Quiller Meridian

by Adam Hall

  Watching carefully now, trying to find the profile of his car or part of it, enough of it to know if he’d turned it round or got out to wait for me.

  Watch carefully.

  The snow crunched under the wheels.

  You won’t have a chance if he — I’ve told you before, piss off.

  Crackle of gunfire and sweat broke instantly.

  The rooks flew up from the camp.

  Keeping a steady pace up the hill. Any change in the scene at this point — sudden acceleration, a burst of speed — could trigger his nerves and the gun.

  There were widening columns of light now between the trees where I’d seen him last, but the configuration of his car wasn’t there. He might have turned it, so that its narrower front — end profile would be presented, but I thought I should see it, even then: I’d marked his location at the outset, where the branch of a tree had hung down at an angle, broken by a storm.

  He’d moved the car. This was where he’d been, less than a hundred yards away — and then I saw him, moving in the distance along the hill road, and I gunned up and lost the rear end and steadied things and gunned up again more carefully and started building up the speed, saw him again as the road straightened, saw that I was holding him now — at a distance but holding him.

  The observer drove away, Rusakov had told me, before he could be challenged.

  Skittish, then.

  He was driving something European, not Soviet, possibly a SAAB 504 but nothing fast like a Porsche. The speed factor didn’t come into things in any case: I’d simply have to gain on him by playing with the gears to get as much traction as possible on the snow, keep the Skoda on the road, keep him in sight until I could draw close enough to see where he was going, catch him if I could, yes, but in these conditions it wouldn’t be easy.

  He was still the same distance ahead of me when the road dropped from the hill and straightened out, and I was trying to bring the speed up a degree when I saw he was pulling away, not fast but gradually, taking me three kilometres, four into the desolate open ground between the military camp and the suburbs of the town, and it was here that he slowed and then swung in a U turn until he was facing me and the first shots hit the front of the Skoda low down and began smashing their way upwards in a raking volley of fire as I dropped below the windscreen and it was blown out and the shots began hammering into the metal roof in a deafening percussion storm that blanked out conscious thought, I was only aware of closeness to death, could only see the snow and the sky revolving slowly as the Skoda rolled and churned among the drifts and hit rock and bounced and rolled again, rearing now with the front end going down and the whole thing swinging over, over and down, crashing amidst whiteness, whiteness and silence and then a sunburst, sounds dying away.

  Chapter 22

  ZOMBIE

  It had happened before.

  Fell forward. Forward and down, fell forward.

  Lying with my face in the snow, freezing cold, cold iron mask on my face, get up.

  Something was down there. Important?

  Down in the snow. „ I got up and the sky reeled and I sat with my back to the engine again. Important.

  I reached down and dug around in the snow and found it, walkie unit, dropped it, I had dropped it, mustn’t — must not — do that again.

  The sky steadied. It had landed on its side, the Skoda, and the bonnet had burst open, so I’d been sitting with my back to it, not very warm any more, long — how long?

  Thirty — two minutes. Patience, my good friend. Hurt anywhere?

  A long icicle was hanging from the middle of the radiator where the fan had been driven into it by the impact; the engine bearers had sheared. Yes, head hurting a bit.

  Not skittish, then, no, he’d led me away from the camp, hadn’t wanted anyone to hear the noise when he pumped that bloody toy, he tried to kill me, you know that?

  Very cold out here, it was very cold. Yes, a violent man, the agent didn’t give anyone a chance, kerboom and rat-tat—tat, don’t get in my way, not one of your more subtle espions, lacked reticence.

  Car coming.

  09:34.

  But also cocky, like all violent men, they never doubt themselves or anything they do — he should have come back here and taken: look at me, made sure I was lying in the car there with only the stall left. Not, then, a professional.

  Crunching over the dry brittle snow, the car, in the high pale light of the morning. It wasn’t the agent. He would have come back here straight away. This would be support. I’d signalled them.

