by Craig Thomas
A KGB officer held Aubrey's coat, helped him into it. He glanced down the cabin at the Massingers. Paul raised his hand in a tired, slow wave of farewell. His face was pale and drawn, and his other arm was around Margaret's shoulders. Aubrey could bear to look at them for only a moment. The sense was of — betrayal? No, not quite that. Guilt certainly. Pity, too. He had not been responsible for the deaths of very many amateurs — outsiders — in more than forty years. Hardly ever for the death of a friend. Now, he was. It was to be part of his epitaph, like the photographs and television shots those outside were waiting to capture.
He turned away from the painful image of the Massingers, unable to cope with the unfamiliar emotions that gripped him. He cauterised them by staring instead at the hostess standing at the door of the aircraft. And with the knowledge of the lessening distance between himself and the cameras. Cold bright air crossed the threshold of the aircraft like an intruder.
Kapustin was behind him — did he speak, whisper? No — but propelled him gently, firmly towards the door. Sunlight, a stiff, ambushing little breeze, the expanse of grey concrete with heaped snow beyond it; the glitter and dazzle of huge glass windows. Faces in and behind the dazzle, watching him. The air he drew in choked him with its coldness. He coughed, as if to clear his throat before addressing—
Addressing the broad scimitar of cameramen and journalists at the foot of the passenger steps. Roped back, the perched, portable TV and film cameras bobbing behind them. Guards, rope — the distance of deception. He could not call to them, they would not hear. They would see him, see what Kapustin wished them to see and record and believe, and then he would be hurried into one of the waiting black cars; to disappear.
He could not have addressed them. The cough had left his throat dry, inoperative. Kapustin crowded onto the top step of the passenger ladder behind him. A murmur like wind through tall dry grass, then the stutter of lenses and the whirr of automatic winders. The dry, awful chorus of crickets in a burned landscape. Aubrey hated it. The cameras went on and on pointing, on and on exposing yards of negative and video tape and film stock.
Kapustin's satisfaction enveloped Aubrey like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Kapustin held his arm, keeping him to the pose.
Then nudged him. He began to descend the steps. The chorus of the cameras loudened, became almost frenzied. Preying on his treachery, devouring the deception. They did not expect him to smile — Kapustin would, no doubt, prefer the scowl he gave the lenses. It would later be taken to be a sign of illness and strain. A harbinger of his death. At the least, the opening of millions of newspapers the following day would lead to the conclusion that he still possessed perhaps a modicum of shame and therefore could not summon a smile.
The day after that, they would read of his death and consider, all in all, that the world was well rid of him.
Someone moving, elbowing through the edge of the semi-circle of the press, from the line of black cars. Guards opening a way for a man in uniform. KGB. A major. Hurrying. For one terrible moment, Aubrey lurched sideways, as if the hurrying figure had blundered into him, or intended to do so. It was the hurry of his assassin, just for the moment.
The major did not pause at the bottom of the steps. The guards were herding the cameras and pressmen away from the cars, so that no one might speak to Aubrey or be within hearing distance of anything he might blurt out. The crickets continued their dry chorus.
"What—?" in Russian from Kapustin. It was the first spoken word since he had donned his overcoat. The major gabbled. Aubrey turned almost lazily, like a very old and frail man, to this new epicentre of the scene. The crickets retreated, to become the noise of a log-fire crackling in a distant room. The major's words were difficult — it was as if Aubrey had forgotten his Russian.
He concentrated instead upon Kapustin's face. The chorus of shutters and winders further diminished, more hesitant now as if suspecting some kind of pretense or swindle. He did not listen to the major's words, or to Kapustin's denials, or his growing impatience and anger. He saw the major's hands — one flapping glove held loosely by the other gloved hand, making repeated, emphatic little slaps on the rail of the passenger steps. He saw Kapustin's face. He glanced along the airliner's windows but did not see the Massingers—
He registered the other aides near the cars; a desultory, motiveless, chattering group. He heard the shutters falter, almost die. As he turned, he glimpsed the hostess's smile die at the top of the steps, and two KGB men bulk behind her.
Turned again, and saw glass dazzle, snow stretch away across the airport, whiteness bordered by dirty slush. Saw an aircraft taxi, then begin its rush down the main runway. A Western airline's symbol blazoned on the flank and tail. It lifted, blue and white, into the sky. Air France—
Saw Kapustin, watching him. And knew.
Something, something, something…
His head spun. He gripped the rail of the steps, tottering slightly. Instinctively, the major's ungloved hand held his elbow, supporting him. The gesture seemed to enrage Kapustin.
"Inside with you!" he snapped in English. "Inside — back inside!"
Aubrey did not hear the words, but acted upon them, with the major's not-unkind help. Whatever, whatever had gone wrong— No— gone right, gone right! — it must be over. Before long he would be calm enough to guess at it, even to listen to any explanation they offered. But for the moment it was enough to know that it was over. Finally over.
He ducked his head unnecessarily as he re-entered the door of the Tupolev. His eyes immediately, mistily sought the Massingers. Their faces, above the backs of their seats, had turned to him, afraid.
He smiled. Kapustin was raging behind him. Babbington—? Hyde—?
He did not understand. There were no real words being spoken there behind his back. He understood only that it was over. Margaret returned his smile, hesitantly, her swollen, discoloured lips finding the expression difficult. Paul's face opened into a grin. Perhaps he understood — he spoke Russian. It did not matter. He sat down carefully, weakly, in one of the seats. The Massingers were coming towards him. He had to sit still, just for a moment.
Time had become unimportant. It no longer mattered how long the delay, how long they simply sat aboard the aircraft, for eventually it would be refueled, and they would be cleared to take off on their return journey to… to Vienna. Yes, they would return them to Vienna, not London. He would wait for that, just wait for the aircraft to take off…
Massinger's hand fell again and again on the sleeve of his coat. A comforting, relieved gesture. It lulled Aubrey. He felt very tired. Margaret sat opposite him, across the narrow aisle; smiling at him, the tears beginning, her throat bobbing almost continuously as she attempted to swallow her welling feelings.
Aubrey nodded, in rhythm with the pats of Massinger's hand. Yes. It was over.
About the Author
Craig Thomas has been described as "a master storyteller" and "one of the finest action writers working today". His fourteen best-selling novels have consistently attracted praise and that sincerest form of flattery, imitation, since he is generally credited with creating the genre of the 'techno-thriller' with his novel FIREFOX (1977).
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