“Used to,” picked up Paul. “You mean you don’t think so now?”

  “Sometimes I’m not sure any more.”

  “You must be unusual … special, I suppose,” groped the younger man. “It’s funny, I never thought of you like that before. Do you feel different from everybody else?” The admiration was more evident than it had been earlier, and Peterson experienced a vague sensation of embarrassment.

  “No,” he said. “No different at all.”

  “But the power!” stressed Paul. “Haven’t you ever sat down and worked out all the things you could do and make happen, in one maverick hour?”

  Peterson laughed aloud. “Directors of the CIA never go maverick,” he said, consciously self-mocking. “They remain level-headed at all times, correctly assessing everything and making the right decisions.”

  Peterson knew that for too long now he had not been correctly assessing everything that had happened in Africa. But he thought he was beginning to, after the debriefing of Colonel Bradley. Before leaving Langley he had asked Walter Jones to carry out a complete re-analysis of all the files and to scrutinize with particular care all Bohler’s reports of the equipment at the complex. He thought he knew what the man would find.

  “I guess I should apologize,” said Paul.

  “Apologize?”

  Paul made an uncertain movement. “For all the crap … all the arguing.”

  “Forget it,” said Peterson. “We both made mistakes. I’m glad we’re not making them any more.”

  “So am I,” said Paul sincerely.

  Peterson was looking up to get the bill when he saw Walter Jones enter the restaurant behind the waiter. The deputy looked around and then saw Peterson’s raised hand.

  “I seem to make a habit of interrupting you,” apologized Jones, when he reached the table.

  “What is it?” said Peterson. Inexplicably, a hollow nervousness had settled in his stomach.

  “You’ve been summoned for a trip,” said the deputy. “The President has decided to fly to New York to give a personal welcome to the Israeli Premier. The campaign managers have already come up with the slogan — The Man of Peace meets the Man of Peace.”

  “The work of genius,” said Peterson cynically. “We’re going to visit Beth.”

  “You’re due aboard Air Force One at Andrews in two hours,” said Jones.

  “I’ll explain,” promised Paul. “I’ll see she understands.”

  “She ran away before because I didn’t have time,” said Peterson. “The doctors say the feeling of rejection is the thing we’ve got to guard against most.”

  “Fowler was very insistent,” warned Jones.

  “You could be back by tomorrow,” said Paul.

  Peterson looked inquiringly at his deputy. Jones shrugged and said, “I wasn’t given any timing; the President is staying overnight at the Waldorf Astoria, but I guess he’ll come back some time tomorrow. There’s talk of a weekend meeting with Weismann at Camp David.”

  “Tell her I’m sorry,” said Peterson to his son. “Tell her I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  They drove to the airport in Peterson’s car, the Director hunched in the corner almost sulkily and Jones regarding him curiously.

  “I’m not going to let that girl down again,” said Peterson, as they began to clear the city. It sounded like a promise made to himself.

  “It isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I might quit.” Peterson made the statement without thought. Immediately he straightened in the seat, as if surprised at having said it.

  “To do what?”

  The Director gave a shrug of uncertainty. “I haven’t thought it out,” he admitted.

  “Perhaps Fowler would give you an ambassadorship — there’s precedent.”

  “No,” said Peterson at once. “I want right out.”

  A very special man, Paul had said. He didn’t feel special, decided Peterson. He felt old and tired and unsure. And disillusioned. The awareness came suddenly. He had been honest with his son about the difficulty of making dispassionate decisions and he’d spent a long time that morning looking at the pictures of Henry Blakey’s wife and child. He had personally written the letter of condolence and issued instructions to the accounting department that, on his authority, all the pensions and allowances to the dependents of the soldiers killed in the abortive incursion and the agents who had been detected in the initial attempts to penetrate the Chad complex should begin immediately. There would be protests from the Accounts Director, Peterson knew. They didn’t like deviations from established routine. He decided he didn’t give a damn.

  “Did you finish going through the files?” he asked Jones.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I’ll call you in New York.”

  Peterson was accustomed to travelling with an entourage of baggage handlers, helpers, secretaries and assistants, but the organization surrounding the movements of the President always bemused him; it was like entering a nest in which the worker ants were trying to work harder than they normally did. Although he was known and recognized as the CIA Director, he had to go through the customary security check, have his photograph taken and wait patiently for his seat allocation. It came with the reservation that had been made in his name at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. It was an open booking, he saw, worriedly, remembering the promise which Paul would be making to his daughter at that moment. He was assigned a guide from the White House travel department and personally conducted to the aircraft; from the activity among the FBI agents, Peterson guessed the President would shortly be arriving.

