by Craig Thomas
Finally, as the suburbs flattened into parkland, grey and white beneath the driving snow and low cloud, and then rose again into the old town of Khimki-Kovrino, Gant turned away from the window.
'What will he do?' he asked, staring at his own hands, as if imitating the woman's supplicatory posture. She looked up, startled back to her present surroundings. Her features appeared bruised with emotion.
'What — ?' she replied in Russian. He wondered whether her use of her native language — he had spoken in English — was some way of keeping him at a distance. Or simply security?
'I said, what will he do, the man you live with?' he repeated in Russian.
She shook her head. 'I don't know — !'
'He knew it was me,' Gant explained unnecessarily. 'And he guessed we were together.' He cleared his throat. 'What would he make of it?'
'He knows about me!' she exclaimed, beating her fists in a quick little tattoo on her thighs. 'He already knows — !'
'Jesus-H-Christ…' Gant breathed, leaning back in his seat.
The small compartment was hot, even though he had removed his formal overcoat and unbuttoned his jacket. He fiddled with the half-glasses on his nose, but did not remove them. 'He knows about you…' he repeated in English.
'He's known about me for a long time. He's done nothing about it. He — ' She looked up, and essayed a smile. 'He's very much in love — ' She might have been talking of a favourite Son and another woman. 'It pains him — sometimes he can't sleep — but he protects me…'
'Christ — ' Gant rubbed his forehead, inspecting his fingers for dampness. Very little. He was surprised. He checked his body. Hot, yes, but no sense of rising panic. The movement of the train, north-west towards Leningrad and the border, lulled his body. The first stop was Kalinin, a hundred miles from Moscow. Perhaps they were safe until then.
He could not panic, he decided. The woman had coped, coped with much more, over a much longer time. While she remained almost calm, so would he.
'Listen,' he said, leaning forward, reaching out his fingertips. She withdrew her hand, holding it against her breasts. He sat back. 'Listen- think about it. What will he do? What will he think?'
'I-God, I don't know…'
'Will he — will he blame the CIA? Will he blame me?'
'What do you mean?'
The daylight outside was failing. It was as dark as late evening already. The tadpoles of melted sleet wriggled across the window. A collective farm lay unused beneath a layer of snow. A tractor huddled near a hedge.
'Does he love you enough to blame everyone else except you for what he saw?' Gant explained with some exasperation. 'Is he that blind? Will he blame the CIA, the British, me — ?'
'Instead of me?' Gant nodded. 'Perhaps- '
'Will he report us to his superiors? Will they stop the train?'
'I — don't think so…' Anna's brow creased into deep lines. Gant guessed her age to be around thirty-eight or nine. Older than the young colonel he had seen on the platform. He leaned back and closed his eyes. What had he seen? Seen her trying to reassure him… yes. He'd understood that there was no danger, even through his shock. What else — ? The man? Smiling, laughing, holding her -
His face when she climbed aboard the train, in the moment before he saw Gant — ?
Love. Something from paintings, almost religious — what was it? Adoration — ? Adoration…
And he began to believe that they were safe… safe, unless -
'Could he follow us?' Gant asked sharply.
'What?'
'Could he arrange to follow us — himself?'
'Why?'
'To kill me.'
'Why?'
'He might — just might work it out. If he believes in you, he'll blame me most of all, lady. And he could keep your dark secret and put the clock back to yesterday, if he killed me. I wouldn't even be able to tell tales on you.' The Makarov was in the suitcase. Later, he would think about transferring it to his inside pocket.
'Do you think he would do that?'
Gant shrugged. 'He might — you know him, not me. You've screwed up what was a nice neat assignment. He could either hate you, or me. There's no one else to attract his interest.' Gant leaned back, closing his eyes. His lack of panic surprised him.
Maybe it was the woman's presence? She was a talisman who had, perhaps, become a hostage. He felt safe with her. Adoration… yes. Priabin was besotted with the woman, and he could use that to his advantage. Priabin might come after them, but he wouldn't betray her, give her up.
