by Craig Thomas
* * *
"Where are they, Voronin?"
The question was involuntary. The Russian's features were burned-out in the centre by the retinal image of the light bulb above the narrow cot, into which Aubrey had been staring. Aubrey moved his head. The glowing filament, haloed in yellow-white, moved aside from Voronin's face. The man's sallow complexion was pinked with pleasure. He stood near the door of the tiny cell, watching Aubrey. Aubrey rubbed his eyes. How long had he been staring at the bulb? The retinal image was still as fierce as an eclipse.
"They are being made ready for transit to the airport," Voronin replied.
"How?" Aubrey's voice croaked. His throat was dry and constricted. He cleared it. "How will you smuggle them aboard?"
Voronin shook his head. "That has been taken care of — diplomatic luggage. No one will see them. Absolutely no one."
"But then, no one can be allowed to see them, can they? They are—"
"Never to be seen alive again — yes."
"You've killed them—!" something made him cry; terror or grief he did not know.
Voronin shook his head slowly. "As yet, they are alive."
Aubrey felt the rising guilt choke him. "How — how do they travel?" he asked, fending off other, darker thoughts.
"As part of the luggage of a returning trade mission. It is not a problem. No one searches the transport we use." Voronin smiled, moving forward to stand at the side of the bed. Aubrey was made to feel vulnerable in his shirtsleeves; prone and old. "I remember some scandal in your own country, some years ago. When the American President Carter visited — oh, where was it?"
— "ah, Newcastle-upon-Tyne… the Secret Service and the CIA tried to drive a container lorry full of — souvenirs? — directly onto the tarmac and into a transport aircraft. Our people are known to do the same. No one cares."
"I remember the incident," Aubrey replied softly. "Unfortunately, someone forgot to inform the local constabulary and Customs that that sort of thing always happens." He nodded sagely, with fierce concentration. "Of course it will work…" He looked up at Voronin and blurted out: "Do you have to have them killed once they're in Moscow? Do you have to do it?" Immediately, he recognised the utterance as merely another bandage for his conscience. He was going to have to live with the guilt, and knew he was trying to erect sandbags against an expected flood. It would be terrible, terrible, to face himself after they had been disposed of. He shook his head.
"You see," Voronin said. "You realise quite clearly that nothing else can be done. They know everything. It will be — quick and painless."
"Oh, jolly good!" Aubrey snarled, surprising the Russian. "And me? What about me?"
"You have an important job to do — in Moscow." Voronin grinned. His face was still tinged with colour. The retinal image had faded now, and Aubrey could see the narrow, confident features clearly.
"You're sure of that?" It was blurted out, and it was nakedly fearful.
The Russian nodded. "Of course."
"What Babbington said — his threats. You're going to use me to protect him, yes?" Again, Voronin nodded. Aubrey loathed himself, but it was like pentathol. He could not control the rush of his words. "You need me? You do need me, don't you?"
His lips were trembling. He wiped at them.
Voronin looked unconcernedly at his watch as he said; "Of course, Sir Kenneth Aubrey. You are very necessary." The meeting was over. For whatever reason the man had come, that reason had been satisfied.
"Kapustin—" he began, but did not continue. The drug of fear had lost its overpowering effect. He sat more upright on the bed, leaning on one elbow. "What time do we leave?" he asked with forced lightness.
"It is now three-fifteen. We leave for the airport in thirty minutes. Do you wish shaving materials, hot water?"
Aubrey nodded. "Yes," he said breathily. Thirty minutes—! "Yes," he repeated, more strongly.
"Good. I will have them sent to you." Voronin nodded, almost clicked his heels together, and left the cell. Aubrey heard the key turn in the lock. He felt perspiration spring out on his forehead, despite the temperature of the cell. Felt his hands begin to tremble. Felt nauseous — sick as a dog. He fought it. Fought the nausea. Fought his own cowardice, and faced the fact of his death. He had been terribly afraid, seated before Voronin, so afraid he had been on the point, several times, of pleading to be told that, unlike the Massingers, he at least was safe, would be allowed to live. Thank God he had not fallen quite that low—! Thank God…
He wiped the already chilly sweat from his forehead. Rubbed his bald head.