  He found Herbert Flood already waiting in the rear lounge of the aircraft, working in shirtsleeves with two speech-writers. The foreign affairs advisor looked up and nodded at his entry and Peterson nodded back, moving to the other side of the aircraft to the seat that had his name efficiently labelled on the head-rest protector. As soon as he sat down he closed his eyes against the bustle all around, trying to separate himself from it. Had he meant what he said in the car about quitting? He had spoken without any forethought or consideration, almost like a man responding from his sub-conscious under the effects of a truth drug. If he remained Director, then it would be difficult to give the attention to Beth that the doctors and psychiatrists insisted was necessary. And he had really meant it when he had told Jones he didn’t intend failing her a second time. He opened his eyes, concentrating on everything around him. Was he really sickened by the sycophancy and the compromises and the deceits and the maneuvers? Or was the depression an over-response to a failed operation which would reflect personally on him, because he had been in direct control? There was a brief announcement through the plane’s public address system, and Peterson rose at the President’s arrival aboard. He didn’t know the answer, Peterson accepted, as Fowler strode towards him, beaming his politician’s smile. He wondered how long it would take to make the decision.

  “Glad you could make it,” said Fowler, as if there had been a choice. “The entire Israeli delegation has gone up, so I figured you should be along. I plan to appear at the United Nations right after Weismann, supporting the call for international action. Already got an assurance from Moscow that they won’t oppose.”

  “I gather the Russians have made a positive commitment to Jewish emigration,” said Peterson.

  “And during my speech I’ll pledge all the additional aid, support and oil supplies they’ve asked for.”

  “But the satellite is still there.”

  Fowler looked around the aircraft, then pulled Peterson further away from where the speechwriters were gathered. “The proton beam idea of yours was a good one,” he said heavily.

  “When?”

  “The army says it will take a few days: they’re confident they can do it.”

  “Have you told the Soviets? It might create an over-reaction from them.”

  “Not yet,” said Fowler. “But I intend to, a few hours before we activate.”

  The President looked across and Flood managed to catch his attention. “Speechwriters want me,” said Fowler, moving away.

  Peterson resumed his seat and belted himself in for takeoff. Fowler didn’t bother to sit for the departure, leaning forward in earnest conversation with the foreign affairs advisor, a draft of the United Nations speech between them. Stewards circulated with drinks, but Peterson drank only club soda. The President took bourbon, he saw. The presidential plane was equipped for mid-air television reception and, on a set in the after-lounge, they all watched the New York arrival of Shimeon Weismann. The Israeli Premier seemed less fatigued than when he had appeared before the Jerusalem press conference. He made a brief statement at the airport, repeating his desire for peace and for world support. The only unexpected part of his speech was to welcome the Soviet guarantee of Jewish emigration.

  “Fine man,” judged Fowler, when the coverage ended. A few days earlier the President had called him a son-of-a-bitch, remembered Peterson.

  Before the arrival at Kennedy, Fowler went forward to his private quarters on the plane to rehearse the speech he had agreed upon with Flood and change his clothes.

  Shortly before touch-down, Flood crossed over and settled in a vacant seat alongside the CIA Director.

  “The Secretary of State isn’t having much luck in Germany,” he said.

  “The pressure on Bonn will increase after today’s speeches,” predicted Peterson. He supposed Flood saw some personal advantage in Moore’s failure in Bonn. He wondered how much longer it would be before the foreign affairs advisor made his bid for some political acceptance and realized he’d been blocked.

  “I think we’re going to avoid a crisis over this,” said Flood. “It’s becoming manageable.”

  “We hope,” said Peterson, unconvinced.

  The Washington departure efficiency was repeated on arrival in New York. Everyone remained in the aircraft for the President’s disembarkation and airport speech and then guides led them off to limousines that had been brought right to the plane. Peterson was glad he had been allocated a vehicle of his own. He sat staring out at the traffic along the Van Wyck Expressway, letting his mind drift. How difficult would it be for him to adjust to handling his own baggage and going through immigration and customs procedures like everyone else, if he resigned the Directorship? He tried to think of any friends or acquaintances sufficiently well placed in businesses to be able to offer him a job. He didn’t know any, he realized. Could he risk a resignation, in the hope that there might be an approach from some corporation? Lucille would have to remain in the clinic for another month at least. And then have outpatient treatment, probably. And Beth would be hospitalized for much longer. He had not fully calculated the cost, but it would be considerable: certainly more than any insurance coverage. How much did he have in his bank? Twenty thousand; maybe a little less. Not enough to last a year, with his present commitments. He would certainly have to find something positive before he considered quitting. It would be irresponsible to do anything otherwise: there were more ways in which he could fail Lucille and Beth than by not being there every time they wanted him. Peterson shifted, looking at his watch. Paul would still be with Beth. He wondered how the girl had reacted to his absence? He’d telephone Paul, he decided, after the United Nations session.

  At the Waldorf he found he had been assigned a suite and felt uncomfortable with so much room; it was loneliness, he accepted, surprised. It was fortunate the schedule was so tight that he wouldn’t have to be there at any length. He checked and found that Levy was also booked into the hotel, but when he tried the room there was no reply.

  Peterson was in the last car in the President’s motorcade on the police-cleared route to the United Nations skyscraper overlooking the East River. The only congestion was that caused by the number of cars comprising it. The CIA Director went into the building about five minutes after the main party and so he was not immediately aware of the excitement. The President and Flood were looking impatiently towards the door when he entered; the foyer was crowded with people and just beyond their own group, Peterson caught sight of David Levy. Then he became aware of Fowler’s irritated gesture and hurried forward.

