Firefox Down mg-2

by Craig Thomas

  She disappeared into the shop. Gant began to relax. The hairpiece felt as hot and constricting as the fur hat he had removed. He brushed flecks and creases from his suit. He unfolded the newspaper. He began to allow time to pass more slowly, feeling his whole body relax, inch back from the pitch of tension he had experienced at the ticket barrier. It had worked, had worked, he repeated to himself over and over, like a calming spell. The woman-was excellent cover. In the time available, in the extreme situation in which they had found themselves, Aubrey's people in Moscow had done well, very well.

  He glanced out of the window, directly after looking at his watch. Four minutes to departure time — she was talking to a man in uniform, a young colonel in the KGB. Fifteen yards from the window. She knew him -

  Four minutes — she was smiling — three minutes fifty — she was smiling.

  Gant felt his body constrict into a straitjacket, his fists rest heavily on his knees, his eyes begin to dart about the carriage…

  Who was she — ? What was she doing?

  Anna leaned up and kissed Dmitri Priabin, aware of Gant's staring face fifteen yards away.

  'What a surprise!' she exclaimed.

  Holding her arms, as if to restrain her, he grinned. 'Duty, my love — duty. I'm here in my official capacity, inspecting the security arrangements. I didn't know whether or not you'd arrived.'

  She looked pointedly at her watch. 'Only a couple of minutes,' she murmured.

  'Soviet Science World?' He asked, looking at the top of one of the magazines under her arm. 'Looking for more wheelchair projects? No, I'm sorry,' he added when he saw her face darken. 'That was cheap.' He bent to kiss her, and she responded. She had half-turned and she could see Gant clearly as she pressed against Dmitri's chest. He looked betrayed, frightened. She could not tell him -

  She pushed away. 'I'd better get on the train, I suppose.'

  'When will you be back?'

  'A couple of days.'

  'You didn't leave a hotel number.'

  'I'll ring you — tonight.'

  'What is all this business?' he asked, taking her arm — an image of arrest? — and walking her towards the door of the carriage. She leaned against him, trying to display the innocence of the meeting to Gant. She smiled broadly. She could not tell if Gant relaxed. He continued to watch them very obviously. Had Dmitri seen him — ?

  And she realised, with a horrible, sickening force, that the hunter and the hunted were eight yards from each other. She was certain that even she would have recognised Gant beneath that disguise, beneath that ridiculous hairpiece, even from those grainy pictures of him near the ticket barrier…

  'Oh, some petty fiddling, they think. It's got to be verified before the police are called in.'

  'No drugs?' he asked in all seriousness.

  'No — clothing, sterile supplies, all kinds of silly things — sometimes I think people will steal anything in this country! It may even be a fraud on the part of the suppliers because they're behind with their production schedules — I'm not sure yet. But it has to be investigated.' She whirled him round suddenly, and smiled up into his face. 'Never mind about that — just say you'll miss me!' A part of her awareness was stunned with the ease with which she lied.

  'I will-like hell.' He kissed her. She pressed her mouth against his, held his head between her hands, clung to his neck as the kiss continued. It was a farewell, to something.

  A whistle blew. She pulled away from Priabin. 'I must go — '

  'Come on then — on you get!' He was blithe, confident she would be away for no more than two days, enjoying this tiny interlude in the search for Gant. He handed her onto the train, and slammed the door. She leaned out of the window and kissed him again.

  The train moved. He stepped back. She waved, blew him a further kiss, which he returned. He grinned like a schoolboy. She waved furiously, already ten yards away.

  Hers must be the nearest compartment of the first-class carriage, the others were full, two faces at each window. Who was she travelling with — ? He waved. The train gathered speed, twenty yards away now -

  He began running, still waving. He took the first two steps because he wanted to keep her in sight as long as possible — and then the third and fourth steps and all the others because of the face at the window. Strangely, he did not falter in his waving.

  He was ten yards away, and puffing for breath, when he recognised the face at the window; confirmed the suspicion that had dashed over him like cold water. And saw, too, the horrified, appalled look on Anna's face when he transferred his gaze to her.

  And knew, then-Gant.

