The first sentry approached and peered through the driver’s window. Stakan stared impassively ahead.
Jones, sitting at the back with Dingle, wound down his window. He held out his identification papers and a pass signed by the KGB chief, Semyon Tsvigun.
The guard studied them carefully under the light of his torch.
‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry, but this pass is not the regular one for this establishment.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Jones testily. ‘The First Deputy Chairman doesn’t carry them about with him, you know. He’s at an important meeting with the Minister, and he wrote this pass especially. Get your guard commander out here!’
The man stood back, and called out to one of the other sentries who ran back into the guard room. He reappeared with a GRU sergeant.
‘You should have been warned to expect us, sergeant,’ Jones said.
‘Will you kindly step out of the car for a few moments, please gentlemen,’ said the sergeant calmly.
‘You’ve no right …’
‘It’s orders, sir. All cars must be searched before they are permitted to enter.’
Grumbling, Jones and Dingle climbed out.
‘You, too, corporal!’ the sergeant barked at Stakan.
Stakan got out of the car.
‘Open the boot,’ the guard commander ordered him.
Stakan reached into the car for the keys and moved round to unlock the boot.
The sergeant nodded to his sentries, who quickly looked inside the car, felt under the seats and inspected the interior of the boot.
‘Clear,’ they reported.
The sergeant looked at Jones.
‘About this pass, sir,’ he began, then broke off as an elderly GRU captain came puffing through the gate.
The sergeant came to attention and saluted.
‘Captain Suvarov, these men say …’
The station commandant ignored him.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said to Jones.
Once more the Welshman waved his identification papers.
‘You should have been warned to expect us.’
‘Yes, yes. I was. I didn’t expect you quite so soon. I was arranging things with Comrade Butovo.’ The captain was still panting hard.
‘It shouldn’t have taken you so long to inform your guard commander,’ Jones said sternly. ‘We’ve been delayed long enough. The First Deputy Chairman will be angry. Now get that gate opened.’
‘Of course. At once.’
Suvarov signalled to the sentries, who swung the gate open.
Stakan stood stiffly to attention and held the back door of the car open while Dingle and Jones climbed in; then he slipped smoothly into the driving seat and sat quietly, waiting.
Jones leaned forward slightly and spoke to Suvarov through the side window.
‘I hope the sentries on duty at the laboratory block have been warned of our arrival?’
‘Yes, comrade. I have just come from there. If you had been only a few minutes later, you would have had no delay at all. I assure you …’
Jones waved a hand in dismissal, cutting off the commandant’s assurance.
‘Drive on, corporal,’ he said.
As Stakan eased the car forward, the captain and the guard sergeant saluted.
Dingle sighed deeply.
‘That was awkward,’ he said. ‘I thought that bloody sergeant was going to queer our pitch. Well done, Glyn. That was a masterly performance.’
When Jones didn’t answer, Dingle glanced across at him, curiously. Usually, after such an encounter, the Welshman either bubbled with elation or cracked sour jokes about their desperate situation. He was never quiet. Now, under the light of the lamps which lined the road to the laboratory, he was grey-faced, lips compressed by tension into a thin straight line.
‘Are you all right, Glyn?’
‘I feel bloody sick.’
Dingle’s heart sank. Was the Director going to be proved right after all? At this crucial moment?
‘You’ll be all right. You always rise to the occasion. Come on, we’ve arrived.’
The car had stopped and Stakan was already out, holding the door open for them.
Dingle climbed out and waited. Jones followed and walked past the Englishman without looking at him, straight up to the sentry on duty at the main door of the laboratory block.
‘Which way to Comrade Butovo’s office?’
‘I will take you …’
‘I didn’t ask you to take me there,’ snarled Jones. ‘I asked you to tell me the way.’
Dingle breathed a sigh of relief. Good old Glyn. He was going to make it.
The guard stammered out directions. Jones nodded briskly, called to Stakan, ‘You wait in the car,’ and then pushed open the glass door. Dingle almost had to run to keep up with him.
They crossed a wide entrance hall, climbed an open staircase to the first floor and turned right, into a corridor. Butovo’s office was the second on the left; the first one housed his secretary during working hours, but now it was empty. No light shone behind the frosted glass door panel.
Jones paused outside Butovo’s door, looked inquiringly at Dingle. The Englishman nodded. Jones rapped his knuckle sharply on the door, and opened it without waiting for an answer.
The chief scientist, a ferret-like little man with grey, thinning hair and steel-rimmed spectacles was writing in a white pool of light which spilled from a shaded desk lamp. The rest of the room was in gloomy shadow. The little man looked up.
‘Yes?’
‘You are expecting us. We have come for the SP7 files,’ said Jones. ‘I have a receipt here.’
He advanced to the desk, holding out a piece of paper Butovo stood up and, ignoring the proferred receipt, said:
‘I’ll get my coat.’
‘Coat?’
‘Naturally, if I am coming with you.’
‘But you are not coming with us. We have explicit instructions.’
The scientist had already taken his coat from a cupboard. He shrugged into it.
‘I insist on coming with you.’ He picked up a bulky folder from his desk. ‘These files are my personal responsibility.’