  But I watched carefully as the windscreen showed above the fold in the land, the light flashing across the glass. It was a minute before I could see the whole vehicle, not a SAAB: the agent had been driving a SAAB.

  I got onto my feet and the sky swung full — circle and the snow came up and crashed against my face.

  Sound of engines. Two cars.

  ‘Christ, get him up.’

  I didn’t want that, they could keep their bloody hands off.

  ‘Keep your bloody hands off.’

  ‘Anything broken?’

  I got up by sliding my back against the roof of the Skoda while they stood watching me, Frome and another man.

  ‘Has the DIF signalled yet?’ I asked Frame.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Has Rusakov signalled?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the other man said, ‘what was he driving?’ He was looking at the mess that gun had made all over the Skoda. It’s a bit of spook vernacular some of them affect, ‘He was driving an AK — 47,’ that sort of thing. I asked him what his name was.’ Oh, Dover, sir. You all right, are you?’ He stood staring at me, bland — faced. Where did they find him, for God’s sake?

  ‘Which car is mine?’ I asked Frome. I’d signalled him for a replacement ‘Take your pick, but the Merc’s more comfortable.’

  It was a four — door 280 SEL, too big, less easy to hide than the shitty — looking little Trabant.

  Head was throbbing. The seat — belt had snapped when we’d come down. I asked Frome, ‘How serviceable is the Trab?’

  ‘Oh, top line. She just looks like that.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  Then I was face — down on the snow again and they were helping me up and I didn’t say anything this time, we’d got a mission running and if this was the only way we could run it then all right.

  ‘We’ll get you into die car,’ Frome said.

  ‘I can walk. It’s a head thing, that’s all —’

  ‘Bit of concussion.’

  ‘Yes.’ We picked our way over the snow towards the cars. ‘When the DIF comes through, tell him it was the rogue agent. I was trying to make contact with him and he didn’t like it,’ debriefing, not much to say and not a great deal to show for it except a bloody headache but that wasn’t the problem: I couldn’t monitor the agent any more, he’d never let me get close.

  Going down and I grabbed for the door handle of the Trabant but couldn’t find it, snow came up again in a white wave.

  ‘What time is it?” 12:05, ‘Frome said, his shadow huge on the wall, thrown by the lamplight. Ice rang against the beam of the hulk. I was facing the ceiling, flat on my back. ‘Been out a couple of hours. How d’you feel?’

  ‘All right. Has he come through yet?’ Ferris.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Rusakov?’

  ‘No.’

  But I must tell you, I shall resist arrest. I shall resist very strongly Fine, but it would be a question of numbers when it came; there wouldn’t really be anything he could do.

  ‘Call him?’ Frome asked.

  ‘No.’ I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and stayed like that, waiting for things to steady. I didn’t want to call Rusakov; he’d think we weren’t sure of him.

  ‘Make some tea for you?’ Frome asked.

  ‘What? No. Get back to base.’

  He didn’t move, was watching me. ‘I think you need a d
octor The whole bunk was shifting, but I’d get control of things now I could shift them back if I kept still enough.

  ‘I’m through it,’ I told Frome.

  He let out an impatient breath, clouding the air in the lamplight ‘You go flat on your face again in here, you hit the wall or the floor and you’ll bash your head again, that what you want?’

  ‘Look,’ I said and stood up, and the lamp circled slowly, finally stopped. ‘I’m through it now, so get moving. I want you back a base.’ the lamp had started circling again, but I found that if 1 moved my head with it I could get it to stop. Frome was watching me do it.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘if the DIF ever finds out I left you here looking like a zombie he’ll have my balls.’

  ‘I’ll put in a good word for you,’ I told him, and he turned and I went out, clumping up the companionway.

  I woke three times before dark and finally felt hungry and heated some soup.

  This was at 5:07 in the evening.

  ‘Meridian,’ I said.

