by Craig Thomas
"Thank you, Captain Clark." Aubrey turned to Pyott and the commodore, who had now joined them. Behind them, the junior officers formed a knot of silent supporters. "Is it because I am a mere layman that these Soviet naval dispositions frighten me, make me leap to one conclusion, and only one?" He paused, but there was no murmur of reply. He continued: "Gentlemen, it would seem obvious to me that the Soviets have at least surmised that Proteus is in the area and making for Tanafjord. This activity is not directed towards the rescue of the crippled submarine. What is intended I do not propose to guess. If anything happens to Proteus, I am now required to accept responsibility. If I can prevent it, nothing untoward will happen. Clark, come with me. We apparently require the cooperation of the Chief of Air staff. Commodore, a secure line, if you please."
"Thank God for sanity," Clark whispered. Aubrey turned on him.
"Ethan, it may already be too late. It is simply a matter of deciding tenses, from what you have shown me. Proteus is walking into — has walked into — a trap. Pray that the present tense still applies!"
* * *
A bright yellow TR7. It was an easy car in which to be tailed, and the two men in the Ford Granada had stuck to him from Edgbaston through the centre of Birmingham — even in the afternoon traffic — and out on to the M6 motorway. Standing in the doorway of the café near the college, the Melody Maker tucked under his arm, one hand disguising the burping indigestion that the sausage and chips had given him, he had seen the car parked across the street from his own. It had U-turned and followed him. He had never lost sight of it in his mirror, and they had never lost sight of him.
Thus he passed his turn-off eight miles further back towards Birmingham, and now the signs indicated the next service area. He signalled, and pulled off the M6, up the slope into the car park. He got out of the car without glancing at the Granada sliding into an empty place twenty yards from him, and went into the foyer of the building. He slipped into the toilet, walked the length of it, and exited through the second door, leading out again to the car park from the side of the building. He approached the corner slowly, peering round it. One of the two men was standing by the Granada, the other was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, he had followed Hyde into the service station.
Hyde waited impatiently. If the second man didn't move almost at once, he would have to go back into the toilet and attempt to shake them later. And now impatience was a nagging toothache. The man by the Granada was smoking, and picking at his teeth with the hand that held the cigarette. Come on, come on —
The man patted his stomach, which was ample, resting over the lip of his waistband. He hesitated, then he drifted towards the shop at the front of the building, moving with angering slowness out of Hyde's line of vision.
Hyde began running then. He reached the TR7, jerked open the door, and slid into the low seat. He had left the keys in the ignition. He started the engine, and squealed in reverse out of his parking space, swinging the car towards the car-park's exit. In the wing mirror, for a moment, the running figure of the fatter man, then the other emerging from the building behind him, yelling. Then he was down the slope and into the entry lane. He pulled out in front of a heavy lorry, and stamped on the accelerator. The next exit from the M6 was two miles away. He would lose them there, then double back to his intended destination. The speedometer registered ninety. He was still breathing hard, but he was grinning.
* * *
Hyde turned the TR7 into the most convenient car-park for Hall 5 of the National Exhibition Centre. The fountain in the middle of the artificial lake in front of the huge hotel complex looked cold and stiff, like dead, blowing grass. It had taken him almost an hour to backtrack the twelve miles or so to the NEC site. He had not been followed through the suburbs of Coventry, back towards the airport. They might — just might — have assumed that he was heading east, towards the M1.
Streamers bearing slogans. A queue had formed already, sleeping bags were in evidence, denim like a uniform or prison garb, combat jackets blazoned with insignia, out-of-style long hair worn by many. The audience, or part of it at least, for Heat of the Day's concert at the NEC, kick-off at eight o" clock. It was now almost five. Edwin Shirley's trucks were already unloading the sound and light equipment. Policemen.
Hyde showed his CID warrant card, and was allowed through the cordon. He immediately picked out Fat Mary, one of the formerly much-publicised road crew. Many of the faces seemed half-familiar from television documentaries when Heat of the Day were on their pinnacle. They had come back like lost disciples.
