Firefox Down (33 page)

Dmitri Priabin continued to stare as the last carriage and the guard's van moved around the curve of the line just beyond the end of the platform. Then the train was masked by an oncoming express. Anna and Gant had disappeared.

His thoughts were in a turmoil. He felt paralysed and weakened to such a degree that it was difficult to remain standing; impossible to move - to turn and walk or run to the nearest telephone, the nearest fellow-officer -

The flight of his imagination horrified him.
He had actually thought of telling someone - of reporting it to his superiors -
!

His hands were shaking. Nerves in his forearms made them seem chilly, even beneath his greatcoat. He rubbed his arms to stop them quivering. As he did so, he realised his body was bent. He was leaning forward as if he were about to vomit. He straightened up very slowly, his eyelids still pressed tightly together - warding off what he had witnessed or retaining the dampness behind them. The pain of it, the waves of shock, went on like a series of coronaries, each one worse than the one before. He could not escape the image -
her face, Gant's disguised but recognisable face
, together.

He heard himself breathing very quickly. He sniffed loudly, and wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. He was facing down the length of the platform. And Oleg was coming towards him from the barrier, still wearing the overcoat that smelled of mothballs.

'Damn,' he muttered between gritted teeth.

Suddenly, Oleg was an enemy. A KGB man. A spy-catcher. He must know nothing.

'You all right, Colonel?' the older man asked in a not unkindly tone. 'You look a bit pale?'

Drrütri tried to smile. It was more like the expression of a wince at sharp pain. 'Yes, all right, just indigestion.'

'Oh - Comrade Akhmerovna got off all right, then, did she?' Oleg persisted, smiling; almost winking as he continued: 'Did you catch a glimpse of the bloke she was with, sir?' The grin was broad, jokey, knowing. Priabin stifled a groan. 'Travelling on business, like you said, but with this bloke wearing a hairpiece.' He continued to grin at Priabin, expecting a jocular reply. 'You might have trouble there, sir,' he added. Priabin again provided a slim, pale smile.

'One of her colleagues in the Secretariat, I gather,' he said stiffly, and moved away,. He had to find somewhere to think, to decide. It was racing beyond him, he was losing control, falling apart - Oleg was making him want to scream - he felt he would explode if he didn't get away from him.

He strode towards the barrier, hearing Oleg's sarcastic: 'Sorry I mentioned it, Colonel sir,' behind him.
Don't upset the man
! He paused and turned. 'It was a very obvious wig,' he said with studied lightness. Then he smiled. Oleg returned the expression, nodding and chuckling.

'Wasn't it though - what a shocker! They always make me laugh, wigs. Don't know why - haven't got much myself - but, wigs - !' He burst into laughter. Priabin joined in for a moment.

'The wind all right, sir?' Oleg asked solicitously.

'Bit better, thanks.'

'You got anything?' he asked, fishing in his pocket and bringing out a wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These are good - get them in the
beryozhka
shop. American, they are. Better than those peppermint things they make in Minsk. Try one.' He held out the wrapper. There was fluff from his pocket on it. Priabin did not dare risk reaching out his hand. He could envisage fumbling with the wrapper, tearing it, spilling the tablets, arousing Oleg's suspicions.

'Don't do anything for me. It's vodka I need!' he announced as heartily as he could.

'Comeon, then, sir-'

Priabin shook his head. 'I've taken enough time off-better get on with my tour of inspection.' He shrugged. 'See you, Oleg.' .

He touched his cap with his gloves and walked off.

'A real pity, sir - ' he heard Oleg offer.

'What?' he snapped, turning on his heel.

Oleg was holding out the wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These,' he said. 'They smell of mothballs - taste of 'em, too. Don't blame you for refusing.'

Priabin smiled. 'Bye, Oleg.' He strode towards the ticket barrier, passed through it with a nod to the KGB man who must have inspected Gant's papers, glimpsed the poster displaying the pictures of the American pilot, and passed into the station's main concourse. A wig… attracting attention to a distraction. See the wig, see the silly vanity, the life-style and personality it suggests - miss the pilot beneath.

The air outside the Leningrad station was cold. It was as if he had walked into a sheet of glass. He breathed deeply, many times. His head would not clear. It was like a night sky against which rockets and other fireworks burst. Crazy, useless schemes, exploding, leaving their fading images on an inward eye. He had no idea what to do.

