by Craig Thomas
Vladimirov moved forward, closing on Gant. The guard kept his rifle at his shoulder. His aim did not waver. Two white-coated doctors, emerging from the doorway, shivered with the raw cold. Two plainclothed KGB men followed them.
He turned, then, and mounted the bonnet of the car, feeling the weakness of his legs as he clambered onto the car's roof. The thin metal flexed beneath his weight. A bullet smacked flatly into the wall, inches from his face.
Vladimirov screamed at the guard. 'His legs! His legs - don't kill him'
He turned to the wall, elated as if by alcohol or drugs. He jumped, scrabbled, his fingers clutching then being skinned by the rough stone as he slid back to the roof of the car.
'Stop him!'
Footsteps running on the gravel. He did not bother to look, knowing there was time for only one more effort. He stood up, swayed - heard footsteps skidding only feet away and heavy shoes striking the metal of the car's bonnet - and jumped.
Clung, heaved, felt the weakness again, heaved once more, his face sliding inch by inch up the stone, then the wind hitting into his face as it cleared the wall. Something touched, then grabbed at his left leg. He lashed out. Two bullets smacked against the stone near his left hand, then he heaved himself astride the wall. Looking down, he blanched at the drop. Two more bullets, the heat of one of the rounds searing his leg below the knee. He swung both legs over the wall, and dropped towards the pavement. A car passed, headlights on. A quiet side street -
He crumpled as he hit the pavement, sitting down hard. He questioned his ankles, waiting for the pain of a sprain or twist.
Then he stood up. Looked up. A face appeared. He drew the Makarov and fired at it. The bullet chipped dust from the capping stone. The head disappeared. He glanced up and down the street. Ill-lit canyons opened between blocks of flats. The street lamps were dim and few. He ran across the street, sensing the moment he reached deep shadow.
Sensing, too, the opening of gates, the switching on of engines, the beginnings of pursuit. His leg ached but he thought the flesh only scorched. He had escaped. He did not consider the alien city, not yet - only the concealing night as he ran.
'The Hercules flies south along the airway - my people drop by parachute, the Hercules drops off the Russian radars as if landing at Ivalo, then doubles back below the radar net and makes a low-level pass - booting these five pallets out of the cargo door as it goes…' Waterford broke off, and turned from Aubrey to the pilot. 'One smoke flare enough of a marker for you?' he asked. The pilot nodded. Waterford returned his gaze to Aubrey. 'Buckholz and the non-parachutists will come in on the two Lynx helicopters we've got here.' Without even the trace of a smile, he added, 'Simple.'
Aubrey was nodding abstractedly. When Waterford had finished speaking, he looked up. 'Very well.' He glanced at his watch. 'You'll be ready for take-off in… ?'
'One hour maximum,' the pilot answered.
'Good.' Aubrey's gaze traversed the interior of the transport aircraft. The SBS men under Waterford's command were now coming aboard, bringing their weapons, packs, skis and diving equipment with them. In conjunction with the WRAP Air Loadmaster, Brooke and another marine officer were checking the manifest of the equipment the aircraft had brought from Scampton. Aubrey wondered whether or not he should address the marines.
'Sir - ' It was the radio operator.
'What is it?'
'London requests immediate signals contact, sir - it's Mr. Shelley. Utmost priority.'
'I'll come at once.' He crossed the cargo compartment of the Hercules with an agitated swiftness, then seated himself in front of the console. He waited until the operator nodded, and then he began speaking. 'Peter - Aubrey here. What is the problem?'
He waited impatiently. He had sanctioned the use of high-speed transmission rather than one-time encoding because of the greater ease and speed of communication, voice to voice. Yet still the conversations seemed endless, punctuated by silences which fearful guesswork ittempted to fill. A light indicated that Shelley's voice was now being recorded at highspeed within the console. The operator dabbed at keys, and he heard Shelley's voice; breathless, as if not quite slowed to normal speed on the tape.
'Sir-it's Gant. He's escaped from the Unit on the Mira Prospekt…' Shelley seemed to pause, as if for a reply, then appeared to remind himself that he was not at the other end of a telephone line. 'We had someone watching the Unit, and they witnessed the alarms, the whole fuss… he must have got over the wall at the back, but our man couldn't find hide nor hair of him. But there was complete and utter panic among the KGB. A huge search is underway already…'
Shelley faltered rather than stopped. Immediately, Aubrey said: 'Peter-wait until I get Charles Buckholz here, please. You're certain there's an extensive search for him?' He turned and raised his voice. ' Waterford, get Buckholz - at once, please.'
