by Craig Thomas
Then, Maxim -
Her father, naturally; the boy's grandfather. The father who had assiduously promoted her career and had protected her from censure and suspicion after her husband's suicide. Her father, who had once risen to the position of first secretary of the party organisation of the Moscow Oblast region, and had thus been a member of the Party Central Committee. His retirement to a dacha outside Moscow had been honourable, luxurious. He still had the weight, the contacts and friendships to protect Maxim if something went wrong.
She swallowed. Maxim would enjoy a few days in the woods outside the city. The old man had taken up wildlife photography as a hobby. He had even bought Maxim a small Japanese camera for his birthday.
Maxim would enjoy -
She was sobbing. The camera had become inextricably linked in her mind with the Dynamo First-Class football boots that had been Dmitri's present. The two presents, their images so clear in her rnind, pained her.
She sniffed loudly after a time, and shook her head as if to clear it of memory and association. Blonde hair flicked over her brow. She tugged it away from her forehead.
If it worked — if, if, if, if — she might be away for only a couple of days, perhaps three at the most. If she helped the American successfully, did what they wanted her to do, then she would be back with presents and an explanation that her aunt was a little better and she could stay away no longer…
If-
If not, she would have preserved her son from the shipwreck. Her father had protected her; now he could do the same for her son, his grandson. His task would be simple. Narrow and bigoted though his political and social ideas were — a surviving splinter of the Stalinist period who cut and bruised at every encounter with her newer, more liberal ideas — he had always been a kindly, though authoritative father; and an indulgent, fond grandparent. Maxim liked him, they would get on.
'No…' she whispered slowly, intensely. It was as if she were already giving her son away. Not if she could help it — not if she could win.
Dmitri's knowledge, her eventual safety from the KGB, her continued function as a Category-A Source for the CIA -
She would face those problems afterwards.
The telephone rang. She glared at it as if it had been a hated voice, then snatched the receiver from the wall.
'Yes — ?' It might be Dmitri, but the second of silence before she heard Edgecliffe's voice told her it was not.
'Burgoyne? Listen carefully. The American is still loose in the city. He hasn't been arrested or spotted by the police. We had someone in contact with him, but he shook them off-we presume he thought the mark was KGB. We think he's tried our embassy and the American embassy. He realises by now that he can't find a bolt-hole in either place…'
'And?' Anna snapped, determined that Edgecliffe should hear nothing but competence, resource — however much that played the Englishman's game,
'The papers are, ready — we'll have them delivered before morning. We shall require you to take the American to Leningrad, by train. You and he must manage the station as best you can.'
'Leningrad?'
'You'll be met. I'll tell you how and where-when we have it finalised. He'll be taken into Finland — What you do will be up to you. Your exit can be arranged — '
'No!'
'I should consider it carefully, if I were you,' Edgecliffe warned. 'We're offering you a way out.'
'A passport to nowhere,' she sneered.
'As you wish. Think about it. We will want you to board the Leningrad train this afternoon… there'll be clothes for the American, delivered with his papers. Some sort of disguise. Your job will be to get him to Leningrad.'
'Your job is to find him first.'
Edgecliffe chuckled, an almost pleasant sound. 'I realise that. Be ready to leave your apartment the moment I call on you to do so. Once we locate him, he's in your hands. You'll make contact — it's too risky for us to try.'
'And if you don't find him today?'
'Then it may be too late — he's running out of time. However, you'll stand by until you hear otherwise. Have you made your arrangements?'
'Don't worry — they'll be made.'
'Then expect the papers and another call.' He hesitated, then added: 'Goodluck.'
Anna replaced the receiver without replying. She watched as the shadow of the cord stilled against the tiled wall. It formed a tightly-coiled noose below the telephone.
She hoped, fervently hoped to the point of prayer, that Dmitri would catch the American. He had the short remainder of the night, the morning, noon, the afternoon.
