The Rocket Man (17 page)

‘I know his contract is nearly at an end. Is he staying on at the Agency, do you know?'

Nihal was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He said, ‘I do know why you're asking this.'

Dmitry instantly looked acutely embarrassed and returned to the previous topic. ‘So you've sold your story?'

‘
North-South
are running a big feature next week. I could have sold something to one of the London papers, but
North-South
are the ones who have supported me. I've got to go and see this Jürgen Steinhagen. It's just a question of checking that this contract is genuine.'

Jürgen Steinhagen rose from behind his massive desk and held out his hand. His offices, in an old and rather pompous building on the Limmatquai, reflected his wealth and success and the financial standing of his clients. Steinhagen himself was a prosperous German in his forties. He had greying hair and wore rimless glasses. They sat down in comfortable leather chairs on either side of a glass coffee table.

Nihal had told him over the phone that Richter had recommended him.

‘I haven't seen Herr Richter for some time, I take it he's well?'

‘Oh, I believe, very. I saw him last week.'

‘How can I help you?' Nihal handed him the copy of the contract. Steinhagen studied it closely.

‘This is the contract you drew up with Richter?'

‘Yes, that's right. Does he have a problem with it?'

‘I don't believe so.'

Steinhagen stared at Nihal. He obviously realised that he might have been tricked; he was probably wondering what exactly Nihal was there for and what he should say.

‘Are you working for Richter?'

‘No, but it's true he suggested I talk to you. He just gave me a tour of his factory and explained his plans to me. I'm a journalist.'

‘Ah; I see.' Steinhagen looked puzzled, as if he didn't see at all. He paused for a moment, deep in thought, before answering:

‘I have to say, I have rather fallen out with Wolf Richter. I haven't seen him for over a year. May I ask how you got this copy of the contract? Did Richter give it to you?'

‘No; a copy of it was leaked to my magazine.'

‘Ah.'

The phone on the desk rang. Steinhagen answered it and said he would be a few minutes. He turned back to Nihal. Perhaps he thought that Nihal already knew enough and that no harm could come of talking to him, because he suddenly became quite open and friendly. ‘Well, look, let me tell you. I first met Wolf Richter through a business contact and we did various other legal work for them. They actually made contact with Stroessner through me, because I was then doing a lot of work for German companies in Paraguay. I was flying backwards and forwards to Asunción all the time then and I had met Stroessner on a few occasions. I floated the idea to him and he was very interested. It was the kind of grandiose idea that appealed to Stroessner and he said that one day he would have the Cape Kennedy of Latin America.

‘I arranged for Richter to come over. We hired this big house in Asunción and we had a good time, I remember it well. There was a meeting with Stroessner and I drew up the contract, rather hastily, I have to add. We did take some rather amazing liberties to which we half expected Stroessner to object. But you see, he was an old man then, he was preoccupied with the question of his succession and I don't think he really gave it too much thought.'

‘So did the negotiations go on for some time? How many other people were present? Lawyers? Any other generals?'

Steinhagen shrugged. ‘Oh, not very many. Anyone else was immaterial, anyway, Stroessner was the only one who counted. It was a jolly social occasion, you understand. We were in the President's residence, it was a hot day but inside it was very cool with pot plants, marble floors, lots of drinks, nice food and it was all very relaxed. Then we signed the contract.'

‘And there weren't any real negotiations? Nobody queried some of the extraordinary clauses in the contract?'

‘No. As far as I remember, it was all over in about twenty minutes.'

Nihal was stunned. This was incredible; that the leader of a country should have signed away all control over a large area of their state without formal discussions in about twenty minutes. He went on, ‘But the new President? Did he accept this too?'

‘I think the whole of the military were quite supportive of the project. All these soldiers out in the Chaco, they have nothing else to do. And remember, Paraguay is desperate for foreign investment. They have particularly been encouraging the Germans and as Richter also intended to develop the area a little – drill for water, irrigation, crop growing for the workers, that kind of thing – he was made more than welcome. The Paraguayans are trying to open up the Chaco and this fitted in rather well. It was a big, prestige project, that might attract other people. And of course it meant getting one ahead of Argentina and Brazil, both of whom have had problems with their missile programmes. Of course, Richter was a little nervous at the time of the coup, but it soon became clear that the contract would be honoured.'

The phone rang again and Steinhagen answered it. Then he looked at Nihal. ‘Listen, I'm sorry… I am very busy. Is there anything else you need? Please don't quote me on this, will you? I have a feeling Richter is not a man to get on the wrong side of.'