Waterford disappeared immediately through one of the para-troop doors in the side of the fuselage. Buckholz was supervising the loading of the two Lynx helicopters, parked near the Hercules on the ramp of Kirkenes airfield. Aubrey's fingers drummed on the side of the console. It sounded as hollow as an empty drum.
Shelley's voice came back soon after the red light flicked on once more.
'In answer to your question, sir, the British and American embassies are bottled up - no explanation, no official contact, but the cars are outside in force. They're waiting for the lines to go dead any minute now. Our low-grade people still on the streets are ringing in with reports of high-level KGB activity - saturation cover, was the term David Edgecliffe used. Shall I hang on now, sir?'
Aubrey turned on the swivel chair. Buckholz, his face half-hidden by the fur trimming of a white parka hood, clambered through the paratroop door, Waterford behind him. He hurried to Aubrey's side.
'He's got out - !' Aubrey blurted. 'Damn it, but he's got out of that unit - they're looking for him all over Moscow!' Buckholz grinned and slapped Aubrey's shoulder heavily. But, even before he could speak, Aubrey clicked his fingers - a dull sound in his heavy gloves - and said excitedly, 'Saturation cover, the Moscow Head of Station reports - you realise what that means, Charles? Do you realise! My God!'
'What?'
'They don't know - they didn't break him - !' He gripped the sleeve of Buckholz's parka, tugging at the material. 'If they knew, they wouldn't have every available man on the streets of Moscow looking for him - they need him!'
'That's just a guess… they don't want us to get him back - '
'Squadron Leader!' Aubrey called to the pilot of the Hercules. 'Contact Eastoe - I want an up-to-the-minute report on border activity.' The pilot nodded and began moving forward towards the flight deck. 'I don't believe he's told them, Charles - I don't believe they know.'
'It's only a matter of time, Kenneth - he can't survive on the streets for long. Can we get someone to him?'
Aubrey turned to the console. The operator nodded. 'Peter, what are the chances of finding him?'
He waited, listening to Buckholz's heavy breathing, his eyes willing the red light to wink off.
Then Shelley was speaking once more. 'Edgecliffe's signal was very clear, sir - and I checked at once. Every known contact, every member of the embassy staff outside the building, is already under surveillance. Edgecliffe also reminded me,' Shelley's voice hesitated, and then added in a more mumbled tone: 'We-used up the best people two days ago - especially Pavel. He's still very angry about losing Pavel - '
'To the devil with Edgecliffe's anger!' The operator flicked at the keyboard to try to overtake Aubrey's unexpected, rushed reply. 'Is there no one? Do they have any idea where he might be?' As his questions were transmitted, he turned to Buckholz. 'You realise that the time-limit is expanding, Charles? Gant has given us a stay of execution.' The pilot appeared from the flight deck, shutting the door behind him. 'Any activity?' Aubrey asked.
'No change in the situation.'
'See, Charles-they don't know!'
'Where does that leave us? They
could pick him up any time. Maybe we ought to pray he gets run over by a bus!'
Shelley's voice anticipated Aubrey's reply. 'No information, sir. Moscow Station personnel simply can't move - it's the same for the Americans. We have a few low-grade watchers who Edgecliffe has been using, but no one he could use to give help, even if he knew where to look. He's got out, but that seems to be as far as anyone can go, sir. We can't do anything for him.'
Aubrey stood up, puriching his right hand into the palm of his left; a dull concussion. He looked almost wildly around the crowded, murmurously noisy interior of the Hercules. Breath smoked. Runway and perimeter lights gleamed beyond the lowered cargo ramp. It was as if Aubrey expected to find a volunteer from among the marines and RAF personnel around him. His eyes rested on Buckholz.
'We must do something, Charles - something to try to keep him out of their hands! Now we have this slim chance - now we might be given all the time we need… he mustn't go back into the Unit!'
'I agree - so? What in hell do you want me to think?'
Aubrey strutted a few intense, excited steps from Buckholz, then returned to the console. 'Peter - do we have anybody… anybody we can use?'
