Georg walked along the shore, fought his way through the underbrush, and in its shelter followed the fence that initially led along the shore and then back to Illinois Street. He had thought he’d find Twenty-fifth Street here, but instead came upon railroad tracks leading across a broad expanse to a derelict pier. A dog was wandering about. The wind stirred up dust.
The place was ideal. After the meeting, Georg could observe the Russian going back to Third Street, while he himself could return unobserved through the underbrush to Illinois Street where, covered by the parked cars, he could get back to the entrance of his building. But what if accomplices didn’t turn up before the Russian or with him, but surrounded the place during the meeting? Georg decided to have the Russian take a taxi to the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth streets, walk to the end of Twenty-fourth Street, and wait for a motorboat behind the earthen berm. He would recommend rubber boots. Then the accomplices would go back and forth on the bay with motorboats and binoculars.
Georg had originally thought to show the Russian the negatives in two meetings. He thought it better not to have all fourteen film cans with him at once. But now he had another idea. The place was good for one meeting but not for two, and he didn’t have a place for a second meeting. He had to take care that the Russian didn’t overpower him and take the negatives. He had noticed where Jonathan kept his pistol in the desk.
So, thought Georg, tomorrow: call around ten, arrange to meet at eleven. Give just enough time for the embassy in Washington to alert their man in San Francisco. But what if the people in Washington hadn’t made any preparations, hadn’t sent anyone to San Francisco, hadn’t taken the letter seriously? If, if, if. Me and my ifs! A man was murdered on account of these negatives. They are valuable. Why shouldn’t the Russians take the offer seriously?
43
GEORG DROVE TO PALO ALTO, where Gorgefield Aircraft had its offices and research laboratories. He hadn’t made an appointment with Buchanan, since he didn’t want a phone conversation that would give him only an incomplete picture of what he wanted to tell him, but enough for him to reach for the phone and call Benton.
Georg took U.S. Route 101 south. All eight lanes were filled with cars. Where are all these people going? And why don’t I ever wonder that when I’m on a highway in France or Germany? Is it because the traffic flows differently here? People don’t drive the same here; they’re not only slower because of the speed limit, but also calmer. Hardly anyone passes anyone else. The cars glide smoothly next to one another, sometimes pulling ahead, sometimes falling back, like driftwood on a wide placid stream: as if it wasn’t a matter of getting from one place to another as quickly as possible, as if life was about driving, not staying put.
At Palo Alto he exited the highway. Gorgefield Aircraft was on Alpine Road; after houses with green gardens, streets with green trees, and shops with blossoming flowers and shrubs by their entrances and around their display windows, the street led up into hills covered with grass of a burned golden brown. As the road coiled farther and farther up the hill there were no more houses, no trees, and hardly any cars. A large granite rock inlaid with a bronze company logo stood at the intersection where he turned off to Gorgefield. After another bend he looked down on a wide green valley. The road ended in a loop, on three sides of which stood five-story buildings made of granite or that had granite facades. On the fourth side a parking lot stretched out left and right by the entry-way. Sprinklers were spinning on the green lawns; through the open car window he could hear them hissing, and saw rainbow-colored sunbeams in the spray.
He parked and went to the main entrance, where laurel trees stood in containers. The hall wasn’t cool, it was freezing. He shivered. The doorman looked like a policeman: a badge on his shirtsleeve, a name tag on his breast pocket, a gun on his belt. He asked Georg for identification, but since Georg couldn’t confirm that he had an appointment with Buchanan and wouldn’t tell him the reason he wanted to see him, the guard didn’t let him through. Finally the guard called Buchanan and handed Georg the receiver.
“Mr. Buchanan?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Georg Polger. You don’t know me, but what I have to tell you is quite important. I’d like a brief word with you, but not on the phone. Could you have me sent up? Or come down yourself if you prefer. As far as I’m concerned, the guard can frisk me for weapons, and feel free to bring some weapons yourself-I don’t want to kill you, I just want to talk with you.”
“Could you pass me over to the guard?”
Georg heard the guard say “Yes, sir” a number of times, after which another guard escorted him to Buchanan’s office on the third floor. Buchanan’s secretary served him a cup of coffee, had him wait for a while, and then took him in to Buchanan. He was a small, stocky, middle-aged man wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a tie. He had a strong handshake and numerous spider veins on his cheeks. He offered Georg the chair in front of his desk, and looked at him inquiringly.
“My story will sound incredible, but it’s not important right now whether you believe it or not. The main thing is that you remember it so you can recall it when the time comes. Because when the time comes it will be too late to be telling it for the first time. Do you follow?”
It was only when Georg asked the question that he noticed that Buchanan was slightly cross-eyed. One of his eyes simply couldn’t listen to Georg with interest.
“Go on,” Buchanan said.
“I’m German, West German. As I’m sure you know, the partition of Germany has divided many families. Half my family lives in East Germany, among them my cousin. He works for the Stasi, what you might call the East German CIA. In fact, you could say he’s not working for the Stasi right now, but for the Soviets. You know that the Soviets have the East Germans under their thumb, just as they do the Poles, the Czechs, the Hungarians, and the Bulgarians. That’s also the case when it comes to these countries’ secret services. Now to my point: my cousin has been given a mission that has taken him from France to the United States. The Russians are interested in the design of an attack helicopter that either the Europeans will build under the leadership of Mermoz, or you here in the United States. I don’t know what measures the Russians have undertaken to get hold of the design plans, but my cousin informed me that an American has surfaced offering to sell the plans for thirty million dollars.”
“Who?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I’d like to show you what my cousin has given me. Does this mean anything to you?” Georg took a can of film out of his bag and put it on Buchanan’s desk. “Feel free to open it and have a look.”
Buchanan put on his glasses, opened the can, took out the negatives, held them up in front of the window, and slowly unfurled them. “Yes, this does mean something to me.”
“I am to ask if you are prepared to pay for the pertinent background information. My cousin intends to defect to the West-next year, or the year after-and could do with a nest egg. He would inform you when he finds out who the American seller is and has proof. Perhaps he can even arrange a meeting and call you on short notice.”
“All I can say is that this is a very strange story,” Buchanan said, puckering his lips and rubbing his chin.
“I’m aware of that, as is my cousin. But there’s no risk for you. At worst, it would be a waste of your time, at best you could-for a price we still have to discuss-locate and secure a hole in your system. By the way, here’s something my cousin told me to give you.” Georg took two photocopies out of his bag and placed them in front of Buchanan. They were identical, except for the lower right side where on one copy was Mermoz’s double-decker logo, barely visible, and on the other, the Gorgefield airplane circling the world.