by Craig Thomas
'Sure it's not you?'
'How far are we, driver?'
'A couple of miles — as the helicopter flies, sir.'
Aubrey sensed the dangerous glamour of threat, of ambush-and-escape, and worried. His own adrenalin seemed to have evaporated with age.
'Your direction, Seven.'
'Sir.'
'Twelve, you should have let the Volvo go!'
'They spotted one of us, sir — had to.'
'Get it cleared up. Any witnesses?'
'No one on the streets — we've got the remains stowed.'
'Get out of there, then.'
'Sir.'
'Where are they now?'
'Down there — see?'
'I see. Who's nearest? Let's see — Four, you're favourite by the look of it — wait, Nine. Nine?'
'Sir?'
'Pick up pursuit. They'll pass you in a minute on the main road — damn!'
'Sir?'
'Forget it! Three — three — move into position Omega, just in case. Four, coming your way again!'
'It's too much to hope they're not still with us?'
'Too true. They're up there, but they're confused. Know what they'll do?'
'What?
'Take up position as close to the Consulate as they dare. Perhaps anticipate we'll drive to a hospital — how far?'
'Ten minutes, sir — if you give me a straight run.'
'Mm. We're inside their outer markers now. No places left for an ambush. Car to car would be — Main road?'
'You can see the Stadium Tower over to the right, sir. That's the Elaintarha — straight down to the Mannerheimintie.'
'Right — go.'
'They're making a dash for it, sir.'
'I can see that. Very well — all units. Converge on position Omega. We are into the end-play situation. Don't mess it up! All units to Omega — end-play running.'
The Swedish Theatre, broad facade and normality returning as they turned into the Etala-Esplanaadikatu from the Mannerheimintie. The Daimler was suddenly caught behind a tram, and Aubrey expecting his pulse to begin racing again, was aware that the advert for a soft drink on the back of the tram; the hatted, wrapped-up passengers boarding it, suggested only safety. He accepted the veil that the city centre had put back on the day, on what had happened.
'Watch everything that moves!' Waterford snapped at the driver, who was watching a leggy young woman in long boots climbing aboard the tram. 'When it pulls out, watch the cars, watch the pedestrians.'
'Surely you — '
'Air Aubrey, when were you last in the field?'
'What do you — ?'
'They're into an end-play now — have to be. You might think of driving down to the Soviet Embassy, if you aren't going to expect trouble.'
The tram pulled away, and the driver turned the Daimler out into the stream of traffic down the esplanade. The wide street graceful buildings, trees down the middle of the thoroughfare — Aubrey felt himself resisting Waterford's words, as if they were subversive, or corrupting. Mere hundreds of yards, people everywhere.
'They can blame terrorists — the Proves, Red Army Fraction, it won't matter, really. We'll be dead, and they'll have stopped up the leak — there!' The Volvo Daf was innocuous, so was the windowless van which purported to belong to a firm of central heating engineers. Together, they drove, like a closing neck, from different sides into the Daimler. The driver accelerated after a second's hesitation, but he was already too late. The Volvo Daf bounced off the crumpled nearside fender, but the van drove the nose of the limousine round, back into the Volvo. The engine raced, then died. The driver fired it, it clattered, almost caught 'Out! Out!' Waterford yelled.
'It's what they want!'
'No, shock-delay — move, move!'
They hadn't moved from the van and the car yet. Waterford had minimised the delay by conscious effort, and was out of the Daimler, the Parabellum levelling up at the windscreen of the Volvo Daf- it starred, and the face behind it fell away — ducking or dead, he did not care.
'Get Davenhill out of the back — cross the street!'
He swung to the van as he shouted — the noises of people, acceleration of cars away from the sudden chaos, rising distant whine of a siren — but all distant as he squeezed again. Distant even to the impact of the first bullet, as if his thick clothing was sufficient to stay the passage of the 9 mm slug. All he did was to lean back against the Daimler, as if tired. But he steadied his stiff-arm grip again, and shot both men as they climbed out of the van to finish him.
