by Craig Thomas
'Yes - quickly. You must come at once. The Gagarin apartment block on the Mira Prospekt, near the Kulakov intersection. Please hurry - you must bring your, car… the American has just entered the apartment block - No, I do not know whether they are waiting for him. It is the apartment of someone who - was arrested, but I do not know what happened to his family… but I have just seen a KGB car pull up in front of the block. Yes, someone must have spotted him, someone I did not see. What? They're sitting in the car still… I must go in and warn him - Yes, you must hurry. Park in Kulakov Lane. What is your car? Yes, and the number - quickly, please. No, no, they are still sitting in the car - I think that must mean there are people already inside… I must hurry. Please reach Kulakov Lane as quickly as you can!'
The wide, grubby foyer of the apartment block possessed a sticky, stained linoleum floor. The walls were badly in need of a fresh coat of cream paint. One of the six lifts did not work. Gant, unnoticed amid the hurrying tenants leaving the building, attempted to envisage Glazunov's papers as they had been handed to him by Pavel. He could see the grainy identification picture which was later replaced by one of himself, he could see the name, see the overlying official stamps, the address…
The number, the number -
A hurrying woman bumped into him, seemed to search his face with a scowl on her own features, then hurried away. The tiny incident drained him of energy… concentrate-
Apartment - four, four, five-? Five-four, yes, five-four… nine, nine - ! Apartment 549. He stood in front of a set of lift doors. Only odd-numbered floors were served by the lifts on that side of the foyer. For a moment, the foyer appeared entirely empty, except for the concierge - who might or might not have been more than that - reading Pravda behind his counter. From the open door behind him, leading to his own quarters, came the smell of percolated coffee. There was also the noise of a radio. Gant half-turned his head as he heard footsteps. High-heeled shoes - boots - and a long, warm coat. Fur hat. The pert daughter of the house, dressed beyond her station. The concierge was also the KGB official and informer. Gant's head snapped back to face the doors of the lift. The foyer was silent, empty. No lifts arrived. The seconds passed. Gant forced himself to remain absolutely still.
Then a lift door opened on the opposite side of the hall. Footsteps, hurry -
He glanced towards the concierge. He was still reading his paper, uninterested in anyone who passed; apparently uninterested in Gant. Someone called the man, and he turned his head, then went in, shutting the door behind him. The lift door in front of Gant opened. He waited until the lift was empty, entered, and pressed the fifth-floor button. It seemed a tiny but important victory that the concierge had taken no interest in him. He probably thought it was someone coming back for something he'd forgotten, if he thought at all.
People tried to press into the lift on the fifth floor before he could get out. He squeezed through them, not ungrateful for the press of their bodies, their scents and smells. He did not resent or fear them for that brief moment. Then the door closed and he was alone in the corridor. Linoleum, chipped and stained, on the floor, a succession of brown-painted doors, dirty green paintwork on the walls lt was an infinitely depressing place. He checked his direction, then followed the trail of mounting numbers on the doors. Some of them were missing. Radios played pop music loudly behind many of the doors, as if to drown out something else.
Five-four-nine. He raised his fist, and hesitated. He listened. Radio playing, but not loudly. No other human noises. He looked back down the corridor. No one. Swallowing, breathing deeply, he knocked loudly on Boris Glazunov's door.
At the third knock, as if at a general signal or alarm, a number of things happened. The lift doors sighed open, and Gant turned his head. A young man emerged, saw him -
The door opened. Gant turned. A tall man faced him, a grin already spreading over his face as he evidently recognised the caller. Someone spoke from inside the flat, a man with an authoritative tone. The young man near the lift shouted. His voice seemed full of warning.
Gant's hand remembered the Makarov in the coat pocket, and clenched around its butt. The tall man's grin spread. His hand moved from behind his back, slowly and confidently. He was intent upon the widening fear in Gant's eyes. The young man was running towards him down the corridor shouting, his shoes clattering on the linoleum.
