Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (10 page)

All four of the men had intuitively arrived at the reason for the meeting. American reconnaissance aircraft, Lockheed U-2s, were flying over the Soviet Union with impunity. There had been official protests, of course, but these were kept secret. No one in the Kremlin, least of all Nikita Khrushchev, could admit that the Soviet Union could not defend its skies. For their part, the Americans arrogantly denied the intrusions or attributed them to errors in navigation.

To the left sat Anushavan “Artyom” Ivanovich Mikoyan and Mikhail Iosifovich Guryevich, whose design bureau created aircraft bearing the MiG designation. The MiG team had not distinguished itself during the Great Patriotic War against Germany but came into its own in the jet age, and its fighters now formed the hard core of the Soviet defense system. The two men, colleagues for more than twenty years, had totally different personalities. Mikoyan was open and convivial, a man who enlivened every gathering and gave encouragement to his workers. Guryevich was modest and retiring, mousy in appearance, and, next to the dapperly dressed Mikoyan, somewhat disheveled.

On the right sat Syemyen Lavochkin and Petr Grushin, both looking apprehensive. Lavochkin, wearing his wartime uniform with all its many decorations as if to ward off evil, had designed a series of successful piston-engine fighters during World War II. He had done less well in the jet age, losing competition after competition to the MiG bureau. At his side, quiet, reserved, was Grushin, the man many credited with saving the Lavochkin design bureau with his series of surface-to-air missile designs. He had started work on his S-75 surface-to-air missile in 1953. It was specifically designed to attack high-altitude bombers such as the U.S. Boeing B-47 and B-52. Current Soviet plans called for more than one thousand S-75 missile sites to be built around the country.

The four men sprang to their feet as the door opened and Premier Khrushchev sprinted in, followed by two aides carrying a mound of reports.

There were no preliminary comments. Khrushchev waved at the two piles of documents and said, “These are reports on the flights of foreign aircraft over our country. The Americans and the British are flaunting international law. And we have not been able to stop them.”

He paused for dramatic effect, looking deliberately into the eyes of each of the men at the table.

“Sometime in the next year I am going to have to meet with the American President, Eisenhower. When I meet him I will tell him that he must stop sending his spy planes over our sovereign territory.” He paused again. “When I tell him that he will agree, and he will laugh up his sleeve.”

Khrushchev bent over the table, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “That is why you are here. I don’t want to ask him to stop sending airplanes. I want his airplanes shot down, no matter how high they are flying. I want you four gentlemen to assure me that you will create the weapons that will shoot down these intruders, and do it within the next six months.”

He waited again, then spoke in a coldly savage, utterly believable tone, saying, “If you cannot do this, I will have the lot of you shot. Don’t think that because Stalin is dead the Premier of the Soviet Union has no teeth. I will see you executed, your design bureaus broken up, and your families sent to the gulags to work until they die.”

The four men were silent. Khrushchev jabbed a finger at Mikoyan.

“Speak, Mikoyan; speak! Can you guarantee that you will create a MiG aircraft that will destroy the U-2?”

Mikoyan looked at Guryevich and said, “Yes, I can.”

Everyone at the table knew Mikoyan was lying, but there was nothing else for him to say.

Next Khrushchev pointed at Lavochkin. “And you? Can you create missiles which will bring these invaders down?”

Without a word, Lavochkin nodded to Grushin, who rose and said, “We can do it in three months.”

Everyone at the table, including Mikoyan and Guryevich, believed him.

Khrushchev snorted, “Very well, we will see. And we will see where the Soviet Union will place its trust in the future.”

With that he whirled and left the room, his aides gathering up the documents before dashing after him.

Lavochkin turned to Mikoyan and spoke for the first time that morning. “You will see that you cannot win every competition. In this one we will grind you into the dust.” Then, realizing that his remarks were being recorded, Lavochkin put his hand over his mouth.

Mikoyan, irrepressible as always, laughed, saying, “And now you are on record, my friend. We will see who grinds who into what.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

December 20, 1959

Paris, France

T
he two old friends had visited Paris once before, and oddly enough, that visit had been in December as well.

