, sleeping, going into the nearest small township in search of some distraction. But let me try to explain to you how it was. Imagine: you come out of the missile silo at three in the morning – and of course it’s a polar day, there’s no night – you are in broad daylight, with this wind blowing in your face. You are completely disoriented from working different shifts and the lack of day or night. I cannot describe to you the beauty of this austere landscape. The sea is green, and so clear you can look right into it; there are icebergs floating; the rocks are black and covered with lichen and dark moss; and of course the immense sky. I used to walk for hours by myself, I went without sleep, at times I thought I was hallucinating. It was an almost mystical experience.’
Dmitry reached out for the bedside table and lit another cigarette; he lay back and exhaled with a long sigh. ‘Let me admit it: there was something seductive about being in the presence of so much power. I used to think about it when I walked by the sea for hour after hour. Like someone looking over the edge of an enormous cliff and feeling the urge to jump, I used to wonder if we might actually fire them, just to see what would happen, or indulge in some perverse urge towards destruction. Now I suppose the main danger is we will use them on ourselves.’
Katie didn’t know what to say. She was shocked, but at the same time, she found what he was saying thrilling; she was awestruck by the vision of him associated with something so dark and powerful. She could feel her mind doing an about-turn, rethinking her past attitudes. ‘So that means that when I was in the sixth-form at school and signing up with CND and going on disarmament marches, you were there in the missile silo, you were one of those people that I so despised, who could have been told to press the button.’
Dmitry laughed. He said, ‘So you think people like me should have protested, do you, have refused to dirty our hands. Well, it was easy for people like you to turn your back on it, to say this was nothing to do with you, you disapproved of it, but what were you risking? What kind of a choice do you think we had? It wouldn’t even have occurred to us to try to avoid our military service or refuse to do what we were told. Anyway, it was our patriotic duty. You have to realise that at the time I was doing my military service we had less than 600 missiles while the US had over 1,700; it wasn’t till 1971 that we overtook them in actual numbers. So we were definitely able to think of them in terms of defence –’
Katie said, ‘Stop. I understand. You don’t have to try to justify yourself to me.’
‘I am not justifying myself.’ He put out his hand and touched her tenderly. ‘So, you went on peace marches, did you? I wouldn’t have thought it.’
‘It was the thing to do,’ said Katie. ‘I suppose when it comes down to it that’s why we do most things.’
‘And that’s why you’re here with me.’ He was not looking at her as he said this; as always Katie didn’t know if he was being ironical or not. She felt uncertain; he seemed at that moment so distant, foreign. To overcome this feeling she put her arms around him, and said, ‘Make love to me.’
‘What, again?’ He looked astonished. Katie rolled on top of him, and the look in his face, so intense, so pleased, stirred her; she could feel, too, that he was aroused again. Then she said, suddenly, she didn’t quite know why, ‘Do you think Hans did have a mistress?’
He said, emphatically, stubbing out his cigarette, ‘No, I don’t. Do you believe all that business? I don’t think he was like that.’
Katie said, ‘You sound so disapproving. What about me? Aren’t I doing the same thing?’
Dmitry said, ‘No, you misunderstand. I didn’t mean that. I meant that the whole thing sounds wrong. I talked to his secretary the other day and she said it was the first time she had heard of it. I think that’s a bit strange. Usually when someone is having an affair his secretary is the first to know.’
Katie said, mischievously, regretting that she had raised this question and trying to turn his attention back to her, ‘Does your secretary know about us?’
‘Hilde? No, it’s too early. But if you ring me at the office, she’ll soon know, of course, won’t she?’
V
Nihal had arranged to meet Katie at the Café Central; they hadn’t seen one another for two weeks. For once she was later than he was, so he sat in the corner and made notes in his black pocket-book.
He had spent the morning ringing round his contacts on the newspapers but had received a disappointing response. One said that the story sounded too improbable and asked him to check it out more fully. A second said that Nazi rocket scientists were too old hat, they didn’t think it was sufficiently interesting. Only finally, when he spoke to his old editor Martin Dudley, now with a magazine called North-South, purporting to be the Third World’s answer to The Economist, did he get some genuine interest and a commission. However, it was only for a short piece, about 600 words, for the technology section.
When Katie arrived he was surprised at her appearance. She looked miserable, had dark shadows under her eyes and seemed listless as she sat down opposite him, pulling off her shawl and draping it over the edge of the chair; nor did she seem as pleased as usual to see him. Yet despite this, she looked, as he thought she always did, lovely, with her clear skin, thick hair and that indefinable aura of sensuality which emanated from her.