He'd blame the good old US of A and one of its citizens.in particular. Yes, he'd want to kill Gant.
Gant could not believe his luck. The car journey after Vassily had helped him, the apartment for most of the day, the disguise and the easy access to the platform and the train — they were all dreamlike, unreal. It had been going too well.
But this — this was real luck.
He found himself thinking aloud: 'This is real luck…'
Immediately, the woman's face narrowed. She despised him. He could not help that. Real luck. He might have had thousands of KGB looking for him, but now, thanks to her, he had only one who was looking in the right place. And, as they say, his lips were sealed.
It was working out. He could make it, with those odds. The papers and the disguise had stood up, would stand up. Harris would be meeting them at a quiet- suburban station with a car and new documents. And, if heskept Anna by his side or in front of him like a shield, he had nothingfo worry about… nothing at all. '
'Stop it!' she said intently. He opened his eyes. 'Stop it!'
What-?'
'You're smiling — you're enjoying it!' She was very close to tears. Her teeth nibbled at her full lower lip. Her pale, drawn features seemed inappropriate to the expensive hairstyle, the costly, fashionable clothes.
'All right,' he said. 'I'm sorry. It was good not to be the one who's really alone for a change. I am sorry.'
She nodded. 'I — ' she began.
'Could you go back?'
'I don't know — I thought so, before, before — '
'Take it easy. Maybe the Company will lay off, if this all works out?' He watched her shaking her head. The blonde hair flicked from side to side. On the platform, she had seemed so much in control, so much the stronger partner. But, she was weakened by her own love. She wasn't so much afraid of getting caught as of losing her lover. Well, maybe the Company would release her if she pulled this off…? Miracles did sometimes happen.
He looked at his watch. Five hours to Kolpino. They had tickets for the restaurant car. She'd have to make up before she appeared in public -
Gant retreated from concern. It complicated matters. She was, effectively, his hostage, and that was the easiest and most satisfactory way to think of her.
* * *
Dmitri Priabin had dismissed his driver when the car dropped him at Anna's apartment. He had hurried from the lift and fumblingly unlocked the door as if half-expecting to find her there. The apartment was, of course, empty.
He tore the expected letter open, glanced at the excuse of business in Leningrad, his eyes highlighting the love that constituted the remainder of the letter. Then he crushed it, threw it across the room, and retrieved it only moments later, thrusting it into his pocket. Without conscious decision, he had packed a suitcase with a civilian outfit — a disguise, he thought — and then he had left the apartment once more, slamming the door hollowly behind him. Maxim was with her father — whatever happened, the boy was safe. Whatever happened to Anna, whatever was discovered — whatever part he played himself — her father could protect his grandson even if he could not save his daughter.
In one way, then, it would be clean.
He hailed a taxi. Conscious thought seemed to have caught up with bodily activity, and he ordered the driver to take him to Cheremetievo airport.
Flights to Leningrad -
He had to inspect the airport security anyway, it lay under his aut
hority. They would expect to see him.
And what would he do? What was he planning that required the suitcase on the seat beside him? He did not really know. Thought had not yet overtaken reaction, to discover what lay in the future. It, like his body, was content simply to be active. He was hurrying to the airport — he appeared to be pursuing…
Who and what was he pursuing?
His hand touched the holster at his hip, providing the answer. The American — Gant. He wanted to kill Gant. He would kill Gant! In his death lay safety. Anna would be safe, he would be safe.
The driver had a bald, shining head. His ears were red and prominent. The sleet flew at the windscreen, rushing towards the wipers, then sliding jelly-like to either side. It was hypnotic.
Priabin shook his head, waking himself. If there was a flight to Leningrad, he could overtake them. They would leave the train before the terminus, though -
If he got a list of stations where the express stopped, he could work back along the line to the farthest point they could possibly leave the train. There he could board it, and confront them.
