by Thomas Craig
"Just like that? An American spy you just stumbled across? How much do they know?"
"I'm — not sure. Enough, certainly, to send Gant to collect him."
Serov considered his next words for some moments, then said: "We must get them back. We must know everything the Americans know. You — you're to be congratulated, Priabin — and you, Lieutenant. Both of you. Yes — congratulated. You've saved — the secrecy. The Americans evidently have nothing, otherwise they wouldn't want this bundle of rubbish in the corner. Yes." He turned to Gant and his guard. "Get him outside. Shoot to wound if he doesn't go quietly — quickly, man. You — take this spy with the American. Get moving."
Priabin studied Gant's face. Complete failure was clearly branded on it. All.anger and fear had died. Priabin attempted to feel satisfaction that Gant, though living, was a prisoner with only a brief and violent future before him. The satisfaction would not come.
Rodin. Valery Rodin. Lightning. That was what he had to do now. He had to accompany Serov, make his report, try to leave as quickly as possible. This complicated matters. Damn Serov's stumbling across Gant now. He had to make that Moscow flight in the morning. His head whirled with anxieties. Serov was dangerous, though distracted for the moment by his two prisoners. The weight, the enormity of Lightning, lurched against Priabin's frame as physically as an assault. He had to be calm, and careful, and get to Rodin as soon as he could.
He followed Serov and Katya out of the cabin, ducking his head as he went through the doors. The wind hurled itself at him. The dogs accompanied the prisoners, growling and yapping. Tail-less
Dobermans. Gant and Kedrov were surrounded by armed GRU troops as they were ushered along the rotting jetty. A Mil-8 transport helicopter stood on the ice fifty yards away. Gant had lost, Kedrov had lost.
He had to win. Had to.
Could not, not now—
Priabin gagged, feeling his throat hot with nausea. He pressed his gloved hand over his mouth, tried to swallow; felt his stomach surge again and again with shock, and growing, virulent fear for himself. The lock picks dangled from his other hand, ignored. He tasted sickness, and saliva, then swallowed and tried to calm his body, his sense of his own danger.
When there had been no answer to the bell, to his knocking, he had anticipated something bad, but not this.
Rodin's skin was cold, white-blue. The empty pill bottle lay betrayingly beside the rumpled bed. Priabin did not believe its statement — it was too obvious. So they knew.
He backed away from the bed, withdrew unsteadily from the bedroom, flicking off the lights and turning in one movement, ready to fly the scene. The living room was gray with the morning's first slow, leaking light. The furniture assumed vague contours, a half life. He went to the window from which he had watched Rodin. Scanned the block of flats, the curtained windows, the stained concrete; a light here and there, most of the flats still in darkness. It was six in the morning. Two hours before the Moscow flight left. He had come to collect Rodin and found him dead.
No bruising, but the throat was slightly raw. He knew what had been done and by whom. Serov, Serov, who had seemed willing to credit the KGB with the capture of Gant and Kedrov, seemed careless to detain him, even ordered him home for a well-earned sleep… a bluff heartiness… false, just an act. Katya he'd kept behind like a schoolgirl while she wrote out her report on Kedrov. Himself he'd allowed—
— to come and witness what had been done. Rodin killed easily, quickly, faked to look like suicide.
He was alone with the secret of Lightning. Gant was insignificant, Anna's memory was not apparent anywhere in the cavern of his thoughts. It was only himself, his life — or death — he admitted slowly. He was his only concern. Serov held him in his hand, he already knew everything.
Then get out. Get that flight to Moscow. Get out — now.
Proof?
They would have to listen.
Five after six. Call the airport, check that the flight isn't delayed, then get out. Trap. The thought loomed. Serov's people could already be outside, already on the stairs. He looked out of the window. No, nothing yet. Call the airport.
He picked up the receiver with a gloved hand. After touching Rodin's cold face, his stiff jaw, his neck where there was no pulse, he had replaced his gloves… then the gagging nausea had risen to his throat, minutes after he had entered the apartment.