Gant half-turned, half-drew his hand from his pocket. Then the young man, ten yards away, skidded to a stop and yelled his name. A plea rather than a challange. The tall man had stepped forward through the doorway, his hand now holding a pistol, bringing it up to level on Gant's stomach. Gant squeezed the trigger of the Makarov, firing through the material of the coat pocket. The noise was deafening, ringing down the corridor, pursued by the explosion of the tall man's gun which discharged into the ceiling. Plaster-dust fell on Gant's hair and shoulders.
'Quickly! Gant - quickly!' the young man shouted, grabbing his sleeve. Gant thought the face familiar, distorted by urgency as it was. A second KGB man was emerging from the room at the end of the apartment's hall. Gant fired twice, wildly. The man ducked out of sight. Gant heard a window slide protestingly up, felt chilly air on his face. 'Come!'
Gant crossed to the window and the iron fire-escape. The young man climbed out and began to descend. There was frozen snow and ice on the rail and the steps. The young man danced carefully down them as quickly as he could. Gant watched the door of apartment 549 as he climbed over the window sill and felt for the first step. Then he was outside, shaking with cold and reaction.
Familiar - the face behind the two or three days' stubble of dark beard - familiar…
He clattered down the first flight, then the second, slipping once, pursuing Vassily -
Vassily - !
He had helped Pavel throw Fenton's body into the river. He had disappeared after the metro journey, near the warehouse. Vassily. Gant looked back up the twisting fire-escape. A face had appeared at the window, a walkie-talkie clamped to its cheek. He saw a pistol, too, and then looked down once more, aware of the treacherous nature of the ice-covered steps.
Relief, the excitement of danger being met and overcome, filled Gant. Vassily bobbed ahead of him, half-a-flight further down. He chased him.
First floor - ground floor. Rear of the building. Lock-up garages, dustbins, football goal painted on a brick wall. He bumped into Vassily, almost breathless.
'Vassily-!'
Vassily grinned.'Come. Quickly…'
They ran across the courtyard. Then Vassily jumped at a garage door, clinging to the low roof, kicking his legs, easing himself up and onto the felted roof. Gant followed. He could hear whistles and shouts now, but no noise of vehicles other than the muted roar of traffic on the Mira Prospekt. Vassily crouched as he ran across the roof, then he jumped out of sight. Again, Gant followed.
He dropped into a snowy patch of garden. A dog barked. Vassily was already climbing a fence when Gant caught up with him. Gant heaved himself over the fence and dropped into an icy alley way.
Vassily ran to the corner of what appeared to be a narrow, quiet street. When Gant reached him, he said, 'I hope she is here…'
There were a few parked cars. Vassily seemed to be searching for one in particular, reciting numberplates half under his breath. Gant's chest hurt with the effort of drawing in the icy air.
'She - ?' he began.
'Yes-there!'
They ran across the street. She? Who? Vassily bent to peer at the driver of the car, then nodded. He pushed Gant into the back seat and climbed in after him.
'Get down, both of you!' the driver snapped as she eased the car away from the pavement, then turned left. Gant's face was against Vassily's arm. He could taste the worn leather of his jacket.
'They were - waiting,' Gant said as the car turned right, travelling at no more than thirty miles an hour once it had done so.
Vassily's face, close to his own, frowned. He nodded his head vigorously. 'Yes. I was not sure. I was wat
ching you. The moment you entered the building, a car pulled up in front. It was KGB, but they did not get out. I knew then that they were waiting for you.' A police car passed them, siren flashing, heading in the direction of the Mira Prospekt. 'I was almost too late!'
'How long have you been following me?'
'Most of the night.'
'Why didn't you make contact?'
'He was ordered not to!' the driver snapped. 'He always obeys orders - we all do!' Gant felt the force of the driver's resentment.
'Are we being followed, Comrade?' Vassily asked very formally, surprising Gant. His face was serious, perhaps in awe of the driver.
'No.'
Gant felt the car turn sharply left. After a silence, he raised his head, and was shocked to see the cosmonaut's monument, the rocket atop its narrowing trail of golden fire, drifting past-the car windows. He clenched his hands together to stop them from shaking. They were near the Unit, heading for it - !
'What is it?'
'Where are we going?' he snapped in a high, fearful voice. They were leaving the monument behind them now.
'We have a place…'Vassily assured him.
