Quiller Meridian q-17

by Adam Hall

  Listen, Zymyanin had said as the corridor of the train had rocked under our feet, this is all I can tell you for now. The Bureau should do everything — everything — to keep those people under surveillance.

  That was why I was here this morning, with the ice caking the windows and the rasping of the digital clock on its worn bearings stressing the silence inside the car — to reach the objective for Meridian if I could, and get the information to London. I'd lost my director in the field but I'd set up a close support base with communications and liaison for Rusakov, but it would all be useless if I let that man on the hill take over the action.

  I'd found him. Now I had to stop him, get him out of the picture.

  He was here to follow the generals when they left camp, and in this we had the same purpose, but I believed it would end there. He had their death in mind, and when he'd followed them far enough from the camp to do the thing without bringing all hell on his head, then he would do it. Or it could be a suicide run he was here for, and the moment the generals left camp through those gates across there he'd move down from the hill and intercept and pump a volley of dum-dums into them as the alarm was sounded and the first of the armoured cars was started up and sent in pursuit. He wouldn't get far and he would know that, but a suicide run would fit quite well into the thinking process of a typical rogue agent, and he could be one of the psychopaths, capable, for instance, of bombing a crowded train with no thought for the women and children.

  And if that was his plan, the hail of dum-dums would not only obliterate the generals. It would blow Meridian into Christendom.

  He was still watching me. The field-glasses hadn't moved since I'd seen them lock onto the image of the Skoda.

  Gunfire, echoing from the huts. I kept still, watching the twin glint from among the trees, staring him out.

  He would have plans for me, too, now that he'd seen me. It had been the major calculated risk I'd had to take. If he were here to wipe out the generals with a burst of fire he would do the same with me, immediately afterwards, because I'd present a threat: at the least I would be a witness to his act of assassination and at most I might intercept him when he left the hill and block his run, leave him set up for the armoured cars. But perhaps he wouldn't wait for that. Perhaps he would deal with me first, soon, get me out of the way, as a spider moves onto the web and removes a foreign object that has fallen there and then goes back into cover to wait for the fly.

  That was the risk, but it was calculated: it's the only kind I'll take.

  And I had options. Perhaps, for instance, I could talk to him.

  He was still watching me, so I started the engine. He hadn't swung the field-glasses away, was still wondering who I was and what I was doing here. I wanted him to see me move off, so that he could follow me with the glasses, know that I was coming. I didn't want to surprise him: he might react, and lethally. I had to approach him overtly — he knew that I knew he was watching me; I wouldn't be some honest burgher out here to admire the view, because all the honest burghers in Novosibirsk were in the queues for a loaf of bread, poor buggers, be there all bloody day. He would know, that man on the hill, that I would be one of his kind, up to nothing innocent, and perhaps might sense a kindred spirit in the field.

  A touch optimistic this morning, aren't we?

  Shuddup.

  The snow broke under the tyres as I moved down to the fork in the road, and the bodywork creaked as we shimmied over the ruts. I had options, yes, but there weren't any others 1 could choose at this particular time. They were for later, if he proved a danger to Meridian, as I believed he was; then I would try to get past his weapons and contain him, bring him away from here, take him to the support base and tell them to look after him, get him medical attention if that were necessary, if he put up too much of a struggle and had to be subdued with some of the more extreme techniques.

  I wished him no harm, be this noted. In looking for the death of those two generals he would, I'm reasonably sure, be seeking to dispatch them to the same Elysian climes to which they would have dispatched others, perhaps hundreds, in the execution yards. The late Gennadi Velichko, with at least a Rusakov's blood on his hands, had been their close confederate.

  The snow crunched under the tyres, the chains clinking now on the roadway, where military traffic had pounded the surface and reached the hardtop. I couldn't see from here whether he was still watching me. I didn't need to see. He was watching me very carefully, I knew that, and a tingling sensation began in the exact centre of my forehead. It was familiar, and didn't rate any attention: this wasn't the first time I'd moved deliberately into a potential line of fire and felt the phantom impact of a bullet, perhaps this time a dum-dum, not my favourite, they blow the whole thing into a chrysanthemum, nothing left but the stalk.

  I was halfway there now, a quarter of a kilometre from where I'd last seen him: a snow bank had blotted him out as I climbed the hill. He would use this, if he were trained, to change his position and turn the car to face my direction so that he could see me through the windscreen when I appeared; or he might get out and stand there with the assault rifle ready to swing up into the aim as soon as he saw me. Then there'd be the delicate business of going closer to him under the gun, close enough to talk to him, and then, if the talk broke down and he told me to get out of this area on pain of instant death, close enough to get behind the weapon and effect a change in things. That would be the tricky bit.

  I kept a steady pace in low gear, bumping over the ruts, watching for him among the higher trees.

  I don't like this. You won't have a chance if he -

  Oh, piss off.

  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 hammer
ing 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 beet 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 Frome.

  '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 the 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 doctor The whole bunk was shifting, but I'd got 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 Frome'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.'