On the plane back to Vienna, Nihal felt satisfied. He had got more or less everything he needed now for his story. It was growing dark. The vibration of the engines made him sleepy. He clutched his bag with the evidence inside it, unwilling to let go of it even for an instant; he didn't want to fall asleep. Nihal was not exactly afraid, but he was aware that he might be being followed, and that Richter, or others, might not want the full details of the story written. He had begun to feel terribly important; he was carrying this immense, this extraordinary secret. Nihal, influenced by his father, had always tried to practise non-attachment. He didn't get worked up about things. He took life as it came. He had never been too much bothered by material success. But this was something different. It had gripped him. It was an obsession. Although he had enough now to write his piece, he wanted to know everything that it was possible to know about Richter's secret designs; he wanted to get to the very heart of it.

He was almost home, near the bottom of the Bankgasse, starting to cross the road, when a grey car came from nowhere and nearly ran him down. The car brushed against him and he fell backwards, sitting down heavily in the gutter in a slurry of icy water. He scrambled to his feet, shaken, and managed to catch the number-plate before the car disappeared from sight. His clothes were soaked, and he felt a sharp pain at the base of his spine. He felt himself gingerly, afraid that perhaps some vertebra had been jolted out of place, but he was able to walk without any difficulty. How had he managed to miss seeing the car? Perhaps he had been preoccupied with his thoughts and failed to notice the car approaching; he had certainly had his head tucked down inside his collar and scarf to protect himself against the freezing rain. But he was not convinced that it had been an accident.

Nihal let himself into the flat and closed the door with a feeling of relief. He thought about reporting the incident to the police; then decided not to bother. He remembered that some time ago, when a Turkish journalist he knew had been killed in a hit-and-run, the police had done nothing to investigate it. Instead, he rang Dmitry to say he had some news for him and invited him over for a curry the following evening to discuss it.

In the morning Nihal woke up stiff and bruised. His chief emotion was of anger. He rang every car hire company in Vienna, saying he wanted to hire a grey Opel. If they said they had such a car, he asked for the registration number. None of them tallied. Perhaps he had got it wrong. Of course, the car could have been hired outside Vienna; but this was unlikely, because it had a Viennese number plate.

The other thing they might have done was to use a stolen car. He thought he might as well check with the police; he knew they wouldn't give him the information unless he said it was his own car so he rang and said he wanted to report a car stolen. He gave the registration number, saying he had borrowed it from a friend, and wasn't sure of all the details; his friend might have reported it already. Had they had any record of it being stolen?

He had to hang on for some time. The man came back. He said he could find no record, and would Nihal please give further details. Nihal said he would ring back and hung up. He stared into space for a while, trying to forget his anger, and then sat down in front of his computer to start work.

Three saucepans were bubbling on the cooker. Nihal wandered from one to the other, tasting, adding spices, and feeling more relaxed. He'd always enjoyed cooking, grinding spices and inventing new recipes and showing off his culinary skills. He was startled when the doorbell rang rather earlier than expected; he went and opened it, still holding a wooden spoon in his hand.

It wasn't Gavrilov. It was Katie. She had snow in her hair and her face looked white, pinched and cold.

He was so surprised to see her that he stood and stared, curry dripping from the spoon.

‘Aren't you going to ask me in?'

‘Yes, of course.' He shut the door behind her. She walked into the kitchen and paused in the action of taking off her coat. ‘What a delicious smell… Is somebody coming? I'm not disturbing you, am I?'

‘Not at all.' Nihal resigned himself to the fact that the evening would take a rather different shape to the one he had intended. ‘If you like you can join us. Is something the matter?'

‘I don't know, I'm so miserable. I had a row with Bob… I had to get out.' She sat down on the chair and he asked her how things were going with Dmitry. She said, ‘Oh, they're not.'

‘What did I tell you? I said it wouldn't last.' He patted her thigh delightedly, glad to be proved right. ‘So, that's how it goes. You're not the only one who's miserable, Dmitry is also going around looking like he's seen a ghost.'

Katie gave a little start. ‘What do you mean, seen a ghost?'

‘Well, I saw him at the bank at the UN this morning and he's certainly not himself. Do you want at drink?'

‘No,' said Katie automatically and then, ‘Yes; yes, actually, I will.'

The doorbell rang. Nihal said, ‘Ah, that will be the man himself.' Katie gazed at him with astonishment. Dmitry came in and they both looked at one another in confusion. Dmitry also looked pale and tense and he had dark rings under his eyes.

‘Well,' said Nihal, raising his glass to his lips and smiling with ill-disguised amusement, ‘The star-crossed lovers.'

‘Oh for God's sake,' said Dmitry with an uncharacteristic burst of irritation.

‘Sorry, sorry, I meant no harm.' Nihal had not been prepared for the heaviness of the atmosphere which now filled the apartment. He began to realise that he had gone too far and turned to Dmitry. ‘Katie just called in unexpectedly… Perhaps I should make myself scarce; perhaps you have things you want to discuss together? Shall I go out and leave you to it?' He opened the cupboard door. ‘You know,' he said, ‘I have run out of rice. Why don't I just go down to the shop and get some? Keep an eye on these, won't you?' He handed Katie a wooden spoon.