Sea Leopard

'The Kiev, I suppose. Why?'

'Let's hope it's not too bad for the Kiev, then. The range of this chopper means that once we get out there, we haven't enough fuel to get back. You should be in a MiL-8, one of the big boys, all of you. They shouldn't have assigned this—'

'Shouldn't have assigned you, you mean? Two small, light helicopters were requested. The rescue ship contains all our equipment. The Kiev's no good to us. MiL-8s can't land on the Karpaty. Now, we can go?'

'All right. Just wanted you to know.'

'I'm grateful.'

The pilot lieutenant cleared with the tower. Ardenyev settled himself more comfortably in his narrow seat. The two Isotov turbo-shafts began to whine, and above his head the rotor blades quickened, cutting through the sleet, swirling until they were transformed into a shimmering dish. The lieutenant altered the angle of the rotor blades, the engine pitch changed to a higher note, and the helicopter moved off its chocks. The pilot paused, checking his instruments, the wheels of the MiL were just in contact with the ground. The pilot's knuckle was white on the stick.

'The wind,' the pilot observed gloomily.

'Yes.'

The MiL lifted, with seeming reluctance, from the patch of concrete. The sleet whirled round them in the downdraught. A fist of wind swung at them, made contact, knocked them sideways. The pilot shuffled his feet on the rudder bar, juggled the stick and they steadied, drifted, steadied again, and rose above the lights of the helicopter base. A white dish beneath them, darkness above.

'See what I mean?' the pilot offered. 'We're right on the edge of possible flying conditions.' The wind buffeted them. It seemed a physical strain on the pilot to maintain course. It had seemed a struggle to alter the stick and head the MiL out to sea, as if the helicopter was some reluctant, untamed animal.

'Yes, I see,' Ardenyev replied thoughtfully. 'Is our fellow traveller with us?'

The pilot looked in his mirror, then spoke into his throat-mike. The other pilot's voice was a pinched, unreal sound.

'He's there.'

A shudder ran through the fuselage, as if it had received a powerful blow, some direct hit with a weapon.

* * *

Hyde opened his eyes. For a moment, Shelley's features were unfamiliar. Then he recognised Aubrey's aide, and attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his ribs, and his back, and he groaned. Hands pushed him back down on the hard bed. He could feel the thin, hard, uncomfortable blanket beneath his fingers, and he wiggled his toes, eyes very tightly shut for a moment until he opened them in relief.

'You're all right,' Shelley said. 'God knows how, but you're just bruised pretty badly.'

His neck and shoulder ached more than his back and ribs. 'One of them hit me,' he complained.

'We assumed that was the case. It's why you' ve been out so long.'

'How long?'

'Almost four hours.'

'Christ.' He covered his face with his hands, as if the light hurt him or he was ashamed. 'Jesus, my head.'

'I caught the end of the concert. Mine feels much the same.'

'Very funny.'

'Who was it — Petrunin?'

Hyde's eyes snapped open. 'How did you know?'

'Routine surveillance report on the embassy. Unauthorised trip north by the Resident. It had to be you and the girl.'

'I saw him.' Hyde saw Shelley motioning towards another part of the narrow, cream-painted room. A door closed. Shelley's face appeared above his own again, and then he was being helped to sit up. Shelley proffered a mug of tea. Hyde sipped the sweet, scalding liquid, hands clasped round the mug as if to warm them. 'I almost had her.' They were alone in the room now. 'I'm all right?'

Shelley nodded. 'You're all right — just a bit crook.'

'I feel it. The girl panicked. She's like something high on LSD. Seems to think they're coming out of the woodwork for her.'

'She's right.'

'That bloody rock band. They got in the way.'

'Where do you think she is? Do you think they' ve got her?'

'I don't know. She could be anywhere.' Hyde concentrated. 'I got the impression Petrunin had gone back off the platform — the bloke who clobbered me was being pushed towards the steps — the girl was down the other end of the platform. One of them went after her. He might have made it.'

'By the time I got here, they'd all disappeared. No one saw the girl.'

'Shit.'

'I know.'

'What does Aubrey want us to do?'

'He's otherwise occupied. He's taken control of the submarine business. He seems to think it's in a hell of a mess.'

'He's got the set now, then. It's all a bloody mess.'

'Where is she, Patrick? If she isn't at the embassy or one of their safe houses? I' ve got everything I can screened. They won't be able to get her out — I hope. If they want to, that is. But if she's free, where is she?'

'Why not Heat of the Day? It's where she ran for help and cover in the first place? She might have nowhere else to go.'

The group?'

'Yes.'

'Where are they?'

Hyde groaned as he swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He touched his ribs gingerly. 'Are they sure nothing's broken?'

'Quite sure.'

'Free Trade Hall, Manchester, is their next venue. Where they're staying tonight, I' ve no idea. Maybe here?'

Shelley shook his head. 'Not here. Some country hotel in Cheshire. I'm having it checked out.'

'You won't find the girl. She won't stick her neck out again. They could even have hidden her somewhere. She'll go to ground for the duration if the Branch trample all over the garden in their big boots.'

'You can't do it yourself.'

Hyde rubbed his neck and shoulder, groaning softly. Then he looked into Shelley's face. 'I'll accept discreet cover, but nothing more. The girl doesn't believe me as it is. If I go in mob-handed, she'll never tell us where Dad is. You can see that, can't you?'

'Aubrey wouldn't like it.'

'He might. The girl is frightened. She knows one mob is after her, one mob and me on my own. Give me until tomorrow night, and if I can find her and talk to her, she might come in. I won't lose her again.'

'Petrunin won't let go of you.'

'All right. But the girl's more important. It won't be any good arresting a rock band and sweating the lot of them. She has to be coaxed. She's near panic. Her father must be a mistrusting bastard. She's neurotic about us.'

Shelley paced the room, one hand rubbing his chin, the other thrust into the pocket of his overcoat. He glanced at Hyde from time to time. Indecision blossomed on his face. Eventually, he said: 'I don't know — I just don't know.'

'Look, you work on the assumption that Petrunin has her, and I'll work on the assumption he hasn't. Get back to London and mobilise the troops. I'll go up to Manchester, and sit on my arse and wait. Get me cover,