  “Something has happened to the satellite,” said the President. “The Israelis say it’s malfunctioning. Get on to our people; find out what the hell’s happening.”

  Peterson thrust his way through the bustle to a public kiosk, warning Walter Jones immediately after the deputy replied that it was not a secure line.

  “It’s gone completely haywire,” reported Jones, his voice mirroring the excitement that everyone else was showing. “It seems to be collapsing out of orbit; we’re monitoring it, obviously, but our people calculate it’ll start to burn up on re-entry into the atmosphere.”

  “Bohler?” demanded Peterson.

  “No,” said the deputy. “I managed contact as soon as we got word of what was happening. He still hasn’t been able to get near any of the controls. And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I finished reading all Bohler’s information. And then checked with him again, when I was talking about the malfunctioning. You were right.”

  “It’s taking shape,” said Peterson. “At last it’s taking shape.”

  Bohler made his entry into the operations room appear as casual as possible, to guard against hinting at any foreknowledge of what was happening, but it was an unnecessary precaution because everyone’s attention was on the command console. Hannah was hunched forward over it, going from dial to dial, snapping out orders and course corrections to the technicians grouped in front of her. Dr. Muller was standing rigidly behind the Project Director, hands gripped white against the back of her chair. As he approached, Bohler heard the instruction for the satellite rocket to be fired, in an effort to correct the course misalignment; then there was a shout from one of the white-coated men as the control dials almost immediately registered a worsening of pitch.

  “The gyro,” he heard Hannah say to Muller. “We can’t correct the imbalance of the gyro!” She punched her fist against the console table, exasperated at her inability to rectify the fault.

  “The motor,” said Muller urgently. “Try the motor again.”

  “You saw what happened last time,” she said.

  “We must do something. It can’t fail. It can’t.”

  The woman paused, then gave the order, limiting the burn to three seconds. It took a further minute for the effect to manifest itself, and a shout came from the technician who had given the earlier warning.

  “It’s going,” he shouted. “I’ve no control … it’s descending into the atmosphere.”

  “No!” said Muller, the word whimpering from him. “It can’t fail … can’t.…”

  Everyone was gazing hypnotically at the needles of the dial, jerking and waving chaotically across the calibrated facings and then, abruptly, they simultaneously stopped registering.

  Bohler realized that Hannah’s head was bent low over her chest. She jumped up and, when she turned to leave the room, he saw she was crying. She went past him without appearing to be aware of his presence and he made no move to intercept her. There was complete silence in the chamber — a deadness about everything.

  Bohler gave Hannah an hour to recover. He knocked lightly on her door and it was a long time before she responded. She opened it a few inches, saw it was him, and then held it wider for him to enter. She walked ahead of him into the room, slumping down into a chair. He edged onto the arm and pulled her head against his chest. The movement seemed to release a fresh burst of emotion. She clung to him, sobbing. She pulled away at last, gazing up at him with reddened eyes. “It’ll be the end of us here,” she said. “No one will take us seriously any more … want to buy anything we build. There won’t be any orders from Asia. There won’t be any orders from anywhere.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Bohler. Illogically, he realized that he meant it.

  44

  Peterson stood unobtrusively and quite alone at the side of the chamber, watching the Israeli Premier at the podium and admiring the performance. The debate had been postponed twice, until there could be confirmation of the failure of the satellite, and now Weismann had the world stage from which to deride the countries who had been so quick to mobilize against Israel.

  “Let the world see the responsibility, the statesmanship of these countries. Unmitigated aggressors, they massed for war because they believed they had Israel impotent before the first shot was fired … let the world see the efficiency of their gadgetry and how, without it, they will now have to slink away into the night.…”

  The majority of the Arab delegations were absent, Peterson saw. Only Egypt had any major representation.

  “Israel did not want war. Israel did not intend war. We came here to demand international protection against it being forced upon us and we now invite this chamber to identify and publicly condemn those countries prepared to conduct themselves in such a way.…”

  On the far side of the chamber, Peterson thought he detected the figure of David Levy: he’d already asked several of the FBI men to help locate the Mossad chiefs whereabouts.

  “Must this stupidity go on? Can’t there ever be a time when our neighbors decide the time has come to stop: to treat us as friends and not enemies.…”

  Peterson recognized that the Israeli leader was fully exploiting his advantages. But, very cleverly, the man was just refraining from using a tone of arrogance which might have antagonized the listening diplomats. The temptation to sneer openly must have been very strong, yet Weismann was resisting it. And he’d been very careful to avoid identifying by name the Arab nations who had rushed into preparations for war.

  “Before the malfunction of the satellite over our country, Israel had demonstrated to the world its determination to have peace. I emphasize, as I will never tire of emphasizing, that determination. We ask for nothing, except safe and secure borders. We seek nothing, except friendship.…”