Sea Leopard

'Maybe he wants to. Maybe he's running for the coast and keeping his fingers crossed. Who knows?'

'My God, what an impossible situation!' Aubrey's face darkened after the quick rage had passed. He leaned confidentially towards the American. 'Ethan, I'm worried about Quin. I haven't heard from Hyde. He was at the NEC in Birmingham, some sort of pop concert. He thought — no, he was certain — the girl was with this group. She knows them, once travelled with them.' Aubrey's face was drained of colour and expression now. 'It is very hard to contemplate, Ethan, but I feel myself staring at the loss of the Proteus and of the man responsible for the development of “Leopard”. It is not a comfortable prospect.'

Clark recognised, and admitted to himself, Aubrey's age. Yet he respected the man's intellect and his expertise. Aubrey might, appallingly, be correct in his diagnosis.

'Maybe,' was all he could find to say.

'I think we have to consider the possibility that what is happening up there — ' he waved a hand at the top of the map-board — 'is deliberate.' He paused, but Clark said nothing. 'We have no proof that there is a Soviet submarine in distress. It has stopped transmitting, and still no Russian vessel has gone in after it. But a great many Russian ships are concentrating in the area we know contains Proteus. If they find her — and they may be attempting to do just that — then we will have surrendered an almost priceless military advantage to them. If we lose Quin, too, then we will place ourselves in an abject position indeed.'

Aubrey tapped at the surface of the commodore's desk, which he had had moved to a position beneath the map-board. As if the gesture was a summons, the telephone rang.

'Shelley, sir.'

'Yes, Peter?'

'I' ve just been informed of a routine surveillance report from the DS team at the Russian embassy —'

'Yes, Peter?' Aubrey found it difficult to catch his breath.

'They think Petrunin left the embassy unofficially around five-thirty this evening.'

'Where was he going?'

'I' ve checked that, sir. His numberplate was spotted heading north, I'm afraid, on the M1.'

'Damn!' Aubrey's lips quivered with anger. 'Thank you, Peter. You'd better inform Birmingham Special Branch. Get them over to that concert at the NEC — quickly!'

Aubrey put down the telephone.

'I guess I see what you mean,' Clark said slowly. 'Without even really noticing, we're down to the wire.'

'I think we are. The KGB Resident wouldn't charge off unofficially without good cause or strong suspicion. Hyde couldn't have lost his trail. Damn that girl and her father!' He returned his attention to the map. The dot of the Nimrod was crossing the Arctic Circle. Proteus was surrounded. The Kiev was steaming at full speed to the Tanafjord, and the rescue ship Karpaty was on station. There really was no escaping the conclusion, and little chance of avoiding disaster. Aubrey felt very tired, entirely incompetent. 'I think we have already lost, Ethan. This may be the view from the canvas, from the loser's corner.'

'I hope to God you're wrong about that.'

'I don't think I am.'

* * *

The interference crackled in front of Ardenyev's voice, masking it and giving it, to Dolohov's ears, a peculiarly unreal quality, as if the man were fading, becoming ethereal. Then Dolohov raised his voice, not to be heard but to remove the strange, uninvited perception; the whisper of failure.

'Get aboard the helicopters, Valery! you must transfer to the Karpaty now!'

'Sir, I'd really like you to have a word with one of the pilots — ' Ardenyev's voice seemed more distant still, the storm smearing his words mockingly.

'No! It is too late for words! The traces are piling up. We're almost there.' Dolohov looked round at Sergei, who stood obediently and silently at his elbow as he hunched over the table in front of the telephone amplifier. To Sergei, it seemed that the admiral was losing control, was dangerously elated by events, by the slipping, chasing minutes that passed and the sightings or partial and unconfirmable reports of the British submarine that kept coming in. The old man was racking them up like a score, mere multiplication stimulating his confidence and his arrogance. 'We have them, Valery, in the palm of our hand. They're ours!'

'Sir, you don't seem to understand. It's a question of whether they can put us down on the deck of the rescue ship —'

'Don't argue with me, boy!' Dolohov thundered, his fist beating a counterpoint to his words on the surface of the table. 'You have your orders — the pilots have their orders. You will board the helicopters at once and set course for the rescue ship. Understand?' There was a gap, then, of space and silence in which the storm hissed. 'Do you hear me?'

'Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Your orders will be carried out, to the best of my abilities.'

Dolohov was suddenly, manically expansive and generous. 'Good boy, good boy. Good luck and good hunting. Over and out.' The old man flicked off the telephone amplifier and stood up. He moved with some of the robotic jerkiness of arthritis battled and temporarily overcome; or the driven, muscular awkwardness of someone possessed of an unquenchable desire. He slapped his hand on Sergei's shoulder and the young man hoped that his smile did not appear too artificial. Dolohov looked at him, however, with eyes that had little perception in them. Not glazed or dulled, rather fierce and inward-looking. 'The end-game, Sergei — the end-game,' he murmured in a strange, ugly, caressing voice.

The rear-admiral was punctilious, almost smirking, full of a bustle that had previously been absent. 'Final positions, Admiral,' he offered, indicating the computer print-out sheets in his hand.

'Good, good — come, let me see.' He took the rear-admiral's arm, ushering him to the window, clutching the sheets with his other hand. Sergei realised that the rear-admiral had cast aside all doubts and reservations; whether from self-interest or because he had contracted the admiral's current illness, Sergei could not decide. Probably both. 'Where?' They were at the window.

'There,' the rear-admiral proclaimed, histrionically waving his hand down towards the map-table. “Kiev, Karpaty on station waiting for Ardenyev, Grishka and the other submarines — see? There, there, there, there, there —' The finger jabbed out at each of the lights below. 'the other units of the fleet in back-up positions, or sailing on deception courses.' He looked at Dolohov. 'It's up to them now. They have their orders. All they need is a positive ident on the British submarine.'

Dolohov's face possessed a beatific expression His eyes were almost closed. Sergei, embarrassed and disturbed, realised that it was a moment of love. The cold, stern, paternal admiral was unrecognisable. Sergei did not know, however, what it was that Dolohov embraced — this challenge, the drama of the moment, the prize, or the winning of the game. Perhaps even the game itself?

'Good, good,' the old man murmured again. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened and all his attention was concentrated on the voice of one of the officers behind him in the control room.

'Submarine unit Frunze reports a magnetic contact —'

Dolohov was across the room and at the officer's shoulder with the speed and physical grace of a younger man. 'Where?' he demanded. 'What range?' Then, before the man could answer: 'Can they lock on to her course?'

The communications officer listened to his headphones after repeating Dolohov's questions, and the old man could see his head begin to shake. 'No, sir — they' ve lost it. Could have been sea temperature —'

'Rubbish. It was a magnetic contact, not infra-red! It was them, you idiot!' He turned to the rear-admiral. 'Order all submarine units to converge on the Frunze at once!'

'Admiral, is that —?'

'Do it.'

'Very well, Admiral.'

Dolohov walked aimlessly yet intently back to the window. He appeared to have little interest in the glowing map below him. The situation had been ingested in its entirety or — here Sergei corrected himself— perhaps it had always been in his head. Sergei half-listened to the rear-admiral issuing a stream of orders, half-watched Dolohov, principally being aware of himself as an unimportant cipher, something like a parcel left in one corner of the