The Rocket Man

by Maggie Hamand

  ‘Well, maybe that was the original intention. I should have stayed with pure science. Now I could hardly be working with anything more political.’ He turned and continued to walk up and down on the Persian carpet. ‘But the fact is, nobody really wants to know the truth about anything. To be honest with you, this whole business with Brazil has really upset me, Tolya. I was ignored; I was used. I told them there was a problem in the first place.’

  ‘But maybe they were right to be cautious. There was rather a lot at stake, Mitya.’

  ‘Yes. My life, for instance.’

  Anatoly could not meet his eyes. He stood up, went to the cupboard, took out a bottle of vodka and two glasses, and poured some out. Dmitry sat down and put his glass of vodka on the table without drinking it.

  ‘She wrote to me, about two weeks ago,’ he said. ‘She told me she was pregnant with my child. I wrote back and told her that I wanted her to have it, that if she left her husband I would marry her. She hasn’t written back.’

  Nina had come to the door, but when she heard what he was saying, she turned and walked out again.

  Anatoly was shocked. He said, ‘My God, I see. I had no idea.’

  ‘No, of course you had no idea. How could you have?’

  Dmitry sat and stared at the table, tracing the pattern on the cloth with his finger. He was thinking, perhaps it is already too late, perhaps she has already had a termination. He found the thought unbearable. The idea of this child affected him immensely; he recalled the sensation of holding Olga’s first-born son in his arms, so tiny, so perfect, so unspoiled. It had been like the birth of hope itself. He and Olga had looked at one another; they had smiled; they had kissed; they had promised then to put the past behind them. Even Oleg, the happy, proud father, had seemed different; Dmitry had felt quite fond of him on that day.

  Anatoly said, nervously, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, I could go and see her. It’s only an hour’s flight to Asunción.’

  ‘You’re crazy. They would never give you a visa with a Soviet passport.’

  ‘I can travel on my UN laissez-passer.’

  ‘Only on official business, surely.’

  ‘They won’t know if it’s official. I expect I would get told off when I get back.’

  ‘How would you find her?’

  ‘Oh, I’d find her. You can find out anything in South America if you pay enough.’

  ‘You’re mad. It’s too risky.’

  ‘You wouldn’t try to stop me?’

  ‘How could I? I can only tell you that it would be dangerous, for her as well as you.’ He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘My God, I am an idiot to have said anything.’ He stood up, clearly anxious to end this conversation. ‘I had better take you back to the hotel.’

  Nina came back in with the coffee and put the tray down on the table. She looked at them both uncertainly, clearly not understanding the cause of the heavy atmosphere which now permeated the room. Her husband, who had been so looking forward to seeing his old friend, now sat with a completely closed expression, staring at the floor. Dmitry got up suddenly. He said, ‘I am sorry, I’m not feeling so well. I think I had better go back. Thank you for a delightful evening, both of you.’

  Anatoly said, ‘I will take you in the car.’

  ‘No, no, I can get a taxi.’

  ‘It is no trouble to get the car out.’

  ‘No, really, I would rather go on my own.’

  Nina said suddenly, ‘Tolya, let him go.’ She could have had no idea what had happened, but she seemed to want Dmitry out of the apartment at once, as if she’d had a sudden conviction that he was dangerous, that he brought havoc wherever he went. Dmitry kissed both her cheeks and then stood back; he held out his hand to Anatoly, who took it and shook it, formally and without warmth.

  ‘Have a good trip back to Vienna.’

  Nina saw him to the door.

  In the middle of the night Dmitry woke up. He was wide awake and terribly thirsty. He got up, poured a glass of mineral water from the bottle in the fridge, and drained it. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and started to think.

  It had not occurred to him until he spoke to Tolya to go to Paraguay. But was it so impossible? There were always ways of finding out what you needed to know. Why not find Katie, and get to the bottom of this Richter business? Haynes must know what was going on.