"Excuse me —"
"Piss off," the fat girl replied.
"Police, darling." He tiredly waved the warrant card.
"Nobody's carrying."
"I'm not interested. Are the band here?"
"Two hours yet. Want some autographs?" She watched two of the road crew carrying a huge mirror, and bellowed, "For Christ's sake, haven't you got all the mirrors up yet?"
"No autographs. Tell me — is Tricia Quin with them?"
A flicker, like a wasp sting, at the corner of her mouth, then the sullen look returned. "Who?"
"Tricia Quin. She was with you on the Europe tour two years ago. Her brother knew Jon."
"Oh, yes. I remember. No, haven't seen her. It's not all the same as before, you know."
"I don't suppose it is. She's not with them, then?" The fat girl shook her head. Her pendulous breasts distorted the claim on her T-shirt that she had attended the University of California. "Perhaps I'll stick around. Collect a few autographs."
"Or a few smokers."
"Who knows, Fat Mary." The girl seemed pleased at the use of her name, the recollection of a former, half-celebrity status. "Keep it in your pocket, not in your mouth. See you." The girl scowled after him.
Tricia Quin, unless he was mistaken — no, he wasn't — was with the band. Two hours seemed an intolerable length of time.
* * *
The one-time code message was lengthy, and even the computer's rendering of it into plain seemed to occupy far more time than was usually the case. Even so, when the KGB Resident Petrunin possessed the plain-language text, irritation immediately replaced impatience. He felt hampered by his instructions from Moscow Centre at the same time that he wished, fervently, to comply with those orders.
He left the code room in the embassy basement and took the lift to his office. At any cost — immediately. The girl. It was almost demeaning that an unavoidable test of competence and loyalty should have as its object an immature girl unable to cope with growing up. And it was infuriating that superior officers as eminent as the Deputy Chairman responsible for the KGB's 2nd Chief Directorate should indulge in some vulgar, glory-seeking race against the Red Banner Northern Fleet to see who could first acquire "Leopard" for the Soviet Union. All those old men belonged to the same class, the same era. Dolohov appears confident the submarine is sailing into his trap. You have little time. The girl, the girl —
He locked the door of his office behind him, and flung the high-security document case on to one of the armchairs. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood at the window. Lowering clouds, pulled across the sky by a fierce wind. Trees bending.
Damn those clowns in Birmingham, losing Hyde. Correction. Letting Hyde lose them. Hyde was the key, even more so than the girl. And he was at one further move from Quin, and that was another cause of anger at the unfairness of the task set him. Hyde must know something, must have discovered some clue as to the girl's whereabouts, otherwise he would not have bothered to shake the tail.
What did he know?
The girl student, the mother? Either of them? Something popping into his head as he was driving out of Birmingham? Tamas Petrunin grinned. It was impossible to know. Interesting to speculate. It was what he enjoyed. Guesswork. He rubbed his hands together, and turned his back to the window where the wind rustled tinnily outside the double glazing. Birmingham. He couldn't send anyone to see the girl Morrison, nor the mother. Not so so
on after Hyde. And it might not be necessary.
Birmingham. When did he spot the tail car? Petrunin opened the wad of newspapers on his desk. Normally, they would be sent down to junior staff for analysis, but Petrunin often liked to glance through the provincial newspapers for evidence of KGB activity, actual or potential. The Birmingham Post. A rather stuffy, empty paper. He flicked through the pages. Nothing. The Evening Mail. Nothing. Hyde would not expect to find the girl at a football match.
Then where? Where would he expect to find the girl? Be Hyde, he instructed himself. Talking to the mother and the friend, then suddenly there is something to cling to, some chance of finding the girl. And the need to shake the surveillance he had discovered — clowns.
Where?
He returned to the newspapers. The girl now. What did he know about her? He crossed with rapid, bustling steps to a large filing cabinet against the far wall of the office, wood-veneered so that its function did not obtrude upon the room. He opened one drawer and removed the file on Quin's daughter. A narrow, shadowy file. He carried it back to his desk, dumping most of the newspapers on the carpet, leaving open the two Birmingham dailies. Where would Hyde expect to meet the girl?
