by Craig Thomas
"Now, sport, you and me have some talking to do, don't we?"
Vassiliev looked out of the window. Mornington Crescent. The name slowed and materialised, like oil adopting a mould. "I–I knew you would question me," he offered.
Too bloody right, mate! You sold me the wrong stuff, Dmitri — told me Quin was over on your side. Taken away by the bogeymen."
Vassiliev turned at the pressure on his arm and stared at Hyde. Sitting, he was slightly taller than the Australian. His face was thinly imperious for a moment — Hyde, seeing the expression, was strangely chilled — then it subsided quickly into nervousness and apology.
"I am not a member of the KGB, you know that. I am not privy to the things they do. What I told you was a fact. I also heard rumours of who their objective was, I passed these on to you. I can do no more."
Vassiliev glanced away from Hyde, into the lightless tunnel.
"I don't pay you for crap, Dmitri. I don't blackmail you for rubbish. Now, what do you know?"
Vassiliev shook his arm impatiently, and Hyde released it, thrusting his hand into his pocket and slumping more theatrically in his seat, feet on the seat opposite, to the irritation — silent and frightened — of an elderly man.
"I — it is difficult to ask, I can only listen. In the staff restaurant, there is talk of what happened yesterday. I–I am, well, yes, I am almost certain that they are still looking for this Quin — " Hyde listened, every sense aware of the man in the seat next to him. Body temperature coming through the thin sleeve of his windcheater, thigh trembling slightly against Hyde's own, the faint body odour noticeable above the dusty, greasy smells of the carriage and the mothball scent from the old man. The voice, grabbing at sincerity, the breathing somehow artificially fast. The words broken by intelligence rather than emotion; thought-out hesitations. "I have not seen the two men — they were low-grade sleepers, I understand, without accreditation to the embassy — " The officialese flowing now like a broad, uninterrupted stream, but not quite because of habit. Learned, Hyde thought; but he remained silent. Quiver gone from Vassiliev's body. He believed he had acted sufficiently well. "However, there was talk about them, and about the girl — and I'm sure now it is their way of getting to the father —"
"You picked up a lot yesterday and this morning," Hyde remarked laconically.
"I am trying," Vassiliev pleaded, turning his face to Hyde. Mirror of helpfulness, of urgent sincerity. The eyes expressionless. "I knew what you would want. I was as surprised — shocked — as you must have been. What else can I tell you?"
CamdenTown, slowing down outside the window. Hyde swiftly surveyed the passengers on the platform, those who entered their carriage. He could not believe that they would have let Vassiliev out by himself, without a minder, with such an important role to play. But he could not find his companion. What role was he playing, anyway? Why admit that Quin was still at large?
"I want more detail, more information, Dmitri. That's what you can tell me, and I want it tonight."
"I can't do that!"
Hyde stared into the Russian's face. "Yes, you can. Oh yes, you can. After all, you're my creature, I" ve got the arm on you. It's not the other way round, is it?" Hyde watched the face. Mouth sloping downwards in admission, cheekbones colouring slightly with a sense of shame, brow perspiring in tiny silver beads — ignore, the temperature in the carriage and the overcoat explained it — the eyes quizzical, blank, then striving for the hunted look Hyde expected. Finding, losing, catching and holding it. Vassiliev was playing with him, at the orders of the London Resident or one of his senior staff. Again, he felt momentarily chilled.
"Yes, I will try," Vassiliev said mournfully.
Highgate. A moment of silence, no one getting on or off the train. Stillness. Then the doors breathing noisily as they closed again. The lights elongating, the words smudged, the darkness of the tunnel, the walls pressing close to the window. Hyde shook off the awareness of himself, the pressing vulnerability. He was being led by the nose, being set up to do their work for them.
"You're sure?" he asked, staring at his feet.
"Of what?" Vassiliev asked, momentarily confused.
"He hasn't been taken over?"
"The man Quin?"
"Yes."
"No. No, they do not have him." East Finchley. Vassiliev began to look uncomfortable, as if he had entered unexplored territory. "They think the girl will lead them to him. I am sure that is what they think." He looked pleadingly at Hyde.