  No. How could he even think of doing anything so stupid? It was quite possible that Katie wasn’t there. She might never have received his fax; someone might have intercepted it. And what if Tolya were right, what if it were more dangerous to warn her than to let things be? He got up and walked over to the window. What would Tolya do, now that he had realised his mistake? Perhaps he would try to make sure that he did get on the plane tomorrow. There were ways; people were taken ill, drugged, escorted to the airport. He had seen this happen himself once, in Geneva. But surely these things didn’t happen any more?

  Or Tolya might tell the KGB rezident at the Embassy. No, he wouldn’t do that, he’d be in trouble, the KGB were always complaining how the straight diplomats gossiped. But then, he needn’t say that he had given away the information. He, Dmitry, might have found it out for himself. But there was no point in going if he hadn’t contacted Katie; she might, after all, be safely in Asunción. On the other hand, he didn’t know what the CIA might do. It was not beyond them to put a bomb in Richter’s car, and Katie might be in it. They didn’t care who else they killed.

  He couldn’t sleep; at three a.m. he took a sleeping pill and set the alarm for half-past seven. His flight to Vienna left Ezeiza airport at twelve-thirty-five, he would have to check in by eleven-forty-five, that gave him four hours. He woke up feeling drugged and exhausted. He showered and shaved and left the hotel before breakfast. He asked the receptionist to confirm his flight and told her that he would return to collect his baggage, which was packed and ready in his room.

  He walked a few blocks to the nearest café and ordered a roll and coffee. Then he went to the telephone and looked up a private detective in the Buenos Aires phone directory.

  There were quite a few. He picked one that looked promising and rang the number. He thought it was too early, nobody would be there, but a man answered. Dmitry asked to speak to the jefe, the man replied lazily that he was the jefe. His name was Luís Portillo.

  Dmitry said, ‘I want to know if you can get me an address and telephone number in Paraguay.’

  ‘There’s the phone book,’ said Portillo lazily.

  ‘This number won’t be listed in the phone book. It’s in the Chaco. I just want to know if you can get it or not.’

  ‘Of course I can get it, for a price. I have a contact on the international exchange.’

  ‘I need it this morning.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, I have some Paraguayan contacts who can help me. Whose number is it you want?’

  Dmitry told him. After a short silence, Portillo said, ‘I see. This might be at little more expensive. It will cost you five hundred dollars.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll pay in dollars, cash, in a couple of hours.’

  He went out to a call-box and phoned the hotel. Oh yes, said the receptionist, somebody had been in to ask after him. A Russian gentleman; two gentlemen, in fact. Did he want to leave a message where he could be contacted?

  Dmitry said he would be back at eleven and wanted her to have a taxi ready to take him to the airport.

  He bought a South American travel guide at a news-stand and turned to the pages on Paraguay. He read it drinking a coffee at a bar and then went to Portillo’s office. It was half-past ten. He climbed up a narrow flight of stairs to the offices on the first floor. In the reception area a surly-faced girl typed up a report from a tape. She took Dmitry through to Portillo’s office.

  He was a small, plump man, in a baggy suit. Piles of files, papers, directories covered his desk; there were two phones, wired up to a tape recorder; a map of A
rgentina on the wall; two battered filing cabinets. Dmitry stood there, awkwardly, taken over by a sudden sense of unreality; Portillo waved him into a chair.

  ‘It wasn’t difficult; rather too easy in fact, everyone knows everything in Paraguay, it’s such a small place. But since you’re paying good money, I’ll fill you in on what I know. You have the money?’

  Dmitry counted it out and handed it over. Portillo left it lying on the desk between them.

  ‘Before I give you this information, I think I should first ask who you are and why you want it.’

  ‘I'm an old colleague of his, I’m visiting Paraguay, I want to look him up.’

  Portillo looked utterly unconvinced.

  Dmitry said, after a pause, ‘If I wanted to kill him I would hardly say so.’

  ‘No. But I’ve been in this business a long time, one gets the feel of things. You are also German?’

  ‘I’m from Vienna.’

