‘So did the negotiations go on for some time? How many other people were present? Lawyers? Any other generals?’
Steinhagen shrugged. ‘Oh, not very many. Anyone else was immaterial, anyway, Stroessner was the only one who counted. It was a jolly social occasion, you understand. We were in the President’s residence, it was a hot day but inside it was very cool with pot plants, marble floors, lots of drinks, nice food and it was all very relaxed. Then we signed the contract.’
‘And there weren’t any real negotiations? Nobody queried some of the extraordinary clauses in the contract?’
‘No. As far as I remember, it was all over in about twenty minutes.’
Nihal was stunned. This was incredible; that the leader of a country should have signed away all control over a large area of their state without formal discussions in about twenty minutes. He went on, ‘But the new President? Did he accept this too?’
‘I think the whole of the military were quite supportive of the project. All these soldiers out in the Chaco, they have nothing else to do. And remember, Paraguay is desperate for foreign investment. They have particularly been encouraging the Germans and as Richter also intended to develop the area a little – drill for water, irrigation, crop growing for the workers, that kind of thing – he was made more than welcome. The Paraguayans are trying to open up the Chaco and this fitted in rather well. It was a big, prestige project, that might attract other people. And of course it meant getting one ahead of Argentina and Brazil, both of whom have had problems with their missile programmes. Of course, Richter was a little nervous at the time of the coup, but it soon became clear that the contract would be honoured.’
The phone rang again and Steinhagen answered it. Then he looked at Nihal. ‘Listen, I’m sorry… I am very busy. Is there anything else you need? Please don’t quote me on this, will you? I have a feeling Richter is not a man to get on the wrong side of.’
On the plane back to Vienna, Nihal felt satisfied. He had got more or less everything he needed now for his story. It was growing dark. The vibration of the engines made him sleepy. He clutched his bag with the evidence inside it, unwilling to let go of it even for an instant; he didn’t want to fall asleep. Nihal was not exactly afraid, but he was aware that he might be being followed, and that Richter, or others, might not want the full details of the story written. He had begun to feel terribly important; he was carrying this immense, this extraordinary secret. Nihal, influenced by his father, had always tried to practise non-attachment. He didn’t get worked up about things. He took life as it came. He had never been too much bothered by material success. But this was something different. It had gripped him. It was an obsession. Although he had enough now to write his piece, he wanted to know everything that it was possible to know about Richter’s secret designs; he wanted to get to the very heart of it.
He was almost home, near the bottom of the Bankgasse, starting to cross the road, when a grey car came from nowhere and nearly ran him down. The car brushed against him and he fell backwards, sitting down heavily in the gutter in a slurry of icy water. He scrambled to his feet, shaken, and managed to catch the number-plate before the car disappeared from sight. His clothes were soaked, and he felt a sharp pain at the base of his spine. He felt himself gingerly, afraid that perhaps some vertebra had been jolted out of place, but he was able to walk without any difficulty. How had he managed to miss seeing the car? Perhaps he had been preoccupied with his thoughts and failed to notice the car approaching; he had certainly had his head tucked down inside his collar and scarf to protect himself against the freezing rain. But he was not convinced that it had been an accident.
Nihal let himself into the flat and closed the door with a feeling of relief. He thought about reporting the incident to the police; then decided not to bother. He remembered that some time ago, when a Turkish journalist he knew had been killed in a hit-and-run, the police had done nothing to investigate it. Instead, he rang Dmitry to say he had some news for him and invited him over for a curry the following evening to discuss it.
In the morning Nihal woke up stiff and bruised. His chief emotion was of anger. He rang every car hire company in Vienna, saying he wanted to hire a grey Opel. If they said they had such a car, he asked for the registration number. None of them tallied. Perhaps he had got it wrong. Of course, the car could have been hired outside Vienna; but this was unlikely, because it had a Viennese number plate.
