The Rocket Man

by Maggie Hamand

  He gasped for air, coughing, choking, gulping; then, before he felt he had caught his breath, they pushed him back under again. He tried frantically to resist, to get more air into his lungs, but he was already hitting the water. This time it was only a short interval before he had to draw water into his lungs; again, just at the critical moment, they pulled him out.

  Dmitry thought, I can’t stand much of this, it’s no use, I will have to tell them something. But what could he tell them? The truth would only make it worse, and they would probably not believe him. He started to say something, but again, before he could get the words out, they plunged him into the water. This time he had hardly any air in his lungs; he discovered it is much harder to hold air out than to hold it in. He made a desperate effort, tried to thrash his head under the water; he felt the strength of the soldier’s hands gripping him and his own strength ebbing out of him. He heard a roaring in his head, then he must have had a moment of unconsciousness; then he was lying on the floor, coughing water up out of his lungs. He heard himself make a dreadful retching noise; he was vomiting water. They let him lie there for a moment. Then they pulled him up onto his knees against the side of the tank and slammed his head down into the water.

  He could do nothing but endure it. They hardly even gave him a chance to beg for mercy. When he was out of the water he was gasping for air, unable to speak. Once or twice they asked him, not unkindly, if he had anything to say, but he did not know how to answer them. He had no idea how long this went on for. At one point he passed out again. He came to his senses lying on the floor which was now wet and slippery with water. He needed to urinate, but couldn’t bring himself to tell them; sooner or later he would have to do it on the floor and then he would have to lie in it.

  He looked across the room, his cheek pressing on the cold floor. The soldiers were talking. One of them had lit a cigarette; the smell of the smoke gave Dmitry a strange sensation, like a flashback to a former world. They were talking mostly in Guaraní; the sound of their voices was almost soothing.

  For some reason he got the impression they were talking about fishing. One of them was holding out his hands as if to show the size of his catch. He heard the names of various rivers: the Paraná, the Pilcomayo, the Paraguay. He looked across the room to them; two of them were drinking yerba maté while the other smoked. They glanced in his direction, saw that his eyes were open, laughed and continued to talk. Dmitry felt himself drifting in a kind of daze. He saw in his mind's eye the vast sweep of the wide South American rivers, the patches of water hyacinths rotating slowly on the surface as they drifted downstream, the huge fish that swam sensuously beneath the surface. It was like a dream that lasted for a moment in the brief interval between unconsciousness and full awakening; then he could not escape the reality of the bare, dirty floor, the pain in his tightly-bound hands and feet.

  After a few moments the soldiers came over and pulled him to his feet. The thought of going back into the water was unbearable. Dmitry said, ‘Please, no more. You don’t have to do this to me. I will tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said the soldier, ‘Tell us.’

  Dmitry heard one of them open the door and shout something. He heard footsteps from along the corridor. Everything seemed to come out of Dmitry in an unruly jumble. He said, ‘I am Russian. It is true I am employed by the United Nations. I was at a conference in Buenos Aires, on nuclear energy in the Third World.’

  The colonel came into the room. The second soldier said, ‘El es ruso.’

  The colonel looked impressed. ‘Ruso?’ he said. ‘The Russians too are interested in rockets, isn’t that so? So you admit you are a spy?’

  ‘I am not a spy,’ said Dmitry, ‘I am a scientist.’

  ‘What kind of scientist?’

  ‘A physicist.’ Dmitry did not know if he had used the right word; perhaps fisico could also mean doctor, physician. He tried to make it clearer. He said, ‘I am a specialist in atomic energy.’

  ‘Atomic energy?’ The colonel was clearly astonished; he turned to the others and muttered something. Dmitry only heard the one word, ‘Bombas.’

  He jerked his head up. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Not bombs. I am not an expert in bombs. On the contrary, I work for the International Atomic Energy Agency. We are an agency of the United Nations dedicated to promoting the peaceful uses of atomic energy.’

  He had heard the phrase so often at the conference last week in English, in Spanish, in every language, that it rolled easily from his tongue. The colonel stared at him. If the situation had not been so desperate, it might almost have been funny, for the colonel’s stare combined the most perfect mixture of amusement and disbelief. He asked one of the soldiers something, who left and returned a few minutes later with the commandante.

  ‘Existe, esta organisación?' the colonel asked him.

  ‘Sí, existe,’ Vargas replied.

  ‘I see,’ said the colonel. ‘So you were sent here to stop Señor Richter, is that it? To see if he is making any bombs?’

  Dmitry said, ‘No, that would be impossible. He could not make bombs here, it is a very sophisticated process. I have reason to believe that he may have supplied missiles to Brazil, and that the Brazilian military may be trying to make a bomb.’

  Vargas, sitting on the chair, leaned over him. He said, ‘How do you know this? Where did you hear it? Tell me; this is very interesting.’

  Dmitry said, ‘I heard it from a Brazilian journalist in Buenos Aires, Jaime dos Santos. He was investigating it. He was killed within ten minutes of telling me. I myself was shot two months ago because I knew about the plot to remove highly enriched uranium from the Valadares Centre in Brazil.’

