Dingle stopped close to the rear doors of the van and then stepped back to allow the private, who had produced a key ring, to unlock them. The sergeant’s eyes were on his companion, idly watching him select the key and insert it in the lock.
Casually, shoulders still drooping tiredly, Dingle took his right hand out of his pocket, like a man preparing to climb the steps into the van. The sergeant caught the movement and flicked a quick, alert glance at the Englishman.
‘Wrong key,’ muttered the private. ‘I always get them mixed up on this vehicle.’
The sergeant’s gaze swung back to him.
‘Hurry it up,’ he snapped. ‘The captain will be …’
He didn’t complete the sentence. Dingle’s left hand came clear of his pocket, and he blurred into action. The revolver roared, the noise echoing round the walled yard, and the sergeant was hurled backwards with a bullet in the heart.
The private spun round, eyes wide with shock, jaws sagging; he reached for his gun, but he was too late. The second bullet from Dingle’s revolver bored a neat hole in the centre of his forehead. He staggered back and slid down to a sitting position, leaning against the back of the van.
Dingle dropped the gun back into his pocket, hooked the key ring which was dangling from the lock on to the third finger of his right hand and, almost in the same movement, stooped to pluck the revolver from the dead private’s holster.
He ran round from the rear of the van, heard Zeleransky’s shout and felt the wind of two bullets as they whistled past his left ear. He didn’t pause to return the fire, which was coming from the sentry, kneeling, near the gates, using his automatic rifle.
But Zeleransky, running back towards the van, fumbling for his own revolver, came between the sentry and his target, forcing him to hold his fire.
Dingle leaped into the driving seat, found the ignition key first time and stabbed the starter button. The engine, still warm, responded immediately; he crashed into gear and the van kangarooed forward in three jolting, shuddering leaps before he co-ordinated clutch and accelerator.
Zeleransky, gun in hand, jumped on to the running board. The sliding door was still open, and he leaned in, gripping the wheel with his left hand. He aimed the revolver, trying to steady it while the van bucked violently. He fired across Dingle, starring the passenger window.
The acrid smoke curdling from the barrel went up Dingle’s nose, making his eyes water. He lashed out at the Russian, almost knocking him off the running board; the van swerved sharply and Dingle had to use both hands to bring it back on course.
Zeleransky, fighting to maintain his foothold, dropped the revolver and brought both hands on to the wheel, making it even more difficult for the Englishman.
Dingle blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He was nearly at the gateway, and he could see the set face of the sentry behind his automatic rifle, trying to draw a line on him, without endangering Captain Zeleransky.
The rifle jerked, but the man had been forced to aim slightly wide. The bullet pierced the windscreen at an angle and plopped into the back of the cab, six inches to the right of Dingle’s head.
Cracks began to shoot out of the small hole in the glass and then, suddenly, Dingle was driving blind. The windscreen was opaque. A curse exploded from his lips and, savagely, he punched a fist through the shattered glass, just in time to wrench the wheel hard to the left as the right hand gate-post loomed up. Even so, the offside front mudguard crunched into it and screeched agonisingly along it before the van bounced off.
Dimly, he was aware of the sentry leaping clear. At the same time he heard the sound of more shots; bullets smacked into the back of the van. Other guards, off duty inside the main building, were rushing out. He caught a glimpse of them in the wing mirrors, firing their revolvers with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
But Dingle, exultant, was through the gate. He was going to make it. He crossed the road, gathering speed, making for the street directly opposite, sweeping more glass away from the windscreen to improve his view.
Zeleransky was shouting. Dingle grinned at him.
‘Shoot me!’
Dingle nodded and leaned across to the passenger seat for the revolver. He had thrown it where when he jumped into the van.
‘Is that the guard’s gun or yours?’
‘The guard’s.’
‘Use yours. They might compare bullets and realise you had another gun …’
Dingle nodded again. He tossed the gun back on to the seat and reached in his left pocket for the other revolver; the one he had used to kill the sergeant and the private.
He slowed down to a crawl and pointed the gun at the Russian’s right shoulder.
‘I’ll not forget this, Zeleransky,’ he said.
‘For God’s sake! Get it over with, will you? Shoot, damn you!’
Zeleransky’s face was pale and tense; sweat glistened on his brow in the light of the street lamps.
Dingle fired.
Zeleransky bit back a scream; his face contorted with pain, and he dropped into the road, rolling away from the van.
Dingle accelerated. The other end of the road was only about a hundred yards off. He stuck his head through the door opening and looked back briefly. Zeleransky was sitting in the road, nursing his shoulder. He would be all right.
He changed down, steered round the corner and at once saw the black Moskvich. He drew up behind it, switched off the engine and took out the ignition keys. Then he picked up the guard’s revolver from the seat, dropped it into his right hand pocket, and climbed out of the van.
The door of the Moskvich was unlocked. Dingle bent down to check that the keys were under the seat. Then he threw the van’s keys over a nearby wall, and climbed into the car. The engine was cold, but started at the third try.
Dingle blessed the fact that it was so early in the morning. There was nobody about. The street was deserted. There were no houses at this point; no one had witnessed the switch from van to car. His escape had been well planned.
