Firefox Down (16 page)

Aubrey's face was taut with disappointed anger. 'I see,' he managed to utter.

'What you need is a chopper - a very big chopper,' Curtin added. Aubrey's face brightened.

'Which one?' He immediately placed a small, gold-bound notebook beside his plate, and touched the tip of a pencil to his tongue. 'Pray, what is the name of this marvellous beast?'

'You need the new Sikorsky. Skyhook - it could lift fifty thousand pounds in a sling load with no trouble.'

'And - this helicopter could transport the airframe?'

'It might take it as much as two hours to get the Firefox back into Norway from the lake. The problem is - the closest one is probably in Germany, as far south as Wiesbaden.'

'But it could transport it, in a single lift, all the way out of Finland?'

'Yes.'

'Christ, Gene-you're getting as crazy as he is!' Buckholz exclaimed. 'Have you seen the met. forecasts for that area? You'd be real lucky to get the Skyhook
up
there, never mind operating!'

'I'm afraid that's true, Mr. Aubrey,' Curtin reluctantly agreed.

'Could it lift it straight out of the lake?' Aubrey persisted.

Curtin nodded. 'But, I suggest you have winches as a back-up, to haul that airplane's ass out of the water onto dry land. The Skyhook would like that - and the weather wouldn't help a straight lift, either.' He watched Aubrey scribbling furiously in his tiny notebook, and added, as if dictating: 'From Waterford's report, it must have run backwards into deep water - you could winch it out, up the slope, along a portable roadway…'

'Just a moment!' Pyott snapped. 'I'm going to put-a hypothetical case, shall we say? - to the RAF's Field Recovery Unit at Abingdon. I want an
expert
opinion - with apologies to Captain Curtin - on all this speculation.' He stood up, dabbing his lips, then dropped his napkin on the table. 'I shan't be long,' he offered in a cheery voice.

When the door had closed behind him, Buckholz leaned over the table and whispered fiercely at Aubrey: 'We know men and machines can do
anything
you want them to - but what about politicians, Kenneth? You haven't got a dime's worth of change out of the Finns since yesterday. Even your buddy in Helsinki isn't too crazy about more interference from us - '

'
Or
from the Russians.'

'Don't count on that,' Buckholz said abruptly. Ignoring him, Aubrey addressed Curtin. 'What else do I need?'

'I agree with Director Buckholz, Mr. Aubrey - you need the politicians to say yes to you. But, if you're asking me, I'd think about maybe even dismantling the airplane and taking it away in pieces - in case you haven't gotten a Skyhook to the lake. You could hide the pieces and go back later…?' Curtin shrugged. 'So,' he continued, 'you need technicians, equipment, winches and pulleys, cutting tools, airframe experts, and a hell of a lot more besides, all gathered around your lake, and you need the utmost secrecy and you need
time
.'

'How much time?'

'From beginning to end - a lot of days.'

'And Gant isn't going to be able to give you that time, Kenneth,' Buckholz supplied, staring at his fingertips as he spread them on either side of his cup of coffee. They drummed pointlessly, without discernible rhythm. 'Gant hasn't got any time left, so neither do we.' He looked up from the table, shaking his head. 'This whole conversation's pointless.'

'Don't say that- '

'I have to, Kenneth. All right, you're the guy, the main man, the one who dreamed up this crazy scheme - and almost made it work - but it hasn't worked. Blow the damned airframe into little pieces!'

Aubrey stood up. 'And that is your considered, your
expert
, opinion, Charles?' he asked.

Buckholz nodded. 'That's it.'

'Then I beg to disagree.' He looked at his plate with an old man's reluctance to leave food uneaten, then shook his head. 'I must talk to London - to Helsinki
via
London, to be exact. You gentlemen will excuse me.'

He closed the door of the small dining-room in the Mess behind him. A secure line direct to Shelley at Queen Anne's Gate had been installed in the bedroom he had been allocated. He went heavily up the staircase, his mind whirling with the possibilities of his scheme. Pride stung him into desire. He wanted action, activity, organisation, a
scenario
. He would not let the aircraft go; could not bring himself to destroy the airframe. Guilt, too, hounded him now; had awoken him in the short night when he had tried to sleep. Guilt for Fenton, who had been tricked to his brutal murder on the bank of the Moskva after doing good work trail-blazing for Gant; guilt for Pavel Upenskoy, guilt for Baranovich and Semelovsky and Kreshin, all of whom had died at his orders, or had been considered no more than expendable in promoting the success of the operation. It was a heavy toll of good people; best people.