  Travelling with Anna. Anna, helping him. Gant.

  NINE:

  En Route

  Kirkenes civilian airfield possessed the very temporary appearance of a forward position likely to be abandoned at any moment, crouching uneasily just inside the Norwegian border with the Soviet Union. Its low wooden buildings did not seem entirely explained by its latitude or the Norwegian style of architecture. Instead, they suggested impermanence; the reluctance to invest in Kirkenes — just in case. Aubrey had been allocated a low, barrack-like hut behind the control tower, part of the Fire Section, into which was crammed the communications equipment, the maps, charts, telephones and men he would need to employ. The windows looked out over the iron-grey water of the Korsfjord, and beyond it the peaks on Skogeroya, the Varangerfjord and the Barents Sea. The water was a fitful sight through the slanting snow showers. The main room of the hut smelt strongly of the numerous paraffin stoves that supplemented the main wood-burning stove. The noise of a twenty-eight volt generator outside the hut intruded. Power cables snaked over window sills. The edges of the window panes were foggy. It was a depressing place; an image of exile, or defeat.

  Aubrey stared out of the windows at the sleet, attempting to imagine the weather conditions the Skyhook lifting helicopter had encountered on its slow journey from Germany, and the even worse conditions that would prevail if it ever took off again from the airbase in southern Sweden. He had been in communication with the helicopter's US Army pilot, and with the senior engineering officer at the airbase. Repairs to the rotors were proving a slower, more complex, more serious task than had at first been anticipated. Parts were required which the Swedes did not have; parts which, at present, could not be flown in.

  The Skyhook was crucial. No fall-back, Giles Pyott had said. Everything depending on better weather and a single helicopter… If the Firefox was to be removed from the site, they could not dispense with the helicopter. Aubrey knew that he, too, had fallen for the spurious, glamorous excitement of the helicopter lift, just as the politicians had done. There was no way in which the aircraft capable of carrying the dismantled pieces of the airframe, an extra forty-five thousand pounds weight, could land and take off at the lake. They could not have got trucks through — too much snow and no roads.

  Now, he knew that the bad weather might last a week. It would worsen for the remainder of that day, and though the following day might begin a little better, it would rapidly close in once more. There might be short breaks, windows in the weather, but they were unpredictable. By the time it finally cleared, the Finns would have cordoned off the entire area and informed the Russians where they could find their precious MiG-31!

  Aubrey choked silently on his enraged frustration. He was helpless; bound and gagged. He could do nothing, nothing. Unless the Skyhook arrived before the expiry of the deadline, at midnight the following night, then it would all have been wasted, all have been for nothing.

  And he would have failed, and he would have to attempt to live with the increasing sense of guilt he felt concerning the people who had died. Aubrey shook his head. He did not want to have to do that. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and it pained him. He had no defences against it.

  All he could see ahead of him were the explosive charges clamped to the airframe, the mutilated cockpit instrument panel and systems consoles — then the bang. Snow, earth, metal — th
en nothing!

  Damn, damn, damn, damn -

  Guilt thrust itself once more into his consciousness, a weed growing through concrete. Pavel, Semelovsky, Fenton, Baranovich — especially Baranovich. He had killed them all, only to fail to catch the ball they had thrown.

  Damn the weather and the helicopter…

  And damn Kenneth Aubrey!

  'Mr. Aubrey?' It was the voice of his radio operator. The communications equipment from the Hercules had been transferred to the hut.

  Aubrey turned his head to respond, thankful for the interruption. One of the Norwegian army guards passed the window, face held to one side against the blowing sleet and snow. 'What is it?' Aubrey asked.

  Curtin was at the top of a pair of step-ladders, leaning against a huge map of the Finnmark, the Kirkenes area, and Finnish Lapland. It was sedatory work, Aubrey thought. Curtin was intently applying red-flagged pins to the map, designating Soviet activity along the border. There were no red flags inside Finland. There had been little movement along the border, and no aerial reconnaissance since the weather had worsened, according to reports from Eastoe in the Nimrod.