'A change of clothes for you,' the driver said. 'A change of appearance. Papers. Everything is to be provided for you.' The resentment was deep, angry. The woman disliked, even hated him. Who in hell was she?
'OK-what then?'
'I must get you out of Moscow.'
'And Vassily?'
'Vassily is not trusted - not as much as is necessary.' Vassily shrugged at her words. He grinned, almost pathetically. 'They do not consider he is capable of the task.'
'And you are?'
The car had stopped at traffic lights. Gant could see them through the windscreen. The car was almost new, the fawn-coloured fabric of the seats very clean. It was a large saloon. Gant was suspicious. Then the blonde woman turned her head, so that she was in profile as she answered him.
'I have certain qualifications,' she announced. 'The greatest of which is my capacity to be blackmailed into helping you. I have been told that Vassily is someone who keeps changing addresses, who deals in black-market goods as well as espionage work. He is useful, but not their person! I am.'
She turned her head as the lights changed. The car drew away, accelerating. They passed the Ostankino television tower, a steel needle against the heavy sky. Gant stared at Vassily, disconcerted, troubled by the woman's resentment. Almost afraid of help now that it had come.
Waterford lifted his head as the noise of the chain-saw ceased. At the far end of the clearing that had been made and was still being enlarged, a tree fell drunkenly forwards with a noise like the concussion of a rifle. Immediately, branches were lopped from it and stacked for later use in general camouflage. At the perimeter of the clearing which reached from the shore of the frozen lake back into the trees in a rough semi-circle, bundles of white netting lay ready for use. Already, much of the camouflage netting had been strung between the trees, forming what might have been the roof of a huge, open-sided marquee.
Two RAF mechanics were laying and checking nylon ropes which stretched from the trees that held the winches down to the shore. They had selected the stoutest trees, capable of taking the strain imposed by the three chain-lever winches which would be used to haul the Firefox out of the lake. The winches were anchored to the trees and additional steel anchor pins had been hammered in the frozen ground - not reaching a sufficient depth in the soil to completely satisfy Waterford or the Senior Engineering Officer from Abingdon. Even the Royal Engineer mechanics who would operate the winches were unconvinced there was a sufficient safety margin. They would only know, however, when they tried.
Waterford returned his attention to the group of marines around him. Six of the SBS unit were seconded as divers, which left the eighteen in front of him in full Arctic combat kit. The group was framed by upright or slightly leaning pairs of long, cross-country skis and vertical ski-sticks. Each man bore a laden pack on his back. Nine of them also carried radio equipment. They were assigned to work in pairs rather than their more usual threes and fours, and their duties were reconnaissance rather than defence. His early warning system, he thought -which was all they could be with their small numbers.
Their rifles were slung in white canvas sleeves across their chests, below their snow-goggles. The usual mixed bag favoured by an elite force such as SBS - some standard L1A1s, a few 7.62 sniper rifles, one or two of the new, short-stock 5.56 Enfields, and a couple of the very latest 4.7 mm Heckler & Koch caseless rifles. Even in their disguising sleeves, they possessed the appearance of plastic planks narrowing at one end. Waterford himself had one, for evaluation on behalf of the army. He thought it ugly, futuristic, and effective, firing its bullets from a solid block of propellant rather than a cartridge case. It had the stopping power and accuracy to penetrate a steel helmet at more than five hundred metres. He appreciated the weapon.
Looking at the rifles, he reminided himself he must stress yet again the reconnaissance nature of their duties. He moved two paces to the unfolded map on its collapsible table. The eighteen SBS marines crowded around him. Their breaths climbed above them like smoke from a chimney. Flurries of snow struck Waterford's face and settled on the map. Angrily, he brushed them away.