‘And I insist that you hand them over to us,’ replied Jones angrily.
‘But this is highly irregular,’ protested Butovo. He hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Get the Head of Space Research on the ’phone for me. I know him very well. If he tells me, personally that it’s all right, then I’ll hand the file over to you.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Jones said. ‘He’s at the meeting with the Minster and they must not be disturbed.’
The scientist’s eyes glinted stubbornly through his glasses.
‘Then if they want the files, I’ll take them myself. I’ll ring for my car and travel with my own security guard. You can travel behind.’
‘You would be most unwise to do that,’ Jones retorted harshly. ‘You will find yourself in serious trouble with the Minister, with your Head of Space Research — and with my chief.’
The ferrety face twisted in a sneer.
‘Do you think the KGB or anyone else frightens me? They will do nothing. We scientists are the top people in the Soviet Union today. We are a valuable asset to the State; too valuable to be upset.’
He reached for the ’phone, and Jones looked helplessly at Dingle.
The Englishman acted quickly.
‘Don’t touch that ’phone,’ he rasped, striding forward and pushing Jones behind him. His .38 automatic was in his left hand; it was pointing straight at Butovo’s stomach. ‘Just give those files to me now. And be quick about it.’
The scientist blinked. The sneer on his face dissolved into bemused confusion. He stared hard at the gun. The stubborn glint in his eyes had gone. With an effort he tore his gaze away from that menacing little circle of blue-black metal which could spit out instant death. He looked down at the fo
lder he clutched to his puny body; the folder that contained the secrets of Russia’s space bomb — Project SP7. Slowly, reluctantly, he held it out towards the Englishman.
Dingle stretched out his right arm. His hand grasped the edge of the folder.
Then he froze in stiff surprise, dazzled by a brilliant blue-white flash. Simultaneously he was aware that the room was full of people; people who had emerged from behind the floor-to-ceiling curtains and from Butovo’s secretary’s adjoining office. He was aware that the main lights had been switched on. And he was aware of the mocking voice which said:
‘Please put that gun away, Mr Dingle. We don’t want any accidents do we?’
Dingle’s eyes began to focus again as they recovered from that bruising glare. He looked in the direction from which the voice had come and saw a slightly-built man in his middle forties. The moon shape of his face — which looked ridiculously large for his body — was accentuated by his close-cropped hair style, while a broad, flat nose emphasised the smallness of his black piggy eyes, which were set wide apart. He reminded Dingle of a hastily-made snowman.
The man smiled, revealing a row of gold-capped bottom teeth.
‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said. ‘I am Colonel Razina, of the KGB.’
Dingle smiled back.
‘I know. I’ve seen your picture.’
‘And I shall soon be seeing a new photograph of you, shan’t I? It should make a very interesting picture, don’t you think? A notorious English spy holding a respected Russian scientist at gunpoint, stealing State secrets.’
His voice hardened.
‘Speaking of guns, I asked you to drop yours.’
Dingle looked at Colonel Razina’s six companions. They all had guns; and they were all pointing them at Dingle. One of the men was Yellow Hair.
The SS(O)S agent shrugged resignedly. His .38 thudded to the floor. He said:
‘I know your friend on your left, too, but we’ve never been formally introduced.’
Yellow Hair bowed, gravely.
‘Permit me. I am Major Herzen.’
Razina chuckled.
‘I’m sure you will soon be much better acquainted. Major Herzen is what you might call a specialist. He is expert at … er … interrogating people.’
‘Did you set all this up just to get a picture of me?’ asked Dingle incredulously.
‘It will be evidence that will convince the world,’ replied Razina. ‘You must admit it was very neatly done. The camera was fixed in advance, of course, and Comrade Butovo’s job was to lure you into the exact spot. I think he did it rather well.’
Dingle smiled at the scientist.
‘You should have been an actor,’ he said.
‘Although, of course,’ Razina continued, ‘most of the credit must go to Mr Jones. It was his idea.’
Dingle’s smile slipped. He swung round to face Jones, who was leaning against the wall near the door.
‘Glyn?’
The Welshman slowly raised his ashen face to look into Dingle’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve decided to work for the KGB. I’ve got to look after Number One now. I am going to get married, you see …’ his voice rose defiantly … ‘and I’m bloody well going to live to enjoy it. The Director will never suspect me when I get back.’
Dingle’s cheeks twitched with anger.
‘You bastard,’ he said quietly. ‘You dirty little bastard. One day I’ll kill you for this.’
‘Let’s go, shall we?’ said Razina mildly.
Chapter Eleven
Dingle, who had expected to be taken either to KGB headquarters or to Lubyanka prison, was surprised when the car turned into the yard of a disused factory near Paveletsk Station.
‘One of our little hideouts,’ said Razina conversationally. ‘You’ll be going to Lubyanka when we’ve finished our … er … preliminary business here.’
Part of the inside of the factory had been stripped and rebuilt. It was equipped with offices, interrogation rooms and special cells.
Dingle was taken to a cell and ordered to strip to his vest and underpants.
