The Rocket Man (39 page)

Dmitry felt in his inside pocket, ‘It's here somewhere. Whatever do you want it for, anyway? I explained to you that this is a last-minute change of plan.'

‘Well, I'm afraid our system isn't designed to cope with last minute changes of plan.'

Dmitry said, desperately, ‘Well, supposing I had to take a flight back routing through Asunción – can you not even get me a transit visa?'

The res. rep. sighed. ‘Are you new to the UN, or what? Anyone travelling on official duty must take the most direct route. I'm afraid this all sounds quite fantastic to me. I don't understand why you don't just travel on your national passport.'

‘I am a Russian.'

An amused smile crossed the res. rep.'s features. ‘Yes, of course. I suppose in the case of Paraguay that would present some difficulties. But I can't help you. Mind you, I think things are getting better since Stroessner went. You could try the Embassy. I must point out that this would still be irregular, but, no doubt you're aware of that.' He handed Dmitry back his laissez-passer.

Dmitry left the UN offices, chilled by the cool breeze blowing outside. He walked over to a nearby phone box and rang the airport about his suitcase. The woman from Lufthansa told him that someone from the Russian Embassy had already collected it. Dmitry hung up. He stood there, irresolute. He was in trouble. Everything was against his going. People like him did not behave like this. God knew how he would ever explain himself. He found another phone box and rang the Paraguayan Embassy; a woman answered. He asked if it was possible for a citizen of the former Soviet Union to obtain a visa for Paraguay.

The woman laughed; she had a pleasant, musical voice. ‘Well, never in the whole time I have worked here has this happened,' she said. ‘When did you want to travel? Of course you can apply for one, and we will send off to Asunción, but really I think it is quite likely it would be refused. Well, I don't know, things are changing, but in any case, it would take some time.'

Dmitry hung up; that was it then. At that moment he would gladly have renounced his nationality and everything that went with it. Well, it was too bad about his suitcase, he would have to do without it. There was no way he was going to contact the Russian Embassy. He at least had his toothbrush and shaving things in his briefcase. He found a tailor's shop and bought himself a spare shirt and two pairs of underpants and went to find a cheap hotel for the night.

He strode along the street. The more he thought about his suitcase, the more it bothered him. Had Tolya collected the suitcase himself or had he informed someone else? Perhaps the KGB would now be onto him. They knew he had not gone; they knew he was still in Buenos Aires. They might try to look for him; it was conceivable they might check every hotel. Or they might inform the police that he was missing, that he was ill, that he was off his head. But what would be the point, when they knew he couldn't get a visa? Then he was afraid that the Brazilian plotters might be on to him again. They might now know that he had seen dos Santos – if that were so he wasn't safe anywhere. He would do better just to go home.

Then he thought of Katie, waiting for him at the hotel in Mariscal Estigarribia, sitting on the bed in the darkness in some awful room, waiting and waiting, and him not coming. it wasn't possible to do that to her; she would have gone there at some risk.

He went into a bookshop and looked in an atlas. There must be ways of crossing the Paraná. Wasn't there a ferry between Posadas and Encarnación? They might not check on passports - his UN laissez-passer looked impressive. He was on a diplomatic grade. Would some local border guard even know it had to be visaed? Then he thought of Iguazú. He remembered reading somewhere that a lot of smuggling took place over the border, the immigration controls were very lax. Traffic crossed the river daily, between Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay, to work, to market; he could fly to Puerto Iguazú on the Argentine side. He could cross into Brazil. From Foz do Iguaçu there was another bridge into Paraguay. The distance from there to Asunción was about 400 kilometres, and about 600 kilometres to Mariscal Estigarribia. It might take as long as twelve hours, depending on the roads.

He went to a café, found a phone and rang Aerolineas Argentinas. Yes, a woman told him, there were flights to Puerto Iguazú in the morning, from the domestic airport. The earliest was at six-fifty. She could book it now, but it wasn't full, there would be no problem. But Dmitry didn't want to make a reservation. He imagined they might check all outward flights.