He was sweating inside his overcoat. The central heating had come on, the flat was warming up. The curtains in the bedroom were open, people would see Rodin lying there and disapprove. Eventually, someone would report his not having moved for hours or days. Draw the curtains across — no, leave everything just as it was, you were never here.
"The Moscow flight," he blurted as soon as the woman at the check-in desk identified herself. Aeroflot. "Is it scheduled to leave at the usual—?"
"No flights will be leaving today."
"Listen," he snapped, knowing the circumstance even before it was explained. "This is Colonel Priabin, KGB. I have a seat reserved on the Moscow flight. What time does it leave?"
"I–I'm sorry, comrade Colonel. All flights have been canceled."
"What?" He looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. Dawn sliding across the carpet like a slow gray tide lapping near his boots. The room constrained him. Already? Already? It shouldn't happen yet.
"The usual emergency, sir. Just been brought forward twenty-four hours. Routine, comrade Colonel. I'm sorry if you—"
"I have the most urgent meeting in Moscow today!" he bellowed.
Frosty tone, then. "I'm sorry, comrade Colonel. We have our orders here."
"Yes, yes. Let me speak to someone in authority, he began to say in his mind, but the order slipped away. It was pointless. "I understand," he said. "Code Green has been initiated a day early. I understand. Thank you." He put down the receiver thoughtfully, his hand moving in a slower, simpler world than his thoughts.
He had to get out. Code Green, the usual security measures surrounding any launch at Baikonur. The whole of the complex became isolated from the rest of the country; no flights in or out, no trains, no radio or telephone contact. But this was twenty-four hours early- This was Serov.
Effectively, he was already bottled up inside the Baikonur complex, cut off from Moscow. There was no other reason than lightning for imposing normal launch security a whole day early; there could be no other reason. He tried to think, to consider rationally, but the effort of it made him more fearful. His body seemed to fill with it; mercury mounting in a thermometer.
He found himself at the bedroom door. His hand flicked on the lights. Soft pink warmth from the bedside lamp shades, Rodin's face still and aristocratic in profile, his limbs easy on the rumpled bed. There was no proof — that had been eradicated.
… remember. It was difficult. He concentrated on the corpse. Remember what? Kedrov and Gant were a huge, blank wall between himself and the recent past. What was there, on the other side, when he had talked to — to this here, on the bed, when it had still lived? What?
… proof, proof, proof…
The tape! He had been wired for sound, it was all on tape! Mikhail had the tape, he had intended taking it to Moscow, they could identify Rodin's voice, surely? It was some kind of proof, it would force them to begin to act.
Mikhail. Priabin glanced at his watch. He'd be at home now, keeping his head down as ordered. Tape—
— flight canceled. No trains, no radio, no telephone. Roads— perhaps the roads. He had only to get as far as the nearest KGB office outside the complex, in — in Aral'sk, two hours, a little more, by car. Six-eighteen, hurry.
The fear would not go away, not even diminish amid the exhibition of imminent action. He left the bedroom door ajar as he had found it, switching off the lights. Rodin's body retreated into shadow, but the corpse was not so distant now, not so removed — he W the boy's voice on tape, he still had Lightning. He hurried into the hallway, carefully opening the front door. The corridor outside w*s empty.
He took the stairs quickly, but not in panic. He did not wish to be remembered, timed, and logged by the janitor, who might be working for Serov.
Outside, the leaking daylight was bleak, and a wind flew into his face. Hurry.
* * *
Gennadi Serov regretted leaving Kedrov and the American, even for this journey, this call. They had become the center of the game; the essence of success. Proof that the Americans had no proof, that the whole business was still secure, intact. And Kedrov, with his hanging, victims face, pleased Serov and tempted him. He would gut Kedrov the technician, the spy, like a fish; fillet him with drugs or violence — the method did not matter, only the execution of the thing.
He stepped out of his staff car. The wind tugged a few isolated clouds across the lightening sky. The block of flats appeared shabby, crouched at the side of the highway. Behind him, the road narrowed across the flat country toward the distant gantries and launch towers and radio masts scribbled on the horizon. Smoke hung over Tyuratam to the southeast, other factory complexes smeared the sky with fumes as separate and identifiable as fingerprints left on glass. He studied the flats. A car started up and pulled away from the garages at the rear. It headed west along the highway, its exhaust signaling in the chilly morning air. It passed the low restaurant, the shops, the other blocks of flats.