He felt sorry for her and wanted to cheer her up. He put his hand on her arm and squeezed it. She looked u
p at him and smiled; not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to make love to her. He asked, ‘Katie – what’s the matter? It’s not this business with Lieselotte?’
‘No… well, I suppose it is, in part. Liese left yesterday. It was difficult saying goodbye, I’ll miss her, and I don’t know how she’ll cope. I’ll go and visit her sometime, but, you know, it’s difficult.’ She put her chin on her upturned palm and sighed. ‘Of course, all that was terrible, but it isn’t that. Actually, Nihal, the truth is I’m having an affair.’
Nihal was shocked. He had always thought that Katie wouldn’t do such a thing, or that if she did, it might have been with him. He asked at once, ‘Who with?’
She waited until the waitress had finished putting their coffees on the table. Then she said softly, with a nervous glance around her, and with a lowered voice, ‘Nihal, can I trust you? If you tell anyone else, they’ll tell somebody, and then in the end Bob will hear.’
‘Of course not. My lips are sealed.’
‘It’s Mitya Gavrilov.’
Nihal was silent for a long time, startled. What was going on? Could this be coincidence? It was as if Gavrilov was working his way into every corner of his life – but why? However had this come about? Then he remembered Katie saying they had met at the funeral.
He asked, ‘And Bob hasn’t noticed anything?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so, I don’t think he’s guessed anything.’ Katie leaned over and helped herself to one of Nihal’s cigarettes. It was a long time since he had seen her smoke; it rather suited her. ‘Actually, I’ve become rather good at lying, Nihal – in fact I hate myself. I never thought I would do anything like this.’
Nihal was now recovering himself. ‘Well, I must say I have been wondering how long you would stick it out with Bob.’
Katie exhaled sharply. ‘Why do you say that? What’s wrong with Bob?’
‘Oh, nothing, really. But I’ve never thought he was your type.’
‘Well, who is my “type”? I wouldn’t say Mitya was my “type”. Nihal, please be serious. I’m in torment. I know you’ve talked to him, but I’ve no idea what he feels about me.’
Nihal laughed. ‘Well, I certainly don’t know, he hasn’t said anything. He’s rather a dark horse, don’t you think?’ But Katie did not seem to be listening to him.
Katie stared into her empty coffee cup, aware of Nihal watching her, almost mocking her. She was suddenly angry with him. She had no-one else she could confide in, and now he was making fun of her. She felt her cheeks turn red. Nihal said, ‘You’re too serious about these things. I don’t suppose it’ll last; why don’t you just enjoy it while it’s happening?’
Katie thought, because I am not like that. Far from it; she was in a state of constant agitation. She had managed to meet Dmitry two or three times last week, by one subterfuge or another. She had taken Anna to nursery early and gone to his apartment straight away for ‘breakfast’. They had gone to bed and then Dmitry had left for work, late, leaving her to spend an hour or two in his flat before going to collect Anna. At first it interested her to be there, looking at his books, helping herself to what food he kept in the fridge, feeling she was somehow prolonging her contact with him, but soon she began simply to feel empty. Then she had told Bob she was going out in the evening to a film with a friend and gone to see him instead. She didn’t recognise herself anymore; she would not have believed before that she could have had such an appetite for sex. She never discussed with Dmitry what was going to happen to them and he never asked her any questions about her marriage with Bob. Perhaps it suited him as it was. She supposed it would be up to her to raise this issue.
The trouble was, she wasn’t sure what she wanted herself. She had asked Dmitry once whether he wanted to go back to Russia at the end of his three-year term and he had said simply, ‘Of course. No Russian ever wants to leave his homeland.’ She could not imagine herself and Anna going off with him to live in some ghastly place like Irkutsk or Novosibirsk; besides, it would be too cruel to separate Anna and Bob. These UN affairs were usually doomed; people came to the end of their contracts; part of the attraction was in the foreignness, the clash of cultures, but when it came to it, people ended up cleaving to their own lives and their own countries. She knew that Nihal, too, knew that only too well.
Nihal snapped his fingers in front of her face. She looked at him, and, despite herself, laughed.
‘Oh Nihal, you must think I’m ridiculous.’
‘Katie, let me ask you – if you see Mitya – he’s never talked to you about his work, has he? He hasn’t said anything?’
Katie gave him a long stare. Once again she had the uncomfortable feeling of there being more under the surface than she was aware of. Then she looked away. ‘No, of course not. We don’t talk much anyway. When we do manage to get together we’ve got better things to do.’
