The Rocket Man (12 page)

‘I've had enough.' Katie put her fork down on the plate. ‘I don't suppose there's anything in it. Nihal talks to everyone, you know that.'

‘Oh, you and Nihal, with your wishy-washy liberal backgrounds. You know these bloody Russians have been the problem with the UN from the beginning. That's why we've never been able to do half the things we want to. They say it's all changed, but it hasn't, in fact if anything it's worse, because now it's even more difficult to know what games they're playing.'

Katie had an instinctive urge to rise to Dmitry's defence, but quickly controlled herself. She started to busy herself, clearing away the plates in the kitchen. Bob followed her and watched her in silence for a while. Then he said, his voice suddenly soft and concerned, ‘Katie, what is it? What's wrong with you these days?'

Katie straightened abruptly and in doing so knocked a vase of flowers over. The water gushed down onto the floor and she grabbed at the vase, the flowers slipping through her fingers. Bob was stunned for an instant, then he bent down and began picking up the flowers from the floor.

Katie sat down on the kitchen stool and suddenly burst into tears. She could sense that Bob was alarmed with her behaviour and that made it worse. He straightened up and put the flowers back in the vase, making a hopeless attempt to arrange them properly. ‘If you don't tell me what's the matter how can you expect me to help?'

‘You wouldn't understand. It's nothing. Oh, I don't know, I just feel depressed. You don't understand what it's like, being stuck here at home with Anna all the time; and she gets bored as well. It's not easy to make friends here – and I'm sick to death with my translating. Endless, boring, technical documents, and never seeing anybody. Besides, I can't concentrate on it properly, I only get two hours in the morning and then it's time to pick up Anna. What am I doing with my life?'

Bob said, more softly, ‘Well, that's why I'm thinking of changing things. I don't want you to be unhappy. But you seem, lately, I don't know… almost hostile to me. Okay, I know I'm not always good at showing my feelings, but you know how much I love you.'

‘Oh, Bob.' She dried her eyes and kissed him, then, awkwardly, turned and carried on with tidying up the kitchen. Bob just stood there and looked at her. She felt transparent, ashamed, and that it must be obvious to him that she wasn't telling him the whole truth.

On the way to bed Katie went into Anna's room. Bob was already there, smoothing out the covers and tucking Anna's kangaroo under the duvet. He kissed her forehead and straightened; Katie's eyes met his. She saw that he was cautious, guarded with her, and she suddenly couldn't bear it. With a sudden impulse to make things right between them she reached out and put her arms around him, holding him tightly for a long time.

Nihal arrived at Dmitry's flat as he had arranged at nine. He shook the snow from his coat and hung it up on the hook behind the door. Nihal accepted the drink he was offered and handed Dmitry the by now much-folded copy of the RASAG contract.

Dmitry read through it quickly and frowned. He said, ‘Well, it could be genuine, but actually this looks to me like a classic piece of Soviet
disinformatsia
. I didn't know they were still doing this these days.'

‘Is there anything specific that makes you think this?'

‘Well, it all sounds wrong. Possibly the whole document is a fake. On the other hand, it could have been acquired and leaked by the intelligence services – quite possibly the KGB. Once they saw your piece they might have decided they'd better act quickly. They have this section of the first chief directorate, you know… it's called “active measures”.'

Nihal laughed and said that he was only a journalist.

Dmitry shrugged and handed back the copy. ‘Of course this is all quite out of date these days. I would imagine that if what you say about Richter is true, the Americans would be equally unhappy about his activities. But don't they practically run Paraguay? It's hard to imagine they could do this without US support. The whole thing is a bit odd, don't you think?'

‘Where is this place, Mariscal Estigarribia, I wonder?'

Dmitry got out his atlas and they opened it on the table. He shone the lamp on it and they sat and looked in silence. Maps are curious things, thought Nihal. Places seem more distant, more exotic, in maps than in reality. Though he'd travelled a great deal, he'd concentrated on Asia and Africa, where he could get by with English, and he had never been to South America; it was a part of the world he did not know at all. In the interior of Paraguay was an area known as the Chaco. It appeared to be dry forest and grassland and to be sparsely inhabited. There was a town called Mariscal Estigarribia on the Trans-Chaco highway which crossed the country from Asunción to the border with Bolivia. He knew that if he were actually standing there, it would seem quite normal; only after he had come back and looked at the map again would it seem to him that he had been somewhere distant and remote; would in fact have difficulty believing he had ever been there.

Dmitry turned the page. He looked at the map of Brazil, and Nihal asked, ‘Where's Cachimbo – where they drilled those test bores?'

Dmitry pointed to one of the most remote spots in the centre of Amazonia, a place to which there were no roads. Then he sat back and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘Are you thinking what I'm thinking? There's something about it, isn't there? The world is so small, there is nothing secret in it anymore, and yet here we are… with strange, perhaps evil things going on in the dark heart of a continent.'

N
ihal sat in the lobby of the Anschloss Garten Hotel, Stuttgart, checking his tape recorder for the third time. He had spare batteries in his bag; he had a stack of tapes, enough to record several hours of conversation; he had copies of his article; he had the photocopy of the contract. Getting an interview with Weiland had been surprisingly easy. He had said he was researching a book on the history of the rocket and Weiland had assented at once. He had said he would be in Stuttgart that week and would meet him at his hotel.