And resolved.
He squeezed his eyes very tightly shut. In the darkness, some ghost of the light-bulb's filament still glowed. It had been a bad moment. His worst moment. Perhaps worst ever. But, a moment. Only a moment—
Yes. He would try. If they were to keep him alive for a short time for their benefit, he would try to resist…
Try, in front of a sea of strangers' faces and in the flash and wink of lights, to dredge up the truth. Try to struggle through the chemical bonds with which he would be tied, and say something — create some tiny suspicion, some sense of the truth, some sense, semblance, fragment, sliver, atom of the truth—! Try to regain, if only for a moment, one fragment of himself.
He would owe the Massingers more than that, but it would be the only coinage in which he could make any repayment.
He heard footsteps outside and the key turn in the lock. His hands gripped one another and became still. Stronger, even as the door opened. Steam. A bowl of hot water. A towel.
A beginning.
* * *
Hyde watched the policeman get out of the patrol car and saunter across to the empty Skoda. He had been in the process of dialling Sir William Guest's flat when he had seen the car turn onto the forecourt of the all-night garage outside Karlovy Vary. His free hand touched his overcoat, smoothing across his chest to reassure him. Package of Swiss francs. Pistol. Pockets — spare clips of ammunition, cassette tape. Teardrop. The map was still in the car…
Useless to assume he could run. He was still thirty-five miles from Mytina.
Kill them if you have to. The policeman had reached the Skoda. He rubbed at the driver's widow and peered into the car. Inside the patrol car, the flash of a cigarette lighter. Hyde remained inside the telephone booth, half-turned to watch the Skoda.
The patrolman straightened and walked back towards his car. Wait, wait—
His companion got out, stretched away stiffness, offered his packet of cigarettes. Then the two of them walked towards the dimly-lit office where Hyde had paid for his petrol. He forced himself to continue dialling. The moment the number began to ring, he returned his gaze to the two policemen. The receiver rang in his ear, an empty sound. He glanced at his watch. Three-fifty. There was no cover between the telephone booth and the office. They would walk towards him, clearly exposed but able to see his every movement inside the glass box. He must wait, and when they moved, he must walk slowly, slowly and unconcernedly towards the Skoda. Then turn and kill them. Two shots, perhaps three before fire was returned. His free hand twitched, as if it had already entered the future. He drummed on the coin box. Mirror—
Yes, leaning on the coin box casually, he could see the office in the mirror. The telephone continued to ring. The two policemen were talking. An arm pointed towards the Skoda, the garage manager pointed in Hyde's direction. One of the policemen turned lazily, then looked away again. Towards a cup he was raising to his lips.
Hyde sighed, clouding the mirror. Furiously, he rubbed it clear. No, they hadn't moved, both drinking with the manager. A regular nightly call. There was a little time left—
Go. The telephone rang unanswered. Go.
Little time—
He knew it was close. Almost over. They didn't need to monitor Guest's telephone any longer. They'd almost finished whatever they had in mind for Aubrey. Babbington was sure of himself.
Policemen smoking, drinkin
g coffee or tea. The manager leaning on his counter. Go now—
He cancelled the number and began to dial at once. He had to know. Two men might have to be killed, he might have to run. He had to know. He finished dialling SIS's Vienna Station. The number began ringing. Three statues in a close group under the dim bulb in the manager's office. Still time.
"Yes?" Hyde did not recognise the voice.
"Listen to me," he blurted out. "It's Hyde — who the bloody hell are you?"
"Beach," came the surprised reply. Then: "What the hell do you want—? You've got a fucking nerve calling—"
"Shut up and listen, you stupid bugger!" Hyde snapped. "I haven't got time for the niceties. Just tell me what's happened to Aubrey."
"My God — his Russian pals have got him, that's what!"
"What—?"
"Two good men died tonight, you bastard! Two good men! All because the fucking KGB wanted their ball back! Do you understand, Hyde? His pals came and took him back! And they killed two of my mates doing it!"
Christ—
Too close. Already too late—
"Listen to me, you moron! It's not Aubrey — it's Babbington! Don't you understand, Babbington is Moscow's man!"
