by Craig Thomas
'It won't be like that,' he said soothingly. Gant saw that he was sweating, and not simply because of the heating in the compartment. He was almost feverish with purpose. And now he was witnessing his schemes begin to dissolve. 'It won't be like that, Anna!' he reiterated more firmly, attempting to persuade himself.
'It will,' she said, 'I know it will - you don't know them.'
'Believe her,' Gant added, and they both looked at him with utter hatred. He quailed. Priabin was a man still in shock and panic, revolving harebrained schemes to save his mistress. The situation eluded Gant. He did not understand how to use it to his advantage. He was certain that the wrong word would act like a spark on the Russian.
'Shut up!' Priabin snapped unnecessarily.
Gant squeezed into the corner of his seat, his eyes flicking upwards for an instant to his suitcase. But there was no chance, no hope.
As if room had been made for him, Priabin sat down at the other end of the seat, the gun still aimed at Gant. Gant felt the cold of the window against which his back was pressed seeping through his jacket, between his shoulder-blades.
Priabin spoke to Anna without looking at her. He still held her hand. Anna's fingers were white and bloodless, twisted in his.
'Listen to me Anna,' he began. 'If he tells us where the aircraft is-you know, don't you?' Gant nodded carefully, his face expressionless. 'If he tells us, we can pass that information on. We - we could get out of it like that. All they want is to know where the plane is, nothing else - that's their only interest in him. I can say… can say that I followed a hunch, or he was reported to me as seen boarding the train, alone - we struggled, the gun went off, but he'd told me everything…!' He stared at her. 'It would work!'
'And they'd be sure as hell to turn you over, Anna,' Gant said quietly. He realised he could not remain silent. Ever since he had noticed the bloodless fingers gripping those of Priabin. He had understood that she was not a contestant, rather the prize for which he was fighting with Priabin. If she became persuaded of her lover's case, then she would allow Gant to die. She hated him as much as Priabin did. At his words, Priabin's gun jabbed forward in little threatening movements. The man's eyes were grey, and now as unyielding as slate. His face wore a sheen of perspiration, and his cheeks were flushed. He looked feverish. 'Believe me,' Gant added, forcing himself to continue, 'I know them. They've wasted people on this operation already - he knows that. Even Baranovitch.' The name was like a stinging blow across her face. 'They'll use anybody. He's right - the man's right. They're only taking care of me because I know too much. I mustn't fall into the wrong hands.' He attempted to smile at Priabin. 'That's why they used you. But, you have to see it through, Anna. I'm sorry, but you have to. If you get me away - then they'll maybe let you off the hook. I'll try to make them do that.'
'Don't believe him!' Priabin shouted.
'Dmitri, keep your voice down!' Anna snapped fearfully at him. Her eyes had glanced into the corridor.
'Pull down the blinds,' Gant said.
Priabin released Anna's hand. He tugged at the blind above his head, sliding it down behind him. Anna rubbed her white hand. Gant turned, watched Priabin for a moment in the window, looked out at the snow flying past the train, and heard Anna draw down her blind. He turned back to Priabin. He would not jump from the train, not yet. He might just win the game -
'OK,' Gant said in English, as before. Priabin's English was better than Anna's. 'That's better. I will try to help - but I can't help if I'm dead, can I?' He turned to Priabin. 'Look, sonny, I know you want to kill me, and I know why. But I'm no volunteer, either, just like her. I didn't pull her name out of a hat, so let's get blame out of the way, uh?'
'I'm not going to let you go,' Priabin replied immediately. He had wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was calmer now; he held rather than gripped Anna's hand. Yet Gant saw that he was now perhaps more dangerous.
'If you turn me in, I'll tell them where the airplane is - sure, I almost did a dozen times, I guess. But, I'd tell them about Anna, too… even if I didn't want to,' he hurried on as the pistol in Priabin's hand waggled threateningly. 'It would come out, under drugs. Man, you know that! I couldn't keep quiet even if I wanted to.'
'So, I kill you.'
