16

  The air-conditioning at ground level was far less effective than underground, in the silo control room and laboratories, and Hannah Bloor gave a sigh of annoyance as she stepped from the lift. She suffered from the heat, and as soon as she felt the perspiration prick out on her skin the irritation started. Instinctively she checked one of the frequent wall clocks. She had just enough time for a shower before her conference with the Director, Dieter Muller. She was surprised at the summons. There had been a meeting involving the whole team only three days earlier, at which they had reviewed the successful progress of the launch, and she was curious at the need for another so soon.

  The installation had been designed in the shape of a giant T, with the laboratories and research rooms arranged along the main section and the recreation and rest areas and living accommodation in the crosspiece; the women’s quarters were to the right, the men’s to the left. She walked unhurriedly along the central corridor, her special laboratory shoes squeaking against the highly polished floor. They employed a large native staff and everything about her shone with an almost clinical cleanliness. The Director was strict about all things, particularly cleanliness; a lot of the scientists in the complex found it irksome, but Hannah admired the attitude. In a situation such as theirs, it was very easy to let standards drop. Once that started happening, efficiency went with it. Hannah regarded herself as a very efficient woman.

  Hannah had one of the larger sets of rooms, befitting a Project Director. The living room was separated from the bedroom by a dressing area, with the shower and bathroom leading off. Only in the living quarters did Muller allow any relaxation of tidiness, but Hannah’s rooms were as neat and orderly as the most sterilized research chamber. They had the appearance of a freshly prepared hotel suite awaiting the arrival of a fastidious customer rather than someone’s permanent home. The only jarring note was the radio equipment. To live in the middle of the African continent yet remain completely cut off from it was an unreal existence, and the scientists and technicians adjusted in different ways. Some tried to read all the books they had always promised themselves to complete but had never before had time for; others became physical fitness fanatics or chess or backgammon enthusiasts. Hannah Bloor’s pastime was her radio and tape recorder deck. It was mounted on the wall to make it as compact as possible, the recorder spools vertical rather than horizontal, and the VHF frequency was powerful enough for her to receive concerts with perfect clarity from as far away as New York or London. Muller shared her interest in music and occasionally joined her, if they knew in advance of a particular opera or performance; as far as anyone could remember, he was the only man who had ever gained admission to her living quarters and as he was almost seventy, it was disregarded within the complex. Hannah was aware of the rumors about her sexuality but unworried by them. She regarded the problem rather as she considered the effect of cleanliness upon efficiency: a romance might have created jealousy and that would have been an unnecessary complication in the life they led. And there was always the difficulty of ending it, without causing pain or bad feeling. She had decided it just wasn’t worth bothering with. The situation was simplified by the fact that there was no man within the complex to whom she was attracted. Even so, it was an abstinence which in the early days she had found uncomfortable, because contrary to the gossip, Hannah was a highly sexed woman. It had got better, during the last few months; only occasionally did she sleep with her hand between her legs now.

  She stripped off her laboratory uniform and underclothes, carefully placing them in the laundry basket, and then gratefully got under the shower. Despite her discomfort with the heat, she ran the water warm, knowing that if she over-cooled her skin the perspiration would become worse once she dressed again. She didn’t bother with a shower cap, plunging her head beneath the water jet; because of the heat, she wore her blond hair close-cropped. It was naturally straight and she knew that by brisk towelling and then combing, it would be perfectly in place by the time she entered Muller’s office.

  After ten minutes, she stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around her and used another to wipe the steam from the full-length mirror. Satisfied at last with the reflection, she let the towel drop away and surveyed her body. She was a full, heavy-breasted woman and even though she had suppressed her sensuality she naturally looked first at her breasts, pleased that they held their shape without any sag. She was pleased, too, at the flatness of her belly; the food at the installation was very good, but Hannah ate carefully, determined not to put on weight. She moved closer to the mirror, intent upon her skin. She was deeply tanned, white just across her nipple tips and above her pubic hairline, but she found the eruptions that had started to itch in the bend of her elbow and beneath her left arm. Hannah had studied medicine for two years before abandoning a medical career in favor of applied physics, and realized that the blemishes were caused by a combination of the heat and the frequency with which she soaped her body; it was not unusual for her to shower four times a day.

  She was at the Director’s office five minutes before the appointed time, but he was waiting for her, expectantly.

  “Always prompt, Hannah,” he smiled.

  “I always think of lateness as rudeness,” she said. She had a soft, caressing voice, and until they had learned of her interest in classical music, people in the complex had thought she might be able to sing pop songs at the entertainments they sometimes organized. Hannah rarely attended, embarrassed by the amateurism of those taking part.

  “Sit down,” encouraged the Director. Muller was a thin, almost cadaverous man. As fastidious about his person as he was about the installation he managed, he sometimes changed his suit during the course of the day and, despite the heat, customarily wore a waistcoat. His hair was white but very full, so that he appeared younger than he was. He was one of the people who suppressed the boredom of the place with exercise, which further decreased the impression of age; his face glowed pink, not from the heat but from health.