"What? You're crazy, Hyde… Babbington caught Aubrey. Handed him over for us to guard — and we buggered it up. Lost him. Understand? He's going back to Mother Russia, and good fucking riddance to him!"
"What's happening to the old man?" Hyde yelled into the telephone.
Rub the mirror clear. Smoking, drinking in the office. Heads lifted in laughter.
"He's already left for the airport — just had the report." Beach was calmer now, almost pleased.
"Then stop him!"
"Babbington's letting him go, Hyde. Your mate's not to be touched. Better for everyone. Even you—"
"Christ — don't you listen?" Mirror. Small, tight, relaxed group in the office. New cigarettes being lit. The sense at the other end of the line that someone else had taken — snatched? — the receiver.
A pause, then: "Hyde?" He recognised Wilkes's voice. "It's Wilkes, Patrick." Then: "OK, Beach, I'll deal with this. Get some coffee up here, will you?"
"Wilkes — where's the old man?"
"Where are you, Hyde?" Wilkes's tone was amused, certain.
"Never mind. I've got it all, Wilkes. Everything. Even his name. Of course, no one mentioned anyone as small-time as you."
"Everything, eh? Still in Czecho, are you? You won't get out, old son. That's certain."
Mirror—!
Group breaking up, one of the two policemen nearer the office's glass door, turning back to speak, hand outstretched to the ear-shaped handle of the door. Time—
No time. All over. Hyde ground his teeth audibly as he struggled to contain his rage.
"You know what I've got," he said, certain that Babbington already knew of his interference with the computer. They'd have tracked down and run Petrunin's programme themselves by now.
"You don't matter, Hyde. You're a dead man. You won't get out."
"And your boss is running for London already, is he? Wiping his shoes on Guest's doormat, full of the news that he's lost the old man to his Russian friends?"
"First businessman's flight this morning to Heathrow. Your pal Aubrey's just about to leave. He'll be in Moscow before it gets light." Wilkes chuckled.
One policeman through the door, the second replacing his cap and following. The manager's hand raised in farewell. Too late to move now. Wait until they get close—
"And then—?"
"He goes on show, old son. Press call — the whole shocking story. Terrible ordeal for the poor old sod. Can't say the same for the Yank and his wife, of course. They'll just disappear on arrival."
"I'll have Babbington, Wilkes. I swear it. And you. I don't care how long, or when and where. I'll have you both."
Both policemen near their car. One, hands on hips, staring towards the telephone booth. Cap pushed on the back of his head. Glance towards the Skoda, then back to Hyde—
"If you hurry, Hyde, you'll catch him before he boards the seven o'clock to Heathrow. First-class lounge, of course. I'll give him a call, shall I, tell him to be expecting you?" Wilkes laughed.
Seven o'clock. Heathrow arrival time, nine-thirty. He glanced at his watch as he cut off the call with his free hand. Retaining his grip on the receiver to allay suspicion. Policemen unmoving. Aubrey would be in Moscow even before Babbington's flight reached London.
Three fifty-five. Five and a half hours. Guest must be arriving from Washington on the early morning flight.
Mirror—
The patrol car's engine started, the car moved, rounding the pumps in a wide arc, heading towards him. His free hand moved to the lapel of his coat. The policeman in the passenger seat stared at him. The patrol car did not stop. Hyde felt the coin box hard against his side as he slumped in relief. The rear lights of the car moved off towards Karlovy Vary, climbed windingly up the hill, then dropped over the brow and disappeared.
Hyde slammed down the damp receiver and opened the fogged glass door. He hurried towards the Skoda. He fumbled in his pocket for the car keys. Dropped them, then scooped them out of a pool of petrol-rainbowed water on the point of freezing.
He wanted Babbington arrested as he got off the flight from Vienna. He wanted it. If he could talk to Guest, persuade him—
Before the old man disappered. Why should they put him on display at a press conference like an old bear at the zoo? That could backfire. Everyone knew the old man had been taken to Moscow. A few snaps of him getting off the plane would be enough.
He wrenched open the door, climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine. The windscreen clouded immediately. He rubbed it clear, turned the wheel, pulled away from the garage.