To destroy the airframe now, scatter it over the bed of the frozen lake, would be more criminal than creating the circumstances of those deaths. Gant was lost. Strangely, he did not feel any acute guilt at the American's loss… but the others…

He closed the door behind him and crossed to the telephone. He felt the physical sensation of weight between his shoulder-blades, slowing him, wearing him down. He felt he would only rid himself of it if he recovered the Firefox; would only reduce and lighten it if he
tried
for such a recovery.

He dialled Shelley's number.

'Peter?'

'Yes, sir. Good morning.'

'What news?'

'As far as we can tell, he hasn't arrived yet… sorry.'

'Put me through immediately to Hanni Vitsula, Peter, I must talk to him. I'll wait until you call me back.'

He replaced the receiver, and rubbed his hands on his thighs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he recaptured the position his body had adopted when he first woke and made to rise. Hunched, small, lost. Guilt, yes - guilt and pride. Two emotions to move mountains; or bury people beneath mountains.

Stop it, he told himself, sitting upright, hands thrust into his pockets. Prepare yourself for the next step, for this conversation.

The Finns - more precisely, the Finnish Cabinet Defence Committee under the chairmanship of the Prime Minister - had agreed to the overflight of the Firefox and to certain, very limited back-up facilities and incursions of Finnish airspace. Aubrey had been tempted by a new mood in the country, under the new government, to use Finnish airspace rather than order Gant to fly the longer journey down the spine of Norway to rendezvous with the British Airways flight from Stockholm to London. Infra-red invisibility would have been guaranteed by the aircraft's proximity to the civilian airliner for the last crucial stage of its flight across the North Sea. The Finns had agreed because 'Finlandisation' had become a term of abuse, an insult to a resurgent mood of independence in the country. But-

But, but, but…

Army deserters crossing from the Soviet Union into Finland had been publicised, and not handed back. Granted asylum. Key industrial projects in the Soviet Union designed and built by the Finns had been halted or suspended until more acceptable trade agreements and repayment terms had been agreed. All good signs…

But, but, but -

The telephone rang, startling Aubrey out of his reverie of justification and optimism. He snatched at the receiver. 'Yes?'

'Director Vitsula,' Shelley said, and then he heard, more distantly, the voice of the Director-General of Finnish Intelligence.

'Good morning, Kenneth.'

'Good morning, Hanni - '

'What is this business we have to discuss - your aide tells me it is urgent… is that so?'

'I'm afraid it is.'

'What has changed since last night?'

'Nothing - except our attitude here to what we discovered.'

'Yes.'

'What is the feeling at present in your Cabinet Defence Committee?'

'Deadlock - I can put it no more hopefully than that.'

'What about the Russians?'

'I think they are more angry with them than with your country and the Americans. They do not know about - your little escapade, only about the overflight by the Nimrod, which they permitted, in the event… but, there has been a leak in the newspapers here

'
What?
'

'Only concerning intrusions into our airspace by Soviet fighters - nothing more. But the Prime Minister has made the most serious protest to Moscow concerning the matter.'

'Is there any hope there, Hanni?' Aubrey was speaking very loudly now because the Finn's voice seemed more distant.

'Hope for what?'

'A - ' Aubrey hesitated, then said: 'That matter we talked about last night… a fishing expedition.'

'Kenneth - I have seen the Foreign Minister and the Prime Minister - nothing, I'm afraid.'

'Do they understand?'

'Yes, Kenneth, they understand. They are not unsympathetic. But - troops, vehicles, helicopters - it would be easier to ignore the whole problem, or drop a bomb in the lake…"

Aubrey, enraged, snapped: 'What is it they want?'

'Ah,' Vitsula sighed. In front of his reply, as if coming from the next room, the line crackled and spat. 'Reciprocity and access were two of the words being tentatively used, I believe,' Vitsula said.

'Would they agree, in that case?' Aubrey snapped.

'I - don't know. It might… soften them.'

'It's a high price.'