One of the members of Priabin's surveillance team, who had watched the little bitch Rodin, lived in this block. Serov rubbed his hands together, as if in anticipation of a welcome. He walked rapidly away from the car, motioning his driver and his team in the second car to remain where they were. He waved the walkie-talkie at them to signify his confidence. He pushed open the glass doors of the block, entered its carpeted lobby. Thin nylon carpet, but carpet. Security people, some technicians, factory managers lived there. They qualified for lobby carpet, for two bedrooms each in some cases, and for proximity to a beriozhka shop, where they could buy "luxuries," and a restaurant. And cars — quite a number of them parked in front of the flats, more in the garages behind. There was also a janitor, who indicated Serov's presence by tactfully ignoring it, having identified the uniform and the rank.
The elevator door opened. Graffiti on the walls like a challenge to him, harmless though it was. Some driveling, misspelled protestation of love, another of sex; some comment on a soccer team, 00 the army. He ascended to the third floor.
A woman in the corridor, coming out of the door he wanted, saying good-bye to her friend. A drab, frightened, worn woman, & if recently bereaved, two children with lost faces, the small boy still eating a slice of toast. Jam on his cheek. He let the woman and her children pass, studied the door the woman opened, read the name of the occupants — Zhikin — smiled.
He realized the other woman was watching him. Hardly alarmed, more curious. He touched the peak of his cap with the glove he held in his hand.
"Your husband — Officer Mikhail Shubin — is. he at home?" he asked with brisk authority.
"Comrade Colonel, I—" the woman began. His tone had not been intended to disarm, and it had not done so. Her eyes were alert, shadowed with the expectation of concern.
"You must know," Serov insisted. "My name is Serov. GRU commandant here," he added carelessly. "I wish to speak with your husband."
He had already moved close to her. He could smell bedclothes still, and cooking. Cigarette smoke, too. He was allowed to all but pass her before she squeezed against him and they walked almost comically down the linoleumed corridor toward the flat's kitchen, close together, as if he held her in the crook of one arm. Serov was amused as she seemed to wish to scamper ahead, warn—
— Shubin, it had to be him, was sitting tousle-haired at the foldaway table erected against one wall of the cramped kitchen. Coffee steamed in front of him, the stove steamed with something boiling — eggs perhaps? Serov recorded the details with the eye of a painter. Cracked and discolored linoleum on the floor, a child seated on Shubin's lap, rolling a small toy car across the morning's copy of Pravda open on the tablecloth. Cloth — clean, too, and not oilcloth or newspaper. Precisely, Serov noted the fine gradations that would have told him, had he not already known, the rank, income, privileges of the man at the table. Condensation from the boiling water covered the window. The woman moved to the saucepan — yes, Serov could hear eggs bumping softly against its metal — and turned down the gas.
"Mikhail," she began in a remonstrative tone, then continued, Colonel Serov."
Shubin placed the child on the table. One of his large hands held the toy car, the other rubbed his head. His eyes, however, were furtive and quick. Serov felt pleasure rise as tangibly as the steam in the kitchen.
"Comrade Colonel," Mikhail acknowledged, nodding his head almost in what might have been a bow. "What can I—?"
Serov held up his hand, sitting immediately at the table. Shubin collected his child in his arms, and he, too, sat down. The eggs stopped tapping against each other and the sides of the saucepan. The woman tended them with concentration; placed slices of bread on the grill pan, slid it noisily under the gas, which she lit with a plop—
— which made Shubin's hand jump. Serov thought of Viktor Zhikin's widow two doors away, and her children, and considered the eventual, inevitable absence of this man from this scene.
"Shubin, I won't beat about the bush, I'll come straight to the point," he announced, clearing his throat, laying his gloves on the table, near the now ignored toy car.
"Coffee, Colonel?" the woman asked from her position at the stove.
"Thank you. Black."
