Winter Hawk (43 page)

"A good night. Now hurry. I want this Kedrov. What have you got as the chef's recommendation on the menu?"

"Chef's recommendation, sir—stay away from the social contacts, the sexual contacts are a bit off tonight, we haven't any of the close-friend hiding places—it's off. . ." Serov smiled, even chuckled. Perchik was clever as a cat at obsequiousness. "But the chef does recommend recent pastimes and hobbies as something you should try."

"And?"

"Going through the man's whole behavior pattern, his every move, for the last month, we've come up with a bicycle repair shop—really black-market—in Tyuratam, but Kedrov isn't there, and the KGB hauled in the owner of the shop two days ago."

"So he's offered no leads or they'd have Kedrov by now. What else?" There was a clipped, military manner about Serov now, something lighter and less intent than the observer of Rodin's murder. This efficient portrait was another part he enjoyed playing.

"Bird-watching—the feathered kind, sir," Perchik added without creating any sense of wasting time. "Out in the salt marshes. Where
^w
e go duck shooting, in season."

"I know, Perchik. Disgusting sport, if you can call it that. Bird-etching, mm? He's applied for permits from the KGB? Or from us?"

"KGB handle that sort of minor stuff, sir."

"Many times?"

"We've counted almost a dozen, sir. Those marshes are full of rotting hulks, old hides, hunting cabins, you name it."

"That will do for a start. Priority air search of the area of the marshes." He looked at his watch, holding up his wrist so that the dial caught the light of the street lamp. Three twenty-five. "Order that at once. It's a long shot, but he must be somewhere—why not there? He must know the area. Get it done, Perchik."

"Sir."

"Out."

Serov dropped the microphone into the Sergeant's waiting hand and walked to the window. The curtains had been drawn back once more, but the room was in darkness. Light crept in from the street like an orange fog. It touched Rodin's stretched-out legs, his disordered robe. One arm hung over the side of the bed—yes, he could make that out with the glasses; the other lay folded on his chest. A sweet, dreamless sleep, a nice touch of fiction. Sooner or later, someone would wonder why the boy didn't move. He'd be found eventually; maybe even his father might call.

A pleasant anticipation . . .

"Outside, sir," the transceiver announced.

"Good," he said at once. "I'll join you."

Serov turned away from the window without hesitation, as if he had seen the movie that window screen had to offer, many times before; the rerunning of a popular success, without suspense because the ending is known.

"Tidy up, Sergeant," he snapped as he opened the door. "This set may have to be re-dressed today or tomorrow."

"Sir."

Serov closed the door behind him.

Gant looked up from the insistent, unnerving image of his curled, stiff hands. His watch, showing three-twenty, had ceased to evoke further anxieties. It merely recorded the passage of
wasted
time. He now had almost an hour of first light to negotiate in
Soviet
airspace. Even at the MiL's maximum speed, that might be as
much
as two hundred miles of flying before he reached either the
Pakistan
or Turkish border. The situation had become hopeless; he had slid wearily into acknowledgment of that, his fears deadened by famil" iarity.

He stared across the harshly lit main cabin. The primitive
heat
ing failed to resist the chill of the night outside, which was inten
sified
by the banging of the wind against the fuselage and the
creaking
of the rotors. Opposite him, trussed into the jump seat,
was
the cause of his sullen, muddy depression. Adamov. Soon he
would
have to kill the man—after gaining as much information as the
man
could supply. Throttle or suffocate him, so that the uniform
remained
unmarked. Adamov's uniform would-fit, just. His collar size determined the fact that he would have to be murdered.

Helicopters droned distantly to the south and east, but the Hind remained undiscovered. It seemed no longer like something parked near the picnic area, but rather a dumped vehicle, long abandoned and left to rust. And still he could not kill Adamov and leave this place.

The man's eyes seemed to ask, again and again, who are you? He did not seem to be afraid, or to anticipate a violent demise. His eyes were vivid with curiosity and anger. Had they not been, he would have been easier to kill. There was a hollow in Gant's chest and stomach that was watery, queasy with danger and the dread of violence still to be inflicted. The watch measured the slow, reluctant steps he was making toward hurting Adamov. Soon; it would have to be soon.

The incident at the gas station, the flight across the Aral Sea, the waiting here, all seemed to have finally drained him. He seemed to have nothing left. He had lost control of the mission. He could not even bring himself to return to the cockpit, to look for the signal light on the transponder. He knew the light would be dead. Kedrov would not be making the rendezvous.

Then go!

The lethargy was huge and frightening, like a great weight of water above him. He'd let go. Already beaten.

Gant was weary of Adamov's dumb yet too vivid presence and the intermittent drumming of his boot heels on the cabin's metal floor. He stood up awkwardly and quickly, like a drunk getting to his feet. His head whirled emptily. Adamov flinched, even attempted to cower, securely pinioned as he was. Gant ignored the momentary fear. Avoided it, rather. He dragged open the cabin door and leaned hatefully into the freezing wind, which did not even begin to clear his head. He jumped down.

Bitter cold immediately, chilling through him, so that he believed that he must have been warm in the cabin. He, tugged the fleece-lined flying jacket closer around him, with a sudden loathing of the huddled figure he made. The wind seemed to cry from a great distance, thin and fitful though it was. He felt each of the thousand miles to safety, each of the twenty to where Kedrov had not arrived, and the great emptiness around him.

Kedrov slowly faded in his mind, and the reluctance he had felt at hurting Adamov also lessened. Soon he would be able to go through with it, make him talk, use the uniform. He rubbed cold hands hard against numb cheeks, leaning his back against the fuselage. He sighed with deep, tired, empty anger. The sighs became an expression of failure and isolation. He should have turned back when he'd filled the tanks; should never have believed he could make it.

