The Rocket Man (49 page)

It was César Madregón. Dmitry looked up in astonishment; when he saw the kindly weather-beaten face he could have laughed out 1oud. Madregón said, ‘Get me another chair,' and a soldier went and fetched one. Madregón sat down on it.

‘I don't want to get your hopes up,' he said, ‘They agreed that I could see you. There is talk of having you transferred to Asunción. Vargas has gone there to see Rodriguez. I imagine the civil authorities will want to handle things properly. They have this anti-corruption drive, you know, they are taking it all very seriously. Everyone is very anxious to clean up Paraguay's image abroad.'

Dmitry felt relief sweep through him. He said, ‘I see.'

‘However, I think things are still fairly bleak. The charges against you are very serious, you know. An additional complication is the rocket project. As you know, the Paraguayan authorities have no jurisdiction over the RASAG zone. None of the people working there can be prosecuted under Paraguayan law. So they could simply hand you over to them; indeed, under the terms of the contract, they may even be compelled to do so. I don't know what these people are like. I imagine they are not particularly pleasant.'

Dmitry shook his head.

‘Well, how did you get yourself into this mess?' Then, to the soldier standing by the door, ‘Does he have to be tied up? I want to offer him a cigarette.'

The soldier said, ‘They don't want to take any risks. He might be violent.'

‘That's all right,' said Dmitry. ‘I don't smoke.'

César Madregón lit his cigarette. He said, ‘Well, I really am sorry. It would have been a pleasure to hunt the
tígre
with you. I don't have much influence with anybody these days but, I'll do what I can. This is still the kind of place where it matters who you know, a word in the right place, that kind of thing. Good luck, eh?' He put his hand on Dmitry's shoulder in a friendly gesture. Dmitry couldn't help himself; he flinched, as if expecting a blow. Madregón noticed. A deep frown crossed his amiable face. He took his hand away and hesitated; then he turned abruptly and left the room. The soldier untied Dmitry, then he too went out.

Alone, Dmitry stared at the floor. In a way, things were worse now. A ray of light had come into the darkness and stirred up hope. Feverish thoughts whirled round in his head. Perhaps Madregón would fix it; perhaps they wouldn't dare do him any further harm. Katie would have rung the Russian Embassy in Buenos Aires; Tolya would surely move heaven and earth for him. Except, the Soviet Union had no links of any kind with Paraguay, no consul, no trade mission; perhaps they would be able to work through another embassy. Perhaps the UN might be able to exert some pressure; he didn't know.

He paced around the cell in a state of growing agitation. He tried to think of the line the UN would take. Would the resident representative come out to try to see him and establish what was going on? Presumably they would have informed the IAEA by then. The IAEA would be horrified. Illegally entering a foreign country and shooting one of its citizens wasn't the kind of thing they advocated among their representatives. They would strip him immediately of his diplomatic status. He would be dismissed. This hadn't occurred to him before; it struck him like a thunderbolt. Somehow he had been imagining that if he got out of this life could go back to normal; he hadn't been thinking beyond the next moment. Thinking about it, the UN probably wouldn't do much for him. He would be an embarrassment to them. They would write a few letters, make a few noises, but basically they wouldn't do anything to help him. And Katie should have arrived in Asunción the previous night. If they were going to do anything they had had plenty of time to do it.

Dmitry stopped, clutched his head, and turned round; he started walking round the cell in the opposite direction so that he would not get dizzy. What would have happened to her? She should have seen the resident representative, phoned the Russian Embassy, and then got out of the country. That was what he had told her to do. But she might not do it She might still be there in Asunción, talking to the British Embassy, visiting lawyers, trying to find somebody who might be able to help him. He tried to imagine what she would be feeling. Then he started to think about the baby. He imagined Katie with the baby, a little human being who looked like him but might never see him. He couldn't bear it.

He forced himself to sit down. Earlier the hours had slipped by in a timeless daze; now every minute counted. It began to grow dark. It must be about time they brought him something to eat. Then he heard raised voices outside; he stood on the chair to look out of the window and saw the soldiers marching somebody across the road. To his astonishment he recognised Bob Haynes.

They seemed to have him under arrest. There were two fair-skinned men with them too, whom he assumed were Germans from the rocket site. He sat down. Perhaps Haynes had been asked to come here and explain what had happened. This was terrible. God knew what he might say about him; he was vindictive enough. Dmitry sat, perfectly still, straining to distinguish and understand words; they were speaking German. Haynes sounded angry. Dmitry went again to the window but could see nothing.

He heard the telephone ring. Then he heard raised voices from outside and a crowd of soldiers gathered outside the entrance to the building. Then Dmitry's blood turned cold. Haynes's voice had changed; it had turned to fear and horror. Some soldiers dragged him out of the building and stood him in the road under a streetlamp. They were shouting at him. A fair-skinned man, presumably a German working for Richter, was standing with Vargas; he held a semi-automatic pistol in his hand. Two or three of the soldiers were also holding guns.

They started firing into the dust around Haynes's feet, laughing, goading him. And then Haynes did what they were waiting for; he turned and started to run. He only got a few yards. Dmitry thought it was the German who fired the shot that felled him. One of the soldiers walked over and fired two more shots into the body. Several more went up to have a look. One of them kicked the body over onto its back. Then one of the soldiers turned round, touched the German's arm, and pointed straight at Dmitry's window.