Shubin lit a cigarette. Puffed at it nervously. Serov felt Priabin must have confided in the man, or there was a record of what was said — and there'd been a warning, too. The strain of appearing calm was creasing Mikhail's face into hard, tight lines. He smoothed his hair again where the boy's hands had disturbed it; as if waiting for an interview. He needed to feel tidy. Serov glanced very obviously at the man's felt slippers, at the bottoms of his pajama trousers, at the robe. All weaknesses, disadvantages. Serov all but sighed aloud, anticipating the ease with which he would obtain what he wanted.
A kettle boiled, further clouding the window. The woman brought his coffee, in a cup, unpatterned but china, not in a mug like her husband was using.
"Sugar?"
He raised one hand to refuse. Shubin swallowed coffee quickly. Then Serov said: "You and one of your fellow officers maintained surveillance on a certain apartment in the old town until the early hours of this morning — that is correct?"
Shubin swallowed. He had a prominent Adam's apple, which bobbed as he swallowed his renewed fear. He attempted to shake his head. The little boy had picked up his toy, and one of Serov's gloves. Serov reached out and held the child's hand; removed the glove and squeezed the hand as he held it. The child uttered a cry, perhaps of surprise. He dropped the toy in his father's lap. It fell onto the floor. Shubin held the child wonderingly, staring at him as if at some unexpected piece of information. Then his wife snatched the boy up and soothed him. Kissing the squeezed hand.
"Answer, why don't you?" Serov prompted, sipping his coffee. The woman retreated to the window with the child; they became less important than silhouettes, except that the woman would hear and understand every word. Her presence made the filleting process easier, in this case. It was always easier to break subjects of interrogation when you could hint at futures that might darken. "Well?"
"I — comrade Colonel, you should speak to Colonel Priabin, my commanding officer."
Serov s hand banged the table. Coffee splashed, and the cloth and the newspaper were stained. At the instant he began to shout, Serov heard Shubin's feet moving the discarded toy on the linoleum.
"Your commanding officer may possibly turn out to be a traitor! I am talking to you, Shubin — do you understand me? To you!"
The boy wailed in the ensuing silence. Serov heard the woman calming him, and raised his hand to warn her as she tried to take the child from the kitchen. S
hubin's face was ashen.
"I, sir, I—
"You were following orders, Shubin. I realize that. Now, you simply follow my orders. What happened between them?"
"I don't know, sir. Really I don't."
"A tape, man. Don't tell me comrade Colonel Priabin talked to Lieutenant Rodin without being wired? Are you that sloppy in the KGB out here?" Serov shook his head in mock reproof. "Of course not. Now, what did they say to each other?"
Again, the woman tried to leave the kitchen, the boy in her arms. Serov raised his hand once more; and saw Shubin shake his head vigorously, warning her to remain where she was.
"Well?" Serov whispered, sipping the last of the coffee, careful that the sleeve of his overcoat did not touch the wet tablecloth.
"My family, sir—"
"Quite."
"If I—"
"Not if, when. And when is now. At once. You have no alternative. Oh, get on with it, Shubin."
"Sir, there was a tape."
"Yes?"
"We — I mean, we weren't monitoring….." Shubin seemed to retreat from Serov's enquiring, exploratory gaze. It was true, Serov decided. The man had a tape, but hadn't listened in, knew little or nothing. Not that it mattered. He would be destroyed, along with Priabin and the others, as soon as Lightning was under way. Perhaps he could even be allowed to live. His knowledge would be irrelevant, once Lightning had happened. Priabin, of course, would have to go. "We know nothing, comrade Colonel Serov."
"Why was Lieutenant Rodin placed under surveillance? No, sit down, you can get me the tape in a moment. It is here, I take it?" Shubin nodded. Serov stretched his feet under the table; encountered the toy car and placed his foot on it. He gently applied pressure, and felt the cheap tin begin to give under his heel. 'Tell me," he encouraged. Shubin picked up his disregarded cigarette and puffed at it. "I want to know what's been going on here, for the past couple of weeks. A general's son under surveillance? A GRU officer under surveillance by the KGB? Very irregular. Yes — out with it, then. Everything."