He shivered continually with cold. To warm himself, he began to walk, patrolling the margin of the man-made lake, beginning to think of his own safety. He could abandon the helicopter inside Baikonur, steal a car or truck, make it out that way ... he could take the Hind as far as its fuel allowed and then find a vehicle . . . he could fly to the nearest American consulate or embassy or diplomatic mission and walk in and ask them to get him home—just as soon as he disposed of Adamov, put on his identity and his uniform. And that would be soon now, soon.

The startling calls of ducks, other wildfowl. The dull, fretted lapping of the water, the stiff, dry rattling of sedge and reeds, the thin, searching cry of the wind. He walked on, deliberately oblivious to the passage of time. Occasionally, the drone of distant, hunting helicopters sounded above the wind, but he sensed no threat. He was safe until he chose to move.

A startled goose flung itself into the wind from the reeds at his feet. Gant threw up his hands to protect his face and stumbled backward as if pushed. He almost fell. Involuntarily, he cried out in a stranger's high-pitched voice, a near scream of shock and terror. The wild goose skittered across the ruffled metal of the lake s gleam, then gained height and grace and curved behind the pagoda,
carried
by wind and fright and wings.
He
stood, idiotlike, staring open-mouthed at its passage and the widening circles of its flight.

Then he turned and ran, shaken out of every feeling
except
panic, back toward the Hind. He felt as if his limbs had been untied, his mind cleared. Get out, get out, get out, his thoughts insisted.

He blundered against the helicopter, dragged open the
cockpit
door, and heaved himself into his seat, newly afraid. No! No light from the transponder. He had been terrified that he would find the light illuminated, Kedrov's summons peremptory and unignorable. The APU was still on, the main panel glowed with other lights. Two minutes warm-up, two minutes to takeoff. Even as he completed the preflight checks and decisions, his eyes continued to stare at the transponder and its unlit signal. Not yet, not yet. He's dead, dammit, forget Kedrov, he isn't there. In two minutes he would be airborne, and he knew where he was going, knew it for certain. Kedrov's contact was from the diplomatic mission in Tashkent. He had easily enough fuel to get him there. He would walk in to the mission and ask for the Company's man—easy. They weren't looking for him, not yet, they wouldn't have the place guarded, blocked off. He had the time.

Engine-start. He switched on Baikonur's Tac channel. Throttles open. The rotors moved with an initial reluctance, then began turning more swiftly. He would not need to kill Adamov—at least not until later. He began to listen to the reports from the patrols, a feverish excitement mounting in him, all thought of Kedrov and the mission banished.

He released the brake. On the tactical screen, the fireflies were more numerous, more concentrated, but nowhere near him, nor between him and the Aral Sea. He would have to loop well to the south before taking up a heading for Tashkent. As long as they had no idea he was there, they would not close the mission in Tashkent against him—

—glanced up through the Plexiglas, searching the night for the bird that had startled him. It must have settled or flown off. Like a talisman, he couldn't risk harming it.

Twenty feet, thirty, forty . . . fireflies, the search that must have found Kedrov hours before and was now just waiting for him to show • • ■ fifty feet. Gant swung the Hind around on its axis, pointing it westward. Fifty miles to the Aral Sea.

Then he saw the light on the transponder. And groaned. A steady light—now! Kedrov had switched on. The fireflies of the search were concentrated in the area where he should be.

No, the bastard was dead, no . . .

The Hind was moving westward, increasing speed, the trees distressed by its passage, the lake shrinking in his mirrors. Seventy miles an hour, eighty, the airspeed indicator hovering around one hundred. He was out, safe.

Over the Tac channel, he could hear cars involved in the search, troop units being moved by helicopter and truck, MiLs congregating—just where Kedrov should be. They were searching the marshes now. Someone had ordered it, it wasn't an accident. Reports and positions flew.

He was five miles from the lake. Then he heard the name Kedrov. The poor bastard was alive, free, and they were looking for him. Six miles away, seven now. He was almost thirty miles from Kedrov and leaving him behind fast.

The Hind slowed. He cursed the light on the transponder and he cursed Kedrov. Raged at the swarming helicopters that filled the tactical screen. Damn it, damn you, you stupid son of a bitch—why now, damn you? The Hind took up, as if of its own volition, a new heading. To pinpoint Kedrov in the marshes, he would have to fly a north-south patrol until he obtained a triangular fix on the source of the response.

He listened to the tangle of orders and responses, he watched the tactical screen as closely as he might some poisonous creature about to strike.

The area of the agreed rendezvous was being patrolled at that moment. If Kedrov was exactly where he should be, and not somewhere else, then he was right in the middle of the search. He exploded the scale of the moving map until it showed only the islet that was the agreed rendezvous. There were still two helicopters registering even on that tiny pocket of earth and frozen water. One of them was dropping troops into the marshes.

He had to try to get Kedrov out as soon as he pinpointed his position.

Not there, not right there—please . . .

"Everyone's ready?" Priabin asked breathlessly. Dudin nodded, clearing his throat.

"As instructed, Colonel," he confirmed. The windbreak
rattled
like a high flag at his back. Katya stamped her feet for warmth,
arms
clutched around her, hands beneath her armpits. Her face was pale.

"Well concealed? This could be a helicopter, someone
could
come on foot—"

"I was clear about that," Dudin remarked with evident
offense.
His own impatience seemed not to exist, his excitement dim
and
contained by careful routine.

"Good man, good man." Priabin looked up from the screen-Kedrov was sitting or pacing in the cabin of the houseboat, his tension like a silent scream. Above Priabin and the others, a GRU heli
copter
passed slowly across the night, its navigation lights winking. They had intensified their search of the marshes. Somehow, they'd made the same kind of deduction Katya had made, probably from the same evidence. Kedrov was here somewhere.