Please, please…
* * *
Priabin stood in front of the large-scale map, rubbing his chin with his left hand. Moscow's main line stations were represented by coloured pins. His right arm was folded across his chest as he pondered his responsibility; the seven principal stations for long-distance routes, and one of the four airports around the city, Cheremetievo in his case. His whole department had been seconded, and he occupied Kontarsky's old office in Moscow Centre, co-ordinating the surveillance. Dmitri Priabin was grateful for the static nature of his participation. At least his men were not walking the streets, combing the parks and open spaces, searching the apartment block's, the empty houses, the building sites and the shops. Nor were they manning roadblocks in the freezing night.
And yet — and this was the splinter in his satisfaction since he had left Anna — it might be his people who let Gant slip. If he got out of the city, it might well be by train. And Gant could bring him down just as effectively as he had ruined Kontarsky.
Surely they had to find Gant soon? It was impossible for the man to roam the city undetected. He was alone, without friends or contacts. The SIS and CIA were bottled up in their apartments, embassies, compounds, safe houses. There was no one to help him, hide him, provide him with papers, protect him. The man was utterly, entirely alone.
His forefinger touched each of the coloured pins in turn, as if for luck. His hand described a circle around the inner city — Leningrad Station, Riga Station, Savolovsky Station, Belorussia, Kiev, Pavolets, Kurskaia.
And the principal airport to Leningrad and Scandinavia at Cheremetievo, north-east of the city -
He looked at his watch. Time to make another tour of the stations and drive out to the airport — yes, he would do that. It was suddenly urgent, necessary to remind his men of the stakes, the risks.
The intercom sounded on his desk.
'Yes?' he asked, depressing the switch.
'General Vladimirov wishes to see you, Comrade Colonel,' the secretary informed him. The girl had a heavy cold, and her mood had not been lightened by having to work this extra duty.
'Where?'
'He's here, Comrade Colonel.'
'Very well — send the general in at once!'
Priabin took up a position in front of Kontarsky's — his — desk, almost posed, exuding confidence. He had sensed something overbearing about the general when he had been aboard the First Secretary's Tupoley. Priabin wanted to make a good impression; he did not wish to appear an interloper in that office — some sort of caretaker. His secretary opened the door, nose buried in her handkerchief, much to Vladimirov's evident distaste, and ushered the general in. She slammed the door immediately.
Priabin held out his hand. Vladimirov took it briefly. Priabin studied the older man's eyes. Bloodshot, but intense with purpose. He evidently had not slept for even a small part of the night. Priabin understood that Vladimirov's pride had been insulted and diminished by what the American had done. Only hours before he had been confined and on the point of revealing the truth, yet now he was at large again. To Vladimirov, his ill-luck must have seemed like a continuing taunt.
'General — I'm honoured. What can I do to help you? Please sit down — ' Priabin indicated a chair near the desk. Vladimirov shook his head.
'Tell me your arrangements, your dispositions — all of them,' he ordered sharply, without preamble of any k
ind. 'Quickly, Colonel — I haven't time to waste!'
The Deputy Chairman had briefed Priabin sufficiently for the authority exuded by Vladimirov not to come as a surprise. However, he was abashed by the peremptory, almost violent expression of it. Vladimirov had been placed in command of the hunt for the American — an unusual step since he was not KGB or even GRU — but that position was a KGB safeguard. Only Vladimirov would fall if the American eluded them — no one in the KGB would suffer. Priabin almost felt sorry for the older man, even as he bridled at his tone.
Swiftly, he explained the disposition of forces, using the map on its easel. Vladimirov stood near him. There was a faint smell of whisky and cachous on his breath. He nodded violently, his rage and impatience barely concealed. When Priabin had finished his outline, Vladimirov studied him with the same piercing glance he had bestowed on the map and its pins.
'So,' he remarked at last, 'you will simply wait until he makes himself known to one of your men and then arrest him?' The sarcasm was evident and stinging. Vladimirov raised an eyebrow in further emphasis. Priabin felt his face redden and grow hot.
'These — are normal, tried and tested security procedures, Comrade General,' he said with heavy slowness.
'It was normal security that allowed the American to escape from the hospital.'