Movements in Birmingham: he scanned the digest in the file. Clubs, pubs, cinemas, one or two exhibitions, concerts, visits to her mother. Dull stuff.
Social habits: clubs, pubs, cinemas. Sexual behaviour: Petrunin scanned the itemised digest. For the last two years, one or two casual, short-lived relationships within the college, a very brief affair with one of her lecturers, then a teacher she met while on teaching practice. Hyde had had Birmingham detectives question all these people. No one had seen her recently. When she ended an affair, she never revisited the scene of the crime. Petrunin savoured the epithet, then grew angry at the truism it contained. It was true that the girl never went back.
Alletson? Oh, the pop singer. The big affair, travelling with the pop group from place to place. Her parents had been worried by that, from all accounts. Soft drugs, promiscuity. A nightmare in Sutton Coldfield. Again, Petrunin grinned. Even Alletson had failed to make any lasting impression upon the girl. A pity.
Psychological Profile: a fine example to us all, he told himself. He skimmed through it. He already knew the girl, as well as she could be known at second hand, and even though her background and past history prompted him to indulge in stereotypes to account for her — she so easily fitted Western and Soviet myths about modern youth and permissive societies — he was certain that there was nothing in the Profile to explain why Hyde had charged off in his little yellow car.
He slapped the file back on his desk. He knew it almost by heart, it had been the merest illusion to assume that the answer would spring from its flimsy sheets. Had she been his own daughter — as he supposed she could have been, in age at least — he would have no real clue to her whereabouts. As KGB Resident, he could not walk around in her head with ease or certainty. Hyde's head bore more similarity to his own.
Where?
The newspapers. He put the file to one side. Football, cinemas, factories on strike, a Royal visit proposed for later in the year — the appropriateness of the blank crossword — share prices…
He folded the morning paper to one side, and returned to the tabloid evening newspaper from the previous day. Grinning beauty queen, footballer with arms raised gladiatorially. Cinemas, clubs, discos, concerts.
The print began to blur. He knew he was not going to find it. Picture of a queue of people, sleeping bags, combat jackets, long hair. He wasn't going to find it. Pop concert at the National Exhibition Centre. Headline to the picture caption, "Who are we waiting for?"
He flicked over the page, then the next page, before what he thought he had not bothered to read entered his consciousness and immediately caused his heart to thud and his hand to tremble. He creased the pages of the paper turning back to the picture and its caption. Other, smaller pictures underneath, of course. The heroes of yesterday. Heat of the Day. Alletson, the girl's lover. Long hair and soft, almost feminine features. The NEC, Birmingham, concert tonight.
He laughed aloud, congratulating himself. Accident, luck, good fortune, chance never disturbed him. He had placed himself in the way of it. Hyde had stumbled across this in the same kind of way. Something the Morrison girl said, or the mother, or two years ago merely popping into his head.
Whether the girl would be there or not, Hyde would. That was a certainty, and perhaps the only one. In which case, Tamas Petrunin would also be there. He looked at his watch. After five-thirty. He calculated. Just time, if they could get out of the centre of London without delay, to the M1. Just time —
* * *
"Is that extra signals traffic co-ordinated?"
"Sir," Sergei answered. The young aide swallowed a mouthful of bread before he answered Dolohov. Then, finding it stuck in his throat, he washed it down with tea. One corner of the Ops. Room control centre had become a preserve, marked off by invisible fences — authority, nerves, tension — from the normal staff. Around a metal chart table, Dolohov, Sergei and Ardenyev sat drinking tea and eating bread and cheese. There was something spartan and disregarded about the food and drink with which Dolohov kept them supplied, as if the three of them were engaged in the field, kept going by survival rations. Sergei began slowly to understand the feverish, self-indulgent manner in which the admiral regarded the operation. The admiral was an old man. He had selected this capture of the British submarine as some kind of suitable valediction to his long and distinguished career. Hence he attended to every detail of it himself, however small and insignificant.
