by John Creasey
Suddenly, he saw one catch fire – fire which began with an explosion in one of its two engines. And Stefan was instantly aware of two facts. The aircraft he had come on had had two engines, and the plane which had caught fire had the red, white and blue markings of the British Royal Air Force. The man beside him watched, also, and suddenly urged the driver: “Hurry, hurry.”
The students looked upwards, towards the fire in the sky.
So did the shoppers.
So did the people.
And as they stared the roar of the aircraft ceased. So did that of other machines, of cars and trucks and buses, of factories and of shops.
Moscow was a city of silence as the burning aircraft swooped towards the ground and the car with Stefan in it hurtled towards the airport as if through a tunnel from which all sound had vanished.
The silence fell upon the Kremlin, also; and hushed the voice of Boris Shakalov as he stood before the Committee of Three which made whatever swift decisions had to be made in the name of the whole nation.
16: The Decision
Palfrey sat back in his seat and looked out on Moscow.
He had been here a dozen, perhaps twenty times, and the city of great domes and mammoth buildings, the city where Christian and Muslim seemed to meet together and yet where all were infidels. Moscow had always looked impressive, the area near the Kremlin and Red Square especially so. But he had never come so soon after dawn, never seen it so resplendent. For a few minutes, he forgot even what he had come for; and then he marvelled.
Suddenly, he sensed a difference.
He was aware of silence, and realised on that instant that the noise of the engines had cut out. Yet the plane was flying normally, and he could see the exhaust coming from the engine on his right, nearest him, and the flashes of flame which came all the time.
There was a longer stab of flame than most; then, with awful suddenness, flame engulfed the engine and hid it, and seemed to turn the wing into which it was built into white-hot metal. He gripped the arm of his seat as the co-pilot came from the cabin, a stocky man in uniform, with smoothed down black hair which reminded Palfrey vaguely of Philip Carr. Carr, who had been up in the cabin, now came back. The aircraft, used for flying senior officers about the world, was more like a civil plane than a military one.
Then, quickly, the sounds came back, including the roaring of the flames, so near the window.
“Spot of trouble, sir,” said the co-pilot.
“So I see,” said Palfrey. “What’s the drill?”
“We’re going to try a forced landing.”
“The only alternative is to take to the parachutes,” remarked Carr. He was smiling, although tight-lipped, and his eyes were very bright. “Any preference, Sap?”
“We’re too low for the parachutes,” the co-pilot declared. “Fasten your safety belts – you’re already near the emergency exits.” He was as calm as if this were simply a drill. And he also flashed a grin. “Tony Griffiths has got out of a lot worse scrapes than this. We should be able to land on one of the strips.”
Palfrey nodded as he fastened the belt. Philip, across the aisle, also fastened his.
“Fifty-fifty, I would say.”
“Looks about right,” agreed Palfrey. He did not feel panic-stricken but was aware of a tightening of muscles at his chest and throat.
Below, the great airfield spread, with its criss-cross of runways; the airport control tower came in sight; so did several ambulances which seemed to be racing in all directions and as many firefighting tenders. Palfrey could see all this on either side of the burning engine, the flames from which had settled into long streamers.
He still did not feel actual fear; only that tension.
He knew their chances were much less than fifty-fifty, and he wondered what would happen if he died.
There was Stefan . . .
And there were others who had been trained to take high positions in Z5, but few who knew half – not a quarter – of what he knew. Except Joyce. He saw the possibility that Stefan and Joyce would have to take over, but what would her husband say? He wondered if the leaders of Russia would allow Stefan to go to live in England permanently; whether Philip was nearer right than he, Palfrey, wanted to think.
Philip was peering out of the window, as nearly disinterested as a man could appear.
The aircraft was still on an even keel.
The rumble and bump of the landing gear going down sounded loud.
The airfield itself seemed to disappear and there were only houses, tall buildings, streets dotted with people and with traffic. Then, as they made the inevitable wide turn, the airfield came into sight again, with the rescue vehicles and crews lined up along one runway, and he knew this was going to be the landing run.
