Northlight q-11

by Adam Hall

  He is the only man I can loathe for his excellence.

  'Put that behind you now,' Fane said, and lit another cigarette. The cat jerked his head up at the flash of the lighter, then went on gorging himself. 'It's turned out well for you: your death is no longer necessary.'

  'Well that's a bit of luck.'

  'Yes, as a matter of fact. We flushed the objective, as we agreed to do, and he is now dead, and by accident. And since they caused it themselves they can hardly say we arranged it, can they?'

  I turned again and walked through the pale blue light, and my shadow flowed like a shroud across the earthen floor. The rage was over now and I felt the chill of stale sweat on me and the iron cold of this place, its metal buried under the new snows. 'So Northlight was a success.'

  'Not quite,' he said.

  I turned to face him. 'You've just said so. The mission was to flush Karasov and get him killed before they could put him under a light, and that's what happened.'

  He was standing very still, the smoke from his cigarette drifting to the edge of the light and then forming tendrils that climbed in the updraught towards the roof. I waited for him to answer, but he was silent.

  'You mean you still have to get me out?'

  'It's not quite that, either.'

  I didn't move.

  'Then why-' but I stopped short. There are questions you should never ask, and perhaps this was one of them. But it circled inside my head.

  Why had he brought me here?

  He watched me steadily. The distance between us was ten or twelve feet, and I noted this subconsciously before I knew why it might suddenly have become important.

  'Have you got an escape route for me?'

  My voice sent an echo from the high metal roof.

  'No.'

  The cat dragged another fish from the smashed crate and crouched over it, tearing at it.

  'Why not?'

  'There hasn't been time.'

  Ten or twelve feet was too far. He'd whipped that gun out very fast indeed when the cat had scared him just now. I could never reach him across this distance if he wanted to do it again.

  Is that what he'd brought me here for?

  What other reason could he have?

  I was still expendable. My freedom, my welfare and my life could still be forfeit, if it would pay Croder, if it would in some way follow the convolutions of this mission to an effective goal.

  But these were logical arguments and they didn't have a lot to do with my thinking, with my being suddenly afraid: it was the cold in this place, the deathly cold, and the pale unearthly light and the silhouette of the gantry with its gallows shape and the way Fane was standing there so still and so silent and above all the terrible understanding that since they'd already written me off in their minds it might be convenient, less expensive, less complicated for them to leave me here in this dead city under the snow.

  Skin crawling at the nape of my neck.

  'So why did you bring me here?'

  23 TEAPARTY

  'The circus, yes. I remember the circus. The clowns. The hot coals shimmered between us.'

  'When was that?' I asked her.

  The ancient face was so lined that her smile was almost lost in it, but it touched her rheumy eyes, lighting them. 'Oh, a long time ago, comrade. A. very long time ago.'

  I took another chestnut and bit into it, feeling the urge to eat as the cat had eaten, the urge to survive. I suppose, if I'd wanted to go totally mad, I could have somehow got old Pussy across the frontier to London and put him in front of the fire, and fed him, and fattened him, and given him the right shots for distemper, turning him into a pet, a Kensington kitty, just for sentiment's sake because we'd once soldiered together in the winter of Murmansk. But that would only be a way of killing him, of bringing him a slow death among the bowls of warm gold top milk and the cushions and the hearthrugs, never again to know the fierce demented joy of seeing those fish come bursting out of that smashed crate and ravaging them, heady with rapture, scattering tails, scales and bones in that frenzied celebration of life renewed.

  'You are from Moscow, comrade?'

  'Yes.'

  'The clowns were the best of all.' She took the poker in her withered hand and stirred the coals, and I tried to see her as she'd been then, wriggling on a board bench under the big spread of canvas, shrill with laughter as the men in their baggy trousers tumbled across the sawdust sixty years ago, seventy. 'I married one of them. One of the clowns.' Her head was going down, until I could only see the bone-yellow forehead below the black shawl. 'It is true what they say. Behind the make-up there is always sadness. And they do not live long.'