'And the CIA tips off your bosses, and Anna goes into the bag and maybe you do, too. What in hell are you doing here, anyway? Where's your back-up, who else knows?' Priabin had begun to grip Anna's hand tightly once more. Gant saw her wince, but he did not know if her pain came from the grip or from his words. 'Face it, man, you've messed up!'
'No-!'
'Your hide's on the barn door along with hers!'
He wanted to look at his watch, he bent his head slowly, as if weighing his next words. Fifteen minutes before the train stopped at Kolpino, where Harris would be waiting with a rented car. He had fifteen minutes to persuade, or kill, Priabin. And he knew he had no chance of killing him.
'They don't expect her to go over with you to prove how loyal she's been, do they?' Priabin asked with contempt.
Gant shook his head. 'They gave her the option,' he said. 'She turned them down.'
Priabin looked at Anna. Her face was pale, frightened. Gant sensed her need to touch the KGB officer, reassure both of them by gentle, continuing physical contact. Priabin scrutinised her face.
'You weren't going?' he asked hoarsely. She shook her head.
'No.'
He appeared utterly relieved. The situation, Gant realised, was more complex than he had thought. Part of Priabin behaved like a jealous lover pursuing his mistress and the other man in the triangle he had invented. Probably, he did not realise it himself. But it formed another spark that might ignite him. Gant did not know the truth - did Anna intend to stay?
'Thank God,' he breathed. It was touching, and dangerous. 'I thought - I thought…' Then he seemed to recollect Gant's presence, and broke off, returning his gaze to the American. There was a sharp, quick cleverness in his face now. He was weighing the alternatives.
'That's it, sonny,' Gant said. 'Think about it. It's all one big trap - a maze. You have to find a way out, just like the rest of us.' He smiled carefully. 'There's just the three of us. What are we going to do about it?'
'What are the arrangements for this man?' Priabin asked.
'We were to leave the train at Kolpino - ' Priabin looked at his watch, and Gant quickly did the same. Twelve minutes. ' - the next station. Someone will be waiting for us, with a car.'
'Then you are not needed!' Priabin exclaimed. 'Don't you see, Anna, you're not needed! You don't have to provide cover for him by travelling all the way to the border - you don't!'
Gant controlled his features as she looked at him pleadingly.
Priabin had leapt upon the flaw, the escape route for Anna. Now, she would ally herself with him.
'They'd still hand you over,' he said.
'No! What are you - one of their Category-A Sources, Anna?' She looked at him, and nodded. 'Yes, that's what my Case Officer says.'
'Then you're important to them, don't believe you're not. If the American fails to get away, you wouldn't be blamed. If you hand him over to whoever is to meet him, then your part is finished. If he is killed trying to get out of the country, then you cannot be blamed…' He hurried on breathlessly, his hand shaking hers in time to the rhythm of his thoughts. Gant felt his stomach become watery. His eyes flicked to the rack and the closed, unattainable suitcase. There was nothing he could do now, but wait.
Ten minutes to Kolpino - but Priabin already knew about the waiting man and the waiting car. He would understand that Gant would be given exit papers for Finland, that he would be hurried out of the Soviet Union to safety. There was nothing Gant could do as Priabin continued talking, his face young and excited, as if he were engaged in nothing more dramatic than watching a football match or opening Christmas presents.
'Stay on the train - leave the American to whoever is meeting him. Understand? Just continue to Leningrad, and then fly
straight back to Moscow. You can be there by morning, in work on time, everything
'And you?' she asked. 'What will you do?'
Priabin looked down at his pistol. A heavy Stechkin. 'It doesn't matter,' he murmured. 'I'll be back in Moscow tomorrow.'
'He's going to kill me, after waiting until you've averted your pretty eyes,' Gant said. 'He thinks it's the easy way out.'
'No-!'
'Isn't it?' Priabin grinned, but the expression was more akin to a sneer. He knew, now, that he possessed all the high cards in the game. Gant had lost his hostage, his secrecy - soon, his life.
'No. You'll have killed me. They won't like that.'
'The Americans.'
'No. Your bosses. Vladimirov, the First Secretary, your Chairman… the really big boys won't like it!'
'I can live with demotion, with a rotten posting - just like Kontarsky will have to,' Pfiabfri said sullenly.