Screams — eradicate all unnecessaries — siren — eradicate — look round, see where they are — driver and Aubrey scuttling across the road, Davenhill between them, body limp — the rest of the scene indistinct, slowed-down like a film A man moving faster, crossing the road — focus, check, aim, fire — the man was only yards from Aubrey when he seemed to trip and fall on his face. No one else moving, not towards them — yes, one more, just as they passed out from beneath the lacy, whitened trees — man in overalls, back of the van, probable — difficult, focus, focus — aim, steady, re-align, fire. The man toppled, as if from a wire or ledge, and slid against one of the trees.
Eradicate unnecessaries — impact? Something wet, running down his leg — pissed myself? he laughed. He saw his stomach, and heard a scream that was not his own, but which was on his behalf, and thought he heard pity in it, which for once he did not reject.
How far now?
He had to hold the door of the Daimler — heard the siren, close now, and saw the Volvo Daf pull away quickly. Another car, further away, moving too in a scene that seemed to have frozen.
How far?
He could see the slab of grey that was the corner of the Consulate — thought he saw three figures — focus, focus, he screamed at intolerable ineptitude — a lump, three figures, reaching the door, door opening — ?
He wanted to say that he wasn't deaf, that everyone should stop, screaming, as he let his head drop. The siren, unrecognised, whined down the scale as the police car pulled up only yards away. He saw something in white — might have been overalls — move near the door of the van, and he shot into the puddle of white which might have been snow but he was too old a hand to be tricked like that — puddle that might have been a white-out Waterford slumped over the open door of the Daimler, the gun still hanging from his fierce grip, as the police approached his body.
The main doors of the Consulate closed behind Aubrey, Davenhill and the driver before the policeman could remove the Parabellum from Waterford's dead hand.
'Get these developed, would you,' Aubrey remarked in a tired voice, indicating the rolls of film and the cameras on the desk of the duty-room. Henderson, the SIS Senior at the Consulate, hesitated as Aubrey returned his attention to the cup around which he cradled his mottled hands.
After a silence, Aubrey looked up into his face with vague blue eyes.'Well?1 'The Consul would like to see you at once, Mr Aubrey. He has two senior police officers downstairs, and they're getting a little impatient.'
The blue eyes sharpened their focus, and the face seemed to collect itself, tidying the sagging folds of skin, etching the lines at forehead and mouth.
'Henderson, I'm sorry that parking regulations on the esplanade have been infringed, and that a certain amount of litter has been chucked about — but I am in no mood, nor have I the time, to talk to the Consul or the police. Now, run along and get those films developed, there's a good fellow.'
Terrorists, he thought, and nodded his head decisively. And, as if decision brought other thoughts, he grimaced at the tea, got up, and poured himself a large whisky from the bottle on the trolley. Gratefully, he gulped it down, coughed, and then developed his idea. Waterford was a government agent, naturally. But engaged in nothing on Finnish soil. He was obviously a marked man That would do, until HMG had spoken in confidence with the Finnish Cabinet, and until he spoke to Buckholz, and he to Washington. The films hardly needed developing — someone had been
sufficiently desperate to try to eliminate agents in the middle of Helsinki. Aubrey sighed.
Waterford was dead — he would have to debrief Davenhill, now resting in the tiny consular pharmacy in the basement of the building. An event he wished to postpone, for reasons obscure even to himself. Very well He dialled the US Consulate, identified himself by Dickens Code, who else but Pecksniff, he thought once more, and Buckholz was on the line in a moment, identified by Cooper Code at Natty Bumpo. Buckholz had inherited the code for Deputy Director of the CIA along with the job; Aubrey had retained Pecksniff from the early sixties. 'Secure?'
'Secure, Kenneth. What gives? I'm getting reports of-'
'A vulgar brawl, yes. Us, I'm afraid. One of my people is dead, the other under sedation and wounded. But — the attack is sufficient evidence, I think — ?'
'Moscow Centre?'
'A local chapter, but affiliated, I believe.'
'Jesus-'
'Helicopter activity, marksmen, and my two car-teams taken out. Two of your men, I'm afraid.'
'Hell — OK, Kenneth. Not your fault. It's proof. Look, let me get on to Langley direct with this. I'll get back to you.'