Except he knew he could not report her. He could not tell his superiors, could not tell Vladimirov, that the woman he lived with, the woman he loved, was aiding Gant in his escape from Moscow. They would arrest her, interrogate her, make her talk - then dispose of her. Into a pine box or into one of the Gulags, it was the same thing in the end. Reporting her would be her death sentence.

'Gant- !' he murmured fiercely, clenching his fists, then pulling on his gloves in a violently expressive manner. 'Gant - '

Anna was running a terrible risk. She was in the utmost danger.

He clattered down the station steps towards his limousine.

Where?

What to do?

They were going to Leningrad - in all probability, they'd leave the train before it reached the city. Someone would be waiting for them, an Englishman or an American…

And then it struck him, jolting him like a blow across the face.
She was leaving - leaving with the American - she was getting out-

He climbed into the back of the black car and slammed the door behind him.

'The apartment!' he snapped.

The driver turned out into the square. Railway stations all around the square. Images of departure, of fleeing.

He did not know what to do. He knew only that he must not lose her.

The train gathered speed, passing the television tower, its top hidden by low grey cloud. Sleet melted on the window, becoming elongated tadpoles of water. The closest suburban stations all exhibited the same functional, deserted appearance as they headed north-west out of Moscow. The compartment was warm. A loudspeaker softly provided Tchaikovsky. Gant did not know how to begin the conversation he knew he must have with the distraught woman who sat opposite him. She was staring at her hands, which seemed to be fighting each other in her lap. Her lover, she had replied to his first question. The man she lived with. He had been unable to find another question to ask. Instead, he had stared out of the window as if surprised that the train was still moving, still being allowed to continue on its journey.

Finally, as the suburbs flattened into parkland, grey and white beneath the driving snow and low cloud, and then rose again into the old town of Khimki-Kovrino, Gant turned away from the window.

'What will he do?' he asked, staring at his own hands, as if imitating the woman's supplicatory posture. She looked up, startled back to her present surroundings. Her features appeared bruised with emotion.

'What - ?' she replied in Russian. He wondered whether her use of her native language - he had spoken in English - was some way of keeping him at a distance. Or simply security?

'I said, what will he do, the man you live with?' he repeated in Russian.

She shook her head. 'I don't know - !'

'He knew it was me,' Gant explained unnecessarily. 'And he guessed we were together.' He cleared his throat. 'What would he make of it?'

'He knows about me!' she exclaimed, beating her fists in a quick little tattoo on her thighs. 'He already
knows -
!'

'Jesus-H-Christ…' Gant breathed, leaning back in his seat.

The small compartment was hot, even though he had removed his formal overcoat and unbuttoned his jacket. He fiddled with the half-glasses on his nose, but did not remove them. 'He knows about you…' he repeated in English.

'He's known about me for a long time. He's done nothing about it. He - ' She looked up, and essayed a smile. 'He's very much in love - ' She might have been talking of a favourite Son and another woman. 'It pains him - sometimes he can't sleep - but he protects me…'

'Christ - ' Gant rubbed his forehead, inspecting his fingers for dampness. Very little. He was surprised. He checked his body. Hot, yes, but no sense of rising panic. The movement of the train, north-west towards Leningrad and the border, lulled his body. The first stop was Kalinin, a hundred miles from Moscow. Perhaps they were safe until then.

He could not panic, he decided. The woman had coped, coped with much more, over a much longer time. While she remained almost calm, so would he.

'Listen,' he said, leaning forward, reaching out his fingertips. She withdrew her hand, holding it against her breasts. He sat back. 'Listen- think about it. What will he do? What will he think?'

'I-God, I don't know…'

'Will he - will he blame the CIA? Will he blame me?'

'What do you mean?'

The daylight outside was failing. It was as dark as late evening already. The tadpoles of melted sleet wriggled across the window. A collective farm lay unused beneath a layer of snow. A tractor huddled near a hedge.

'Does he love you enough to blame everyone else except you for what he saw?' Gant explained with some exasperation. 'Is he that blind? Will he blame the CIA, the British, me - ?'