  'Mr. Shelley from London, sir,' the radio operator replied. Aubrey joined him at the console, lowering his overcoated body onto a flimsy-looking swivel chair. He had retained his coat as a vague protest at inactivity, as if to suggest he might be called away at any moment or be engaged in some furious travel. Aubrey had to feel that his own sojourn at Kirkenes was utterly transitory.

  'Hello, Peter — what can I do for you?' he said off-handedly.

  After a few moments, when the Receive light had winked out and the tape had re-run, he heard Shelley say: 'Just to report that they're on the train, both of them. One of our scouts saw them go through the barrier, inspection and everything.' He sounded pleased. The rescue of Gant was working like clockwork, and it irritated Aubrey. Shelley would have an easy and notable success with it -

  He crushed his anger in the silence. Shelley was waiting for a comment.

  'Well done. Peter — is everything else in place?'

  'Harris will pick them up at the station outside Leningrad — Kolpino-when they leave the train. He'll have the travel warrants and the visas for them to cross into Finland. Director-General Vitsula has agreed that a team will meet them at the border, just to take the weight off their shoulders when they've got that far. It's looking good on the operations board — fingers crossed, sir.'

  Aubrey waited beyond the time when the Transmit light indicated that he could speak once more. Shelley's success made him envious. It had been his idea to rescue Gant and the woman the CIA were prepared to throw away — and now under Shelley's control it looked as though it might work.

  And yet, it was the damned aircraft that he really wanted! The Firefox-that was the real prize — the big one, as Charles Buckholz might have described it. The big one…

  'Well done, Peters.' he repeated eventually. 'Keep me informed. Harris should do a good job — he's worked for us before. Out.'

  He stood up and returned to the window, wrapping his overcoat testily and showily about him. Curtin watched him from the top of his step-ladder, tossed his head and grinned, and went back to his map and his pins. A gap in the sleet again showed Aubrey the lower slopes of the lumpy, barren peaks of Skogeroya and the grey, featureless Varangerfjord beyond them. An awful place -

  A mirror of failure.

  At least Gant would be saved -

  And Aubrey admitted that at that moment Gant seemed a poor prize without the aircraft he had stolen.

  * * *

  Dmitri Priabin continued to stare as the last carriage and the guard's van moved around the curve of the line just beyond the end of the platform. Then the train was masked by an oncoming express. Anna and Gant had disappeared.

  His thoughts were in a turmoil. He felt paralysed and weakened to such a degree that it was difficult to remain standing; impossible to move — to turn and walk or run to the nearest telephone, the nearest fellow-officer -

  The flight of his imagination horrified him. He had actually thought of telling someone — of reporting it to his superiors — !

  His hands were shaking. Nerves in his forearms made them seem chilly, even beneath his greatcoat. He rubbed his arms to stop them quivering. As he did so, he realised his body was bent. He was leaning forward as if he were about to vomit. He straightened up very slowly, his eyelids still pressed tightly together — warding off what he had witnessed or retaining the dampness behind them. The pain of it, the waves of shock, went on like a series of coronaries, each one worse than the one before. He could not escape the image — her face, Gant's disguised but recognisable face, together.

  He heard himself breathing very quickly. He sniffed loudly, and wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. He was facing down the length of the platform. And Oleg was coming towards him from the barrier, still wearing the overcoat that smelled of mothballs.

  'Damn,' he muttered between gritted teeth.

  Suddenly, Oleg was an enemy. A KGB man. A spy-catcher. He must know nothing.

  'You all right, Colonel?' the older man asked in a not unkindly tone. 'You look a bit pale?'

  Drrütri tried to smile. It was more like the expression of a wince at sharp pain. 'Yes, all right, just indigestion.'

  'Oh — Comrade Akhmerovna got off all right, then, did she?' Oleg persisted, smiling; almost winking as he continued: 'Did you catch a glimpse of the bloke she was with, sir?' The grin was broad, jokey, knowing. Priabin stifled a groan. 'Travelling on business, like you said, but with this bloke wearing a hairpiece.' He continued to grin at Priabin, expecting a jocular reply. 'You might have trouble there, sir,' he added. Priabin again provided a slim, pale smile.