"You were sure they had him three weeks ago."
"I am sure now. Then, I was wrong. There was no talk, then. This time, there is gossip." He was looking over Hyde's shoulder as the lighted platform slipped away behind them, then he glanced at his watch. "I must get off — I am sure. Mr Hyde, I am sure this time!"
"Okay, okay."
"Gossip, that is all I bring. You know that. You knew that when you — found me"
"Saved your bloody neck, sport — don't forget that."
Vassiliev blushed with dislike. "I do not forget." The train was slowing into Finchley Central. Vassiliev was eager to get up. "Where do we meet tonight, what time?"
Hyde hesitated, then: "The club. Eleven."
"Good — good. Yes, yes, I will be there —" The train had stopped, the doors had slid back. Hyde, shifting his weight, moved his feet and Vassiliev brushed past him, hopping out of the carriage. He immediately lit a cigarette, but Hyde, looking quickly up and down the carriage and the platform, did not consider it a signal. Then Vassiliev hurried into a patch of windy sunlight towards the southbound platform.
Hyde watched him disappear, then settled back in his seat, putting his feet up again. The old man still smelt of mothballs. He closed his eyes. The smell of relatives from England coming out to Wollongong, bringing clothes they hadn't worn for a long time, uncertain of the Australian climate. Big bosoms — Aunti Vi, Auntie Maud, Auntie Ethel — covered by cardigans that smelt of mothballs. He with bare feet and shorts, like an urchin or a school-boy marooned in Australia. Mothballs. And the voices through his bedroom wall, conveying the magic of England, the rain and snow, the television.
Woodside Park. He bolted upright, eyes wide. His spine was cold. The childhood memories, evoked like a cloud of masking ink, faltered and retreated. He was being played. They would be one step behind, or alongside, every moment of the journey.
* * *
Aubrey had not enjoyed Ethan Clark's narrative. It was too easy, and perhaps correct, to regard it as tales out of school. He had lunched with the American, as a protegé of various senior CIA officers of long acquaintance, when Clark had first arrived in London the previous week. At numerous points, he had wanted to protest, request Clark to desist, even to leave. Gradually, however, he had become intrigued, then alarmed.
Clark described the "Delta"-class submarine in the Tanafjord, then his voice faltered and he fell silent. Aubrey, his face gilded by weak sunshine from his office window, sat with his eyes closed and in silence. On an inward screen, he could see Quin's face, and knew that his mind had forged some obscure yet inescapable link between the man and his invention. A link of mutual danger?
"What did Giles Pyott say?" he asked at last.
"He didn't listen —"
"What did he say?"
Clark choked back his anger. "He said," he began slowly, "that it was none of my damn business and that everyone, including my own Navy Department, agreed with sending Proteus in."
"I can hear him saying it, though not quite in those words," Aubrey remarked acidly. "Everyone agrees, through to Brussels?"
"Yes,"
Aubrey sat bolt upright. He appeared unconvinced, even unconcerned, then he said, "You" ve told me about the Russian submarine. Tell me about “Chessboard”. That is important?"
"It is. “Chessboard” could close the Barents to us unless we map it."
"And “Leopard”. That is of inestimable value, you assess?"
"While it's unique and while the Russia
ns don't have it, yes."
"I agree. But, what if, as we discussed the other day, Quin, its developer, is with the Russians?"
"Then the sooner we map “Chessboard”, and use “Leopard” for whatever else we want to know before the Russians develop it themselves, the better."
Then I must tell you, Ethan, that it appears that Quin may not be with the Russians after all. How would that affect your thinking?"
Clark was silent with surprise at first, then with concentration. Clouds played shadow-games across Aubrey's carpet, across the man's head. Then he said. "It makes all the difference."
"You do believe this distress signal is genuine?"
"It — seems to be."
"I see. We know the Russians know about “Leopard”. They must have had someone inside Plessey at some time. They were interested in acquiring Quin's services on a permanent basis. They still are. Perhaps they would like “Leopard” instead?"