  From their shared interest in music and the conversations that they had had in her rooms on his occasional visits, Hannah supposed she knew Dieter Muller better than anyone else in the complex; he maintained a reserve against close relationships, aware that his authority might be jeopardized by over-familiarity.

  It had taken her a long time to realize that the perpetual tendency to boastfulness, regarded by some as irritating conceit, came from his disappointments. And he was a disappointed man, she knew. Deep within him was the remorse that a man learns to subdue after he has made an irrevocable decision that alters the course of his life. It must have been easy to have panicked, as Muller had panicked, in the closing stages of the war — to have imagined, even, that having been one of the German rocket pioneers could have meant arraignment at Nuremberg, on war crime charges. So Werner von Braun had gone to America, to the honor and excitement of NASA moon shot development, and Dieter Muller had fled to Egypt among real Nazis whose politics and ethos he could never understand and whose company he didn’t enjoy.

  As slowly over the months, Hannah had pieced together his history, she had often reflected how sad it was that space exploration had lost such a brilliant, innovative mind. The youngest member ever allowed admission to the Verein für Raumschiffahrt — the German society formed to study astronautics before the war — he had been employed at Kummersdorf, south of Berlin, in the Army Weapons Department rocket research as early as 1935. It was there that he had first encountered von Braun, then only twenty but already chief designer. Muller had risen to become his personal assistant by 1939 when, from their new base at Peenemünde on the Baltic coast, the A-5 covered a test fire distance of eleven miles and, five years later, made possible the rocket that carried a one-ton explosive warhead to London.

  Hannah felt that his boastfulness was excusable after so many setbacks, just as she understood what was perhaps his greatest disappointment — the fear that this development was being taken from him by the greed of the BADRA consortium in Germany. It was probably his last chance to be recognized as the rocket genius that he was, but in order to earn that scientific acclaim, the satellite would have had to be utilized properly, as a communications vehicle of which many countries would make use. Muller was not a political man, but she was sure he could easily see the criticism that would arise from allowing Libya a monopoly.

  “I’m surprised at the need for another meeting, so soon,” she said.

  He smiled at her directness. “Something has happened that I felt you should know about.”

  “Not to affect the launch?” Her concern was immediately obvious.

  He raised his hands, a placatory gesture. “Don’t become alarmed,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “The agreement for the use of the rocket on which you have been working requires half payment to be deposited in advance, in gold.”

  She sat nodding, head to one side in curiosity.

  “The bullion truck was intercepted,” reported Muller, flatly. “The money stolen.”

  “Intercepted! But how?”

  “I only know the barest details,” apologized the old man. “It seems it was a very well-planned robbery; it was completely successful.”

  “Who?”

  “There are apparently some suggestions of Arab guerillas.”

  “But why would they want to disrupt it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. There is so much I don’t know.” That was the nearest she could remember him coming to criticizing the BADRA decision to entrust the security of the complex to the Libyans: in the three months since the Arab arrival, something approaching an army garrison atmosphere had been imposed upon the place. She wondered if Muller was becoming tired of the constant arguments with the Libyan officers about the degree of restrictions that should be imposed on even the most senior scientists.

  “Who knew of the gold transfer?”

  “Very few people.”

  “So there’s a spy, somewhere within the company?”

  “That’s the logical conclusion. But in Europe. Here we remain very secure.”

  “We can’t be completely secure, if information of this degree was allowed to get out,” insisted the girl.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Are you sure it won’t affect the launch? There’s a limited window available to get the vehicle into space. I don’t estimate more than five days.”

  “I told you not to become alarmed,” reminded Muller. “There’s little risk of a postponement. There is no shortage of money — you know that. This time it will be a normal book transaction, with no physical transfer.”

  Hannah frowned. “I wouldn’t have been surprised at some political protest once we had launched and it had become known who had bought the facility. But I would never have guessed at open crime!”

  “It’s very worrying,” the old man confessed. For once the carefully maintained ebullience left him; he looked very tired, she thought.

  “Should I tell the team?” she said.

  Muller turned down the corners of his mouth, a doubtful expression. “It might unsettle them,” he warned. “There’s always a lot of tension, this near to a launch.”

  The soreness in Hannah’s arms began to irritate her again: perhaps it was nervousness and not the overuse of soap, she thought, suddenly.

  “The idea of an informant makes me uneasy,” she said.

  “Everything will be fine, believe me,” encouraged the man. “The launch will go uninterrupted and our reputation will be established in the Third World; this is going to prove a highly commercial venture.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said the girl.

  “I will be,” said Muller.

  She looked at him, sadly.

