have been, in age at least — he would have no real clue to her whereabouts. As KGB Resident, he could not walk around in her head with ease or certainty. Hyde's head bore more similarity to his own.
Where?
The newspapers. He put the file to one side. Football, cinemas, factories on strike, a Royal visit proposed for later in the year — the appropriateness of the blank crossword — share prices…
He folded the morning paper to one side, and returned to the tabloid evening newspaper from the previous day. Grinning beauty queen, footballer with arms raised gladiatorially. Cinemas, clubs, discos, concerts.
The print began to blur. He knew he was not going to find it. Picture of a queue of people, sleeping bags, combat jackets, long hair. He wasn't going to find it. Pop concert at the National Exhibition Centre. Headline to the picture caption, 'Who are we waiting for?'
He flicked over the page, then the next page, before what he thought he had not bothered to read entered his consciousness and immediately caused his heart to thud and his hand to tremble. He creased the pages of the paper turning back to the picture and its caption. Other, smaller pictures underneath, of course. The heroes of yesterday. Heat of the Day. Alletson, the girl's lover. Long hair and soft, almost feminine features. The NEC, Birmingham, concert tonight.
He laughed aloud, congratulating himself. Accident, luck, good fortune, chance never disturbed him. He had placed himself in the way of it. Hyde had stumbled across this in the same kind of way. Something the Morrison girl said, or the mother, or two years ago merely popping into his head.
Whether the girl would be there or not, Hyde would. That was a certainty, and perhaps the only one. In which case, Tamas Petrunin would also be there. He looked at his watch. After five-thirty. He calculated. Just time, if they could get out of the centre of London without delay, to the M1. Just time —
'Is that extra signals traffic co-ordinated?'
'Sir,' Sergei answered. The young aide swallowed a mouthful of bread before he answered Dolohov. Then, finding it stuck in his throat, he washed it down with tea. One corner of the Ops. Room control centre had become a preserve, marked off by invisible fences — authority, nerves, tension — from the normal staff. Around a metal chart table, Dolohov, Sergei and Ardenyev sat drinking tea and eating bread and cheese. There was something spartan and disregarded about the food and drink with which Dolohov kept them supplied, as if the three of them were engaged in the field, kept going by survival rations. Sergei began slowly to understand the feverish, self-indulgent manner in which the admiral regarded the operation. The admiral was an old man. He had selected this capture of the British submarine as some kind of suitable valediction to his long and distinguished career. Hence he attended to every detail of it himself, however small and insignificant.
'Just in case,' Dolohov explained to Ardenyev, the young man nodding in a half-impatient, half-attentive manner, 'in case she receives any signals, or monitors our signals, we'll appear to be making every covert effort to reach, and rescue, our own submarine.' He smiled, the mouth opening like a slack pouch in the leathery skin.
'I understand, sir,' Ardenyev supplied.
'You're impressed by the British equipment, Valery?'
Ardenyev paused. Sergei felt he was calculating the degree of flattery his answer should contain. 'Very. We must have it, sir.'
'Yes, yes — but, its effectiveness? It exceeds our expectations, mm?'
'Yes, sir.'
'She'll keep on course?' Dolohov asked suddenly.
'I — think so, sir.' Ardenyev seemed struck by the idea, as if he had not considered it before. 'I think so. She's committed, now, under orders.'
'Our activity won't discourage her?'
'I doubt that. The captain of the
'Exactly my reading of the man — of the situation.' Dolohov looked at his watch. 'She appears to be maintaining course and speed. We have five hours, or less. Success or failure.' Sergei could hear the admiral's breathing. Hoarse gulps of air, as if the sterile atmosphere of the control room offered something more necessary than oxygen. 'You'd better get off to Pechenga to join your men, Valery.'
Ardenyev immediately stood up, an automaton galvanised by the order. Sergei felt the man was simply supplying an impression of instant action such as Dolohov would expect, had waited for.
'Wish me luck, sir.'
Dolohov stood up and embraced the young man. 'I do, Valery — I wish you luck. Bring me back the British submarine, eh?' He clamped Ardenyev's forearms again with his liver-spotted hands. Ardenyev felt the strength of desperation in the embrace. And of old age refusing to admit the growing dark. He felt sorry, and irritated. He felt himself no more than Dolohov's creature. Later, it would be different, but now it was unpleasant. He would be glad to be aboard the chopper, being flown to the port of Pechenga. 'The weather won't prevent you?' It was a command, and a doubt.
Ardenyev shook his head, smiling. 'Not if I can help it.'
'Report in when you arrive — then wait for my order to transfer to the
'Of course, sir.'
When he had left the room, Dolohov went on staring at the door which had closed behind him. From the concentration on his face, Sergei understood that the old man was attempting to ignore the voice of one of the rear-admiral's team who was reading off the updated weather report from a met. satellite for the Tanafjord area. To Sergei, it sounded bad.
Almost as soon as it lifted clear of the main runway at RAF Kinloss on the Moray Firth in Scotland, the Nimrod surveillance aircraft turned north-eastwards, out over the Firth, and was lost in the low cloud. A blue flare beneath the wings, the flashing red light on her belly, the two faint stars at wingtips, and then nothing except the scudding cloud across the cold grey water, and the driving, slanting rain. It had taken less than two hours to authorise a Nimrod to pursue the
It was almost dark when they arrived. A luxury coach pulled up at one of the rear entrances to Hall 5, and Hyde, standing with the uniformed superintendent responsible for security and order at the rock concert, watched as Heat of the Day descended from it and slipped into the open door to their dressing rooms. Arrogance, self- assurance, denim-masked wealth. Hyde absorbed these impressions even as he studied the figures he did not recognise; managers, road managers, publicity, secretaries. The girl had not been with Alletson, and Hyde's immediate uncontrollable reaction was one of intense disappointment. After the hours in the car park and on the platforms of Birmingham International station and inside and outside Hall 5 — all with no sign of the KGB or the Ford Granada, but the more intensely wearing for that — there was an immediate impression of wasted time, of time run out. Of stupidity, too.
But she was there. Denims and a dark donkey jacket too big for her — was it her, certainly the jacket was too big for the present wearer? — slipping out of the coach without pause, walking with and then ahead of the two other women. The white globe of a face for a moment as she looked round, then she was through the lighted door and gone.
'Was she there?' the superintendent asked. His manner was not unfriendly, not unhelpful. Hyde had been scrupulously deferential and polite.
'I don't know.' He felt a tightness in his chest. Was it her? Furtive, certainly furtive. Alletson had paused, allowed himself to be recognised, taken the limelight. Declaring he was alone, there was no girl. 'I think so.'
'The one with the too-big coat?'
'I think so.'
'Okay. You'd better go and find out. Want one of my chaps to go with you?'
'No. I'll be enough to panic her by myself.'
'Suit yourself.'