Dmitry could not move. He was paralysed with fear. He thought, they will be coming for me now. He looked down at the floor; every mark, every imperfection on its grey, dusty surface seemed immeasurably clear and important; he felt that even in this there was something beautiful. He wanted to understand what it was; he wanted to understand everything; and now he had no time left, just a few precious minutes; he wanted them to last forever. He heard the soldiers talking and a door slamming, and some boots scraping on the floor. Footsteps came towards him; he tensed himself, he felt violently sick, he thought his bowels would open. He started to pray violently for a miracle, oh God, please, don't let this happen, don't let this happen. And then, completely unexpectedly, the footsteps seemed to halt in their tracks, the voices died away, and, looking out of the window again, he saw the German get into his jeep and drive away.

Dmitry flung himself face downwards onto the floor and started to laugh and then to cry. After a while he sat up and rested the back of his head against the wall, hot tears pouring down his face. Eventually, the tears stopped coming. He felt completely calm and quiet. He found himself wishing, in some strange, primitive way, that he could make some payment for this unexpected reprieve. What nonsense was he thinking? But something was burning inside him, struggling to get out. He vowed that if he ever got out of here, if he had another chance, he would lead a different kind of life, a new, pure life of which his love for Katie and their child was the symbol, a life free of hatred and suspicion, of mistaken cowardly and violent acts. He desperately wanted to purge himself of these things, though he did not have the slightest idea how.

He shut his eyes; weariness overtook him; he must have fallen asleep. He woke to hear the door open. He sat up, startled, confused, blinking in the daylight. He had no idea for a moment what time it was, or where he was. A soldier was standing in the doorway; he was -telling him to come out. Dmitry stumbled into the corridor; he had the unpleasant sensation that something terrible had happened; it was like trying to recall a bad dream. The soldier took him into Vargas's office. Vargas was not there. Instead, standing impatiently by the desk, glancing at his watch, was the bulky figure of Wolfgang Richter.

‘Sit down,' he said, staring at Dmitry. Dmitry sat; Richter sat down opposite him. He looked haggard; he hadn't shaved; he seemed anxious and distracted, emptied of all his previous energy. His voice was flat and drained, he looked quite different from the prosperous, dynamic man Dmitry had last seen in Vienna. His shirt was grubby and there were sweat stains under his arms; perspiration gave his face a shiny, flaccid appearance.

Richter put his hands face down on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. ‘I met you in Vienna,' he said; ‘I remember. What the hell are you doing here?'

Dmitry was not in the mood to play games, ‘I am tired of interrogations. What is the point of asking me? Nobody has told me anything.'

Richter asked, ‘Are you KGB, or what? Are you behind this business?' Dmitry sat in silence, not making a sound. A fly buzzed against the window. Dmitry's head ached; he passed his hand across his damp forehead. He felt ill; he wondered if he had a fever. It occurred to him that he hadn't been taking any malaria pills.

Something about Dmitry's silence seemed to rattle Richter; it was as if he wasn't sure quite where he stood. Suddenly he said, almost to himself: ‘They called me in Stuttgart. They said the President wanted to see me; that there was a crisis. Rodriguez told me he was going to cancel the rocket project. He had got wind of a plan by some Brazilians and a Paraguayan general to hold their governments to ransom. He was furious; said the rocket project was being used by anti-democratic elements.

‘I told him I didn't understand. Then he called in this commandante the local guy, Vargas, I had met him before. He's the man who interrogated you. He told me what you had said. He said they could already substantiate part of this claim; Luís Hería Prieto, the Paraguayan general, had confessed to it. They had a statement. He read it out to me. I must confess I couldn't take in all the details.'

Richter got up. He walked to the window. Dmitry's head was buzzing; a dreadful irony was dawning on him; that the information that had been dragged out of him so reluctantly under torture had been used as he would have wished it, to terminate the rocket project. He looked at Richter, bewildered; he couldn't understand why Richter was telling him all this.

‘Then they brought in someone from the CIA. They said they also had evidence that this was true. Then Rodriguez said there had been an accident at the rocket range. There had been explosions and a great deal of damage, thought the rocket itself had been spared. He said rumours had connected it with the CIA. The CIA denied it. You seemed to be the source of these rumours. Where did you hear this?'

‘From someone in the Russian Embassy in Buenos Aires. The only reason I have to think it's true is that it happened.'

‘You mean from the KGB, don't you? Is this their idea, then? Were they responsible?'

Dmitry said, ‘I don't think so. It's not in their sphere of influence. Anyway, they are all running round in circles these days not knowing what the hell to do about anything. We have more than enough problems to deal with at home.'

Richter tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Well, I'm going out there now to have a look and assess the damage.' He paused to look over at Dmitry. He asked again, ‘And you – who are you? What are you doing here?'

‘I was involved with Bob Haynes's wife. I wanted to get her away. Haynes knew about the plot, you know; he told me that himself.'

Richter said, ‘Yes, that's right, I remember, you were with her in Vienna at that café. So you were screwing her, were you? God, these women. Do you know who is at the root of this? Liliana. My God, why did I ever trust that woman? No, it's not true, I never trusted her. But who could have imagined she would get up to something as crazy as this?' Richter ran his hand through his dishevelled hair. ‘She was fucking Heinrichs, did you know that? I have already instructed my lawyer to file divorce papers. This has nearly ruined me. I will have lost all credibility. Nobody is going to believe I was not behind this. The CIA gave me a very clear warning…' His voice tailed away and he stared woodenly out of the window.

Dmitry could not help at that moment feeling sorry for Richter. Maybe this was genuine; perhaps he really didn't know about the Brazilian plot. He thought then that perhaps Richter might have some sympathy for him; his own dreams had come to nothing, perhaps he could feel some pity for someone else's ruined life. The two of them sat, looking at the pitted surface of the desk, in the airless room. Richter went on talking, as if he were thinking aloud.