  'But they live longer than others, old mother, in our memories. To bring laughter is to light the soul.'

  She wasn't listening. She could span time more easily than I could, and she wasn't with me any more. I left her like that, crouched over her brazier in the midst of the new snows.

  Then I rang Croder.

  'You've got a bloody nerve.'

  It had taken three hours to make the connection, going through the embassy in Moscow and then Cheltenham, using the 909 hotline route.

  'I'm sure you're aware of the situation.'

  His voice came through a lot of background slush but we didn't have to listen for bugs: I'd found this hotel at the end of a street half lost under the snow, with abandoned trucks and rubbish bins making humped white shapes under the lamps. The concierge had gone back to his desk and was asleep again.

  'Yes,' I told Croder, 'I'm aware that since I'm still alive you're asking me to go on working for you.'

  I couldn't catch what he said because of the slush.

  'What?'

  'For us all.'

  Typical of him. Team spirit, so forth, mustn't let the side down.

  'You'll have to find someone else.'

  'Things are too urgent for that.'

  It was the phrase Fane had used; I suppose he'd picked it up from Croder. They'd been in signals just before I'd gone to the warehouse.

  'I brought you here,' Fane had said, 'to tell you I've just heard from London.' The smoke from his cigarette curled from his mouth. 'Something rather interesting has come up.' I didn't ask him what it was. It didn't look, after all, as if he'd brought me here to put a slug into my skull and shove me under the snow. 'The Soviet naval officer, Kirill Zhigalin, who torpedoed the American submarine, was arrested for exceeding his duties. Last night he escaped his escort and disappeared.'

  Zhigalin.

  That was his name? I'd only heard his voice.

  Advise me.

  New position: 17-G on the east grid. You have a kill.

  Keep me advised.

  Did we make a hit? Did we make a hit?

  Confirm. You made a hit. I repeat: you made a hit.

  Lieutenant Kirill Zhigalin.

  A third man running.

  Fane watched me.

  I said: 'That's your problem.'

  'Hardly a problem. It gives us a splendid chance of forcing concessions from the Soviets in Vienna. Karasov is dead, but if we could take Zhigalin across, London would be terribly pleased.'

  'Fuck London.'

  He dropped his cigarette butt with care and put his foot on it. 'I understand your feelings, of course. But you should try to see our point of view. If we can-'

  'No.'

  He shrugged slightly. 'There would be a definite advantage for you if you agreed to-'

  'No.'

  He inclined his head. 'Mr Croder would appreciate it if you'd at least signal him and hear what he's got to-'

  'No.'

  I turned and walked out of the place. And then, because my mind had started to work out all the possibilities, the alternatives, the opportunities, and perhaps because the ancient mother's voice had calmed me with its tales of circuses and clowns while the smoky tang of the chestnuts had reminded me of life renewed, my mood had changed, and I had looked for a small hotel where I could telephone.

 
'The fact that things are urgent,' I told Croder, 'doesn't concern me.'

  'Then why did you signal?'

  'To make a deal, if there's one available.'

  The cubicle stank of cabbage and the dank vestiges of tobacco, and I inched the folding door open, watching the concierge. If he woke up he'd catch the sound of a foreign tongue, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to tip off the militia that a foreigner had come to the hotel to make a telephone call I'd be miles from here before they could take any kind of action: they'd have to get here on foot.

  'What sort of deal?' Croder asked cautiously.

  'I'll take Zhigalin across for you, if you'll set it up. But not with Fane directing me.'

  The slush came in again, and faint voices, one of them speaking in Estonian.

  'Why not?'

  'I want someone I can trust.'

  'He was simply following my instructions.'

  'I know. I want someone who'll refuse your instructions if it becomes expedient again to kill me.'

  Just the slush again. He hadn't liked that. Croder is a great lover of euphemism: eliminated, despatched, so forth. He likes his truths sanitized.