Aubrey stared at the telephone for a long time before replacing it. When he did, he thought of Waterford. Then, struck by something else, he thought of Khamovkhin, at that moment touring a pulp-milling complex before doing the rounds of the harbours that afternoon. And he thought of the Ozeroff-substitute.
'Kenneth?'
'Secure. Go ahead, Charles.' Aubrey was desperately tired. Davenhill had rambled, and the films had been developed. A little disappointing, but they clarified Davenhill's broken account. As hard evidence, just sufficient to convince of past events. The events of that day would have to suffice to arouse suspicion of present, and future. 'There's been code-traffic all morning — I've been in conference with Langley and the Pentagon, and the President patched it when we went to satellite com — '
Aubrey felt too tired for a recital of American technological achievement; unreasonably irritated.
'The outcome, Charles?'
Buckholz continued unabashed. 'There's a SAMOS reprogramming under way, and a launch slot later today. The sat can have a look-see. We don't usually have the coverage up here, and the President and the Pentagon won't make any premature moves just on my say-so.'
'What will the President do, Charles?'
'I told him to stay home.' Buckholz chuckled. 'He's fixing a dialogue over the red telephone for this evening, our time, with Finland's most prestigious guest of the moment. The First Secretary will be informed of the call at lunch. He'll have to take it in the Embassy here.'
'I see.'
'What of your people, Kenneth?'
'I am sure they would rather not believe it — any of it. But I do think they're worried.' Frustration burst out almost as petulance, suddenly. 'Charles, are we the only two sane people in the world, or the only two madmen?'
'Hang in there, Kenneth. There's a lot of behind-the-scenes activity in Washington — meetings, dialogues, contingencies, war-games. It isn't being allowed to fall down the back of the wardrobe. There'll be an alert issued by now. Brussels is in constant contact, and I guess we're stepped up to Readiness Two by now.'
It sounded a little more reassuring. Buckholz had not been wasting his time, and he could divine the mood in Washington perhaps more clearly than any other CIA officer Aubrey had ever met. Aubrey decided to be conciliatory.
'Very good, Charles. Then we must await developments. One other thing — that trace your people are doing for me — '
'You're worried about that — now?'
'I think it may be more important than ever.'
'OK — I won't cancel.'
'I'd be very grateful if you didn't. My people in Moscow have come up with nothing so far. I'm on to Africa, Satellites, and Far East now, and its getting urgent.'
'Why?'
'You told Wainwright about the twenty-fourth?'
'He laughed — a little. But, he doesn't ignore things. I'll come to see you before this evening.'
'Very well. I must allocate some people here to the mysterious Captain Ozeroff — or whoever he is.'
Ten: Proof of Intent
It was the acceleration of events that tired him so much. Having waited for ten years, it was as if he had adjusted to a somnolent, covert pace, and could not shake off what was now lethargy. In the Diplomatic Lounge at Cheremetievo, waiting to meet a courier, he was confronted by the almost archaic method of communication he had carefully and secretly constructed. And knew that he would have to issue the order in the next twelve hours to switch to radio traffic.
Kutuzov hated feeling a tired old man — but he could not escape, or disguise, the impression his old body forced upon him, the leaden grooves in which his physique seemed to make his thoughts function. Folley, the English soldier — the desperate ambush in Helsinki, after the border incursion — the accident on the road outside Oxford, where Ozeroff's body had fallen into the hands of the SIS — Ossipov's presumptuous destruction of the Khabarovsk KGB Office He rubbed his hands down his leathery cheeks. A system of deep-cover couriers transmitting verbal orders and instructions disabled him — broken nerves, failing to transmit in time to the brain, so the hand gets burned, injured, the legs bang into things. The body of Group 1917 thrashing blindly about like an automaton.
The operation was beginning to develop a frightening momentum. He had to go to Leningrad, to see Praporovich, even Folley, to establish, if he could, what level of suspicion or half-knowledge had prompted three separate attempts to investigate Finland Station Six. Yet he could not blame them — they had acted on assump tions, and they had acted out of the kind of precipitate confidence he had felt himself a couple of days before — so close, he could taste it, feel it against him like another body, the sense of victory. The Army induced over-confidence, and the kind of action that had been taken on his authority, without his orders.