'She'll still be working for the Americans - '
And Priabin's face unclouded, beamed at Gant. 'I've thought of that!' he said, laying down füs lalt and best card. He turned to Anna. Gant quailed. 'I've just thought of it - she can become an agent of mine! An agent of - a KGB officer who's just died, or retired, but I knew about her - he would have set you up, Anna, as a double-agent, and you were passed on to me. I went to bed with you as well as made use of you. They'd believe that easily- !'
Anna was horrified. 'I would have to go on, and on, and on - forever?' she asked.
'Safe!' he replied.
'But - I'd never be allowed to leave it, to get out?'
'Then why did you do it in the first place?' he snapped in a hard voice. 'Why?'
Gant glanced at his watch. Six minutes. When the train slowed? Outside the station - ? Would he be able to get to Harris's car before Priabin did? He would be unarmed. But - jump?
'You ask me - ? Why are you a policeman?'
'It's my job.'
'I want to get out of it, Dmitri - I don't want to pretend to have been working for the Americans while really working for you!' Her voice was high, her eyes bright with tears. She had released his hand. Both her small hands were clenched into protective fists in front of her breasts. She was shaking her head. She looked much older, almost plain, as she pleaded with Priabin. 'I don't care what clever excuses you think up, I don't want to be trapped forever - !' She unclenched her right fist and dragged a lock of hair away from her eyes. Then she clenched her hand once more in front of her. She was staring at her lap, not at Priabin. 'I don't - I can't go on with it, Dmitri…' Then she looked up. 'If only I could go back - you don't know how much I'd give just to go back!'
Priabin appeared to be about to speak, but then he slumped back against the window blind, his eyes staring at Gant.
Gant said quietly, 'Come with me to the border, Anna - get me out, and I promise they'll let you go. If you let him kill me, they'll turn you over to his people. His plan won't work because the Company won't let it work. My way, you have a chance - his way, you have none.'
'You'll be his hostage, Anna.'
'Sure she will. But, there's a way out at the end of it. All you'd do for her is to put her in the bag for the rest of her life - do you want that? Really want it?'
Priabin blinked slowly, heavily. His features expressed confusion, indecision. 'I can't let you go,' he said. Gant thought that he was speaking to Anna, but the remark was addressed to himself. 'I can't do that.'
Must be no more than three or four minutes, Gant told himself. Stay with this.
'You could go home, resign from the ministry, take a job where you're no use to them. They'll be angry, but they won't be able to stop you. And they won't turn you over just for the hell of it.' His voice was soft, the syllables like careful footsteps through a minefield. She looked up at him, attentive, almost beginning to hope. Gant squashed a sense that he might be lying to her, that the Company might indeed turn against her and betray her to the KGB.
'I'll help,' he said. 'Get me to Finland - keep this guy off my back until we reach the border, and I promise you'll walk away free. Come to Helsinki with me - ' he added urgently. Two minutes, was the train already beginning to slow - ? 'Talk to the Company-talk to Charlie Buckholz or to Aubrey…' The names confused her, but he pressed on: 'Aubrey would be on your side. It wouldn't take long, don't come unless you want to. Just get me over the border alive. That way you have a chance - his way, there isn't a hope in hell you can get away free!'
The train was slowing -
Priabin stared at Gant, then at Anna. When his gaze returned to the American, there was a deep, unsatisfied hatred in his eyes. The pistol was still aimed at the centre of Gant's chest, and the man was still intent upon using it. It depended on Anna. Now they were silent and watching him once more, he had no chance of jumping from the door of the slowing train.
The lights of a small town through the snow. White fields. The green splash of a signal light at the trackside.
'Well?' he asked.
Anna looked up. She reached for Priabin's hand, and clutched it. Still looking at Gant, she said: 'I must do it, Dmitri. I must do as he suggests - '
'No!'
'My darling, I must. You've wanted only to help me - we kept it from each other, but all you wanted to do was help me. Now, please help me. Help me, my darling. Let him go, and let me go with him. Don't follow us, don't stop us… I'll come back, I swear. You know I will. But let him get away, and we can both be free. They will do it, won't they?' she asked Gant.