Philip flashed another smile.
“Happy landing,” he called, and Palfrey actually found himself laughing.
Then the ground seemed to rise up and strike them, there was a bump, a roar, a leap into the air. The aircraft swivelled round, kept on going, then by some miracle slewed back onto the runway. The fire blazed with fierce white heat until suddenly the engine fell off and the plane slewed round again. The driver of an ambulance was goggle-eyed with terror but they missed the vehicle and began to slow down.
The co-pilot came along, holding on to the seats.
“About ready,” he announced. “We’ll open the exit doors.”
One of these opened opposite Palfrey, and he slid to the emergency chute. There was fire everywhere, and stinking smoke, and stinking foam on the runway and the barren ground nearby. The aircraft was almost at a standstill. An ambulance was only twenty yards away, keeping pace. Palfrey steadied himself like a child preparing to slide down a playground chute before he actually began to slide. He went into the squashy foam, banged his head on something soft, rolled over and over, saw the aircraft slide away from him, heard the engines of the rescue craft, deafening, then stopped rolling; and consciousness seemed to ooze out of him.
He was vaguely aware of voices, of men, of being lifted. He was oblivious of time and place. The inside of his head seemed to be full of banging hammers. He was aware of comfort to his body; and then became aware of a voice as precious as it was familiar.
“It’s all right, Sap,” Stefan was saying. “It’s all right.”
That was the moment of supreme relief; the moment when Palfrey lost consciousness completely; the moment when Stefan came nearer to despair than he had ever been in his life. He was oblivious of the doctors assuring him that Palfrey was all right, and would not die. For Palfrey was needed desperately, now. Not in a few hours’ time, not tomorrow, but now. And he looked as if he were at death’s door, although Philip Carr, who had gone down the chute on the other side, had escaped with hardly a scratch.
Palfrey came round in the emergency hospital at the airfield. Doctors and nurses were examining his left leg and his right hand; and one of them spoke in Russian of which Palfrey had only a smattering. A nurse, glancing at Palfrey, moved towards him, smiling. She had the broad features and the dark eyes of the eastern provinces.
“You do not need to worry,” she said in good English. “It is one leg and one hand only which are hurt, and neither of them as badly as it is feared. Your friend, Mr Andromovitch, will be here soon.”
“And the other Englishmen?” Palfrey asked urgently.
“They are well, sir – you do not need to fear.”
The tension began to ooze out of Palfrey.
He had some idea of the tremendous effort made to get him mobile; of the way they soothed the pain in his leg and hand; the injections which killed the pain and yet left his mind clear. When Stefan arrived he had an even clearer idea of the big man’s anxiety and his relief at finding him as well as he was.
“Because they have agreed, Sap,” Stefan announced.
“To letting us approach The Project plant?” Palfrey marvelled.
“Yes. The Presidium has agreed—” Stefan’s eyes shone �
�� “to Comrade Shakalov’s proposals! There was hope that we could go today but in view of what happened it will be better tomorrow. No,” he went on as Palfrey opened his mouth to protest. “Another day is needed to make the military dispositions without allowing The Project guards – and there must be many – to know what is happening. And you will be moved to my apartment. I am assured that a visiting nurse or doctor can give you the injections you need.” For Stefan, he was almost effervescent, but suddenly, he sobered, pursed his lips and went on: “I think the Presidium agreed because of those few minutes of silence. They can explain the engine fire as an accident, even though that can’t be proved, but they are as puzzled as they’re worried by the way the noise ceased. Now! You are to be given an injection to make you sleep and when you wake I hope you will be in my apartment.”
Already, the English-speaking nurse was hovering, a small tray in her hand, and a doctor in a white smock was approaching her. Stefan drew back. The nurse had strong, broad-tipped fingers and a soft and gentle touch. She pushed up the sleeve of Palfrey’s jacket and rubbed a spot above the bend of the elbow with alcohol, while the young doctor filled the hypodermic syringe from an ampoule which had a pink label.