“Remember that week, Fritz? Nothing but drinking, fucking, and working the black market all week long.”

Gerd Müller unbent like a jackknife, struggling to get his not-verylong legs out of the door of the blue Renault Caravelle that Obermyer was driving.

“Do I remember? It was the best time of the war. We were still whipping the Russkies, we’d whipped everybody but the British, and we were down doing business for Heinkel with Renault, setting them up to build parts for the He 111. Now we’re back with Renault, trying to do business for ourselves.”

The doorman at the George V sprang forward. Obermyer had tipped him a hundred dollars on the day they arrived and twenty dollars every day since. Another attendant darted forward, but the doorman cut him off and took the keys, opening the door as he did so. Obermyer and Müller walked straight to the bar.

Fritz had become more sophisticated over the years, and wherever he went, he experimented with the drinks and the food. He asked for a pastis, but Müller, trapped in the stifling bureaucratic poverty of East Germany, remained the earnest, hard-drinking soldier he had been in World War I and settled for a beer without even specifying that it be German.

“We were young fools then, Gerd. We didn’t sightsee, we drank continually, there were whores in the room day and night, and then we wasted some time working for the good Dr. Heinkel.”

His partner nodded, half his glass of Tuborg already gone. “How did this morning go?”

Obermyer had been to the Billancourt factory to talk with Renault officials about importing the 1960 Renaults. The Dauphine was already a moderate success in the United States, and he thought the Caravelle—basically a Dauphine with a sleeker body and convertible top—would bring even more people into the showroom. His Volkswagen and Porsche dealerships were doing well, but there were a lot of people who remembered the war and didn’t want to buy German products. For them, the Dauphine could be a VW replacement.

“It was a little sticky at first. They took care to remind me that the Germans had taken over the plant in 1940, and that as a result the Allies had bombed it almost out of existence. But they want to sell more cars in America, and they think that with my Volkswagen experience, I can do it.”

Gerd nodded. “It’s a beautiful car.”

“It’s a piece of shit compared to the Volkswagen. You are comparing it to East German trash like the Moskvich.”

His partner grinned sheepishly. “That’s true. I’m lucky to have one, but it always needs repair.”

“So will the Renault. Their quality control is laughable. But it’s more stylish than the Volkswagen, and that will count with the Amis. In any event, I’m signing on to import them, not many to start, but enough to set up a couple of dealerships. In case you decide to defect.”

Müller blew a long column of smoke into the air and finished his beer. “You know that I never stop thinking about it, and yet I know I can never do it. I like what I’m doing now; it’s the best work I’ve ever had.” Then, realizing the import of what he had just said, he continued, “I didn’t mean working for you—that was a good time. I mean since then. I’ve become somebody. Working with the intelligence people lets me have foreign contacts. I’m able to travel. They watch me and check on me, I know, but it is all right; I’m doing a good job and they know it. But if I came to America, even if you let me have my own business, I’d be back at the bottom of the pile. I guess I’m getting too old to make big changes.”

He signaled for another round of drinks; this time he took a taste of Obermyer’s pastis, grimaced, and said, “I’ll stay with the beer.”

Obermyer grinned and then settled down to business. They were going to meet the woman in forty minutes, and they had not really discussed her yet.

“How did you get in contact with this woman?”

“I didn’t. She was in contact with my people in East Berlin, and they called me and briefed me from a dossier that went back twenty years and more. She had started out in the American embassy in Paris; when we knocked France over, she went to England and held the same job in the American embassy there. Then your pal, your protégé, Vance Shannon, came along, and she seduced him, went to America with him, lived with him. All the time she was spying for France, and at two levels. On the one she was reporting back to French intelligence. On the other she was working for Dassault.”

Obermyer nodded. “Dassault is a made-up name, you know. Marcel Dassault was Marcel Bloch before the war. He was sent to Buchenwald, but somehow he survived. His brother, Paul, was in the resistance, had the code name Dassault, the French word for ‘attack.’ Bloch had his name changed after the war. Gets away from his Jewish roots and plays on his refusing to collaborate. Pretty smart.”