  'One of her colleagues in the Secretariat, I gather,' he said stiffly, and moved away, He had to find somewhere to think, to decide. It was racing beyond him, he was losing control, falling apart — Oleg was making him want to scream — he felt he would explode if he didn't get away from him.

  He strode towards the barrier, hearing Oleg's sarcastic: 'Sorry I mentioned it, Colonel sir,' behind him. Don't upset the man! He paused and turned. 'It was a very obvious wig,' he said with studied lightness. Then he smiled. Oleg returned the expression, nodding and chuckling.

  'Wasn't it though — what a shocker! They always make me laugh, wigs. Don't know why — haven't got much myself — but, wigs — !' He burst into laughter. Priabin joined in for a moment.

  'The wind all right, sir?' Oleg asked solicitously.

  'Bit better, thanks.'

  'You got anything?' he asked, fishing in his pocket and bringing out a wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These are good — get them in the beryozhka shop. American, they are. Better than those peppermint things they make in Minsk. Try one.' He held out the wrapper. There was fluff from his pocket on it. Priabin did not dare risk reaching out his hand. He could envisage fumbling with the wrapper, tearing it, spilling the tablets, arousing Oleg's suspicions.

  'Don't do anything for me. It's vodka I need!' he announced as heartily as he could.

  'Comeon, then, sir-'

  Priabin shook his head. 'I've taken enough time off-better get on with my tour of inspection.' He shrugged. 'See you, Oleg.'.

  He touched his cap with his gloves and walked off.

  'A real pity, sir — ' he heard Oleg offer.

  'What?' he snapped, turning on his heel.

  Oleg was holding out the wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These,' he said. 'They smell of mothballs — taste of 'em, too. Don't blame you for refusing.'

  Priabin smiled. 'Bye, Oleg.' He strode towards the ticket barrier, passed through it with a nod to the KGB man who must have inspected Gant's papers, glimpsed the poster displaying the pictures of the American pilot, and passed into the station's main concourse. A wig… attracting attention to a distraction. See the wig, see the silly vanity, the life-style and personality it suggests — miss the pilot beneath.

  The air outside the Leningrad stat
ion was cold. It was as if he had walked into a sheet of glass. He breathed deeply, many times. His head would not clear. It was like a night sky against which rockets and other fireworks burst. Crazy, useless schemes, exploding, leaving their fading images on an inward eye. He had no idea what to do.

  Except he knew he could not report her. He could not tell his superiors, could not tell Vladimirov, that the woman he lived with, the woman he loved, was aiding Gant in his escape from Moscow. They would arrest her, interrogate her, make her talk — then dispose of her. Into a pine box or into one of the Gulags, it was the same thing in the end. Reporting her would be her death sentence.

  'Gant-!' he murmured fiercely, clenching his fists, then pulling on his gloves in a violently expressive manner. 'Gant — '

  Anna was running a terrible risk. She was in the utmost danger.

  He clattered down the station steps towards his limousine.

  Where?

  What to do?

  They were going to Leningrad — in all probability, they'd leave the train before it reached the city. Someone would be waiting for them, an Englishman or an American…

  And then it struck him, jolting him like a blow across the face. She was leaving — leaving with the American — she was getting out-

  He climbed into the back of the black car and slammed the door behind him.

  'The apartment!' he snapped.

  The driver turned out into the square. Railway stations all around the square. Images of departure, of fleeing.

  He did not know what to do. He knew only that he must not lose her.

  * * *

  The train gathered speed, passing the television tower, its top hidden by low grey cloud. Sleet melted on the window, becoming elongated tadpoles of water. The closest suburban stations all exhibited the same functional, deserted appearance as they headed north-west out of Moscow. The compartment was warm. A loudspeaker softly provided Tchaikovsky. Gant did not know how to begin the conversation he knew he must have with the distraught woman who sat opposite him. She was staring at her hands, which seemed to be fighting each other in her lap. Her lover, she had replied to his first question. The man she lived with. He had been unable to find another question to ask. Instead, he had stared out of the window as if surprised that the train was still moving, still being allowed to continue on its journey.