The nurse held Palfrey’s arm out straight, but without pressure.
She smiled.
The doctor had the needle ready, thumb on the plunger.
Then the door burst open and Philip Carr rushed in. He was wild eyed, mouth agape. A man, just behind him, was struck by the door as it closed, and for a moment Philip was by himself in a kind of oasis of space surrounded by nurses, attendants and doctors, all near Palfrey.
“Don’t do it!” Philip cried. “They’ll kill you. Don’t let them—”
The door swung open and two more men appeared. Philip dived towards Palfrey on the bench. The nurse tightened her grip on Palfrey’s arm, and he had not the strength to resist, even had he wanted to. He was appalled by Philip’s furious rush. He felt the needle when Philip was within a foot or two of the young doctor, whose face was like a mask, lips drawn back over wide-spaced teeth. The nurse was breathing gustily.
“Don’t do it!” screamed Philip.
He made a grab at the doctor but ran into Stefan’s outstretched arm; it was like striking a steel wall. He reeled backwards into the arms of the men just behind him. He began to struggle furiously, striking out, kicking, trying desperately to break free, and shouting words which at first had no meaning, but gradually sounded high and clear.
“Murder! It’s murder! Murder!”
Palfrey felt the needle go in; a sharp pain.
He felt the nurse’s firm hands on his biceps and on his wrist.
He saw the doctor wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He saw Philip being half-dragged, half-carried out of the ward, and as the door closed Stefan approached from the other side and bent over him, saying in a low-pitched earnest voice: “It’s all right, Sap. It really is all right. You need not worry.”
Consciousness faded from Palfrey and he hardly heard the last words, but there was fear in him that Philip was right, that somehow the Politburo had deceived Stefan, that it was not ‘all right’, that he would never come round.
All about him there was blackness.
And into the room where the others still stood appalled by the outburst, shocked and not knowing what to do, came Boris Shakalov, wearing his tunic-like suit. His shaved head and pale face were startling, his eyes peculiarly bright. He approached the couch on which Palfrey lay, and asked Stefan: “Will he recover?”
Stefan drew a deep breath, looked at him, and said: “Unless you have had him murdered.”
“You are a fool,” Shakalov replied acidly. “We need Palfrey as much as you do. The man who came with him appears to have that common affliction – Communist-phobia. He asked to see Palfrey, and was brought here. He did not begin to make these ludicrous accusations until he was inside the room. Do you know what is goading him, Comrade? Is he sane or is he mad?”
After a pause Stefan answered: “I would like to talk to him alone.”
In a small, bare room, Philip Carr stood by one wall while Stefan sat on a hard-looking bed and looked down on the tense face, the over-bright eyes, the lips which quivered with anger. So far, Philip had not answered any of his questions, just sat mute and quivering.
“Philip, if you have a convincing reason to believe Sap’s life is in danger, you must tell me. You must.”
At last Philip said harshly: “What good will it do? Tell me – what good will it do?”
“I can perhaps help.”
“If his body is full of poison, how can you help?” demanded Philip. When Stefan simply stared, knowing that if Philip did not begin to talk soon then he, Stefan Andromovitch, would have to exert pressure, possibly cause acute physical pain, Philip burst out: “A lot of the men at The Project were Russians! I’ve only realised it since I’ve been here. And we knew some of the escape aircraft came here and others were heading for Russia on different routes. Are you such a Russian patriot that you can’t see the truth even now?” He drew in a hissing breath, then he screamed: “How do you know the other aircraft didn’t come here at the Kremlin’s orders? How do you know it isn’t a gigantic Russian conspiracy? Or do you know? Is that why you won’t listen? Is it?” he screamed.