"You can't be serious?"
"I am merely speculating. Would you say that Proteus might be endangered by her new orders?"
"It's closer to the Soviet Union."
"Is that why you are so disturbed by all of this?" Aubrey snapped. "Or is it because you don't like Giles Pyott or the people at the Admiralty?" Aubrey's face was fierce, even contemptuous.
"Look, I came to you in good faith —"
"You came to me to moan about your lot!"
"The hell with you, Mr Aubrey!" Clark made as if to rise.
"Sit down, Ethan!" Aubrey had turned to his desk again. His hands were calm and unmoving as they rested on its edge. "Sit down."
"Sorry—"
"Not at all. You came to me because you do feel Proteus might be endangered by her new mission. I did not like her sailing orders in the first place. I wanted her kept at sea undergoing trials, or in safe harbour, until the matter of Quin was resolved. I wished “Leopard” removed from Proteus until such time as Quin was either recovered or known to be lost to us. I was ignored — overruled. It really isn't my field, you know." Aubrey smiled. "The trouble is, MoD is occasionally — and this is one of those occasions — filled with a few too many clots for my liking or reassurance. Giles Pyott is a clever, experienced soldier. He is also a Cavalier rather than a Roundhead. I have always seen myself in the New Model Army rather than Prince Rupert's cavalry. It always seemed much more sensibly organised, and much safer — " Clark, invited to return Aubrey's dazzling, self-deprecatory smile, did so. Apparently, he had been tested, and passed. He bore Aubrey no resentment. "My problem is that I find it hard to distinguish between death rays emitting purple light and anti-sonar systems and sonar carpets laid in the Barents Sea. However, we must turn our hand to the work that presents itself." He studied Clark. "We have one extant “Leopard” system, in one British submarine, engaged upon a task of singular importance. We have one missing scientist. Until the one stray lamb is returned to the fold, I suggest we don't let the other one loose. Don't you?"
"What can you do?"
"I wonder. I would like to stop Proteus — I would like to find Quin. Ethan, I trust your judgement. I trust those intuitions that a man like Pyott would not countenance. You have worked in intelligence, he has not. We are all chronically suspicious, perhaps paranoid. However, you and I and the others like us are all we have. Perhaps all “Leopard” has. Hm. Go back to the Admiralty, apologise to Giles Pyott — yes, please — and then keep your eyes and ears open. Ring me tonight —"
The intercom's buzz interrupted him. His secretary announced the arrival of some sandwiches and the imminence of a pot of coffee. Aubrey ordered her in. Before the door opened, Clark said swiftly. "What can you do?"
"I don't know, Ethan. Unfortunately, I shall have to do something, or else I shall begin sleeping badly at night. Ah, coffee and sandwiches — splendid!"
* * *
"We" ve got her."
"When?" Dolohov asked as Sergei closed the door of the Ops. Room behind him.
"Only minutes ago. The satellite's had terrible trouble with the cloud cover —"
"Show me. Admiral — " Dolohov nodded to the Ops. Room commander, then almost snatched the folded chart overlain with its sheet of developed infra-red film. Poor, pale smudges, like smeared rust or very old blood.
"The pattern's changed, as you can see." Sergei was leaning over Dolohov's shoulder. His finger tapped the sheet over the chart. "This was her three hours ago — same intermittent smudges, her mapping course, enough for us to tell she was still following the same search pattern. Then here we think there was another trace — " The smear was almost invisible. Dolohov did not move the chart closer to his face. “Then nothing for two hours, then this — then another fifty-four minutes before we got this." It was like the last ember of a dying fire. It was out of the random yet sequential pattern, and it had moved south and east of the other smears.
"You're certain?" Dolohov was looking at the rear-admiral.
"We" ve used sonar in that area, and we got nothing. If it is a submarine, then it is the British ship."
"Excellent! It works, how well it works, mm?"
"Too well."
"Come, Admiral — no sour grapes. You have a computer prediction on speed and course?"
"We have one, based on the last three traces. We need at least two more to be at all accurate."
"Show me, man, show me!"