'Right, you gung-ho buggers-; now you've got yourselves together, I just want to remind you what you're supposed to be doing. I'll keep it simple so you won't have to take notes…' He tapped at the map with a gloved forefinger. 'You're on recce not engagement duties. You have your headings and you know the maximum distance you should go. It's a scouting perimeter, nothing more solid than that. Beyond the trees - beyond three or four kilometres, that is - the country is rolling, with mixed thickets and lots of open areas. Find the best observation posts, and sit tight. Report in only at specified times and keep it brief. We're not playing requests for Grandma and Aunt Glad and the rest of the family this time. Unless, of course, you wake up to find yourself being buggered by a huge, hairy Russian soldier - in which case, don't wait for your allocated time-slot, just yell Rape! and get out of there.' They laughed. 'As far as we know, there's nothing out there. We don't expect trouble, we dont want trouble, but we want to know if it's coming. So, make sure your dinky new trannies work, and keep hold of the nice new binoculars MoD issued you, and - good luck. Any questions?'
'Reinforcements, sir?' a lieutenant asked. 'I mean, if it comes to it…?' He gestured round him.
'I know. You'd like to know there's a Herky Bird full of your mates ready to drop in - well, they'll be at Bardufoss if they're needed. But, just remember this is a nice quiet pub - we don't want a bloody awful punch-up in the lounge bar, if we can possibly help it! OK?' More laughter, then Waterford said, 'Anyway, you're the lucky ones - think of this lot having to break all the ice and dig away at the bank until it's a nice shallow incline, then lay runway repair mats. OK, let's confirm your OP sites, shall we? Crosse and Blackwell?'
'Blackburn, sir,' one of the marines corrected him amid anticipated and preconditioned laughter at a familiar joke.
'Crosse and Blackburn - your heading?' Waterford replied, his face expressionless as he stared at the radiating lines on his w map that Ted from the lake to the observation sites he had decided on for the nine pairs of marines. Not so much the thin as the transparent red line, he remarked to himself.
Buckholz turned to look at Waterford, and then returned his attention to Brooke. Evidently, Waterford knew how to handle his men. The laughter that had distracted the CIA's Deputy Director was high-pitched, nervous. The SBS men were, like most elite forces, somewhat too thoroughbred in behaviour when not in action. Buckholz had found that to be true of US Special Forces men in Vietnam. But, they were there to function, not for show…
Brooke stood with his air canisters at his feet, a white parka over his wetsuit. Two other divers had joined them, one bringing coffee. Buckholz sipped it now. The snow pattered against the back of his parka and the wind buffeted him.
&n
bsp; 'This is vital,' he reiterated, sensing Brooke's resentment of his inexpert interference. He criticised it in himself. He did not mean to imitate his own grandmother, but he simply could not help it. Brooke had already been down twice through the jagged hole they had broken in the ice. His damage report had been expert, thorough. His inspection of the undercarriage, especially, had been positive in conclusion. Then he and two others had removed the charges they had laid when they had first found the Firefox. Now, Buckholz had ordered them to make another check on the undercarriage. 'You have to be certain, really, really certain, that those three legs are going to be able to take the strain of the winching. She's got to come out of there by the strength in her legs…'
'Yes, sir,' Brooke said stiffly.
Buckholz grinned. 'OK, I know I'm fussing-but humour me, uh?'
Brooke returned his grin. 'OK, sir - I'll double check.'
'Good boy.'
'Mr Buckholz?'
Buckholz turned in the direction of the call. The chain-saw was at work again. Snow flurried into his face. The sky was dark grey, the snow almost constant now, and the wind had increased from around five to more than ten knots. Sure, it was all helping to mask the signs of the air drop and their prints out on the lake, but it was reducing visibility at times to less than thirty yards. From the shore, it was difficult to see across the clearing to the Royal Engineer corporal with the chain-saw. He mistrusted the weather. A small example of its crippling effect had been the three hours of parching required to locate the contents of one hurst pack out an the ice Yes, more than anything it was the weather that, made-him fuss and triple-check. It held the key. Worst of all, the weather was delaying the Skyhook so much that they couldn't now assume it would arrive by the time they had winched out the Firefox. Buckholz was worried that the flying crane would never arrive, and they would have to destroy the Firefox where it stood. Damn the weather.
'What is it?' he called into the gusting wind. 'Mr. Aubrey, sir,' the radio operator called. He was bent over the control console of the commpack as he crouched behind a canvas windbreak reinforced by lopped tree-branches. A dish aerial rose to the height of the lowest overhanging branches of the tree canopy on the shoreline.