'Instead of me?' Gant nodded. 'Perhaps- '

'Will he report us to his superiors? Will they stop the train?'

'I - don't think so…' Anna's brow creased into deep lines. Gant guessed her age to be around thirty-eight or nine. Older than the young colonel he had seen on the platform. He leaned back and closed his eyes. What had he seen? Seen her trying to reassure him… yes. He'd understood that there was no danger, even through his shock. What else - ? The man? Smiling, laughing, holding her -

His face
when she climbed aboard the train, in the moment before he saw Gant - ?

Love. Something from paintings, almost religious - what was it? Adoration - ? Adoration…

And he began to believe that they were safe… safe, unless -

'Could he follow us?' Gant asked sharply.

'What?'

'Could he arrange to follow us -
himself
?'

'Why?'

'To kill me.'

'Why?'

'He might - just might work it out. If he believes in you, he'll blame me most of all, lady. And he could keep your dark secret and put the clock back to yesterday, if he killed me. I wouldn't even be able to tell tales on you.' The Makarov was in the suitcase. Later, he would think about transferring it to his inside pocket.

'Do you think he would do that?'

Gant shrugged. 'He might - you know him, not me. You've screwed up what was a nice neat assignment. He could either hate you, or me. There's no one else to attract his interest.' Gant leaned back, closing his eyes. His lack of panic surprised him.

Maybe it was the woman's presence? She was a talisman who had, perhaps, become a hostage. He felt safe with her. Adoration… yes. Priabin was besotted with the woman, and he could use that to his advantage. Priabin might come after them, but he wouldn't betray her, give her up.

He'd blame the good old US of A and one of its citizens.in particular. Yes, he'd want to kill Gant.

Gant could not believe his luck. The car journey after Vassily had helped him, the apartment for most of the day, the disguise and the easy access to the platform and the train - they were all dreamlike, unreal. It had been going too well.

But this - this was real luck.

He found himself thinking aloud: 'This is real luck…'

Immediately, the woman's face narrowed. She despised him. He could not help that.
Real luck
. He might have had thousands of KGB looking for him, but now, thanks to her, he had only one who was looking in the right place. And, as they say, his lips were sealed.

It was working out. He could make it, with those odds. The papers and the disguise had stood up, would stand up. Harris would be meeting them at a quiet- suburban station with a car and new documents. And, if heskept Anna by his side or in front of him like a shield, he had nothing
fo
worry about… nothing at all. '

'Stop it!' she said intently. He opened his eyes. 'Stop it!'

What-?'

'You're smiling - you're
enjoying it
!' She was very close to tears. Her teeth nibbled at her full lower lip. Her pale, drawn features seemed inappropriate to the expensive hairstyle, the costly, fashionable clothes.

'All right,' he said. 'I'm sorry. It was good not to be the one who's really alone for a change. I
am
sorry.'

She nodded. 'I - ' she began.

'Could you go back?'

'I don't know - I thought so, before, before - '

'Take it easy. Maybe the Company will lay off, if this all works out?' He watched her shaking her head. The blonde hair flicked from side to side. On the platform, she had seemed so much in control, so much the stronger partner. But, she was weakened by her own love. She wasn't so much afraid of getting caught as of losing her lover. Well, maybe the Company would release her if she pulled this off… ? Miracles did sometimes happen.

He looked at his watch. Five hours to Kolpino. They had tickets for the restaurant car. She'd have to make up before she appeared in public -

Gant retreated from concern. It complicated matters. She was, effectively, his hostage, and that was the easiest and most satisfactory way to think of her.

Dmitri Priabin had dismissed his driver when the car dropped him at Anna's apartment. He had hurried from the lift and fumblingly unlocked the door as if half-expecting to find her there. The apartment was, of course, empty.

He tore the expected letter open, glanced at the excuse of business in Leningrad, his eyes highlighting the love that constituted the remainder of the letter. Then he crushed it, threw it across the room, and retrieved it only moments later, thrusting it into his pocket. Without conscious decision, he had packed a suitcase with a civilian outfit - a disguise, he thought - and then he had left the apartment once more, slamming the door hollowly behind him. Maxim was with her father - whatever happened, the boy was safe. Whatever happened to Anna, whatever was discovered - whatever part he played himself - her father could protect his grandson even if he could not save his daughter.