The zeks were straddled in the no-man's-land between the Factory and the living zone when the helicopter landed in the vehicle park. Burdened by the presence of the M V D
Colonel in his corridors and office, Kypov had thrown himself with his old energy into the detail of the running of the camp. If prisoners were on the move then he would be there to watch. It was his skin that would be peeled if there was future slackness. Let the men watch, Kypov had determined, let them see the degradation of the returned fugitives.
The intention was based on good sense. It went unfulfilled.
The rotor-blades died, circled slowly, came to rest. The 246 parking area was lit by headlights. Uniformed men, some straining behind taut dog-leashes, ran forward.
Kypov saw Holly jump down from the helicopter.
All the zeks saw him.
All the guards saw him.
He jumped easily, landed as if on the balls of his feet. The helicopter crew had not come prepared from Saransk, they had carried no handcuffs, and Holly's wrists were free.
Holly turned back to the helicopter doorway and he reached out with his arms and steadied and then caught Adimov who was propelled out by a boot. All the zeks saw the whiteness of Adimov's feet. The guards closed round Holly.
Like a bobbing twig on a fast stream his head alone was visible amongst them, held high.
Kypov elbowed his way past the zeks and the guards. A swagger-stick was in his hand. He split open the cordon round Holly, and the swagger-stick was raised high in the air and whipped down on Holly's face. The swagger-stick rose and fell, and Adimov screamed from the blows that found his shoulder. All the zeks saw the Adjutant pull Kypov away with the hesitant force that a subordinate will exercise on his superior. Holly still carried Adimov on his back and there was blood on his cheek, and there were some at the front of the ranks of zeks who were to swear that they saw him smile, that they saw his hand lifted in a wave of salute.
Like a tidal flow the anger moaned in the lines of prisoners, splashed andbeatacrosstheguardswhogavemorerein to their dogs and backed away and lifted their rifles to the aim. But the prisoners did not cower before the guns and the dancing dogs.
Poshekhonov said, 'He showed no fear. He gave them nothing.'
Chernayev said, 'The camp has been a new place since he came. He should have been on his knees, and the bugger waved…'
Byrkin said, 'He is a leader, born to lead. In battle he would be forward of the front-line troops.'
Feldstein said, 'He could take men to hell, and he would not care if they did not return.'
There was a strange music in Kypov's ears. He heard the catcalls, the jeers, the NCOs' shouts for silence that went unobeyed.
Irina Morozova climbed down from her bunk. She slept on an upper bed, and it was beside the window, so she had a vantage-point from which she could see over the high wooden fence ringing the Women's zone. Her movements were deliberate, as if she had been struck a blow, as if she must be careful not to lose her footing. The noise of the helicopter descent had drawn her to the window. She had seen him jump down from the helicopter's door. She had not seen him again. There had only been the flash of his face as he had jumped. She felt a great wound, the misery that comes with the ending of hope.
Chapter 18
Security's surveillance operation had been in place a full week before word of it seeped across central London to the desk belonging to Alan Millet in the East European section at Century.
A chauffeur of the Soviet Trade Delegation, working out of their Highgate office, was the target of attention. •
Late on a Monday afternoon, the memorandum requesting basic help reached Alan Millet.
A guarded little memorandum, giving little, telling less.
It was by chance that the contact had been made with the chauffeur. Routine. A leading aircraftman from the Royal Air Force base on the island of Anglesey had actually been idiot enough to write a letter to the Trade Delegation offering information for cash. And what sort of information could an L A C offer from miserable old Anglesey? An RAF station for the Hawk trainer, where once in a blue moon a squadron of Phantoms called in for low-level flying over the Irish Sea. Who would want information about such a stereotyped aircraft? There could hardly be anything in the Hawk's makeup that the Soviets didn't already know. And a fool of an L A C had dipped his nib and written off. The Soviets had sent one of the Delegation chauffeurs on a cheap day excursion from Euston to Holyhead. That was three days after the LAC's letter had been steamed open in the basement room of the Post Office sorting building at Mount Pleasant. Special Branch had been asked to pull a man off the ferry watch to Ireland to provide the muscle up at the far end of the line. An SB sergeant had phoned in his report while the chauffeur was slogging back to London via Chester, Crew, Stafford and Rugby. The LAC and the chauffeur had met for half an hour and no papers had been exchanged.
The LAC's bank manager yielded up reluctantly the details of an overdraft of?672.89, an RAF Special Investigation Branch officer reported that the L A C had recently been on an insubordination charge, and that his wife was pregnant yet again. A boring little creep… and SB would probably have been left to handle it in their own sweet way if the LAC hadn't gone sick two days later and made a trip to London and been identified by the watchers at Euston, picked up by the Soviets, taken to lunch in a Wimpy bar and gone for a walk in Regent's Park with the friendly chauffeur. The L A C travelled home to his red bank balance and his bulging wife and his engine maintenance. The chauffeur returned to work and the residential compound in north London. SB in Wales could look after the LAC, Security struggled with their manpower problems to maintain a 24-hour surveillance on the chauffeur. Nine men working three eight-hour shifts. Gave the buggers something to do, Millet thought, and about all they were fit for.
They might have elaborated on the memorandum, they might have flashed more images onto the single page of typescript than had been intended by its authors.
Security wanted to know if the chauffeur figured on Century's computer. Was the rank of chauffeur a cover? No Major of KGB covert intelligence seemed to give a shit what his title was abroad.
Millet had taken the lift down to the Library. A bit archaic, calling it the Library. Precious few books there. The central floor area was set with Visual Display Units. He had typed out the chauffeur's name, but got back damn all in return. Nothing on the chauffeur in Century's machines.
There was a silly small smile on Millet's face when he went back to the lift late that Monday afternoon. The button he pressed took the lift past the floor where East European was housed, to the office of the Deputy Under Secretary.
He stood in front of Maude Frobisher's desk, a suspicious and unhappy owl behind her hornrims.
'I have to see him, Miss Frobisher.'
'He's clearing his desk because he has an early engagement this evening.'
'I have to see him.' if you listened to me, Mr Millet, I said he was clearing his desk.'
'I'll go in.'
Millet strode past her desk, was confronted by the closed door, hesitated, then knocked. A respectful little tap. Miss Frobisher's displeasure pierced his back. He heard the muffled call. He couldn't help himself, he fingered his tie straight. But it was a bloody good idea.
Nothing wrong with this idea at all.
'I'm at an FCO dinner tonight. Our Lord and Master will be there. I could raise the matter quietly, Millet.' it's because we've nothing in the bank to pay for Holly at the moment, sir, but we could have. We could get this wretched little driver. Nine times out of ten their operatives have diplomatic immunity, and all we can do is shove them back onto the Aeroflot. But the chauffeur doesn't have diplomatic immunity. We can hold him, we can charge and imprison him. Then we'll have currency to pay for Holly.' it's not the most imaginative of concepts, going back twice to pee against the same tree trunk. Shouldn't we learn a new trick?'