  The two men conferred for a moment. Vargas went on. ‘What did this journalist tell you? Tell me everything he said.’

  Dmitry told him. When he gave the names of the men at the secret meeting Vargas sat upright. He said to the colonel, ‘Hería Prieto – I know him. He is very right-wing. I know he has contacts in the Brazilian army. His daughter lives in Brazil. But this is unbelievable. Have you any evidence to support this claim?’

  ‘No, but there will be evidence – if I am allowed to communicate with anyone. Haynes admitted it to me. He knows…’

  ‘Where is Haynes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I left him in the hotel.’

  Vargas spoke again to the colonel. He said, ‘But the United Nations didn’t send you here. They do not operate this way, they would go through the government. I cannot believe you would come alone. Were you sent by your own government? Are you an agent of the KGB?’

  ‘No, I swear it, I came alone.’

  ‘But there must be others with you – the ones responsible for this attack on the rocket site.’

  ‘No.’

  The colonel moved nearer. He said, ‘He is still lying. Let us try him again in the pileta.’

  Dmitry said, desperate, ‘This attack has nothing to do with me or my country. I can tell you who has blown up the rocket range; it is the CIA.’

  The colonel laughed unpleasantly. He said, ‘Of course, you would say this. It is a nonsense. The Americans have other ways of influencing things, they do not have to resort to such crude tricks. On the contrary, this is the sort of thing that would be done by communist agents. You, I take it, are a communist?’

  ‘I am a scientist; I am not interested in politics.’

  The colonel shrugged. ‘Where you come from you are all communists.’

  Dmitry shook his head. ‘Why are we talking about communism? Communism is over, finished.’

  ‘You think so?’ The colonel leaned forward. ‘You think communism is dead, do you? You, a Russian?’

  ‘Oh, communism has been dead for some time,’ said Dmitry, ‘It’s just there are some who don’t realise it yet.’

  Vargas laughed. He said something to the colonel and he laughed too, loudly and unpleasantly. Vargas leaned forward, cupping Dmitry’s chin in his hand and forcing him to look u
p at him. ‘Why did you say it was the CIA? Where did you get this information from?’

  Dmitry, not knowing what to say, said feebly, ‘I can’t remember.’

  The colonel hit him in the face. Blood poured into his mouth. He felt he had no dignity, sitting naked on the floor, still bound, blood dribbling from his mouth.

  ‘I heard it from an official at the Russian Embassy in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the colonel. ‘Finally. You will give me his name?’

  ‘Anatoly Makushkin.’

  ‘He is a high ranking officer?’

  ‘He is First Scientific Secretary. He is a real diplomat. He is not in the KGB.’

  ‘Then where did he get his information?’

  Dmitry said, dully, ‘Embassy gossip. I suppose, in the end, from the KGB.’

  ‘So,’ said the colonel, ‘Now we have it. Do you think I am not aware that the United Nations has always been used as a cover for spying by your country? You are an agent sent by the KGB. You have been caught in the act of espionage. In the course of carrying out your duties you have murdered a Paraguayan soldier. Who are the others working with you?’

  ‘There are no others.’

  ‘Then who carried out the attack on the rocket range? I want their names. I want all the details. Come on, tell me. Tell me or I can assure you things will get even more unpleasant for you.’

  Dmitry’s voice shook with utter desperation. He had nothing more to tell them. He said, ‘No, this is the truth. I have told you the truth.’

  The colonel moved forward; Vargas restrained him. He said, ‘No, this is enough for now. I want to make some phone calls.’ He turned to Dmitry. ‘Let me tell you at once I am not convinced by what you have said. You should have come out with it in the first place; you should not have lied to us. I can assure you I do not like treating you in this way. But if I discover that you have still been lying, you will regret it, I promise you.’

  They took him back to the cell. They untied his hands and feet and threw his clothes in after him. Dmitry at once got dressed; he lay down on the floor and fell asleep almost instantly in exhaustion. When he woke up it was day. He felt completely still and calm; it was as if he was incapable of feeling anything else. He looked out of the window. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky; he looked at them curiously; he thought how infinite were the number of shades of grey. After a while he began to feel sick with hunger. He got to his feet and started to stumble round the room. He wondered how long they would hold him here, whether he would ever get out.

  He didn’t know how he would cope with prison. He thought suddenly of his days at the Physico-Power Institute in Obninsk. He could see clearly in his mind the double walls, the multiple fences of electrified wires separated by strips of freshly ploughed ground and the military patrols with their guard dogs. It had seemed almost like a prison to him then, working long hours and leaving every evening to go back to the prison of his home. He put his head in his hands. He thought of the dark winter evenings, of Masha and her long silences; he remembered how he would put his arms around her, try to make her respond to him, and how all too often she would freeze and simply push him aside. He had sought comfort with other women; Masha too had not been faithful to him. Despite his own behaviour, this had infuriated him; it was the way she had taunted him with it. Once, very drunk, he had actually assaulted her; the worst thing was it had made him feel better until he had woken in the morning to see her bruised face and been stricken with remorse. It was like something out of a bad play. He could not imagine how he had done these things.