  'That won't occur.'

  'Things can change. Look, if I'm wasting your time, let me know.'

  'On the contrary. But you can't hope to bring Zhigalin across without local control, or even get across without him for that matter.'

  'I know. But I don't want Fane.'

  'There's no one else I could send there, even if there were enough time. And Fane knows the area. He's extremely-' 1 'I want Ferris.'

  The line was pretty bad, and he might not have heard properly. 'Say again?'

  'I want Ferris.'

  Quite a long pause. 'He's in Tokyo.'

  'Then fly him out.'

  'There isn't time.' He waited for me to answer that, but I didn't. I'd told him what I wanted and there was nothing I needed to add. 'It would be very helpful,' Croder went on at last, 'if you would consider the enormous gravity of the world situation. It is, after all, the reason for, your mission.'

  'I haven't had time to read the papers.'

  'Negotiations,' he said slowly, 'have now broken down between Moscow and Washington. The United Kingdom is the last link between the super-powers, and yesterday Lord Cranley flew to Moscow in an aircraft of the Queen's Flight to attempt a last-ditch agreement with the Soviets to freeze the present status of affairs and keep diplomatic relations open until a solution can be found to this crisis. He may not succeed. When I sent you out there, your mission was urgent. Its success, in my informed opinion, is now the only remaining chance of saving the Vienna conference and preventing a cataclysmic severance of East-West relations. Zhigalin is the ace in our hand, and only you can get him for us.'

  I'd been listening to his tone, and even over the longdistance line it was unmistakable. It had the despair of a hushed voice in a graveyard. I didn't know how bad things had got. But it didn't change anything: there was still only one way out.

  'I understand what you're saying, Croder. And I'll get Zhigalin for you — if you'll get me Ferris.'

  'But can't you see-'

  'It's the only way. Are you listening? The only way.'

  'But the logistics-'

  'I'll spell them out for you. There's been heavy snow here but Fane said they've managed to keep a couple of runways open at the airport. It's the only way in from Leningrad: the overland routes are blocked. If it starts snowing again they'll even have to shut down air traffic. Do you understand?'

  In a moment: 'Yes. But-'

  'If you work fast enough you can get Ferris here within twenty-four hours. If you get him here I'll do what I can to bring Zhigalin across. But not unless.'

  'You don't realize-'

  'Not unless. Ferris or nothing.'

  I hung up the receiver.

  The next day it was still dark at noon. The sun wouldn't show on the east horizon for another month, and today there were black snow clouds hanging across the city.

  I'd given the concierge a fifty-ruble note.

  'There's more,' I said, 'but you won't get it if you do anything stupid.' His faded eyes had gazed at me, seeing visions of stolen sable, chamois bags of diamonds, a crate or two of American cigarettes if it was a thin week. This was a major seaport.

  'You'll find me reliable, comrade.'

  This morning I'd got him to light the brass geyser in the only bathroom and fill the bath with hot water so that I could soak my bruises, but the smell of gas got me out before the water had cooled.

  At noon Fane came.

  'How long did it take you to get here?'

  'Most of the morning? He kicked the snow off his boots.

  'I've talked to Croder.'

  He looked up sharply. 'Have you?'

  'All I want to know at this stage is where to find Zhigalin.'

  He lit a cigarette. 'Are you going to take him across?'

  'It depends.'

  'Depends on what?'

  'If they can get Ferris out here.'

  'To direct you?'

  'Yes.'

  He looked down. 'He's very good.'

  'I know.'

  'Did Mr Croder agree?'

  'No. I just left him with the choice.'

  Fane went over to the small cracked window but all he could see was his reflection; it was like night outside. 'Ferris is somewhere in the Far East, I believe.'

  'That's right.'

  'We have to assume he's directing someone there.'

  'Yes.'

  He turned back to face me. 'It's a pretty thin chance.'