'Higher than you think. Access to highest levels, access to the codes, access to the scenarios regarding Scandinavia…'

'You mean your people want a full Intelligence partnership with NATO while remaining neutral?' Aubrey asked, taken aback. He rubbed his forehead, wiping slowly and with force at the creases he found, as if they surprised him.'It's
your
price, of course.'

'My suggestion, yes.'

'In return-?'

'We would keep our heads down - three wise monkeys. '

'For how long?'

'I - don't know. How long must you have?'

'
I
don't know!'

'Then you must think it over. Just one more thing, Kenneth.'

'Yes?'

'Can you assure me - give me your word - that our friends across the border know nothing, nothing at all, of the whereabouts of their property? I must have that assurance, Kenneth, before I do anything more. Are you able to give it?'

Aubrey envisaged Gant's face for an instant, cleared his throat, and said, 'Yes. I can give you that assurance. They are in complete ignorance.'

'Thank you. When do we talk again ?'

'Later. I will talk to London and Washington.'

'Good.'

'The price is very high.'

'So are the risks.'

The young KGB Colonel, whose shoulder boards and uniform seemed remarkably new, had hurried aboard the Antonov An-26 short-haul transport aircraft with the eagerness of someone meeting a dear relative. Gant watched him clatter up the lowered beaver-tail ramp into the fuselage, his eyes seeking along the row of tip-up seats. Gant was seated on one of them, hands manacled in front of him, a guard on either side, the remaining GRU men positioned on the opposite side of the fuselage.

The young colonel stood in front of the American, hands on his hips, appraising him frankly but without malice. There might have been something akin to admiration in his gaze. Then, almost smiling, he turned to the officer in charge of the guard detachment.

'OK, he's ours now,' he said.

As if he had been overheard, KGB men in civilian clothes clambered up the ramp into the aircraft's belly. The cold of the day outside followed them, striking through Gant's check woollen jacket and waterproof trousers. He shook his head, trying to fully wake himself. It had been surprisingly easy to sleep in the noisy main compartment, surrounded by guards. Now he was hungry. The journey was almost over - bath, food at the end of it. He knew why his mind had narrowed and was working at this fiction.

'Major Gant, would you accompany us, please,' the young colonel requested. The four civilian-clothed KGB men stood behind him.

Gant stood up, stamping the cramp out of his calves and thighs. The dog-bite in his calf ached. The GRU men were already at their ease. Cigarette smoke was pungent in the cold air. The colonel reached out a steadying hand, but Gant motioned it angrily away. The officer nodded almost respectfully.

Gant moved towards the ramp and the tarmac outside, a KGB man close on either side. Their arms touched him as they moved, and he could smell staleness and smoke on one of the suits, mustiness on an overcoat. The men's faces were pinched and whitened with the cold. Gant shivered as the sleet blew into his face.

The officer was suddenly beside him, one of his guards having dropped back a step.

'I'm Colonel Dmitri Priabin,' he explained, the rank still a strange, pleasant taste on his tongue. 'I found you,' he added, gesturing the American towards a rank of black limousines drawn up on the tarmac. Gant's attention wandered over the military airfield. Familiar, except for the aircraft types and their markings.

'Yeah?' he murmured. 'Found?'

Priabin's hand was on the door-handle of the second and largest limousine, a Zil. He nodded. The grin was boyish, the eyes alert, clever, studious. 'Almost in time,' he explained. 'You were on our computer files, of course. But - it was an accident, even then. A
minute
too late, no more than that!' He laughed.

'What happened to your boss?' Gant asked suddenly. Priabin's face frowned, then cleared.

'Colonel Kontarsky is - in disgrace, I'm afraid.' His head had turned from side to side, as if checking that his new shoulder boards remained in place. 'However, will you please get in the car.'

'Where are we going?'

Priabin grinned reprovingly. 'Come, come, Major-you know that as well as I. Please…?' He opened the door and gestured for Gant to get in. The American clambered into the Zil. The other rear door opened and a KGB man - the one whose overcoat smelt of mothballs and disuse - slid in next to him. Priabin got into the front passenger seat. The KGB man who was scented with harsh tobacco followed Gant into the car. He was pressed between them. No guns had been drawn. Priabin turned to watch the American as the driver accelerated towards the perimeter fence of the airbase. Passes were shown at the guardroom, and then they were turning onto the main road, towards Moscow.