  Portillo sighed, then shrugged and leaned forward on his desk. ‘In the Chaco, they are using this big estancia in the region north of Mariscal Estigarribia. There is a road running north towards Cerro León; it is in the wilderness. They have had electricity taken out there, water, everything. This is a rough map of the region. I don’t suppose you’d get near it, the whole area is a military zone. There is a phone number for the house, here it is.’ Portillo handed him a piece of paper, and then, with a swift movement, swept up the dollar bills and stuffed them in his pocket.

  Anatoly and another Russian were waiting for him with his luggage at the hotel. Tolya appeared genial; only his eyes betrayed something more calculated. ‘Mitya, I came to see you off. I wanted to say I was sorry about last night. You are on the Lufthansa flight?’

  ‘I’m sure you checked.’

  ‘You have a car coming for you? We are going out to the airport ourselves. You don’t want a lift?’

  ‘I’ve ordered a taxi.’

  ‘Good. Good. Well, look after yourself, won’t you?’

  They shook hands.

  On arrival at Ezeiza International Airport Dmitry checked in his suitcase. He looked around for Anatoly but couldn’t see him; he did, however, spot the other man browsing through the papers in the kiosk. The flight was called, and Dmitry passed the security checkpoint, out of sight of the departure hall. Dmitry walked a few steps with him, glancing back. He saw no sign of Anatoly’s companion; perhaps they thought this evidence enough of his departure. He went back to one of the phone booths and slowly dialled the number in the Chaco; he did not even know why he was doing it, it seemed pointless. There was a long silence; the line did not connect. He hung up, picked up the receiver again, and dialled one last time.

  The phone rang and rang, but no-one answered. He dialled again, one last time in desperation. A woman’s voice answered; it was Katie.

  Katie was standing in a pool of sunlight by the window. She was on her own in the house, and when the phone rang she hadn’t bothered to answer at first, thinking it wouldn't be for her. When it rang the second time Katie answered cautiously, ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Mitya.’

  She was so stunned to hear his voice that she didn’t know what to say. Then she said, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In Buenos Aires. At the airport. I – ’

  The line went dead. Katie looked at the handset, bewildered; then she quickly hung up. She would not have believed that the sound of his voice could cause so much pain. She looked at the silent phone as if it were hostile; then, as she knew it would, it began to ring again. She snatched it up but again the line was dead. She hung up, unclenched her hands and stood listening to the silence. She waited, but nothing happened. She went slowly into the kitchen to get some coffee. She looked out of the window while she waited for the kettle to boil, looking at the shadows shifting almost imperceptibly on the wooden floor. Then suddenly the phone started to ring again.

  She darted towards it, hesitated for a second, then picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was something wrong with that phone, I couldn’t get the tokens in. Listen to me, this is important. Did you get my fax?’

  ‘Yes, just two days ago, on my way here. How did you find me here?’

  ‘With difficulty. But you must leave at once. Can you get away?’

  ‘Why? I’m coming back at the end of the week.’

  ‘You have to leave there now, at once. There is going to be trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble? I don’t know if I can leave. You don’t understand, we are miles away from anywhere. There aren’t even any proper roads.’

  ‘But there is a road. I’ve looked at the map. Aren’t you near this place – Mariscal Estigarribia?’

  ‘Yes, but the road is just a dirt track. It’s the main smuggling route from Bolivia. I couldn’t go by myself. I don’t understand.’

  There was silence; Katie thought the line had been broken; then Dmitry’s voice came back, clear and decisive. He said, ‘Katie, you are in danger. You must leave and not tell anyone, no-one, do you understand? I can get a flight to Asunción today or tomorrow and try to meet you.’

  ‘Mitya, I can’t get to Asunción.’

  ‘Then I’ll meet you in Mariscal Estigarribia. Do you know the town?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been there. I’ll try to, but it’s a military town, there’s nothing there’

  ‘The guide book says there’s a hotel – the Hotel Alemán. I can be there tomorrow night. Will you do this for me? Will you promise me – oh shit, the money’s running out.’

  Katie said, ‘Give me your number,’ but then she heard the long, high, disconnected tone. She waited by the phone, hoping he might ring back, but the phone stubbornly remained silent.