  'That's Croder's problem. I don't mind whether it comes down heads or tails.'

  It was a lie and he probably knew that.

  The bulb in the ceiling flickered, and we waited. Power cables were breaking all over the city as the permafrost shifted under the weight of the snow and brought poles down. 'There has not been a winter like it,' the concierge had told me. 'Not in my lifetime.' He'd stared through the glass doors as if at his first Christmas morning.

  'I think you should assume,' Fane said in a moment, 'that they won't be able to get Ferris here in time to do any good.'

  'That's up to them. If they can't, I'm resigning the mission. That means they'll have to fly someone else out here to replace me, and that could take just as long as to send Ferris.'

  'You've given them quite a problem.'

  'That's a shame.'

  He might have known what was in my mind and he might not. I didn't particularly care. The thing was that Croder had his hands full in London trying to set up the mechanics that would give the West an edge over the Soviets in Vienna. He wouldn't have time to get me across on my own, now that Zhigalin had become his new objective. He'd leave me to find my way home alone and the chances of doing that were lethally thin. That was why I'd offered Croder a deal: Zhigalin was my only ticket home.

  'I understand your reasons for asking for Ferris to replace me, of course. But to impose a delay at this very critical stage is at the least dangerous, for you and everyone else. I know this area and I've got all my courier lines and communications still intact. Ferris would have to-'

  'You're wasting your time. I've got absolutely no guarantee that the deal you made with the KGB isn't still exposing me to risk. I don't know that the minute you leave here you won't call them up and tell them where I am. I-'

  'They believe you're dead.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I told them.'

  'I don't know if you're lying, Fane. I don't know how complex Northlight still is, or whether you might not get instructions at any time to wipe me out.'

  He shrugged. 'I can only give you my word.'

  'What the hell is that worth?'

  The cheap tin frame of the picture of Lenin on the wall vibrated to the pitch of my voice and I lowered it. 'On the face of it you want me to meet Zhigalin and get him across the frontier and that sounds simple enough, but on the face of it you wanted me to
meet Karasov and get him across the frontier and what actually happened was that you were sitting here in Murmansk with your fingers in your ears while I was getting into that truck in Kandalaksha and that is why I can't take your word for anything now.'

  He looked down, and it occurred to me that he wasn't in point of fact as cold-blooded as a toad and that he hadn't exactly thrown a party when London had told him to dig a grave for me in Soviet Russia but it didn't make any difference: he'd followed instructions before and he'd do it again.

  'I'm simply warning you,' he said in a moment, 'that you could be driving yourself into a dead end. If London decides it's quicker to send out a replacement for you instead of a replacement for me, we shall be too busy to get you across the border, and you've got a pretty accurate idea of your chances of getting across on your own.'

  'I have.'

  He was silent for a time. He knew the score but he thought there was still a chance of keeping me in the mission without changing my director. There wasn't. Maybe there were other 1 things I could have done if there were time to think about them. There wasn't. This kind of red sector was totally new to me: the local security forces were the primary danger and if a KGB man asked for my papers he could check them with the information that the computers had been spilling out for their all-points bulletin for the past twenty-four hours and come up with the Petr Stepanovich Lein who'd been found half-dead and taken to the General Maritime Hospital and that would be enough to make them take me along to their headquarters, and that would be that because my cover was light: it hadn't been designed to protect me under interrogation.

  The secondary danger was still there in the background. Rinker had got on to me at the hotel and he'd taken a capsule to protect his cell but it hadn't kept them off: they'd been there on the train to Kandalaksha because they wanted Karasov and wanted him desperately. Now they would want Zhigalin. They were running a very sophisticated cell and they had a vital objective: to scuttle the summit conference in Vienna and widen the rift between Moscow and Washington. They would have effective communications in this city and they would know by now that Zhigalin was on the run and they'd expect me to lead them to him just as I'd been expected to lead them to Karasov. Nothing had changed.