He waited in silence, his brow creased, his face intent, until Shelley replied.
'Not a native Russian who's capable of finding him, making contact, shielding him, and none of our officials could get near him. We might be able to locate him, with a great deal of luck, but there's no one we could trust to take care of him - in whichever way you wish - ' Shelley added in a softer, almost apologetic voice.
Aubrey wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'I'm not having him killed!' he snapped, turning to Buckholz so that he understood his decision.
'Even if you find him, you mean?' Buckholz observed with heavy irony. 'Let's face facts, Kenneth. You're hamstrung - our two services are hamstrung in Moscow. We don't know where he is, where he might go… and we couldn't reach him to help him if we did!'
Aubrey stretched out his hands imploringly, but his face was flushed with anger. 'Then give me someone who can help him! Charles, the CIA must have someone - a Russian with the resources, the nerves and the intelligence to help Gant? Give me one of your Category-A Sources, Charles!'
'I can't authorise that, Kenneth.'
'To save Gant-to save all this, perhaps… ?' His arms encompassed the entire contents of the cargo compartment; men, equipment, purpose. 'Give me one of your Sources. Someone with freedom of movement. Someone who can travel!'
Buckholz was silent for some time. Aubrey allowed him to pace the cargo compartment, his face thoughtful. His mittened hands rubbed at his cheeks or alternately held his chin. Aubrey instructed Shelley to remain in full contact, and to wait, then he spent the endless minutes of Buckholz's silence furiously reviewing his own extensive knowledge of the CIA's Moscow operations.
They were avid for information, and lavish in their corruption and persuasion of agents. They had dozens of Russians in key positions who supplied them with high-grade information. They were designated Category-A Sources. Any one of them might be young enough, resourceful enough to locate and assist Gant. Get him out of Moscow… ?
But, would Charles agree? Would he endanger one of the CIA's key Sources for the sake of possibly finding, possibly assisting Gant?
Eventually, Buckholz stood in front of him once more. He nodded, slightly and only once.
'Source Burgoyne,' he said enigmatically. 'I'll have to confirm with Langley… Source Burgoyne seems the most - expendable.' He flinched as he saw the look on Aubrey's face, then snapped: 'Like Fenton and Pavel and even Baranovich - you were pretty wasteful there, Kenneth.'
'Damn you, Charles,' Aubrey breathed, but his face was white with admission and a surprising self-disgust. 'Burgoyne is less important than your other Sources, I suppose?' he asked acidly. 'How many Category-A Sources are there at present, Charles?'
'Maybe thirty - scattered through the ministries, the Secretariat, the Supreme Soviet, top industrial concerns, the Narodny Bank - '
'And Burgoyne is one of the least significant, I take it?'
'You got it. I - we've tried to persuade her to request - '
'Her?'
'Right. A woman. We've tried to get her to move into more sensitive areas for years now - she won't. She's useful, but she's not crucial, as you put it. You want her or not?'
Aubrey pondered for a moment,- then brightened: 'Yes, I'll take her. A female companion would avert suspicion, and she must have intelligence or resource pr you wouldn't have tried to get her into more useful work! She can travel with some ease. Yes, I'll take her. Does the codename Burgoyne suffice to wake the sleeper?'
'It does. Let me talk to Shelley. I'll supply the telephone number. It's then up to you what you do with her. She's a limited asset and no longer our concern - she'll be all yours!' Buckholz grinned crookedly.
Aubrey moved away from the console. Fenton, Pavel, and now Source Burgoyne …
'What's her name?' he asked without turning around.
'Anna - Anna Akhmerovna. She's a widow. Touching forty. She has almost complete freedom of movement. Just one thing, though. She lives with a KGB officer, if I remember correctly.'
Aubrey turned on his heel. ' What - ?'
'She's the one you're going to get, Kenneth. Langley would never agree to any of the others.'
Aubrey turned away. His mind raced, skipping over crevasses and chasms that opened beneath his optimism, threatening to swallow it. If Gant could be saved - ? Edgecliffe could work up a suitable escape route, provide good papers, the woman was good cover…
Buckholz completed his instructions to Shelley, then addressed Aubrey. 'You still want London, Kenneth?'
'I do!' He faced Buckholz once more. 'I'll save him if I can,' he murmured. 'And her - I'll save her, too!' It was mere bravado and he knew it, as did the American, who merely shrugged.