The other thing they might have done was to use a stolen car. He thought he might as well check with the police; he knew they wouldn’t give him the information unless he said it was his own car so he rang and said he wanted to report a car stolen. He gave the registration number, saying he had borrowed it from a friend, and wasn’t sure of all the details; his friend might have reported it already. Had they had any record of it being stolen?
He had to hang on for some time. The man came back. He said he could find no record, and would Nihal please give further details. Nihal said he would ring back and hung up. He stared into space for a while, trying to forget his anger, and then sat down in front of his computer to start work.
Three saucepans were bubbling on the cooker. Nihal wandered from one to the other, tasting, adding spices, and feeling more relaxed. He’d always enjoyed cooking, grinding spices and inventing new recipes and showing off his culinary skills. He was startled when the doorbell rang rather earlier than expected; he went and opened it, still holding a wooden spoon in his hand.
It wasn’t Gavrilov. It was Katie. She had snow in her hair and her face looked white, pinched and cold.
He was so surprised to see her that he stood and stared, curry dripping from the spoon.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He shut the door behind her. She walked into the kitchen and paused in the action of taking off her coat. ‘What a delicious smell… Is somebody coming? I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘Not at all.’ Nihal resigned himself to the fact that the evening would take a rather different shape to the one he had intended. ‘If you like you can join us. Is something the matter?’
‘I don’t know, I’m so miserable. I had a row with Bob… I had to get out.’ She sat down on the chair and he asked her how things were going with Dmitry. She said, ‘Oh, they’re not.’
‘What did I tell you? I said it wouldn’t last.’ He patted her thigh delightedly, glad to be proved right. ‘So, that’s how it goes. You’re not the only one who’s miserable, Dmitry is also going around looking like he’s seen a ghost.’
Katie gave a little start. ‘What do you mean, seen a ghost?’
‘Well, I saw him at the bank at the UN this morning and he’s certainly not himself. Do you want at drink?’
‘No,’ said Katie automatically and then, ‘Yes; yes, actually, I will.’
The doorbell rang. Nihal said, ‘Ah, that will be the man himself.’ Katie gazed at him with astonishment. Dmitry came in and they both looked at one another in confusion. Dmitry also looked pale and tense and he had dark rings under his eyes.
‘Well,’ said Nihal, raising his glass to his lips and smiling with ill-disguised amusement, ‘The star-crossed lovers.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Dmitry with an uncharacteristic burst of irritation.
‘Sorry, sorry, I meant no harm.’ Nihal had not been prepared for the heaviness of the atmosphere which now filled the apartment. He began to realise that he had gone too far and turned to Dmitry. ‘Katie just called in unexpectedly… Perhaps I should make myself scarce; perhaps you have things you want to discuss together? Shall I go out and leave you to it?’ He opened the cupboard door. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I have run out of rice. Why don’t I just go down to the shop and get some? Keep an eye on these, won’t you?’ He handed Katie a wooden spoon.
As soon as Nihal had gone out Katie sat down at the table. Dmitry sat opposite her and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. �
��You look dreadful.’
‘I don’t know… nothing… I’ve given up smoking.’
‘Have you? I’m glad.’ She looked at him. ‘Please tell me, Mitya, what’s wrong. Is it because of me?’
‘You? Why should it be? No, of course not. You women always think everything has to do with you.’
Katie was hurt; she stood up and moved away from the table. ‘Why did Nihal do this? I am furious with him. He could have told me you were coming.’
‘And he could have told me.’ Dmitry suddenly smiled. ‘Come on, Katie, this is stupid. Since we’re here – cheers.’ He drank down half the glass. Then he fidgeted nervously with the ashtray on the table. Unconsciously, he took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and opened it. Katie said, ‘Mitya, you just told me you had given up.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Here, take them. I wasn’t thinking.’ She took the cigarettes and lighter and put them in her bag. Dmitry watched them disappear with an expression close to panic.
Katie said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m no good at this. I shall go mad if I can’t see you.’
‘You are seeing me right now.’
She went up to him and sat on his knee, and he put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her close to him. They stayed that way for a long time, in delicious proximity; suddenly everything was all right again. Dmitry fiddled absently with her hair.