At five minutes to eight he was walking along the silent corridor, looking for room 589. He knocked sharply at the door; Weiland opened it himself. He was a thin, slightly stooping man; very frail; his skin was mottled, but the thin silvery hair was elegantly combed back from the high forehead and his eyes were clear, unclouded and piercingly blue.

‘Come in, come in,' said Weiland. ‘Would you like a drink?'

Nihal asked for some orange juice. He looked around the room; it was a large suite, probably the hotel's best, comfortable and expensive but with that soulless familiarity of the large hotel chain. To his surprise Weiland was alone. The door at the far end was ajar and a light was on behind it; Nihal wondered if someone else was there, listening to what was going on.

They sat opposite one another on green silk chairs. Nihal started with general questions about the early days of rocket research in Peenemünde. Weiland wandered a little as he spoke, jumping from Peenemunde to his time working for NASA; he added little to what Nihal knew already.

He asked Weiland about his presidency of RASAG but the German didn't seem to want to go into that at first; he spoke at length about his work with Wernher von Braun and his particular genius. He argued that because von Braun had had the gift of being able to convince non-technical people about the potential for space research, he had been largely responsible for persuading Kennedy to put money into the moon landing programme. It was a pity, said Weiland, that he had latterly under-estimated his enemies. He hoped that Richter would not make the same mistake.

Nihal, seeing his cue, pounced upon this point. Would the German Government really allow Richter to build the rockets on German soil? Wasn't it likely to become a political hot potato?' Weiland considered for a moment. He said that he thought that it might. So far, Richter had only tested prototypes. Whether there would be a different reaction when he went into mass production he couldn't say. People had become stricter in recent years about rocket research. There was the Missile Technology Control Regime. Of course, peaceful space research was permitted, but sometimes people failed to make the necessary distinction between the two. But the genius of Richter's design was that most of the basic parts for the rocket were simple components that could be bought off-the-shelf.

‘But do you think these rockets will actually work? There must surely be a great many technical problems to overcome?'

Weiland leaned forward in his chair, his hands trembling slightly, but a glimpse of an old fire coming into his eyes. ‘Ah, but it's based on a principle we were developing in the last desperate days of the war, when we were trying to find cheap ways of building rockets. This was developed for an anti-tank rocket, something we called the
Wasserfall
, the waterfall. Like the RASAG rocket, this used compressed air instead of costly pumps to – how shall we say – to press the fuel out from the tanks to the combustion chamber. I am sure it will work, because we tested this many times and certainly we had considerable success with it…'

‘But this is fascinating. I would be very interested to see the factory here. I would also, if it were possible, very much like to see the testing site in Paraguay. Obviously this rocket technology will be of great interest to many Third World countries.'

Weiland did not react at all to the mention of Paraguay. He became rather vague. He said, ‘Oh, I don't think that is very likely. I don't think Herr Richter will like to give permission to journalists. Of course, I can ask him, but…'

‘Where exactly is the rocket site?'

‘Do you know Paraguay? No? Well, in the interior of the country is an area called the Chaco – actually some writer referred to it as the green hell, and that I think is very apt: this area is almost totally uninhabited and is under military control. We have rented a large area of land there. It is pretty inaccessible. In case you were to have any ideas about venturing there yourself, I don't think I could recommend you go and have a look without written permission, indeed, without being accompanied by some of our staff.'

‘This contract that you made with the Government – its terms seem rather extraordinary. Don't you think there will be criticism?'

‘What do you know about the terms of the contract?' Weiland's voice was suddenly as sharp as broken ice.

‘I have it here.' Nihal produced the photocopied document. He handed it to Weiland whose hand wavered a little as he took it; he gave it a glance; his expression hardened. ‘But this document is a forgery. An utter forgery. Where did you get it?'

‘It was sent to me.'

‘Who by?'

‘An anonymous source.'

Weiland was silent, deep in thought. He seemed to have been taken by surprise and didn't quite know how to deal with this; Nihal saw anger in his face as he stared at the document. Weiland looked up and said with finality, ‘I am sorry, I have never seen this document before. Is that machine still running?'

‘Yes.'

‘Switch it off.'

Nihal did so, instantly. He had finished his orange juice; he couldn't eke it out any longer. It was clear that the interview was over; he folded up his notebook, then decided on one last try. ‘I'm very keen to interview Herr Richter, I am intrigued by his ideas. You don't think you could suggest this to him?'

Weiland made an impatient gesture with his fingers. ‘Herr Richter is a very busy man. I could ask him, but I doubt he could spare the time. Besides, he is not here. I believe he is in Paris.' Weiland stood up, supporting himself with his arm on the side of the chair.

An idea occurred to Nihal; it was rather a long shot, in fact it sounded to him quite wild, even as he said it: ‘I've heard rumours that the Mennonite communities at Filadelfia are very anxious about this rocket project. There has even been talk of plans to sabotage a launch.'

‘Sabotage?' Weiland took a step towards him, and his voice rose in pitch, almost to a falsetto. ‘Please, tell me where you heard this.'

‘I'm afraid I can't reveal to you my source.'

Weiland turned and went to the door, an amused smile suddenly crossing his face; ‘No; no, of course you can't. I quite understand. Let us hope it is no more reliable than your other sources. But thank you very much for telling me; we will look into it.' He stepped forward and Nihal, rather reluctantly, shook his outstretched hand. As he left the room Nihal had a distinct impression of Weiland's hand reaching out towards the phone.