He nodded. 'The people I know - they'll let you go. I swear they will.'
Station lights, rushing at first, then slowing to walking pace as they passed the window.
'Quickly, Anna,' he said, looking at Priabin. The gun was cradled in his lap. His face was miserable, angry and defeated and fearful for her safety.
'Dmitri -'
He nodded, just as the train sighed to a complete stop. 'Yes,' he said, then added to Gant: 'It had better work, American. It had better work!'
'It will. I swear - '
'Then get your coats and luggage. I'll escort you - '
'No,' Gant said.
'Yes. Your excuse for leaving the train here is flimsy, suspicious. With me, you will be asked no questions.'
'And afterwards ?'
'I'll wait for the next train. I'll wait for you in Leningrad, Anna - '
She rushed into his arms while Gant gathered the coats and luggage. He felt the ache of their passion, the intensity of their relationship. He had walked through the minefield, but until now he had never realised quite how dangerous it had been. And, deep inside himself, he felt something he could only describe as envy.
He owed her. He would, at least, try on her behalf -
'Come on,' he said, turning to them, interrupting their kiss, almost embarrassed by it. 'Hurry - '
Brooke shone his lamp on the nosewheel strut of the Firefox for what might have been the tenth or twelfth time. He could not help his reaction, avoid the jumpy tension in his body. It reminded him vividly of that period of childhood when he had avoided walking on the cracks in paving stones, always followed the borders of rugs and carpets, always checked and checked again that the light was properly switched off - at first it had needed four checks, then six, then eight… He had thought he was mad, until he discovered that half his classmates engaged in the same obsessive routines. Checking the ropes around the three undercarriage legs was now the same kind of thing. He felt almost obsessional. They had to be right. The raising of the aircraft was about to begin, everything depended on these three nylon ropes, on his checking them…
He bobbed beside the nosewheel strut. The rope passed several times around it, wound over heavy padding to avoid damage to the undercarriage leg. For that reason, too, the rope was high on the leg. He tugged, quite unnecessarily, at the nylon rope once more, ran the beam of his lamp along it as it stretched away towards the shore.
Yes, he thought, nodding his head - yes.
He turned his ba
ck on the aircraft, his lamp's beam running Over the MO-MAT that reached down from the shore to the nosewheel. The portable roadway was of fibreglass-reinforced plastic and lay over the mud and rubble of the lake bed, the incline of the shore itself and the trampled snow of the cleared site beyond that. The Firefox would be winched along its non-skid surface, moving easily and smoothly, in theory, up onto dry land. The light bounced and wobbled over the waffle-like appearance of the MO-MAT, then Brooke's head bobbed out of the water and he began walking easily up the lessened incline of the shore. As he removed his facemask, he saw Waterford and Buckholz, dressed in white parkas, silhouetted against the lights suspended from the perimeter trees. They were standing together on the MO-MAT, waiting for him.
Snow flew across the glow of the lights as Buckholz waved his hand in Brooke's direction. The SBS lieutenant returned the wave. It was all right - they could begin.
'Yes,' he said, nodding. He turned to look at the frozen lake, just as the American and Waterford were doing. 'Anything in the latest report from the Nimrod?' he asked. An SBS corporal took his air tanks and facemask, and Brooke climbed into the parka. He did not feel cold.
'Sod all,' Waterford replied. 'Nothing.'
'They still don't have Gant - he's on his way to Leningrad,' Buckholz said. 'He didn't tell them.'
Through the curtains of snow that seemed dragged across the scene at irregular intervals, Brooke located a lump of timber floating in the patch of clear water. It was wrapped in Dayglo tape, and was attached by a thin line to the nose of the Firefox. Beyond it, more difficult to make out but spectrally visible, a huge crucifix of planks and logs, similarly wrapped with luminous tape, represented the position of the aircraft under the ice. He and his divers had measured that outline. Now, all that remained was for the ice marked by the cross to be broken where it had thinly reformed after the plane had sunk. Then the winching operation could begin.
Brooke sensed the excitement in the American beside him. It matched his own. Waterford looked grim, but the expression was habitual. Brooke could not deduce any meaning from it.
