Firefox Down (29 page)

Priabin cleared his throat and composed his reddened features. He was already considering how best, how painlessly, he could manoeuvre the general out of his office.

'I - am sorry you're not satisfied, Comrade General. You are, of course, unfamiliar with our methods…'

Vladimirov turned on him. The white light from the table-lamp fell on his cheek, giving it the dead, flat appearance of skin that had undergone plastic surgery. A lock of grey hair fell across the older man's creased forehead. He flicked it back into place.

'Unfamiliar? Aren't jailers very conventional - the same the world over?' he hissed. 'Dolts, buffoons with clubs and guns? Well? Have you an idea in your head, or not?'

Priabin stared at the map. A circle of pins, the weave of a net. Other maps in other rooms displayed other pins. A huge trawl-net being dragged across the city. He must surely be netted soon. The Sadovaya Ring, Red Square, the river, the broad avenues and boulevards, the narrow streets, the buildings and monuments - Gant was
alone
out there. He'd walked the city only once in his life before, and that for little more than an hour. on his way to rendezvous with the now-dead agent Pavel Upenskoy.

Priabin clenched his fist; began beating it into the palm of his left hand. Red Square from the Moskva Hotel, past GUM, down to the river - the murder had taken place there, then they'd fled via the metro to the warehouse near the Kirov Street… then he'd been driven out of Moscow the next morning in a van. He didn't even
know
the city, not at all - !

His forefinger traced the route that Gant, in his disguise as Orton, must have taken from the Moskva Hotel to his rendezvous near the bridge. Having reached the Pavolets metro station, he traced the route once more.

'Well, what is it, man?' Vladimirov asked impatiently. 'Are you awake or half-asleep?'

Priabin turned on the general, grinning. 'I think I'm awake, Comrade General!' he said with something akin to elation in his voice. It was at least enough of an idea to get rid of this uncomfortable old man.

'What is it?' Vladimirov's excitement was hungry and dangerous.

'Gant knows very little of Moscow. He must reason someone would be looking for him, he's valuable. If they know he's out, and they probably do, then they'd have people looking for him - low-grade people, unofficials, anyone they could get out of bed on a cold night - ! He might, just
might
, retrace his steps. It's the only piece of knowledge they all share - the route he took to his meeting with Pavel Upenskoy and the others.'

Vladimirov looked doubtful. Then he nodded, once. 'They might make an assumption -
he
might make it…' He stared at Priabin. 'Well, where do you begin? Quickly, man - where?'

Priabin flicked the intercom switch, 'Bring me the files on Upenskoy's cell - yes, all of them. Every name!' He glanced up. How many were there - Upenskoy. the old man, Boris Glazunov who died under interrogation, Vassily who'd disappeared without trace, one or two others, suspects only… it didn't seem much, but it was something. A beginning.

'He'll wait for daylight, if he tries it… for the crowds,' Priabin explained, once more facing the map. At that moment, he almost believed in his own idea, so convincing was his act for the imperious air force general. 'Yes, he needs the daylight and the cover of the crowds.' He turned as his secretary entered. She deposited the files, sneezed, and left. Vladimirov wiped the cover of one of the files. The name borne by the file was that of Boris Glazunov. Vladimirov opened it eagerly, in desperate, almost pathetic ignorance. It seemed a foolish idea to Priabin, but it appeared to more than satisfy the general. He shook his head gently.

Vladimirov looked up. 'Well, help me, man! There are names, addresses, relatives in here, in each of them. Put them all under surveillance. And get me the departments responsible for street surveillance in the areas you pointed out to me - quickly! Don't just stand there, Colonel - earn your salary for once!'

The Hercules had completed its southward run, utilising the airway and a civilian call-sign and flight number. The pilot had requested landing instructions from Ivalo airport and dropped below the Russian radar net. Then, using visual and electronic navigation, and its radar in the mapping mode, it had flown northwards once more, heading for the dropping zone. The SBS unit had departed from the two paratroop doors during the first run over the lake at three and a half thousand feet.

First light was no more than a greyness in the sky, patched with darker cloud. Snow flurried across the windscreen, causing the co-pilot to intermittently operate the wipers.

Every light on the Hercules had been extinguished.

'All clear ramp doors and depressurising,' the pilot heard the loadmaster announce over his headset. 'Ramp opening, ramp down and locked.'

'Roger. Ninety seconds to Initial Point.'

'After IP, heading two-one-five, skipper,' the navigator informed him.