The British agent drove up the street to Dobryninskaya Square, turned left and followed the road round into Leninsky Avenue. Now that he was on a main highway there was some traffic, mainly lorries and buses, and he passed a few pedestrians, early risers on their way to work in the factories.
Dingle drove carefully. He didn’t want to be stopped for a minor traffic infringement. But he didn’t have far to go. The address he wanted was in Leninsky Avenue, in a new block of flats.
*
Andrei Sergov opened the door. A short, barrel-shaped man, he was dressed in a shirt and trousers held up by a belt, tightly buckled round where his waist used to be. He looked like a pillow with string tied round the middle. His head, which was completely bald, matched the deep, leathery brown of his wrinkled face, contrasting with his blue eyes.
‘Yes?’ His voice was gravelly.
‘Are you Sergov?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Director sent me.’
The little man advanced, thrust his head outside and glanced up and down the corridor.
‘Did anyone see you come here?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Quite.’
The little man stepped back.
‘Come in. Are you James Dingle?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ Sergov didn’t smile. ‘Where did you leave the car?’ He closed the door behind Dingle.
‘About two hundred yards down the road; on the other side. I turned it round.’
‘Good. The keys?’
‘I put them back under the seat.’
Sergov didn’t reply to this. He disappeared into an inner room, and came back pulling on a jacket. Then he took an overcoat from a peg in the hall and shrugged it on.
‘Go and wait in there.’ He pointed to the room he had just left. ‘My wife will be up soon. She will give you some breakfast. I must go now an
d arrange for the man who hired the car to collect it and return it.
‘Then I must go to work. I’ll see you tonight.’ He opened the front door again.
‘But what about …?’
‘Tonight,’ Sergov repeated. ‘I mustn’t be late for work.’ He stepped outside and slammed the door.
It was a strange welcome, Dingle thought. He turned at the sound of another door opening behind him; a slim grey-haired woman with a tired, strained face was standing there.
‘Has Andrei gone?’
Dingle nodded.
‘I’m Alicia Sergov.’ She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Come through and wait in the … er … what is that you call it … sitting room? … while I get you a meal.’ She was speaking slowly in halting English.
‘Thank you,’ said Dingle. ‘You needn’t bother to speak English, I can speak Russian quite well.’
She smiled again.
‘No, I like to speak it. It’s just that it’s been so long since we used it that we have almost forgotten how … You see Andrei and I are both English.’
*
Andrei Sergov leaned forward and knocked out his pipe.
‘Alicia told you, did she? She shouldn’t have, but yes, it’s true. Our real names are Andrew and Alice Sargent. We were infiltrated into Russia in 1945. It was easy enough in those hectic last days of the war when records were destroyed and people had lost all their possessions — including their papers. We were taken over by the Director when he formed SS(O)S.
‘It’s not been a bad life; sometimes dull, sometimes dangerous. We’ve arranged the escapes of quite a few people.’ He sighed. ‘We’re getting past it now, though. Too old. The nerves can only stand so much.’
He was silent for a few moments, staring into the fire.
‘We’re due to be pulled out in about a year. We’re going to retire to Sussex … East Grinstead way, perhaps.’ He laughed shortly. ‘We’ll be rich you know; we’ve already got twenty-three years’ back pay piled up for us in the bank at home. It’s been hard work here though. I work as a clerk in a factory office and Alice works in the canteen there.’
‘Where does Zeleransky fit into all this?’
‘Oh, I’ve operated with him for years. He’s English, too, you know. Russian parents, but he was born in England. The Director worked him into the KGB. He’s a very brave man …’ he broke off and stared into the sputtering flames again.
He stirred and said briskly:
‘But now we’ve got to talk about your escape. Listen carefully …’
Chapter Fifteen
Dingle paced moodily up and down the small, high-ceilinged room.
‘I’ve been caged in here for three days now,’ he complained. ‘Three days! I could have had another shot at getting into the research centre.’
‘My orders from the Director are explicit,’ replied Sergov impassively. I’ve got to get you back to London …’
‘But I haven’t completed my mission here. If I go back without the information I came to collect, I shall have failed … for the first time. It will all have been a waste of time.’
‘You wouldn’t have a hope of getting back into that place, and you know it,’ said Sergov. ‘And everyone has to fail occasionally. If you got caught trying to get in there again — and you would be — that would be the finish. Zeleransky couldn’t help you; the risk of his being blown would be too high if he was involved any more. Anyway he’s out of action at the moment.’
Dingle stopped his pacing and looked guilty. He had forgotten Zeleransky.
‘How is he? Have you heard?’
‘He’s still in hospital, but he’ll be out in a few days. I think, from what I hear, that Razina has accepted the fact that he did his best to prevent your escape, so he won’t be in trouble on that score.’
Sergov paused and watched Dingle’s troubled expression.
‘Cheer up, my friend. You’ll be starting your journey home in the morning.’
‘Yes. So that only leaves tonight. I’ve had three days to think, and I believe I could get into the research station. If you get hold of a car now and drive me …’
‘No!’
