Sea Leopard

enormous.'

'You'd declare war?' Clark asked ironically.

'Don't be stupid.'

'Then the shit hitting the fan will have been worth it. What will you do? All of you. You won't go to war, we won't go to war on your behalf, you won't tell anyone because it's all too embarrassing — so nothing will happen. “Leopard” will belong to both sides or to none. That'll be the only outcome.'

'What can we do, Clark?' Aubrey demanded with the impatient emphasis of a frustrated child on a wet day. He was almost shaking with rage and frustration.

'You' ve been outboxed, Mr. Aubrey.'

'Don't be so damned American,' Pyott drawled. 'So insufferably smug and patronising.'

'Sorry, Colonel Pyott,' Clark apologised. He could not mask his grin completely, even though he sensed the gravity of the situation as completely as anyone else in the room beneath the Admiralty. It was so — so caricatured, this panic in the dovecote. The new shiny toy was missing. There was an absence of concern for the crew of the Proteus that Clark resented on their behalf, even in Aubrey. He also felt, and admitted, a sneaking admiration for the man he felt must have masterminded the boarding of the submarine, Valery Ardenyev. He could remember the man's face and build now, and he could entirely believe in the Russian's ability to successfully surprise and overcome a crew of over one hundred.

Everything depended upon the degree to which Proteus was damaged. The nearest NATO units were twenty hours' sailing from the present position of the submarine, except for certain small Norwegian units which the government in Oslo would not deploy in the Barents Sea. They could watch, by radar, sonar and aircraft, but they could not intervene. If it took more than twenty hours to raise and tow the Proteus, then the full five acts of the disaster might not be performed. Unless Ardenyev and his men simply unplugged 'Leopard' and took it away with them. Clark was inclined to doubt this. The Russians would preserve, at some effort, the bland, apologetic face they had begun to present via the Soviet Ambassador in London.

'Can we rescue it — them?' Aubrey asked. 'Can we get out of the elephant trap that has been dug for us?' he insisted, worrying at the insuperable problem as at a bone. There had to be some hope within the situation, surely?

'Rescue?' Copeland blurted in disbelief.

'I can't see how,' Clark said more carefully as Aubrey glared at the young Royal Navy officer. The map-board loomed over them all, all its lights gleaming and unmoving, except for the plotted course of the Nimrod on-station as it was updated every few minutes. A fly buzzing above the scene, a carrion bird over a kill.

'I don't see why they need to raise the sub,' Pyott said. They're interested in only one thing, surely?'

'Ardenyev's done maybe a half-dozen of these rescues on Russian boats in his career. Board and raise operations. He's an expert at it. They needed him to get on board, sure — but they maybe want his expertise at raising boats, too.'

'I must talk to “C” at once,' Aubrey remarked. 'Our talking is pointless at the moment. We must establish what the Soviet authorities intend.'

Clark shrugged, unoffended that Aubrey doubted his prognosis. His respect for Aubrey had seemed to waver during the past twenty-four hours, like a light revealed and obscured by the movement of clouds. Yet the American, despite the clarity of his own mind, realised he still expected a solution to occur to Aubrey; even a successful solution.

Aubrey made no distinction of security between himself and the 'Chessboard Counter' team, and used one of the battery of telephones in the underground room. Cunningham, he knew, was with the Foreign Secretary, having been summoned to a second meeting with the Soviet Ambassador. He heard Cunningham at the other end of the line within half a minute of placing the call to the Foreign Office.

'Yes, Kenneth? What news?' Cunningham sounded breathless. Aubrey supposed it stemmed from events rather than exertion.

'Expert opinion — ' Aubrey could not suppress an involuntary glance towards Clark and the tight-knit group around and beneath the map-board — 'has it here that the Russians may have boarded Proteus.''

'Good God, that's outrageous!'

'The Ambassador hasn't confirmed as much?'

'He's talking of rescue, of course — but not of boarding. Not directly. Not as yet, that is.'

'How does he explain the incident?'

There was a chilly chuckle in Cunningham's voice, the laugh of a man succeeding, just, in appreciating a joke against himself. 'The captain of the Russian submarine suffered a nervous breakdown. He ordered the firing of the torpedo in question before he could be relieved of his command by the usual heroic young officer, loyal to the Party and the cause of world peace.'

'That is perhaps the unkindest cut of all, that they can get away with such a ridiculous tale, knowing we can do nothing to refute it. And nothing to rescue our submarine.'

'The Foreign Secretary has informed the PM, Kenneth. She's monitoring the situation. Every effort is being made to pressurise the Soviet Union into leaving the area and leaving Proteus to us.'

'And—?'

'Very little. They insist, absolutely insist, on making amends. For the lunacy of one of their naval officers, as the Ambassador put it.'

'Washington?'

'The President is gravely concerned — '

'And will do nothing?'

'Is prepared to accept the Russian story at face value, for the sake of international tension, despite what his military advisers tell him. I don't think he quite grasps the importance of “Leopard”.'

'I see. We are getting nowhere?'

'Nowhere. What of this man Quin?'

'Nothing. The girl is the key. I'm waiting for a report from Hyde.'

'Would it help if we recovered him, at least?'

'We might then destroy “Leopard”, I suppose.'

'The PM will not risk the lives of the crew,' Cunningham warned sternly. 'The Foreign Secretary and I were informed of that in the most unequivocal manner.'

'I meant only that we could attempt sabotage, or Lloyd could if Quin was in our hands again.'

'Quite. You don't think “Leopard” had been damaged by Lloyd or his crew?'

'It is possible, but I think unlikely. None of our signals reached the Proteus.''

'Very well. Kenneth, I think you'd better come over here at once. You may have to brief the Foreign Secretary before he sees the PM again. Leave Pyott in command there.'

'Very well. In fifteen minutes.'

Aubrey replaced the receiver. The room was quiet with failure. Clark watched him steadily, some of the younger men regarded him with hope. Pyott appeared resigned. It was, he admitted, a complete and utter intelligence disaster — precisely the kind he could not tolerate or accept.

'Giles,' he called, and then thought: where the devil is Hyde?

Quin beckoned like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. A false, beguiling gleam, perhaps, but he had no other point of reference or hope.

* * *

Hyde wished he could call Aubrey from the row of telephones with their huge plastic hair-dryer hoods that he could see through the glass doors of the cafeteria. He was afraid, however, of leaving the girl for a moment. He was afraid of letting her out of his sight for any length of time, however short, and afraid, too, that she was beginning to regret her earlier decision. And he was also wary, treading delicately on the fragile, thin-ice crust of the trust she meagrely afforded him, of reminding her that there were other, more faceless, more powerful people behind him. The kind of people her father had fled from originally.

The telephones remained at the edge of his eyesight, in the centre of cognition, as he sipped his coffee and