  David Levy bustled across the wide approach to the Knesset and then entered the parliamentary building, head bent in concentration and oblivious of the Chagall murals that lined the walls. He went familiarly around the shell of the debating chamber towards the private offices. Even though he was recognized by the guards, there was still the formality of a security check: had there not been, Levy would have had the soldiers court-martialled.

  From the Premier’s rooms, there was a better view of the Dome of Scrolls than there was from his own office: Levy was staring out over them when Shimeon Weismann came into the room, flurrying between two secretaries.

  “A moment, David,” said the man. “Allow me a moment.”

  Levy nodded, amused, as the Premier dictated a paperchase of memoranda, consulted an appointment diary and answered the intercom from a third assistant, refusing an immediate meeting with the leader of the Likud party. It was fully ten minutes before the activity was over and the office became quiet again.

  “In my prayers I sometimes ask God to extend the day to thirty hours,” said Weismann, smiling. He wore an open-necked shirt, sports jacket and sandals. The Mossad chief wondered why Israeli politicians made such an affectation of casualness.

  “I’d welcome the extension,” said Levy.

  “It was a good operation in Switzerland,” praised Weismann. He smiled again. “Just like intercepting pirate ships off the Spanish Main.”

  “It went well,” agreed Levy.

  “What else is happening?”

  “Peterson and Petrov have had a meeting.”

  “They’ve met personally!” Weismann came forward in his chair, not smiling now.

  “In Vienna,” said Levy.

  “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You couldn’t be mistaken?”

  “I’ve had Peterson under observation since we provided the first information about the complex,” confessed Levy.

  “What can it mean?”

  “When we met in Washington, Peterson told me he was planning an incursion.”

  “Surely you don’t think they could be going in together!” Weismann was shaking his head, as if he found the whole thing impossible to believe.

  “It would reduce the risk of one group getting in the way of another,” said Levy. “But I agree it seems an unlikely idea.”

  “Aren’t we going in?”

  “I’ve assembled a force,” said Levy. “But it won’t be as easy as Entebbe. I doubt that Kenya would allow us to refuel again.”

  “What about South Africa?” suggested the Premier. “They’re very friendly to us.”

  “I don’t know that they’d want to become so openly involved.”

  “Still no indication of a launch date?”

  “None,” said Levy. “All the assessments put it fairly near.”

  “You’re doing very well on this, David,” congratulated Weismann again. “Very well indeed.”

  “There’s still a long way to go yet,” said the Mossad chief, cautiously.

  17

  Otto Bock planned very carefully, determined to guard against any detection. As the controller, his presence within the computer room was unchallengeable, but he spread his visits throughout the day and even into the night, aware of the rota and systems check, but still wanting to insure against every danger.

  There were two security checks when the user’s name and purpose were noted in a ledger, one immediately inside the door and the other before access to the machines in which higher classified material was stored. Neither concerned him — they were for outside people coming in, not for someone already on the inside.

  Morning was a bad time, he concluded. At the beginning of the day the volume of traffic and people seemed greater, increasing the danger of someone glancing idly at a computer window and seeing a file that might later be remembered if there were ever any inquiry. Early evening, he decided; before the change-over to the night staff, when the attendants and operators were tired and concerned only with going home.

  Bock had rehearsed everything, so there would be no hesitation which might attract attention. Consequently he was irritated at the unexpected change in the instructions, isolating the man Bohler not as a scientist, but as someone involved in diplomatic liaison. It meant a slight change of program, which unsettled him; in his apprehension. Bock was easily upset.

  Both the personnel files and the BADRA records were located by a twelve-item letter and number block code and he memorized both before venturing into the computer room, so that nothing would have been found upon his person had there been a spot search. It did not happen often, but it was best to anticipate every eventuality.

  The ledger clerk smiled familiarly at him as he emerged from his office. “Late night?” inquired the man.

  “Afraid so,” said Bock. His stomach was in turmoil and there was the slightest shake in his hand, but his voice showed no anxiety. “Some suggestion of print-out deficiencies in African investment.”

  “Only another half an hour for me,” said the man.

  “I envy you — I think I’ll be here late.”

  An operator looked up politely as Bock approached, moving away from his bench to greet the controller.

  “Complaints from above,” said Bock. “Print-out deficiencies.’

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Bock. “I’ll handle it.” He wondered if the other man was conscious of the grease of perspiration he could feel easing down his face.

  “Let me help.”

  “No,” refused Bock. “I’ll do it. That’s what I’m paid for.”

  Bock selected a console at the end of a bank, to reduce the chance of being overseen as much as possible. He turned on the machine but did not immediately ask for the personnel file; instead he logged onto the investment dossier that was the supposed purpose of his visit. Bock had rehearsed it this way to give others in the room the opportunity to become used to his presence, but recognized now that it was also a useful gap for calming his nerves. He worked for fifteen minutes, apparently making notes from the print-out, then glanced casually around the room. There were only two other people there; the operator who had offered to help already had his coat on and was in conversation with the security man.