  ‘Hear you.’ Frome.

  ‘Any signal?’

  From Ferris, from Rusakov. There must have been, after all this time.

  ‘No. You all right now?’

  ‘Yes.’ then I said, ‘You’d better tell London.’

  There was a brief silence before he said, ‘Will do.’

  I shut down the radio and saw them in the signals room, their heads turning as they heard Frame’s voice coming over the amplifier: DIF went missing 23:15 last night, no signal since.

  Strictly no dancing in the streets.

  The floes rang and rattled against the beam of the Natasha, and I went up the companionway and stood on the deck, leaning against the mast for cover. The air was calm, and the stars clung to the haze over the city like fireflies trapped on a web. There was still traffic on the river, a motor — barge pushing its way through the white crust of the ice, smoke from its funnel lying in a dark rope across the water. I could hear a woman laughing somewhere, perhaps on board the wreck of the sailing boat farther along the quay, where a light was showing below deck. It was a wonderful sound, coming softly through the night, through this of all nights when joy was hard to come by. It came again, and I sipped courage from it, feeling release and renewal, not surprisingly, I suppose, given the natural grace of womankind to succour the needy.

  I stayed for minutes there, clamped by the cold but letting the energy gather, not wanting to go short while I had the chance. Then I went below deck again, and before I’d reached the cabin the radio started beeping and I opened it up.

  ‘Executive.’

  ‘Support. I’ve got a signal from Captain Rusakov. You want to write it down?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Head had started throbbing again, I suppose because the pulse was faster, this could be a breakthrough.

  ‘The two generals are going to be leaving the army camp at 17:3 0 hours. Armoured transports have been ordered for that time.’

  17:30: in nine minutes from now. Armoured transports: that should take care of any suicide run by the rogue agent.

  ‘Does Rusakov know the destination?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a building on the road east from the town, Kievskay a ulica. It’s a mansion, used to be the residence of the state governor The generals are going to have some kind of meeting there.’

  I opened the map with one hand and spread it on the table. ‘Did he give you a reference for the location?’

  ‘It’s setback in a park, a kilometre west of the power station. I’ve got it, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’ there was silence while we both worked on our maps’ Twenty kilometres from the camp, twenty — five from here.’

  ‘Right.’

  I wouldn’t be able to reach the camp before the generals left, but I could reach the mansion before they did, if the road wasn’t snowed under.

  ‘How soon can you get here?’ I asked Frome.

  ‘Gimme ten minutes.’

  ‘Bring the Mercedes.’ the little Trabant out there didn’t have enough ground — clearance.

  ‘Got it.’

  I checked the time. ‘Listen, we’re cutting it very fine — I want you to do a running drop and put me outside that building before the generals arrive.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, ‘I better move it.’

  Chapter 23

  VOICES

  The dark pressed down across the snows from horizon to horizon, and our headlights cut a dazzling swathe through the landscape, the back — glare painful against the eyes.

  I had asked Frame to drive. He knew the car and I was still slipping focus now and then. There was a certain amount of discomfort hanging around: the seat — belt in the Skoda had snapped while we were going through the final crunch, and the impact had opened a thigh wound and left sundry bruises. But the pain was a help, keeping the organism aware of itself during the time when consciousness wavered.

  ‘Have you done a running drop before?’ I asked Frome.

  ‘Seen a couple.’

  The front end of the Mercedes hit a transverse rut where tracks crossed the road, and we slid at an angle until Frome got it worked out. I didn’t say anything. He already knew we were running things critically close and that if we lost even five minutes having to dig ourselves out of a drift we’d be too late and blow the drop.

  The generals’ transport column would be somewhere to the south, according to the map, and heading for the mansion in the park along a road more or less parallel to ours, and it shouldn’t be long before we picked up their lights in the distance. The meeting would obviously be policed by the military contingent on board the transports, and once they were deployed in a ring round the building I wouldn’t have a chance of getting inside. There could be security guards there now, and that was why I’d decided to do a running drop.