Aubrey wouldn't live. He knew that with a sick, inescapable certainty. Whatever Wilkes said or believed, the KGB wouldn't risk it. It could go wrong. The photographs of him getting off the aircraft, looking old and tired and ill, and then—
Heart attack. Eulogies in the papers, on Soviet TV and radio. Medal awarded posthumously. Much safer.
Aubrey was a dead man the moment he left the aircraft in Moscow.
Hyde accelerated. The lights of Karlovy Vary were spread out below him as he descended the hill towards the spa town. Four o'clock. He had five and a half hours. After that, Aubrey was lost; irrecoverable.
* * *
He had been surprisingly grateful when he saw the guard carrying his small suitcase containing the clothes Mrs Grey had purchased for him immediately before his flight from London. To dress in something that fitted, something uncreased and clean, delighted him. Strengthened his resolve. It wasn't until he reached Schwechat airport that he realised the image was part of Babbington's purpose.
The black limousine, accompanied by two similar cars, and the van containing the luggage, turned off the main road from Vienna, skirted the passenger terminal, and drew up at the gates leading to the cargo and airline hangars. It was evident they were expected. Politeness from the officers at the gates, some joviality. Aubrey watched Voronin casually hand over a bundle of diplomatic passports and visas. And felt himself watched by the man beside him. Sensed the unnecessary gun jutting near his own ribcage.
The Austrian officer passed down the queue formed by the three cars and the van. Aubrey tried to shrink back into the upholstery, but the man beside him, abandoning the gun he held, gripped his arm and forced his features into the hard light shining down from above the gates. A moment of hesitation without recognition, a glance at the appropriate false papers supplied by Voronin, and then he moved away. The grip on Aubrey's arm relaxed. The gun's barrel touched his side almost at once.
The officer would remember him. Yes, Kenneth Aubrey or a man answering his description was seen arriving at Schwechat, traveling under a Soviet diplomatic passport. Yes, yes, yes—
He glanced down at his suit, his modest tie, his dark overcoat. He would be remembered, as they
intended. A man goes willingly in a well-pressed suit and a clean shirt. With false papers. He would step out of the aircraft at Cheremetievo — or at Domodedovo or Vnukovo, whichever airport the flight used — and he would be photographed in that same pressed suit and clean shirt and overcoat and hat, surrounded by smiling men who could be later identified as those who carried out his rescue and who were officers in the KGB. Evidence of his perfidy.
The gates opened, the cars moved forward. One of the officers touched the peak of his cap in a half-salute, as if conniving at his kidnap.
The cars followed the road towards a row of huge hangars. A tail-fin jutted from one of them, its symbol familiar, coincident with the Cyrillic lettering blazoned above the hangar. Aeroflot.
They turned alongside the Tupolev Tu-134 airliner. Aubrey glanced back at the night outside the glaring hangar almost with longing. It had been so easy—!
Doors closing behind him. He heard them in his head. Retreat cut off. The car drew to a halt. The van passed it and drew up at the far end of the hangar. There were perhaps a dozen people visible to Aubrey, mostly overalled, one in Aeroflot uniform. So easy — he was helpless. He glanced up at the airliner. One or two faces looking down in curiosity from the windows in the fuselage. Dummy passengers—? Genuine diplomats? It did not matter.
The door was opened by the driver and Aubrey was motioned out. He climbed out slowly, blinking in the hard overhead lights that seemed to shine through a haze of dust. He glanced at the watch they had returned to him. Four-twenty. What had Kapustin said—?
Four-thirty. What was the matter, why was the aircraft still in its hangar? Engine cowling lying beneath the wing, men on a dolly working on the port engine. Something wrong with the aircraft—!
Voronin was talking urgently to the uniformed man. Paul Massinger and his wife were being led from the back of the van, blinking, half-dazed, frightened. He traced their reactions as they saw the airliner, understood the proximity of take-off, of Moscow, of… He did not continue, but looked away from them. His hands quivered in the pockets of his overcoat. Clunk of a heavy spanner against metal, a curse in Russian. He glanced up at the mechanics working on the port engine.