He went back into the street. He felt light-headed and dizzy from lack of sleep, he hadn't eaten all day and the sun was very hot. He walked to the Palermo Park, picking up a sandwich and a cold drink on the way. He sat down under a tree and had some lunch, then he rested his head on his briefcase and shut his eyes. He woke up suddenly, completely disoriented; he looked at his watch to find it was five o'clock. His suit was crumpled, his head was pounding, he felt like a tramp. He thought he had better go and find himself a hotel.

Dmitry took a
colectivo
to one of the seedier areas of the city. Old low houses with dark courtyards lined the streets. He found himself a small hotel and took a room under a false name. The woman at the desk, who was about sixty, plump, but not completely unattractive, said lazily, ‘Passport?'

‘I don't have one.' He didn't want to leave it in case they did check the hotels.

‘Any other identification?'

‘No.'

She looked at him shrewdly and then shrugged. She handed him a key. ‘Is it just one night?'

‘One night.'

‘You pay in advance.'

He paid and went upstairs. The room was horrible. It was cramped, badly papered, had a cracked washstand, and looked out over a dank courtyard. He lay down on the bed. A couple were having sex in the next room; the bed banged rhythmically against the wall and he could hear the woman groaning. It occurred to him that it might be a hotel used by prostitutes. He tried to blot the sound out but despite himself it aroused him. He decided to go and get a meal; he took his briefcase with him. On the way out the woman said, ‘Are you coming back?'

‘I'm coming back.' But he thought he might find somewhere better.

It was getting dark. He was overcome with a fierce desire to see Katie; no, not to see her, to make love to her. The violence of his desire frightened him. He suddenly thought, what am I doing? It had seemed to him that they had loved one another; that was why he was going to Paraguay. But he remembered all too clearly that by the end love had had very little to do with it. Why was he going? He couldn't think that he could enter a country illegally and not face the consequences. What would the IAEA do? Already they were expecting him back tomorrow. His colleagues had been expecting him on the plane. He had not even thought to ring them or send a fax – he must do that in the morning. He could say he had been taken ill. Or that he had decided to take a couple of days' holiday; they would be sympathetic, in view of what had happened.

He could ring Katie. He could ask her to come alone, he could meet her here in Buenos Aires. He went to find a call box. It didn't work. He found another one. The phone rang and a man's voice answered so he hung up. He started walking again. Abruptly he came to a halt. He had been walking, blindly, not aware of where he was going, and now he had no idea where he was. He was in a dark street; there were few street-lights. This was not a good part of town. He could be robbed and murdered. He could see, ahead of him, a shadow in a doorway. He turned and walked quickly back up the street. He walked faster and faster, then ran several blocks till he saw a street with bright lights and traffic; he jumped on the nearest
colectivo
, went to the back and stared out of the window.

The vehicle pulled out onto another main road. Now he recognised where he was; he was on the Avenida 9 de Julio. He got off at the next stop, found a café and ordered a drink. He saw a policeman walking past; almost instinctively, to hide his face, he turned his head away and put up his arm to run it through his hair. Then, suddenly, he put his head in his hands. He could not imagine how this had happened to him, walking like a madman across Buenos Aires, unable to go back to his sordid hotel, concealing his identity, afraid that out of every dark side street somebody would come to apprehend or kill him.

Taking hold of himself, he went and found another hotel; he had to bribe them to accept a reservation without a passport. He lay there on the uncomfortable mattress, listening to the sound of traffic roaring past and watching the pattern of the lights from the headlamps on the ceiling. Eventually he must have fallen asleep. Waking with a start, he realised his alarm was bleeping; he got shakily out of bed. He could hardly remember where he was and what he was doing; then he realised he had to catch the early morning flight to Puerto Iguazú.