There was silence as intense as when it had been induced by The Project, except for Philip’s heavy breathing. It dragged on, until it was broken by sounds outside the door, brisk footsteps on the stairs, then a peremptory knock at the door. Stefan stretched out and opened it, and Boris Shakalov came in, his movements almost militarily precise. He shot Philip one searing glance, then said to Stefan: “I’ve sent word to the men of Hansa, they will allow you and Palfrey, and if you must take him, this snivelling fool, to go and see them tomorrow, Comrade. They say that if we attack in force, before or after you go, they will repeat what they did in England. They will blow their plant up with nuclear power and they will not use the insulating agent which they used in England. Radioactivity will spread all over the cities in the Urals and far, far beyond.”
When he finished, he seemed to be struggling for breath, as if he already felt the tentacles of death.
17: The Men in Command
Palfrey’s right arm was in a sling, but his leg felt almost normal, due more to the painkilling drug than to improvement in the actual condition. He felt clear-headed, and calm. The fact that Philip was with them caused anxiety but not alarm. Once over the outburst, he had been quite rational, and had sat quietly throughout the flight from Moscow.
Stefan had hardly moved.
No one else but the crew was with them, and nothing could have impressed Palfrey more. The leaders of The Project had said they must come alone, and they were alone. Possibly they were followed. Undoubtedly they would be watched on landing and kept under surveillance from a distance, but it would probably be at such a distance that if there were an emergency nothing could be done. The aircraft, a military passenger-carrying craft much more rough and ready than the British one had been, flew at twenty thousand feet in a clear sky. To the west were cirrus clouds, making a curious feather-like blanket, but in all other directions the sky was clear. The sun shone in on Palfrey, who was in front of Stefan. Philip Carr was across the aisle.
It was he who looked across to Palfrey and said, unexpectedly: “We won’t be long now.” And he pointed out of his window.
Palfrey crossed and leaned over him, to look out. In the far distance, rising out of the flat land, were mountains, some of the peaks snow-capped, there was no doubt at all that these were the Urals. Below there was yellowish-brown grass, here and there a tiny cluster of buildings and a ribbon of road. Cattle and sheep were dotted about as if they were on an enormous toy farm. No city was in sight, and the flat land stretched close to the foot of the mountains.
A steward came from the gallery, a short, dark-haired man, with a very thick neck. He spoke formal English, and had brought them food and dri
nk as well as many cups of coffee which was thick and treacly. He had not once smiled, had shown no expression of any kind. Now, he paused by Palfrey, and waited for him to turn round. The sun covered the peaks of mountains with a red glow which was reflected in the cabin and on this man’s cheeks; it made him look very young.
“Yes,” Palfrey smiled pleasantly.
“The captain, sir, would wish to speak to you.”
“I’ll come at once,” Palfrey said.
There were two men at the controls and a radio officer on one side, an engineer on the other. Palfrey saw the morning’s red glow over the cockpit, and quite suddenly, he was appalled; for there was an iridescent quality about it very much the same as that on the green dust which had spread over the Midlands. The captain said something in Russian to his co-pilot, and turned away from the control panel with its dozens of switches and dials. He was very slim, with a broad nose and a slight harelip. He pointed to a seat hinged to a post, and as Palfrey sat down, he said: “I am in communication with the officials of The Project, Dr Palfrey.”
“And are they giving instructions?” Palfrey asked wryly.
“That is so. There is a channel through the barrier which we can take and they will beam us down to the valley.”
“Barrier,” Palfrey echoed.
“They have explained that the red glow is caused by a dust barrier to all aircraft, which will crash if they attempt to fly through,” said the pilot. “I am to take off immediately you have landed.”
The man at the controls cried out. The other looked round sharply. Only a short distance away, an aircraft was falling in flames from a great height; and almost on the same instant another aircraft, flying to their left, burst into flames. And as these blazing machines hurtled towards the earth, the radio operator spoke very quickly in Russian, and the pilot translated quickly: “They have given a demonstration of their power, Dr Palfrey.” He was obviously badly shaken. “I shall have to carry out their orders with great precision.”