  ‘We’d better go through it,’ I told Frome. ‘First, if it doesn’t look as if I’ve got a reasonable hope of making it, don’t do it at all, jus: back off and get clear. Second, when you give me the signal, keep running straight for at least five seconds, given a speed often c: twelve miles an hour — don’t turn earlier than that.’ the top of the windscreen began coming down across my eyes, and I realized my head was tilting backwards against the padded rest as the sound of the car faded. Sat up straight and got focus again.’ third, whatever happens, don’t go back if there’s any opposition around — leave me to make my own way out. Let’s run through it again.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Frome said parrot — fashion, ‘if it looks dicey, don : turn for five seconds, don’t go back if there’s a crowd. Got it.’

  I checked the time at 5:49 and twisted in my seat to watch the south. The lights of the city slashed the dark along the west horizon; the rest of the world was a snowfield, ghostly pale under the stars.

  ‘Shit,’ Frome said and played with the wheel as the Merc drifted the winter stems of a copse swinging across the windscreen, the lights throwing their shadows in a moving frieze against the snow I picked up the convoy to the south two minutes later, a thin chair of lights lying across the steppe.

  ‘We’re well ahead of them,’ I told Frome.

  Another minute and we reached the east — west road out of the city and the trees of the park lifted from the landscape, silver — grey snow — covered, not far from the two chimneys of the power station to the east.

  ‘Anywhere here,’ I told Frome and he pulled up on the churned surface of a truck exit to minimize wheelspin later.

  I got a tyre — lever out of the boot and dropped it onto the passenger’s seat and stood for a moment watching the string of lights to the south. It was near enough to show movement now: the transports had met the east — west road and were turning towards the park.

  ‘Is it a go?’ Frome asked me.

  ‘Yes. Stand off somewhere outside the park. If I need you later I’ll use the walkie.’

  I got down onto the snow and slid under the Mercedes, feeling for hand — holds good e
nough to use with gloves on, staying aft of the gearbox and to the driver’s side of the propeller shaft away from the exhaust silencer, finding a cross — member with enough space above it for my hands and swinging my feet up, getting one of them lodged above the chassis and kicking with the other one until my boot found purchase on the back — axle casing.

  Light began flooding the road to the west, and I could hear the rumbling of the military column, the faint ringing of the snow — chains on the smaller vehicles, the drumming of diesels. My right foot had slipped off the rounded axle casing and I shifted backwards, swinging my boot up again, but everything was blacking out and the sound of the transports died to silence, and in the silence I heard Frome’s voice, a long way off.

  ‘You all right?’

  My shoulders were on the snow and the nape of my neck was freezing, but I couldn’t move: the intention was there but the muscles were numbed. The light from the leading vehicle of the column was creeping under the Mercedes.

  ‘You all right, are you?”

  Said yes, but it didn’t make any sound.

  Cold against the neck, freezing cold, and my left foot coming away from the chassis and dropping onto the snow. The light crept, brighter now.

  We needed to be inside the mansion over there. That was the objective for the mission, for Meridian: to get the information that was in the generals’ heads, send it to London. But I was lying on the ground with the awareness floating insubstantially, the awareness of the creeping light and the rumbling of heavy vehicles and the man’s voice.

  ‘You got a problem?’

  I sensed him near me, Frome, caught a glimpse of his face as he peered under the car, felt the known world coming back into focus, the strength moving into the muscles, my fingers tightening inside the heavy gloves, the lungs expanding against the ribcage.

  ‘Look, we’re leaving it too —’

  ‘Minute,’ I said. ‘Give me a minute.’ Reached for the cross — member and got a grip on it with one hand, both hands, the headlights flooding the snow and the drumming of the diesels filling the night as I got my left boot lodged again and kicked upwards, finding the rear axle, shouting to Frome, ‘Get going.’