was shouting orders angrily. But meanwhile Mitchell was hissing at him like a ventriloquist without his dummy. 'And not Semtex either — you don't have to handle Semtex like that . . . Those containers, David — it looks like Sarin, for Christ's sake!'
Zimin appeared between their truck and his own vehicle, his anger still contorting his features quite uncharacteristically.
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'Inside the house, Dr Audley — at once, if you please.'
Sarin!
'Yes, Colonel.' Even without the corporal's rifle, he wasn't going to argue with that anger, now that they had seen what they had seen. Because Zimin had every right to be angry: either that loading should have been completed, or it ought not to have been started, that anger betrayed. So now, whatever deep trouble they'd been in before, they were in deeper.
The farmhouse was mean-looking: a low stone building with dirty windows and flaking paint. And when his eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the kitchen he saw that its interior matched its exterior: the sink was full of unwashed pots, and the remains of breakfast hadn't been cleared — tell-tale signs of a recent occupancy which, after fifteen years, had ended forever this morning.
Then the gloom returned as Zimin's figure filled the low doorway.
'Colonel —' With no defence, he had to attack first' —I will not bore you with official protests. So shall we take them as read?' He heard himself speak in the same slightly too-precise English of Zimin's own Spetsnaz men, who had undoubtedly been chosen and trained to speak the language in support of their unremarkably Anglo-Saxon features.
'And, in return, you will dispense with empty threats, eh?'
'Empty threats, Dr Audley?' Zimin had recovered his poise.
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It was that damned Sarin which was the problem, thought Audley. But, then, that Sarin had been the problem all along: the problem . . . and the high card in Lukianov's hand, which had enabled him to make his own terms with any of the world's terrorist groups. And, for a guess, it wouldn't have taken the Russians long to realize as much, even while it had taken them longer to reconstruct the past accurately enough to bring them here. Indeed, that fully accounted both for their almost heedless urgency thereafter and their final success: guns and explosives — all the paraphernalia Spetsnaz units needed for their work — that would have been bad enough. But Sarin — Sarin in any one of its specialized varieties and delivery-forms — would have been as unforgivable worldwide when publicly traced back to them as it would have been dreadful beyond imagination in terrorist hands.
'Yes.' That was the trouble; it had been beyond his imagination, even though it shouldn't have been. But. . .
maybe it hadn't been beyond Jake's? That, at least, would account for the Israelis' urgent desire to help. And perhaps that now would have given substance to his bluff. 'If you are contemplating a tragic road accident for all four of us, I wouldn't advise it, Colonel. We've always suspected that your Spetsnaz caches might include chemical weaponry —
even before the Israelis reminded us, just recently. Nerve gas is such an economical weapon, isn't it?' He cudgelled his memory for informed window-dressing to back up his dummy1
words, but his knowledge was too minimal to risk. 'What did you say it might be, Dr Mitchell?'
'Mmmm . . .' Mitchell pretended to consider the question again for a moment. And then shrugged. 'Back in the early seventies . . . Sarin-D would have been the chemical — that's a quick-dispersing variety. And then the warheads out there
— ' He jerked his head towards the window ' —they can be used with ordinary hand-held RPG recoilless launchers. Or adapted Sagger wire-guided missiles, maybe. They're both about the right vintage. And there are a lot of launchers on the market now. The Russians have been supplying 'em to all their Middle East clients for years. Long before my time.'
'Yes.' But Zimin knew all that, of course. So now was the moment to unmask Jake. 'You know my old friend Colonel Shapiro, of Mossad, is back in London, Colonel? He's been very helpful to us. Because his country feels particularly vulnerable, if any of your property fell into the wrong hands . . . Just as, of course, mine also does. Since the IRA has such good links with certain Arab groups, eh?'
Zimin stared at him in silence for a long moment. 'What are you proposing, Dr Audley?'
'Ah!' Audley clasped his hands behind his back so that the Russian could not observe them shaking. 'Well . . . like you, Colonel — like your Government . . . my Government wants neither trouble, nor unfortunate . . . accidents. That is why I am here.' He nodded towards Mary. 'With Miss Franklin as Mr Jaggard's representative, you understand?'
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Zimin nodded cautiously. 'That is indeed why I am here too, Dr Audley.'
So far, so good. 'And General Lukianov's Arab clients?