'I don't think you can win this one, Kenneth. You'll just be losing the Company a useful agent. You'll get Burgoyne killed along with Gant.'
'No I won't, Charles!'
Buckholz snatched off his mittens angrily, and held up the fingers of his left hand, splayed. He counted them off with his right forefinger, folding them into his palm at each of the names he recited.
'Fenton - Pavel - Baranovich - Semelovsky - Kreshin -Glazunov - the old man at the warehouse, I forget his name…'
'Damn you, be quiet!' Again, Aubrey's face was white and his mouth trembled. Appalled, he witnessed the appearance of guilt in his mind. It made his heart race, his stomach turn. Guilt -
Shakily, he said, 'I will atone, Charles - I'll save Gant and your Source Burgoyne. Now, let me talk to Shelley - !'
'Yes, Comrade Deputy Chairman - yes, of course. I'll come at once!' Priabin put down the bedside receiver and turned to Anna, his face flushed with an almost boyish pride and self-importance. Anna watched him, watched his innocent pleasure spreading in a broad grin.
'What is it?' she asked sleepily, glancing at the travelling clock on her bedside cabinet, propped open in its leather case. Two o'clock. Then she yawned, as if the reminder of the lateness of the hour and her interrupted sleep had wearied her.
'Orders,' he said almost blithely, getting out of bed and opening the sliding door of the fitted wardrobe.
'You're going out?'
'I am. Panic stations - ' he answered, hoisting his uniform trousers then pulling his shirt from its hanger. He buttoned it hastily, looking down at each button as he did so. He talked as he dressed. 'Your friend the American pilot is on the loose - seems they mislaid him…' He looked up and grinned. His tie was draped over a chair. He snatched it up and began to knot it.
'What happened?' She was leaning on one elbow, her small breasts invitingly exposed, nipples erect in the coolness of the bedroom. She shivered, then, and rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. Then she stretched. Priabin hunted for his jacket in the wardrobe.
'Some monstrous cock-up, I expect. Deputy Chairmen don't give explanations ove
r the telephone to newly-promoted colonels.' He thrust his arms into the jacket, and buttoned it. 'Where's my cap?'
'When will you be back?'
He shrugged. 'Can't say, love. I'm appointed one of the coordinators of the search. They've got saturation cover on the streets as a matter of routine, now they want people like me to sort it out…' He stopped smiling. 'And people to blame, no doubt, if he gets away. Still, we colonels must bear our appointed loads - ' The smile was back. He moved to the bed, bent and kissed her. She folded her arms behind his neck, holding him in the kiss.
'Take care,' she murmured.
'I'll watch my back.' He grinned. 'I suppose you're a little bit on his side, aren't you - with your attitude to the project?'
She shook her head vehemently. 'Not if he endangers you,' she said.
He winked and crossed to the dqor. 'See you,' he said, and opened the door. 'I love you.' He closed the door behind him. Anna heard the front door of the apartment close quietly a few moments later. Doubtless, he had paused only to collect his holster and greatcoat from the rack in the hall.
She shivered, rubbing her arms again. She swung her legs out of bed, crossed to the door and took down her dressing-gown. Warm and sensible, but silk-lined. She buttoned it quickly.
As she crossed the hall, she listened at Maxim's door. Satisfied he had not awoken, she went into the kitchen. Her anxiety at Priabin's departure was usual, even though disproportionate. To her, every departure was only the prelude to a meeting where he would be ordered to arrest her.
She turned on one of the small strip-lights beneath the kitchen cabinets. It gave the room a hard but confined glow which she could tolerate. It preserved a quality of secretive darkness the room had possessed when she entered it. She switched on the percolator, having checked that enough coffee remained in it.
What was it - ? What had disturbed her so much? It wasn't simply her recurring nightmare of discovery and arrest… no. It was something - the arrival of fate as palpably as a knock on the door. Yes, that was it. A sense of fate, renewed by the American's escape. It had been with her ever since Dmitri was transferred to security on the Bilyarsk project. Baranovich's wheelchair had begun her double-life - Dmitri had moved closer to that double-life when he was transferred. Now, leading the hunt for the American, he seemed in some vague and shadowy way to threaten her. There was something fateful about the whole affair.