  Now he put his head between his knees and groaned aloud. He was bewildered; he could not understand what he had done to make things turn out so badly. But wasn’t that the way life was? Why had he thought that he was entitled to escape, to have a good life, when all around him, now and in the past, was the vast suffering mass of humanity? What had made him think that he should be immune? And he saw that in some curious way he had brought this on himself, as if he had chosen it, wanted to suffer. Maybe in some way he had thought it would help him to expunge the guilt.

  He felt himself trembling. He would not have been able to describe to anyone how degrading, how disturbing, this violent assault upon him had been. He did not feel any animosity towards the torturers; rather, he felt it for himself. It was as if they had all been involved in some debasing and unpleasant ritual from which none of them had been able to extract themselves. Of course he should have spoken right away to Vargas. He should have given him the benefit of intelligence and judgement. Later, lying on the floor, trying hopelessly to sleep, Dmitry thought of what he himself would do if he had in his power someone he believed had planted a bomb on the rocket site which might, at any moment, blow up Katie. Under such circumstances he would do anything to get the information, including threats and actual violence; he would himself become a torturer.

  VI

  Katie reached Asunción by dark. She went straight to Richter’s house because she had nowhere else to go. She asked the maid to bring her some toast and hot chocolate and she went up to her bedroom. What else could she do? She felt ill and exhausted and it was too late to contact anyone official that night.

  Katie went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When she took her clothes off she noticed a tiny smear of blood on her underpants. She stared at them as if in hope that if she looked for long enough she would see that it was a trick of the light, that she had imagined it, that it wasn’t there. This was just how her previous miscarriage had begun, an innocuous little smear of blood; there had been no pain till much later. She sat down on the bed; she felt numb with exhaustion and despair.

  She thought, I can't bear it. If Dmitry was here with me and everything was all right I could just about cope with it; I cannot face it on my own. Everything is doomed. She felt a sudden wave of anger that this might have been caused by Bob, that it might indeed have been his intention. Desperate, she showered and crawled into her bed. She lay awake for hours, hardly daring to move, occasionally getting up to check if she’s had any more bleeding; she hadn’t. Perhaps it was nothing, she thought, perhaps it will be all right.

  In the morning she phoned the UN office. They said the resident representative wouldn't be free till the afternoon, so she made an appointment to go in and see him, trying to explain briefly what it was about. Then she got the number of the Russian Embassy in Buenos Aires and rang that. She had to hang on for what seemed hours. Eventually she managed to get through to Anatoly Makushkin. He had a soft voice which she found it difficult to hear over the telephone. When she explained why she was calling there was a long silence. Then he said, ‘I warned him not to go. I told him something like this would happen.’

  She said, ‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’

  ‘Of course, the Ambassador will make enquiries. I expect he will be released eventually, they won't be able to prove anything against him. What have they arrested him for? Suspected espionage or something like this?’

  Katie said, ‘The problem is, he shot a soldier. It was self-defence.’

  Anatoly said, ‘Oh, good God.’

  ‘You must do something. He is not even with the police, he’s with the military. If they know that people are concerned about him they are less likely to do anything awful. You must do something right away.’

  Anatoly’s voice sounded cold and far away. He said, ‘I will go and talk to the Ambassador. Do you have any other information that could help us? You had better write it down and fax it to us. I am sorry but I cannot help you any more. Ring me if you hear anything yourself.’

  Katie hung up. She walked upstairs, very slowly, and when she checked her underwear she saw another tiny smear of blood. She lay down on the bed again. Then she thought, it’s no use, I can’t stay here. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. She asked the maid to ring for a taxi and went downtown to the UN offices.

  She felt a sense of relief in entering the building with its familiar atmosphe
re. There were posters on the walls stating the intention to solve by some miraculous means all the world’s problems: Health for all by the year 2000; decade of clean water and sanitation; a new charter for children. Secretaries sat typing and important-looking men held earnest conversations. The res. rep. was a tall, thin, Scandinavian, aged about forty, with washed-out features and thinning, pale hair. He kept looking at her through the plate glass in the partitions which divided up the office and frowning as if he didn't want to see her. She had to wait some time to see him; at length the secretary took her in. He shook her hand and asked her to sit down. He said, ‘I'm sorry, I don’t quite understand what this is all about.’

  Katie tried to explain. She said a friend of hers, a UN employee from Vienna, had been arrested in Mariscal Estigarribia. He was not here officially, she said. Would the UN be able to do anything to get him released?

  Nilson said, in a voice which was as washed-out as his appearance, ‘What was he arrested for?’

  ‘He shot a soldier. In self-defence. They were threatening him.’

  Nilson winced. ‘Shot? You mean, killed?’

  Katie nodded. Nilson stared at her and scratched his head. He looked out of the window at the rooftops and then up at the sky. ‘You will have to tell me more than this,’ he said. ‘What was he doing there? Who is your friend?’

  Katie told him.

  ‘From the IAEA? An expert on uranium enrichment? Good God. There is an atomic energy commission here, as a matter of fact, God knows what it does – I met the director at some dinner or other, nice man – but you say he was not on official business? He came in on his national passport? What the hell was he doing in Mariscal Estigarribia?’