Like a cuckolded husband, he could not help thinking, hating the image. He could kill Gant — shot resisting arrest, he could live with Vladimirov's rage, and Anna could disappear into the Leningrad night. He'd spotted Gant, followed him…
He should have boarded the train then, in Moscow — !
No, no…
He'd had no plan, then. He'd have blundered in like the cuckold, not the rescuer.
And, when he'd killed Gant, what would the Americans do to Anna? Would they guess who and why and assume she'd been a party to it?
And turn her over to his own organisation?
He sweated; even though (he heating of the taxi was primitive. He banged his fist slowly, mesmerically against the leather of his suitcase. Have to hide that at the airport, get on the aircraft at the last moment, mustn't be seen by his own men…
Any of his personal subordinates posted there? He didn't think so, but was not sure. Have to be careful -
It's awful, he thought. The mess is awful, awful -
He sat back in the corner of his seat, out of the view of the driver's mirror, because he knew his face was pale and cold and utterly confused. He could not see the end of it. He could not believe that he could save Anna. He rubbed one gloved hand over his face, as if trying to remodel his expression by heavy stroking movements.
Each time he thought about his situation, the main priority appeared to be to save Anna. Get her away from the American, get her back safely to Moscow, reinstall her in her apartment. Life could go on, then — from that point.
But, each time he considered the priority and agreed with it, he thought of Gant and the desire to kill him rose like nausea in his chest and throat and it became difficult to consider Anna's safety or his own. Gant's death increasingly thrust itself upon him as a course of action that was inevitable.
* * *
'Then, while we do not have the pilot, we must return to our search for the aircraft,' Chairman Andropov announced. At his side, Vladimirov did not demur, even though he understood that this was little more than another deflection of blame in his direction. A similar move to his surprise appointment as security co-ordinator of the hunt for the American.
Strangely, he did not resent his assigned role as scapegoat. Rather, it increased his sense that he was the only man — the only one of all of them — capable of recovering the MiG-31. Even when the First Secretary nodded his agreement with Andropov and looked immediately towards him, Vladimirov felt no resentment arid little anxiety. He was prepared, even equable, as he awaited an outburst from the Soviet leader.
It came almost at once, beginning on a low, histrionically calm note.
'Gant must be found,' he announced from behind his desk. The Kremlin office had once been used by Stalin. It was not the great anteroom where all visitors were cowed and fearful long before they ever reached the huge desk behind which Stalin had sat, but nevertheless it was a large, high-ceilinged room with a tall marble fireplace and massive, dark furniture. It daunted visitors, and it expressed the Soviet leader's ideas of his own personality and authority. This First Secretary had moved to another floor of the Arsenal building, and the windows of his office and the luxurious apartment beyond it stared across a triangle of grass and trees towards the Senate and the rooms once occupied by V.I. Lenin.
'Yes, First Secretary,' Vladimirov replied.
'And so must the aircraft — Gant is only the key to the aircraft. You agree, General Vladimirov?'
'Of course, First Secretary. Of course — ' He bit down upon the rising irony in his tone. He rubbed his hands on the carved arms of the huge chair in which he sat before the mahogany desk with its lion's feet.
'Then where is the aircraft? Where is it now?' The First Secretary got up, pushing back his chair noisily on the parquet flooring. He strode to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He looked out at the failing light, the white trees and grass, the windows of Lenin's office. 'Where is the aircraft?' he repeated without turning.
Vladimirov did not need to glance at Andropov to realise the satisfaction that would show on his features. To think, that man, the secret policeman, might become the successor to the grey-haired buffoon at the window. Vladimirov, unable to suppress his contempt, was pleased that neither of them could see his face. But, just to think of it…' Andropov was already, a member, perhaps the most powerful member, of the inner cabal of the Politburo. He was rumoured to be about to resign as Chairman of the KGB, to become head of the General Secretariat of the Party, thereby broadening his power base. Andropov might one day sit behind that very desk…
Andropov would have the Lenin offices opened up again, Vladimirov thought bitterly. They would become offices once more, rather than a museum — his offices.