  At the Lufthansa desk the girl looked as if Dmitry had gone mad when he asked if they could retrieve his baggage because he wasn’t going on the flight.

  She said, ‘You’re checked in. There is no refund.’

  ‘I don’t care. I just want my suitcase.’

  ‘Well, I hope you realise we will probably have to delay the flight. We would have to retrieve your baggage in any case. Give me your ticket and boarding pass.’

  He handed them over. She came back in a few minutes, handed it to him, and said, ‘I have informed them. You will get your suitcase. Please wait here. Do you wish to re-book?’

  ‘Not until I know my plans. Can I pick up the suitcase later? I have an urgent appointment to make.’

  The girl looked at him oddly and he went hot all over; he realised they might think the suitcase had a bomb in it, no doubt they would check it thoroughly. He turned and walked away but no-one stopped him. He took a taxi back into the centre to the UN offices and asked to see the resident representative on an urgent matter. He had to wait some thirty minutes, then the secretary showed him in.

  The res. rep. was a dour-faced Dutchman. He got up from his desk to shake Dmitry’s hand and gestured to the chair, but Dmitry didn’t sit down.

  Dmitry explained that he had been at the nuclear energy conference. He said, ‘I've had to change my travel plans. I need to get a visa for Paraguay. I know all travel is supposed to be approved in advance, but this is exceptional.’

  The res. rep. looked tired and bored. ‘Paraguay. But you’re from the IAEA, aren’t you? They’re not going for nuclear power in Paraguay, surely? They’ve got all this hydroelectric power from Itaipú.’ He raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly waiting for enlightenment.

  ‘I was supposed to see somebody here, but I discovered he’s in Paraguay. Someone from the Paraguayan Atomic Energy Commission. I thought I could go and see him on my way back.’

  ‘Is this official business or unofficial?’

  ‘It’s… it should have been official. I mean, if I had seen him here it would have been official.’

  ‘Can I see your laissez-passer?’

  Dmitry handed it over. The res. rep. studied it carefully. Then he looked up at Dmitry. There was obviously something about this that he didn’t like
. He said, ‘You must know how the system works. Any private detour has to be included in your travel authorisation. Can I see it, please?’

  Dmitry felt in his inside pocket, ‘It’s here somewhere. Whatever do you want it for, anyway? I explained to you that this is a last-minute change of plan.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid our system isn’t designed to cope with last minute changes of plan.’

  Dmitry said, desperately, ‘Well, supposing I had to take a flight back routing through Asunción – can you not even get me a transit visa?’

  The res. rep. sighed. ‘Are you new to the UN, or what? Anyone travelling on official duty must take the most direct route. I’m afraid this all sounds quite fantastic to me. I don’t understand why you don’t just travel on your national passport.’

  ‘I am a Russian.’

  An amused smile crossed the res. rep.’s features. ‘Yes, of course. I suppose in the case of Paraguay that would present some difficulties. But I can’t help you. Mind you, I think things are getting better since Stroessner went. You could try the Embassy. I must point out that this would still be irregular, but, no doubt you’re aware of that.’ He handed Dmitry back his laissez-passer.

  Dmitry left the UN offices, chilled by the cool breeze blowing outside. He walked over to a nearby phone box and rang the airport about his suitcase. The woman from Lufthansa told him that someone from the Russian Embassy had already collected it. Dmitry hung up. He stood there, irresolute. He was in trouble. Everything was against his going. People like him did not behave like this. God knew how he would ever explain himself. He found another phone box and rang the Paraguayan Embassy; a woman answered. He asked if it was possible for a citizen of the former Soviet Union to obtain a visa for Paraguay.

  The woman laughed; she had a pleasant, musical voice. ‘Well, never in the whole time I have worked here has this happened,’ she said. ‘When did you want to travel? Of course you can apply for one, and we will send off to Asunción, but really I think it is quite likely it would be refused. Well, I don’t know, things are changing, but in any case, it would take some time.’