'Roger - two-one-five.'

'Roger… turning to two-one-five… two-one-five steady.' Ahead of the aircraft, the dawn attempted to lighten the sky beyond the flurrying snow. The wipers cleared the screen. Stunted and dwarf trees confused the pilot's sense of distance. 'Speed coming back to 160 knots.' The undulating, snow-blurred outlines of the land seemed to rush just beneath the belly of the aircraft. 'Wheels down,' the pilot announced. 'Flaps down.' It was a precaution, in case the aircraft came into contact with the ground. 'Lamp on, Diane - '

'OK - ready this end,' the loadmaster replied.

'Lake in sight,' the co-pilot said:

Ahead of them, beyond the last, straggling trees, the apparently smooth surface of the frozen lake stretched away, narrowing as it did so. Trees crowded down to the shore, like a fence around the ice.

'Got it. Keep the wipers on.' Snow rushed at and alongside them.'I've got the smoke marker-'

'Altitude fifteen feet… twelve… ten…'

'Stand by-five, four, three, two, one… Go!'

The nose of the Hercules tilted up slightly as the five pallets followed each other, sliding off their metal tracks and disappearing through the open ramp. The aircraft seemed to bob up, floating on a slight swell.

'Drop good-all away, clean and tight. Ground party already beginning to recover… ready to close up this end.'

'Roger, Diane, standby for ramp closing.'

The Hercules passed southwards over the narrow neck of the lake. A stronger flurry of snow rushed at them, obscuring the pilot's glimpse of tiny, moving figures on the ice. Then the lake was behind them.

'Initial heading - two-two-four.'

'Roger-turning on to two-two-four… ramp closed.'

The Hercules skimmed the stunted trees to the south of the lake. Whenever the flurries of snow revealed the horizon, the lightening sky appeared full of dark, heavier cloud.

Delaying his decision for as long as possible, Gant watched the apartment block of stained, weatherbeaten grey concrete that overlooked the Riga Station on the Mira Prospekt. In the windy, snowy light of dawn, he watched the first overcoated, booted, scarved inhabitants leaving for work. Cheap curtains had been drawn back at a hundred windows; faces had glanced at the day. without enthusiasm. The traffic had begun to flow along the wide street. Trains left the station noisily and arrived in increasing numbers from the northern and north-eastern suburbs.

He had returned to the Mira Prospekt almost by the route he had taken to the US Embassy, taking to the streets only when they began to fill with the first flow of workers heading into the inner city. He had made better time once there were hundreds of other pedestrians. He had even risked a short trolley-bus ride, but the sense of closeness of other bodies, the growing claustrophobia of the self-imposed trap, had forced him to walk the remaining distance.

He was there simply because he remembered the address of Boris Glazunov, whom he had impersonated during the truck journey from Moscow to Bilyarsk with Pavel. Boris Glazunov was married - he remembered the details of the papers Pavel had given him. Boris Glazunov had been arrested, but perhaps they would know someone - a name, an address, a codeword, something…

He had passed the warehouse near the Kirov Street where he had spent the night after Fenton had been killed. It was locked and empty. The old man, too, must have been arrested. He had hurried away from there, alert and fearful. Glazunov's was the only other address he knew belonging to anyone even remotely connected with the operation to steal the Firefox. He had at least to try.

He was cold, but no longer hungry. He had drunk a bowl of thick soup, eaten bread and a thick-crusted, grey-doughed meat pie from a stall selling hot food to early workers. It was parked near a building site on the Sadovaya Ring. The food gave him indigestion but temporarily rid him of his growing sense of unreality. He could not decide the centre of the unreality. It frightened him. He had learned to be wary, alert, clever, but to what purpose? What could he do? How many days and nights could he spend on the streets, without papers and with a diminishing supply of roubles and kopecks, eating from steaming food-stalls and riding claustrophobic trams and trolleybuses? He could see no end to it - and that was his real fear.

He waited for twenty minutes, until he was certain that the apartment block was not under surveillance, that no one and no cars were halted suspiciously for long periods, that no police or KGB had arrived. The traffic thickened - Party limousines sped past old saloon cars and heavy trucks, using the yellow-painted centre lane. The trains came and went monotonously. People left the apartment block, and its companions lining the Mira Prospekt, in greater and greater numbers.

Eventually, he was stamping his feet in the too-big shoes as much with impatience as cold, and then he crossed the thoroughfare at the nearest pedestrian lights and climbed the stepstothe foyer of the apartment block.

'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.