‘Look here, Sergov. I don’t like to pull rank, but I do rate senior to you, and …’
‘I said no.’ Sergov was stiff with anger. ‘My orders are to get you out; nothing more. I intend to do just that.’
‘If you won’t take me, I’ll go by myself …’
‘You can’t. You’ve no money.’
‘But you have, dammit. Surely …’
‘I’m not authorised to pass any funds over to you — and I won’t.’
There was an uncomfortable silence before Sergov continued, more gently:
‘You must see, James, that you can’t do a job like this on your own. You need organisation and help. If it’s all that important, your best bet is to go home and re-plan the whole operation thoroughly. I know it’s been difficult for you, copped up in here for three days; but these escapes take time to arrange. Why don’t you rest now? Get some sleep; you’ll have to be up early in the morning.’
Dingle stared back hotly at Sergov. Then he shrugged and moved towards the door.
‘I don’t seem to have much choice,’ he said.
He turned and paused in the doorway.
‘Blast Jones!’ he said violently. ‘Shooting was too good for the bastard.’
*
It was not yet light when Dingle, dressed in a Russian working man’s clothes, left the flat with Sergov. He carried a long tool bag; but it didn’t contain tools. Inside was a complete change of clothing, and food prepared by Alicia Sergov.
There was no one about. Their footsteps rang hollow on the pavement. Once a lorry lumbered noisily past, its headlights making little impression against the bright street lamps. Then it was gone, leaving them alone again, the occupants of the large blocks of flats on either side of the broad street slept on.
They walked a long way up Leninsky Avenue and saw no other movement until they were almost up to the Presidium of the USSR Academy of Sciences. A big van was pulled into the side of the road, facing them; its driver was struggling to change a wheel.
‘Good morning, Comrade,’ said Sergov. ‘Do you want any help?’
The driver straightened up and wiped his hands down the front of his coat.
‘Good morning, Andrei,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ He looked at Dingle with open curiosity, ‘Is this the passenger?’
Sergov nodded.
‘Get him aboard quickly then,’ the driver said. ‘The back is open.’
Sergov walked to the back of the van with Dingle and glanced around.
‘It’s all clear,’ he said. ‘Up you get.’
He held out his hand and Dingle grasped it firmly.
‘Thanks for everything Andrei. I’m sorry I was such an ungracious guest. If I don’t see you before, I’ll look you up when you get home.’
Sergov grinned.
‘Do that. I’m looking forward to being called Andrew again.’
‘Thank Viktor Zeleransky for me when you see him.’
‘I will, but hurry now in case someone comes along,’ replied Sergov, looking around once more.
The road was still empty, and at this point was not overlooked by buildings.
Dingle clambered over the tailboard, pushed aside the canvas cover, which had already been loosened, and climbed inside the van. Sergov heaved the bag up, pulled the canvas down tight, and secured the ropes.
It was dark inside, and Dingle felt in his pocket for a torch. He flicked it on and was confronted by several large wooden crates, of varying sizes, piled high, almost up to the roof. Each crate had the word ‘Kompressor’ painted on it in big black letters.
The British agent threw his bag up to the top, then climbed carefully after it, gripping the small torch with his teeth. He squeezed his body between one of the top crat
es and the roof and then, pushing the bag in front of him, crawled forward.
A space had been left at the front of the van, and Dingle shone the light down into it. Clean sacking had been heaped on the floor.
He dropped the bag down, turned awkwardly in the confined space and lowered himself gently, feet first, until he was hanging with arms at full stretch. He released his grip on the crates and landed softly on the sacking.
He settled himself as comfortably as possible, using the canvas bag as a pillow, dowsed the torch, and leaned back, listening to the low murmur of voices outside. Occasionally there was a ring of metal on concrete as a tool was dropped.
Then Sergov’s voice came clearly:
‘Have a safe journey, Comrade. I wish I was coming with you. It will be nice down there at this time of year; warmer than here.’
The driver laughed, there was the sound of a door being opened and slammed shut, and then the engine roared into shuddering life, shaking the van with a series of throbbing vibrations, which vanished as soon as the vehicle began to move.
Soon, the hum of the engine, the swish of the tyres and the gentle sway of the van as it rolled on, for mile after mile, lulled Dingle to sleep.
*
Dingle jerked awake as light suddenly spilled into his hiding place.
‘Are you there, Comrade?’
The light was coming from a small sliding hatch between the cab and the back of the van. The driver had opened it.
Dingle scrambled to his feet and put his face to the opening.
‘Yes. I’m here. How long have we been travelling?’
‘Couple of hours. You can see the sun rising … oh! … no you won’t be able to see that far round. It’s coming up a bit behind us, to the left. Very beautiful it looks.’
They had left Moscow on the Kaluzhskoye Highway and were heading south-west.
Dingle smiled through the hatch.
‘Even if I can’t see it, it’s light is very welcome back here comrade er …’
The driver broke in: ‘I don’t know your name, my friend …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s …’
Quickly the driver lifted his right hand from the wheel and waggled his fingers in front of the hatch.
Traitor's Gait Page 10