When it all came down, in the final analysis, to the word of one old man over the telephone. He felt chill, and ancient, and imprisoned in the weak, stick-like, hateful body. Really, was it like that? Yes, he admitted, then wondered if anyone in the lounge, especially the security men, had seen him nod absently in concert with the admission — trick of a decrepit, of the senile He had to give the order, on the 24th. Valenkov, at Moscow Garrison, insisted on that. Part of the total operation, he had said, part of the whole. Praporovich would give the orders to the Attack Groups at Kirkenes and along the Finland border. Dolohov would give the Fleet its orders. Below them, perhaps a dozen generals to transmit those orders further down, to regimental commanders, to sections of regiments, to companies and platoons — to each tank and rifle and gas-wagon.
His thoughts stung him like an attack of insects; but all the time, with the clarity that pain sometimes had brought him in the past, this emotional infliction cut away at the confusion — and the few small lights upon which his enterprise was founded gleamed brightly and in isolation. But they were small lights, little bulbs strung together — and each one of them dependent upon the others, and he, the fuse that prevented them going out.
Praporovich, Dolohov, Valenkov in Moscow — himself. Millions of men, millions — and nothing would happen unless he and those others gave their orders on the 24th. 06:00 to be precise.
He looked at the security men as he fidgeted in his seat and pretended to read a book — there were more of them on duty at Cheremetievo. No, there were enough of them on duty, if they knew their targets, to prevent Rabbit Punch, and to prevent the overthrow of the regime. Ridiculous, but true.
He glanced at his watch, put down the book, and walked out of the lounge, waving his personal security guard to relax. He went down the steps to meet the courier.
Simple, simple, he told himself. They do not know, and there are only fifty-six hours of former days left. Fifty-six hours. And no one knew, no one. Valenkov and the Moscow Garrison would be incommunicado in eight hours' time, u
ntil the dawn of the 24th. Praporovich and Dolohov need take no risks, could make themselves unreachable.
And, in forty-eight hours, he would disappear himself.
Simple, simple, simple — the litany relaxed him.
He found the courier in the main departure lounge, still in his uniform, and they sat a little apart on a plastic-covered bench set below a panoramic window which looked out over the light-splashed tarmac, the garishly illuminated plumage of the aircraft caught by the lights. The courier read Pravda, and he smoked a cigarette as nonchalantly as he could, and drank bad coffee.
When the courier had finished his brief narrative, Kutuzov said: 'Ossipov cannot be forgiven for attracting attention to Far East District, even though he cannot see where he was at fault. However, on second thoughts, he must continue with the "Exercise Mirror" operations as far as the gas-attacks are concerned — yes…' His voice tailed off. The gas was the most necessary. The chemical attack had to be right, and it had to be done without the assistance, in planning and practice, of scientific advice and knowledge. They were soldiers, not research scientists, and the gases they had in sufficient supply in GSFN were unreliable, even unpredictable. And it had to be right! Ossipov was too important to be disliked, and his task too important to be postponed, or cancelled. Anger had betrayed him into issuing an order that Ossipov was right to ignore — even though the courier might not understand.
'Very well,' he went on. 'You have one more trip to make, back to Khabarovsk. You will instruct Ossipov to radio his final report direct to Praporovich — and you will tell him that the SID Major, Vorontsyev, is not to be eliminated. He is to be taken and held in custody until — You understand?'
'Sir.'
'Very well.' He looked at his watch. 'They will be calling my flight in a moment.' He stood up, and walked immediately away, his cigarette-stub burning in the ashtray where he had left it.
'Goodbye, sir,' the young man said to his back, and went on reading his paper.
All the way back to the Diplomatic Lounge, Kutuzov wondered what the Englishman, Aubrey, was doing — and kept repeating the litany of time running out. Fifty-six hours, fifty-six hours, fifty-six hours. It seemed to settle his stomach, tidy and soothe his thoughts.