"Just in case," Dolohov explained to Ardenyev, the young man nodding in a half-impatient, half-attentive manner, "in case she receives any signals, or monitors our signals, we'll appear to be making every covert effort to reach, and rescue, our own submarine." He smiled, the mouth opening like a slack pouch in the leathery skin.
"I understand, sir," Ardenyev supplied.
"You're impressed by the British equipment, Valery?"
Ardenyev paused. Sergei felt he was calculating the degree of flattery his answer should contain. "Very. We must have it, sir."
"Yes, yes — but, its effectiveness? It exceeds our expectations, mm?"
"Yes, sir."
"She'll keep on course?" Dolohov asked suddenly.
"I — think so, sir." Ardenyev seemed struck by the idea, as if he had not considered it before. "I think so. She's committed, now, under orders."
"Our activity won't discourage her?"
"I doubt that. The captain of the Proteus would have the authority to abort — I just don't think he will. As long as “Leopard” functions, he'll enjoy the cat-and-mouse of it."
"Exactly my reading of the man — of the situation." Dolohov looked at his watch. "She appears to be maintaining course and speed. We have five hours, or less. Success or failure." Sergei could hear the admiral's breathing. Hoarse gulps of air, as if the sterile atmosphere of the control room offered something more necessary than oxygen. "You'd better get off to Pechenga to join your men, Valery."
Ardenyev immediately stood up, an automaton galvanised by the order. Sergei felt the man was simply supplying an impression of instant action such as Dolohov would expect, had waited for.
"Wish me luck, sir."
Dolohov stood up and embraced the young man. "I do, Valery — I wish you luck. Bring me back the British submarine, eh?" He clamped Ardenyev's forearms again with his liver-spotted hands. Ardenyev felt the strength of desperation in the embrace. And of old age refusing to admit the growing dark. He felt sorry, and irritated. He felt himself no more than Dolohov's creature. Later, it would be different, but now it was unpleasant. He would be glad to be aboard the chopper, being flown to the port of Pechenga. "The weather won't prevent you?" It was a command, and a doubt.
Ardenyev shook his head, smiling. "Not if I can help it."
"Report in when you arrive — then wait for my order to transfer to the Karpa
ty."
"Of course, sir."
When he had left the room, Dolohov went on staring at the door which had closed behind him. From the concentration on his face, Sergei understood that the old man was attempting to ignore the voice of one of the rear-admiral's team who was reading off the updated weather report from a met. satellite for the Tanafjord area. To Sergei, it sounded bad.
* * *
Almost as soon as it lifted clear of the main runway at RAF Kinloss on the Moray Firth in Scotland, the Nimrod surveillance aircraft turned north-eastwards, out over the Firth, and was lost in the low cloud. A blue flare beneath the wings, the flashing red light on her belly, the two faint stars at wingtips, and then nothing except the scudding cloud across the cold grey water, and the driving, slanting rain. It had taken less than two hours to authorise a Nimrod to pursue the Proteus, carrying, in addition to her antisubmarine electronics, the encoded instruction to the submarine to return to base with all possible speed. The time was two minutes after six in the evening.
* * *
It was almost dark when they arrived. A luxury coach pulled up at one of the rear entrances to Hall 5, and Hyde, standing with the uniformed superintendent responsible for security and order at the rock concert, watched as Heat of the Day descended from it and slipped into the open door to their dressing rooms. Arrogance, self-assurance, denim-masked wealth. Hyde absorbed these impressions even as he studied the figures he did not recognise; managers, road managers, publicity, secretaries. The girl had not been with Alletson, and Hyde's immediate uncontrollable reaction was one of intense disappointment. After the hours in the car park and on the platforms of Birmingham International station and inside and outside Hall 5 — all with no sign of the KGB or the Ford Granada, but the more intensely wearing for that — there was an immediate impression of wasted time, of time run out. Of stupidity, too.