Nihal rang the doorbell; Katie got up and let him in.
‘That looks good,’ Nihal pronounced, after inspecting the saucepans, and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Well, it’s ready, I should say, except for the rice.’ When it was done they sat down at the table; Nihal as always ate with his fingers; Dmitry, and then Katie, followed suit. For the first time that week, Katie was able to eat with enjoyment; Dmitry too began to relax. He poured himself another glass of wine but Katie shook her head.
‘If I get drunk I’ll never be able to get home.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Dmitry, ‘I can run you home.’
So of course she went back to his apartment and went to bed with him. A quality of desperation had entered their love-making, as if they no longer sought to give to one another but tried to take from each other whatever relief could be obtained. Later they lay together in the darkness; distant sounds from the flats above and below came through the walls, but otherwise it was silent. Katie realised she must have fallen asleep, because she woke suddenly with a jolt, feeling wide awake, and, without knowing why, was sure that there was something wrong. Dmitry was sleeping beside her, breathing slowly and evenly; she could hear the alarm clock ticking, the wind blowing in gusts against the windows and the fridge humming in the kitchen. It was very cold. A streetlamp lit the room very faintly through the blinds.
How late was it? Oh God, what would Bob think? She moved to slip out of the bed, but then she heard a sound, and knew at once that somebody else was in the apartment. Quickly she rolled over and shook Dmitry. Something in her manner must have alerted him because he opened his eyes and listened without saying a word. Then he rolled over, pulling her half under the bedclothes and putting a finger over his lips.
They lay like that for a long, long time. Eventually Dmitry sat up, put the light on, and reached for his dressing gown.
‘He’s gone,’ he said.
‘Who was he?’ Katie’s heart was still beating fast with fear.
‘I don’t know. A very professional burglar.’ He got out of bed and went to his desk, and started carefully to check things, moving swiftly and deftly through piles of paper and skimming through the floppy disks on the shelf by the computer. Then he went and checked his briefcase.
‘Have they taken anything?’ asked Katie.
‘No. But why come at night? They know the apartment is empty all day.’
Katie sat up, the bedclothes pulled up around her. Now, finally, she was terrified. ‘This wasn’t an ordinary sort of burglar, was it?’ she said.
‘No… I don’t know… probably not.’
‘You have to tell me now, Dmitry. What is it all about? I’m frightened.’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t tell you, it’s much better that you don’t know anything.’ He still looked puzzled, uncertain, standing in the middle of the room in a pool of darkness cast by the shadow of the lamp. Then he went over to the telephone and punched out a number.
‘Nihal, it’s Mitya,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know it’s one o’clock. Listen, I have to come over and see you now. No, no, it isn’t that. All right then. About half an hour.’ He hung up and turned to Katie. ‘I’ll drop you home on the way over there. You’d better get dressed.’
Katie pulled on her clothes. She was shivering. She said, ‘Is there nothing you can tell me?’
‘No. Nothing at all. Are you ready? I hope Nihal isn’t too angry with me. He sounded pretty fed up about being woken up.’
‘Oh, no, he’ll love the drama.’
Dmitry looked at her for a long time with an expression on his face that she could not read at all.
In the car they were silent. The drive took only a couple of minutes; he pulled up just round the corner from her flat and she stepped out. Turning back, she said, ‘We need to talk. Shall I come on Friday? Just for an hour?’ He nodded and she turned and ran. Her hand shook so much in the lock on their front door that she couldn’t get the door open; Bob opened it for her. He was in his dressing gown and had clearly been waiting up for her. He was furious, a cold, hard fury which frightened her.
‘Where have you been? I tried to ring Nihal but just kept getting his answerphone.’
‘I was there, I’m sorry. He often leaves it on even when he’s in.’
‘You could have phoned me, at the least. I’ve been going crazy, wondering where you were. You’ve never been out this late before – were you at Nihal’s all the time?’