'I — have people working on that. We have selected a number of landing-sites, First Secretary; places where the American could have landed the MiG-31.' The words were automatic.
'These I should like to see,' the First Secretary said, turning slowly and over-dramatically to face into the room once more. 'And — the American told you nothing under the most intense interrogation?'
Vladimirov gambled. There was something there, in those tapes — he was certain of it.
'I'd like you to listen to it — and Chairman Andropov, of course — to the tapes our people made. I'm sure we're missing something there.'
He heard the First Secretary sigh with satisfaction. All the man wanted, ever wanted, was his authority recognised. He wanted the scent of subordination strong in every room he entered. It was easy…
Careful, Vladimirov warned himself. He stood up slowly as the First Secretary passed him. The two bureaucrats in grey suits preceded him to the door. Their coat-tails were creased with sitting. He had managed a few hours' sleep late the previous night, a shower and a change of uniform. He followed the two men through the outer offices where the Soviet leader waved secretaries back to their desks. Two bodyguards fell in behind Vladimirov — a prisoner's escort, he thought for an instant, then smiled inwardly.
They used the lift to the ground floor. It was only a single floor's descent, but the lift was modern, air-conditioned and emitted quiet piped music. Guards saluted with uptilted rifles as they passed across the marble floor towards the main doors. The two bodyguards hurried a little way ahead, then issued umbrellas from a rack beside the doors. Vladimirov took an umbrella, but disdained the galoshes the two guards were now fitting over the shoes of the First Secretary and the Chairman. The image of the guards kneeling before the two men was too striking not to be savoured.
They cautiously stepped out into the darkening evening, descending the swept, damp marble steps of the Arsenal like very old men. Birch trees and snow-covered lawns were dyed pale orange by the lights. Vladimirov walked alongside his companions. The Kremlin was a place he did not often visit, and he tilted back his umbrella to gain a clearer view of the palaces and cathedrals
within the walls, thereby displaying what the other two might sniggeringly have called his provincialism, his gaucheness.
The place was a monument to absolutism. Even the cathedrals repelled rather than invited. There was little sense of quiet expressed by their facades, nothing of sanctuary. The red towers, topped by their neon Party stars, ringed the buildings; penned them. They were heading towards the largest of the new buildings, the Palace of Congress, which, together with the Senate, contained most of the government offices within the Kremlin complex. To Vladimirov, it looked like a glass and concrete weed growing up modernistically amid the planted, massive, tropical flowers of the older buildings.
The wind splashed sleet against his shaven cheeks, chilling his skin. Yet he continued to stare, to appraise, until they reached the main doorway of the Palace of Congress. They passed the guards on duty and entered the main foyer of the glass building. Heavy chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Vladimirov followed the First Secretary and Andropov across the tiled floor — a huge modern mosaic depicting the inevitable triumph of Socialism — towards the reinforced steel doors of a special lift. They descended six floors before the lift sighed to a stop. Guards faced them as they entered a corridor of whitewashed concrete. Steel doors, like the watertight doors of a submarine, confronted them. The bodyguards inserted plastic identity tags into the locks, and the doors opened.
Vladimirov inhaled deeply as he once more prepared to enter what bright, cynical young army officers who had served there called the Führerbunker, beyond what was little more than an airlock, where more identity tags were inserted into computerised locks, examined, and returned, a second steel door opened onto a vast underground room. They stepped into a command centre which mirrored not only that in the Tupolev but also those deep beneath the Moscow Garrison's HQ and his own air force headquarters south-east of the city. He followed the others across the room, then mounted a metal ladder onto a gantry which overlooked the command centre. A long glassed-in gallery formed the control room of the underground complex.