'I-'
'I have toured three departments in this building of yours so far,' Vladimirov pursued, 'and in each of them I have heard variations on the same refrain. Routine — normal — usual … even from Deputy Chairmen and Directors of Departments and their principal Deputy Directors and Assistant Deputy Directors — ' His arms were in the air, expressing exasperated hopelessness. 'People who should know better, much better, tell me the same things you do! Do you think it is enough, Colonel? Do you think you are doing all you can to apprehend the most important escapee in the whole of the Soviet Union?' Priabin glanced towards the door, whether for signs of help or out of embarrassment he could not be certain. The general raged on. 'This organisation of yours has too much experience with prisoners and not enough with escapers.' His lips parted in a thin, mirthless, arrogant smile. 'You're not up to the job, perhaps?' His left eyebrow lifted ironically once more. The expression did nothing to alleviate the heavy anger of the eyes. He turned back to the map. 'Well?' he asked. 'You've nothing to say? Nothing at all? Not an idea in your head, mm?'
Priabin cleared his throat and composed his reddened features. He was already considering how best, how painlessly, he could manoeuvre the general out of his office.
'I — am sorry you're not satisfied, Comrade General. You are, of course, unfamiliar with our methods…'
Vladimirov turned on him. The white light from the table-lamp fell on his cheek, giving it the dead, flat appearance of skin that had undergone plastic surgery. A lock of grey hair fell across the older man's creased forehead. He flicked it back into place.
'Unfamiliar? Aren't jailers very conventional — the same the world over?' he hissed. 'Dolts, buffoons with clubs and guns? Well? Have you an idea in your head, or not?'
Priabin stared at the map. A circle of pins, the weave of a net. Other maps in other rooms displayed other pins. A huge trawl-net being dragged across the city. He must surely be netted soon. The Sadovaya Ring, Red Square, the river, the broad avenues and boulevards, the narrow streets, the buildings and monuments — Gant was alone out there. He'd walked the city only once in his life before, and that for little more than an hour. on his way to rendezvous with the now-dead agent Pavel Upenskoy.
Priabin clenched his fist; began beating it into the palm of his left hand. Red Square from the Moskva Hotel, past GUM, down to the river — the murder had taken place there, then they'd fled via the metro to the warehouse near the Kirov Street… then he'd been driven out of Moscow the next morning in a van. He didn't even know the city, not at all — !
His forefinger traced the route that Gant, in his disguise as Orton, must have taken from the Moskva Hotel to his rendezvous near the bridge. Having reached the Pavolets metro station, he traced the route once more.
'Well, what is it, man?' Vladimirov asked impatiently. 'Are you awake or half-asleep?'
Priabin turned on the general, grinning. 'I think I'm awake, Comrade General!' he said with something akin to elation in his voice. It was at least enough of an idea to get rid of this uncomfortable old man.
'What is it?' Vladimirov's excitement was hungry and dangerous.
'Gant knows very little of Moscow. He must reason someone would be looking for him, he's valuable. If they know he's out, and they probably do, then they'd have people looking for him — low-grade people, unofficials, anyone they could get out of bed on a cold night — ! He might, just might, retrace his steps. It's the only piece of knowledge they all share — the route he took to his meeting with Pavel Upenskoy and the others.'
Vladimirov looked doubtful. Then he nodded, once. 'They might make an assumption — he might make it…' He stared at Priabin. 'Well, where do you begin? Quickly, man — where?'
Priabin flicked the intercom switch, 'Bring me the files on Upenskoy's cell — yes, all of them. Every name!' He glanced up. How many were there — Upenskoy. the old man, Boris Glazunov who died under interrogation, Vassily who'd disappeared without trace, one or two others, suspects only… it didn't seem much, but it was something. A beginning.
'He'll wait for daylight, if he tries it… for the crowds,' Priabin explained, once more facing the map. At that moment, he almost believed in his own idea, so convincing was his act for the imperious air force general. 'Yes, he needs the daylight and the cover of the crowds.' He turned as his secretary entered. She deposited the files, sneezed, and left. Vladimirov wiped the cover of one of the files. The name borne by the file was that of Boris Glazunov. Vladimirov opened it eagerly, in desperate, almost pathetic ignorance. It seemed a foolish idea to Priabin, but it appeared to more than satisfy the general. He shook his head gently.