Razina said: ‘You won’t mind waiting in here for a while until we’re … er … ready for you, will you?’
‘Not at all.’
The door, which was solid except for a small peephole, was slammed shut. Dingle inspected the small, square windowless room; although there was little to inspect. It was bare of furnishings, except for a narrow iron bed which was fixed against one wall. The bed was covered by a thin, hard mattress. There were no blankets.
Despite his lack of clothing, Dingle felt comfortably warm, and the air smelled fresh. He noticed that there were ventilator grills at floor and ceiling level. A harsh light glared down. It was fixed to the high ceiling directly above the bed.
He glanced at his wrist to check the time, and clucked with annoyance when he remembered that his watch had been taken away. He guessed that it was about nine-thirty.
The mattress felt lumpy under his back as he stretched out, but he hardly noticed it as he tried to concentrate on the problem of how he was to escape. But it was impossible. His brain was stunned by Jones’s betrayal. He still couldn’t believe that the Welshman would do this to him.
Dingle wondered where Stakan, Minin and Nadia had been taken. He knew they had been arrested. Stakan had been seized while he and Jones were in Butovo’s office. The others had been captured at about the time Jones was arguing with the sergeant at the main gate. Half a dozen security guards had been hiding in the woods, near the telegraph pole. When Dingle, Stakan and Jones had left, the guards had emerged and surprised Minin and the girl as they crouched by the field telephones.
Razina had told Dingle all this in the car on the way to the factory. Jones had helped to plan it all.
Dingle boiled with fury at the Welshman.
‘Calm down,’ he told himself. ‘This won’t help. You’re only making yourself hot and bothered …’
He sat up abruptly. He was hot; the sweat was running down his face. But the heat had nothing to do with his anger. The temperature in the tiny cell was rising rapidly; the air, no longer fresh, felt unpleasantly warm in his nostrils.
Suddenly the glaring light went out and the room was plunged into total, almost tangible oppressive blackness.
‘Lie still,’ the Englishman muttered. ‘Don’t make it worse for yourself.’
He settled back on the bed, but within minutes he was panting for breath, gulping hot, lifeless air down a parched throat; soon the panting changed to desperate, rasping, choking sobs.
Dingle lost all sense of time. He thought there must have been moments when he lost consciousness, but he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes he thought he was imagining this dreadful heat; that it was all a dream.
A rattling sound woke him. Where was it coming from? It was still dark. He fought to control a rising panic, shivering violently. He was no longer hot; he was cold. The temperature had dropped below freezing. The rattling noise was the chattering of his teeth.
Dingle forced his tired mind to think. They were softening him up for questioning. But he would beat them.
Groping in the darkness, he pulled himself off the bed. He began to skip and jump, swinging his arms, to try to bring some warmth to his body. Occasionally he barked his shins against the iron bed or rapped his knuckles painfully against the wall, but he kept going.
When the room temperature was boosted up again, he flopped back on to the bed, gasping and choking for air. When it dropped, he resumed his exercises, panting with the effort.
He didn’t know how long he kept it up. It could have been minutes, hours, days …
*
The light came on with startling suddenness. Dingle screwed up his face as searing needles of pain stabbed his eyes.
Two guards came in, grasped his arms, marched him down the corridor, pushed him into a room and shut the door behind him.
/>
He stood, weak and swaying with tiredness, while his eyes adjusted to the light. Across the room, facing him, four men sat behind a long table; Razina, Herzen, a man Dingle had never seen before … and Jones. Dingle felt the hatred well up inside him when he saw the Welshman.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Razina.
The British agent walked unsteadily across the room and sank to a hard wooden chair. He looked defiantly at the four men opposite.
Razina gestured with a well-manicured hand towards a jug and a glass which stood on the baize-topped table.
‘Take a drink of water. You look as though you could … er … do with it.’
Dingle leaned forward slowly, trying to marshall his thoughts. He had to be calm and clear-headed. The jug felt heavy and he fought to steady his hand as he lifted it and poured water into the glass. He held the jug well away, so that it would not rattle against the glass. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing that.
Carefully he raised the glass to his lips.
‘Cheers,’ he said, and drank the clear, cold liquid. ‘I was ready for that.’ He was surprised at the strength in his voice.
Razina laughed.
‘Jones was right. You are a cool customer.’
Dingle forced a smile.
‘I was more than cool a little while ago. I was bloody freezing; and then I was bloody hot. You really ought to get the central heating fixed. There’s something wrong with it.’
‘I must congratulate you on your powers of … er … endurance.’
‘I wish you’d stop saying “er”,’ said Dingle. ‘It irritates me.’
Razina’s gold teeth gleamed dully as he smiled.
‘You English have a saying I believe: “To err is human”. That proves that I am human.’
The smile frosted over.
‘Now I think the time has come to prove that you, too, are human. The time for joking has passed, my friend. Now you will tell us all you know.’
‘All I know at the moment is that Jones is a bastard and a traitor,’ Dingle replied flatly. ‘I know that sooner or later I’ll get out of here. And when I do, I’ll kill him.’
Jones, pale-faced, looked at Dingle. He didn’t speak.
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