‘Yes, he cooked an excellent curry. I’m sorry – I said I was sorry.’ Katie went into the bathroom, anxious to avoid him. Then, amazed at her duplicity, she called out through the half open door, ‘He wanted me to hear all his tapes, you know, those ragas he’s so mad about. They went on for hours, please, don’t be angry.’ She stepped into the shower and stood there, letting the hot water run over her face, soothing her and removing the evidence of her tears even as they flowed.
When she came out she had composed herself. She walked into the bedroom, wrapped in her towel. Bob was sitting on the bed.
‘Did you go to bed with him?’
‘Who?’ Katie was so startled she couldn’t think.
‘Nihal.’
‘No.’ She almost laughed with relief; she looked him straight in the eye and saw that he believed her. She knew that this was the time to tell him the truth, but she couldn’t do it. She was afraid of his anger, and besides, she was afraid of the situation with Dmitry; things were more complicated than she had thought, and she needed time to think. Then, as if a malevolent spirit had come into her mind, she remembered something. ‘It was our wedding anniversary on Monday.’
Bob stared at her, stunned. ‘Is that what’s been eating you today? Why didn’t you say?’
‘I kept waiting for you to remember and you didn’t.’
All the anger went out of Bob in an instant. He said, ‘God, honey, I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does; of course it does. For once I was here, and then –’ he banged his forehead with his hand. ‘We’ll go out, on Friday. Ask Marianne to babysit.’
Katie towelled her hair, thinking of what she had said to Dmitry.
‘No, not Friday – I have the Montessori parents’ committee.’
‘Well then, Saturday.’
‘All right.’
Getting into bed and turning off the light, Katie let Bob cuddle up to her but did not encourage him to make love. She could not believe that she had lied so easily. But she had got herself into a real muddle; she was involved with a Russian nuclear scientist, rather naively thinking that things had changed, and realised
now that this might not be the case. No doubt he knew many things that Western intelligence would be only too delighted to know… she had no idea what might be going on. She lay in the dark, trying to breathe slowly and evenly so that Bob would think she was sleeping, but her eyes remained open, staring into the darkness.
‘You can tell me what it’s all about in the morning,’ said Nihal grumpily as he let Dmitry in. ‘You can sleep in here – set the alarm if you want to.’ The spare room was stuffy from stale cigarette smoke and Dmitry left the window open slightly before going to sleep. He was woken suddenly by the window blowing open in a gust of wind and banging against the bookshelves. Two or three books came down with a thud; Dmitry called out with fear and flung himself to the floor. Nihal was standing in the doorway in an instant, a sarong tied round his waist, his hair standing comically on end.
‘What on earth is going on?’
Dmitry said, ‘For God’s sake. There’s someone on the balcony.’
It was very quiet in the room, so quiet that Dmitry could even hear his watch ticking. Nihal shook his head and went to peer out of the window.
‘Is there anybody there?’
‘No.’
Dmitry relaxed visibly. He got up from the floor and went to look himself. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked for any signs that someone might have been there and any obvious way of reaching the balcony, but found none. Nihal said, ‘I’ll get you some coffee. It’s nearly six. It doesn’t look as if either of us are destined to have any more sleep tonight. You’d better tell me what has happened.’
Nihal made coffee and they sat and looked at one another. Dmitry told him about the intruder.
‘So you also think you’re being followed?’ asked Nihal. ‘This is to do with the rocket man as well, you think?’ Dmitry didn’t reply to the question and asked Nihal if he had found anything out about Liliana’s background. Nihal had asked a contact at the Brazilian Embassy and also knew a journalist in Brazil whom he had telephoned but he hadn’t heard anything yet. They discussed the situation from every angle. The break-in at Dmitry’s apartment was very odd. There were three possibilities; that they were looking for something they thought he would always carry on him; that it was a warning; even, and this was Dmitry’s suggestion, that they had wanted to kill him but hadn’t done so because Katie was there with him. Nihal didn’t ask him who he meant by ‘they’.
The Rocket Man Page 12