Müller nodded abruptly. He knew all about the name change and a lot more. It bothered him that Obermyer didn’t seem to see the change in their relationship. He was no longer a subordinate; they were equals. It would take some time to get Fritz to see that, but Müller was going to be sure that he did. Then Müller resumed his talk. “She stayed with Shannon, lived with him, ran his businesses for eight years; then she was called back to France. It says in the dossier that it broke Shannon’s heart and almost ruined his business.”

Obermyer sensed the strength, the new sense of self, in Müller’s remarks. It was a different style, something he realized he would have to adjust to. But just because Gerd had more self-confidence didn’t mean that he had more brains. Obermyer was confident that he could control Gerd, as he always had, if it came to that. He decided he wouldn’t interject any more comments, just ask questions and let Müller talk himself out. “What kind of a woman is she?”

“She’s still very good-looking, in her mid-fifties, short dark hair, dresses like an executive secretary of a big firm, a little mannish on the surface, but just a hint of a flirt, too. I’d love to take her to bed, but she’s too high-class for me.” He waited a minute, couldn’t help himself, and added, “Or you, too.”

Obermyer laughed. “I wasn’t going to try. You know my philosophy—pay for the best whore you can find, fuck her, then forget about her in the morning.”

Looking up, he was embarrassed to see a beautiful woman, short dark hair, full figure, smiling at him, obviously pleased to have caught his remarks about expensive whores. It gave her the upper hand right from the start.

Gerd was on his feet, blushing, Obermyer thinking,
He’s some kind of intelligence agent, blushing like a schoolboy because I said “whore” in front of his new girlfriend.

The introductions were quick and muddled, and Madeline Behar asked if she could have some coffee. The waiter left them, and the three sat for a moment, studying one another casually, without any concern.

She broke the silence saying, “I understand that you and a very dear friend of mine, Vance Shannon, are in business together.”

“Yes, in the sense that I helped him secure his dealership. And I try to pass on to him what I’ve learned.”

“Be sure to give him my very best wishes when next you see him. He is a fine man.”

She spoke coolly, without any evident emotion, but Obermyer thought that he caught a hint of sadness in her manner. Somehow the remark struck him as unprofessional, as did her attitude. Still, what could she say? She must have had a dossier on them; she would know that they had one on her. Maybe it was a ploy, to gain their confidence.

“I’ll do that. He’s doing very well as a partner in a Volkswagen dealership, along with all his other interests.”

Madeline smiled inwardly, thinking,
A Volkswagen dealership! I never would have invested in that.
Then she went on, her German flawless, “Has Herr Müller discussed with you the subject of our meeting?”

Gerd interjected, “No, I did not. I wanted you to explain it.”

She nodded and went on, “There is going to be quite a race to create a supersonic transport. The Russians, the British, and the Americans are all going to compete, and so will the French, of course. We would like to be kept abreast of our competition’s research.”

Obermyer was about to say that he was no longer doing intelligence work but could not bring himself to do so. It was not just Madeline’s charm, although that would have been enough. He felt the old lust within him, the desire to be on the inside of major events, to have information that others wanted, and to sell it at a satisfying price. So, instead, he temporized, “I wonder if we are the right team for you? I’ve been out of the business for many years now, and though I’ve maintained some contacts, I’m not really active. And as Gerd has no doubt told you, there is not much work on the SST going on in East Germany.”

Madeline had sized the situation up. Two old comrades, their relationship changed by time and events. Gerd Müller was obviously anxious to prove himself to Obermyer. Obermyer was obviously trying to preserve the old order.

“I’m sure your friend would surprise you. Tupolev has many projects going, and he reaches out for help where he can. I know personally that he has contracts with Hans Wocke.”

Obermyer looked blank and waved his hands uncomprehendingly. She continued, “Wocke was one of the principal engineers behind the Junkers Ju 287 during the war—the six-jet, forward-swept-wing bomber. He’s still working on forward-swept wings, and on an ogival wing as well. We would like information on that, and of course on what Lockheed and Boeing are planning.”