He took a taxi to the airport. He had cut the journey a bit fine, and was afraid that he would be late and miss the flight. At the airport Dmitry saw from the departure board that the flight had a half-hour delay. He went to the desk and bought his ticket. Now he began to fret about the delay. The whole journey might take much longer than he thought. Supposing he were late, that Katie didn't wait for him…

He sat on a plastic airport chair and looked out of the window at the huge expanse of the Rio de la Plata. Dawn was breaking; a red, hazy bar of light hung over the water, fading to gold above; in this light the water seemed black and solid, lumpy like molten rock. He sat and looked at it for a long time; then realised with a start that they were calling his flight. He thought, I shouldn't go. This will lead to disaster. But he went and boarded all the same.

A
s soon as she had put the phone down, Katie began to regret her decision. It was not that she didn't want to be with Dmitry; the moment she had received his faxed letter she knew that she wanted to be with him, that she only wanted the child so much because it was his child, and that he offered her an escape from what was clearly to her now a dead marriage. But to meet him here? To begin with, she had no idea how she was going to get to Mariscal Estigarribia. What kind of excuse could she make? Who could she get to take her? She supposed she could say she just wanted to go back to Asunción, but then Bob would urge her just to wait another day or so. Besides, there was no reason to go by road rather than by air. She wondered if she could just say that she was bored and wanted someone to drive her there so she could have a look around. Did that sound odd? Was it suspicious? Supposing Bob offered to go there with her?

The second thing that worried her was how Dmitry was going to get there. He might not be able to get a visa; he was a Russian and, despite the changes, Paraguay was still firmly anti-communist. Besides, the whole area was crawling with the military, they were extra vigilant because of the rocket project. But what if he did come and she wasn't there?

She went upstairs and packed a few things into her shoulder bag. If she took any more they would be suspicious. Bob would be occupied with supervising the arrival of the rocket parts due in that day; he was in charge while Richter was in Europe. She decided not to tell him anything; she decided just to go.

Bob hung around the house all morning, waiting for the expected flight. Katie was tense and irritable, trying hard to keep up a semblance of normality; finally she told Bob she felt sick and went to lie down on the bed. The rocket parts arrived on the plane at two o'clock. She saw them unloading the numbered steel tubes and start to assemble them. Bob would be fully occupied for several hours; the problem was that he had a view of the house and all he had to do was look up to see her leave.

She went and found one of the drivers, a small, middle-aged man known as Mito, sitting sipping a can of
gaseosa
under a tree.

‘Mito, I have to go and get something from Mariscal Estigarribia. How long will it take to get there?'

Mito looked blank. ‘Maybe one, one-and-a-half hours.'

‘So there's time to get there and back before dark?'

‘
Sí,
of course.'

‘Could you bring the car round to the back of the house?'

‘Now?'

‘Yes, now.'

He did as he was asked. Katie left a note for Bob saying she was feeling ill and going to Asunción and to call her there tomorrow. She said she was sorry but she couldn't stand it in the Chaco any longer and she didn't want to disturb his work; she told him not to worry. Bob must have noticed the jeep leaving, but she saw no reason for him to suspect she was in it and no-one took any notice of them.

It was hot, very hot. The jeep bumped around on the unmetalled roads, and Katie began to feel anxious about the pregnancy. It took just under an hour and a half to reach Mariscal Estigarribia. They drove round in the heat and dust looking for the hotel. When they found the Hotel Alemán Katie's heart sank. It was a low wooden building at the side of the road with a plastic Coca-Cola sign outside, a porch with some wagon wheels, and no sign of life. Katie walked round into the courtyard. Some tired-looking banana trees with tattered leaves leaned against the wall, and a few chickens were scratching in the dust. Three grubby, half-naked little girls ran out and stared at Katie. Then they started laughing and ran back in through an open door.

Katie asked the driver to wait outside. He was used to that; he would sit there waiting in the car all day unless told otherwise. She wondered what she should say to him. She didn't want him to go back; he would tell Bob where she was. In the end she went out and told him he could go off and get himself a drink or something and come back at seven. Then she went back to the hotel and called out to see if anyone was there.

She walked through the open door and into what appeared to be the dining room; sparsely furnished with metal chairs and plastic-covered tables. A man came out of the kitchen. He was wearing only a pair of baggy shorts over which a beer gut protruded.