Vladimirov looked up. 'Well, help me, man! There are names, addresses, relatives in here, in each of them. Put them all under surveillance. And get me the departments responsible for street surveillance in the areas you pointed out to me — quickly! Don't just stand there, Colonel — earn your salary for once!'
* * *
The Hercules had completed its southward run, utilising the airway and a civilian call-sign and flight number. The pilot had requested landing instructions from Ivalo airport and dropped below the Russian radar net. Then, using visual and electronic navigation, and its radar in the mapping mode, it had flown northwards once more, heading for the dropping zone. The SBS unit had departed from the two paratroop doors during the first run over the lake at three and a half thousand feet.
First light was no more than a greyness in the sky, patched with darker cloud. Snow flurried across the windscreen, causing the co-pilot to intermittently operate the wipers.
Every light on the Hercules had been extinguished.
'All clear ramp doors and depressurising,' the pilot heard the loadmaster announce over his headset. 'Ramp opening, ramp down and locked.'
'Roger. Ninety seconds to Initial Point.'
'After IP, heading two-one-five, skipper,' the navigator informed him.
'Roger — two-one-five.'
'Roger… turning to two-one-five… two-one-five steady.' Ahead of the aircraft, the dawn attempted to lighten the sky beyond the flurrying snow. The wipers cleared the screen. Stunted and dwarf trees confused the pilot's sense of distance. 'Speed coming back to 160 knots.' The undulating, snow-blurred outlines of the land seemed to rush just beneath the belly of the aircraft. 'Wheels down,' the pilot announced. 'Flaps down.' It was a precaution, in case the aircraft came into contact with the ground. 'Lamp on, Diane — '
'OK — ready this end,' the loadmaster replied.
'Lake in sight,' the co-pilot said:
Ahead of them, beyond the last, straggling trees, the apparently smooth surface of the frozen lake stretched away, narrowing as it did
so. Trees crowded down to the shore, like a fence around the ice.
'Got it. Keep the wipers on.' Snow rushed at and alongside them.'I've got the smoke marker-'
'Altitude fifteen feet… twelve… ten…'
'Stand by-five, four, three, two, one… Go!'
The nose of the Hercules tilted up slightly as the five pallets followed each other, sliding off their metal tracks and disappearing through the open ramp. The aircraft seemed to bob up, floating on a slight swell.
'Drop good-all away, clean and tight. Ground party already beginning to recover… ready to close up this end.'
'Roger, Diane, standby for ramp closing.'
The Hercules passed southwards over the narrow neck of the lake. A stronger flurry of snow rushed at them, obscuring the pilot's glimpse of tiny, moving figures on the ice. Then the lake was behind them.
'Initial heading — two-two-four.'
'Roger-turning on to two-two-four… ramp closed.'
The Hercules skimmed the stunted trees to the south of the lake. Whenever the flurries of snow revealed the horizon, the lightening sky appeared full of dark, heavier cloud.
* * *
Delaying his decision for as long as possible, Gant watched the apartment block of stained, weatherbeaten grey concrete that overlooked the Riga Station on the Mira Prospekt. In the windy, snowy light of dawn, he watched the first overcoated, booted, scarved inhabitants leaving for work. Cheap curtains had been drawn back at a hundred windows; faces had glanced at the day. without enthusiasm. The traffic had begun to flow along the wide street. Trains left the station noisily and arrived in increasing numbers from the northern and north-eastern suburbs.
He had returned to the Mira Prospekt almost by the route he had taken to the US Embassy, taking to the streets only when they began to fill with the first flow of workers heading into the inner city. He had made better time once there were hundreds of other pedestrians. He had even risked a short trolley-bus ride, but the sense of closeness of other bodies, the growing claustrophobia of the self-imposed trap, had forced him to walk the remaining distance.