She regretted the remark as soon as she had made it; she realised that in doing so she had offended Nihal. She stubbed out her cigarette into the coffee cup and put out her hand to him, but he was already getting up to go.
Nihal’s short article about cheap rockets for the Third World appeared in the technology section of North-South. Nobody paid much attention to it. He was surprised when, three days later, he had a phone call from Martin Dudley in London. Dudley sounded unusually animated.
‘There’s a letter that’s arrived here today relating to your article,’ he said. ‘It was sent anonymously. It is absolutely extraordinary – none of us know what to make of it. It appears to be a photocopy of a contract — well, more than a contract, it’s more like a kind of treaty – between your Richter’s rocket company and the Government of Paraguay. It’s two years old, and appears to have been signed by President Stroessner himself.’
Nihal shot forward in his chair. ‘What?’
‘I have to tell you, it’s the most bizarre document. We can’t imagine whether or not it is a fake. It’s several pages, all typewritten. Do you want me to read it to you?’
Nihal could hear pieces of paper rustling in the background at the other end of the phone. He sat down at his desk with a pen in his hand. Snowflakes whirled outside the window; Nihal’s feet were cold. He was trying to economise on the heating; his landlady was finally cutting up rough about his rent arrears, and his wife in London was in need of more money.
Dudley said, ‘I won’t read it all, but I’ll give you the gist. It concerns a large area of land north of Mariscal Estigarribia. Article one: Full rights which include the right to enjoy the territory without restriction. Only representatives of RASAG will be allowed to fly over the territory. Article two: All representatives of RASAG will enjoy immunity from any prosecution by the state. RASAG will exercise sole disciplinary control. Article three: Only persons authorised by RASAG will be allowed to stay in the territory. The State will be compelled if requested by RASAG to evacuate all other persons and keep them away… And so it goes on. It’s the most crazy thing I’ve ever heard. Neo-colonialism is not the word. We rang the Paraguayan Embassy, both here and in Bonn, but they wouldn’t comment on it, wouldn’t confirm if it existed or not. We have no idea who sent it to us. You don’t have any other leads, do you?’
‘I was going to try to interview Weiland or Richter.’
‘Well, we’ll pay you to go to Stuttgart. See if you can find out if testing has begun in Paraguay. I want to see if we can run something before anyone else gets onto it. There are some things you ought to check out. For instance, isn’t Germany a signatory to the Missile Technology Control Regime?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know how much impact that has. The regime as I understand it is not a treaty or even a formal agreement, simply a statement of intent and a list of items the adherents pledge not to export. But there are ways of getting round this as you know, you just get sensitive parts made elsewhere. Besides, the destination is important, exporting to Paraguay is not the same as to the Middle East.’
Dudley said he would fa
x the document to him and hung up. Nihal had use of an office in the foreign press association building which has a fax machine; any journalist hanging around might see and read it. He put on his coat and hurried round to the Bankgasse. Who could have leaked the document, if it were genuine? Some disaffected person from the Paraguayan Embassy or from RASAG? If the deal had been made by Stroessner, perhaps it was all off anyway; Stroessner had been ousted nearly two years ago. Nihal knew almost nothing about Paraguay, but he was sure it was Stroessner’s son-in-law, Rodriguez, the head of the armed forces, who had taken over. He seemed to recall that Rodriguez had promised to democratise, but no-one seemed to be taking his reforms very seriously. As one journalist had put it, same dog, different collar.
Nihal collected the fax from the machine, then went up to his office and checked the mail. It was cosy in his office; much warmer than his apartment. He supposed that if his landlady ever kicked him out he could always camp in here. He made himself comfortable and read through the faxed papers. The document had a genuine look about it, and anyway, why would someone fake such a thing? It was so improbable that it had to be real. If it was forged someone had gone to a lot of trouble; there were stamps, signatures. It was very odd.
He rang RASAG and got through to the public relations man, Becker. Becker denied all knowledge of it. He sounded angry and demanded, ‘Where did you get this information?’ Nihal said that he wanted to come and interview Richter. Becker said that was impossible; Richter was a very busy man. Anyway he was not in Stuttgart at the moment. Nihal said that obviously they must be planning to test their rockets somewhere. Was he denying that it was in Paraguay? Becker said he was not in a position to comment further.
Nihal rarely felt a sense of urgency, but this time he did. He realised at once that this was a real scoop, and that everyone would be onto it. He must get in first. It was a major story; the kind that reputations could be made on. What’s more, all he had in his favour was a slight head start; he wouldn’t have much chance against the resources of a national newspaper team.
The Rocket Man Page 7