One of the rear-admiral's aides scuttled into the control room, Dolohov leaned over the rail of the gantry. As he watched, the rear-admiral joined him. Then a curving line appeared on the projection below, from a position far out in the Barents Sea, making south and east towards the Tanafjord. It rendezvoused with the imaginary Soviet submarine trapped in the fjord.
"In excess of thirty hours," the rear-admiral murmured, "and no longer than thirty-six. That's the best we can do without another infra-red fix from the satellite. For the moment, she's disappeared again. Possibly cloud again."
"Good man," Dolohov said incongruously. He gripped the rear-admiral's shoulder. The man was considerably younger than himself, bespectacled and clerkish. A computer expert, perhaps, an academic; scientist rather than sailor. Nevertheless, at that moment Dolohov felt an unaccustomed affinity with the man. "Good man." He turned to Sergei. "Call Leningrad. Whether they're at the Grechko Academy or the Frunze Naval School, I want Ardenyev and his team informed at once. They will depart for Murmansk immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Dolohov turned back to the rear-admiral. "Keep up the good work. If the Red Banner Special Underwater Operations Unit does its job as well as you are doing yours, then nothing can go wrong!" He laughed throatily. "Excellent, excellent! I don't care what success the KGB has now in finding the man Quin — we will be able to present Moscow with Quin's toy. The man himself will have no value, and we shall enjoy the sunshine. Excellent, excellent!" His continued laughter caused one of the map table operators to look up.
* * *
The strip club was a short walk from Oxford Street, hunched in a narrow side street on the edge of Soho, as if aspiring to membership of that district, or recently expelled from it. Hyde had used it as a meeting place with Vassiliev because clubs of its type attracted the diplomats and officials of East European embassies, especially early on in their tours of duty, and even if Vassiliev had been under surveillance by his own people, such visits would have been regarded as misdemeanours rather than as suspicious or dangerous.
Hyde glanced at the membership ledger, having bribed the doorman. One or two new members that evening, but it told him nothing. They might be Vassiliev's friends, or football fans or businessmen staying overnight in London. Vassiliev's friends would have ensured their membership some time earlier, if this was an entrapment exercise. Hyde did not consider it was. They wanted him running, moving with apparent freedom. He went down the steps beneath a dim green under-sea light, the mingled odour of sweat, smoke and tawdriness coming up to meet him. The door opened to admit him — he had heard the buzzer sound from the doorman's
cubicle as he began his descent.
Disco music thumped against his ears, flat, enervating, unmemorable. Strobe lights played over the heads of the audience. The tiny stage was empty, but there was a narrow bed lit by a silvery, ghostly light at the back of it. Hyde remained by the door. The large man with cropped hair wearing an out-of-style dinner jacket loomed at his shoulder. Hyde suspected he knew his profession and did not confuse him with the Vice Squad or CID. At worst, he would assume him to be Security rather than Intelligence.
It did not matter. Rather, it legitimised the club, provided a governmental patron.
There were only a small number of people waiting for the next bout on the stage. Vassiliev — he saw as his eyes accustomed themselves to the peculiar, winking gloom — was in a corner, near the stage, mournfully staring into a glass. There seemed no one who had noticed, or become concerned at, his entrance. He threaded his way between the tables with their grubby cloths and expensive drinks towards Vassiliev. The Russian seemed relieved to see him. If there were other emotions, conflicting ones, then the strobe flicker hid them. Hyde settled in a chair which faced the door, and immediately a waiter appeared at his side. No girls on the floor of the club, no hostesses. A curious puritanism pervaded the place. Untouchable, flaunting, indescribably crude, silicon-enhanced, the women came and went on the stage, separate and inviolable.
Near them, the pianist resumed his seat. The drummer rolled softly, as if communicating with his drums. A bass player leaned tiredly over the neck and shoulders of his instrument. All of them appeared to be awaiting some summons to Ronnie's in Frith Street, two blocks away. Most of the girls stripped to records, anyway. Hyde ordered a beer. It came in a half-pint glass, and there was no change from his pound note. He clicked his tongue and winked at the waiter.
