Sea Leopard

be a known, familiar thing by the time they had finished. A dog-eared book, a faded woman lacking all mystery. They would possess every secret, half-secret and secure piece of design, knowledge and equipment she had to yield. The computers would be drained, the sonars analysed, the inertial navigation system studied, the communications systems and codes learned by rote.

Clark did not believe that Aubrey had envisaged how much and how valuable would be the information gained from the temporary imprisonment of the Proteus. However, Aubrey was right to believe that 'Leopard' was the cherry on the cake. This was the present, 'Leopard' was the future. He slouched his way across the control room. No one paid him more attention then to look up, and glance down once more. He had acquired the swagger. Exaggerate it, Aubrey had said, fingering the red ID card. However ridiculous and opera buffo, you think it is, it will work. You are an immortal. And then Aubrey had smiled, cat-like and with venom. The red ID card claimed he was a KGB officer.

Clark stepped out of the control room into the corridor. There was a single guard opposite a door, no more than a few yards from him. The guard turned to him. Clark waved the red ID and the guard relaxed at once. He was a young, conscripted marine.

'I want a word with our gallant British captain,' Clark drawled. 'See we're not disturbed, okay?' The marine nodded. He had probably never met a KGB man of any rank in his life. He had an entire and trusting awe of the red card. Aubrey had been right. Clark opened the door without knocking, and closed it behind him.

Lloyd had been reading, and had dropped off to sleep with the light above his bunk left on. He awoke, startled, fuzzy-eyed.

'Who are you —?' The book resting on his chest slipped to the floor as he stood up. Clark bolted the door, then leaned against it. 'Who are you?' Lloyd repeated, more irate than disturbed.

'The Seventh Cavalry,' Clark said softly, then put his finger to his lips.

'What? You're an American —' Lloyd studied Clark, his manner, features and dress. His face went from shock to hope to suspicion. 'What is this?' he asked with surprising bitterness. To Clark, the man looked tired, dull, captive.

'No trick.' Clark sat on the end of Lloyd's bunk. The captain of the Proteus hunched away from him. Clark said, in a louder voice and in very accented English, 'Just a few simple question about your sailing orders.' Lloyd looked as if Clark had proved something to his satisfaction. 'I'm here — ' Clark grinned, despite himself, — 'to repair “Leopard” and help you get out of here.'

Lloyd appeared dumbfounded. 'Rubbish —' he began.

'No kidding. Look, I can spend hours trying to convince you who I am. How about one simple thing, to prove my credentials?' He paused, but Lloyd remained blank-faced. 'Your daughter has a pet tortoiseshell cat called Penelope and a white rabbit called Dylan.'

Lloyd's mouth dropped open, then he smiled and tears prompted by relief and remembered domesticity welled in his eyes. He took Clark's hand. 'Who are you?' he asked.

'Ethan Clark, Navy Intelligence.'

'Assigned to “Chessboard Counter”?'

'Right.'

'We didn't meet.'

'I don't think it matters — uh?'

'No. How the devil can you repair “Leopard”? Alone? In these surroundings?'

'First, I talk and you listen. Then you tell me everything that happened and everything your people think might have gone wrong. Okay?'

'Okay. You begin, then.'

'Just a moment.' Clark raised his voice, and again produced the heavy accent. 'Your sailing orders. We already know a great deal. Just fill in a few details, okay?' He smiled and tossed his head in the direction of the locked door. 'Now listen,' he said.

* * *

'We will be with you before first light, Valery. I want you to conduct me around your prize.' Dolohov was in a mood that Ardenyev could not match and which did not interest him. Behind him, through the glass doors into the mess, Balan and Teplov and the others were raucously into a round of obscene songs and another crate of vodka. The drink and the noise whirled in his head, separating him as surely as static would have done from the admiral's voice.

'Yes, sir,' he said as enthusiastically as he could.

'Panov's weather has improved. He's reached Moscow. He'll be here in a few hours' time. Then we'll fly up to you by chopper.' The old man might have been a relative reciting his holiday travel arrangements. Ardenyev almost giggled at the thought, and the image it evoked. Old thin legs wrapped in a travelling-blanket, back bent under the weight of a suitcase, and the admiral's mind full of worries about the toilets, obtaining food in transit and would he be there to meet him with the car. 'What's all that noise?'

'A— small party, sir.'

'Excellent, excellent. Polish vodka, I presume.'

'Yes, sir.' The old man's voice sounded boringly full of reminiscence. Ardenyev hoped it was not so.

'Good, good.' Dolohov sounded offended. Ardenyev cursed the casualness of his tone of voice, his lack of control. Even when half drunk, he should be able to pretend respect. 'Make sure you're sober by the time I arrive, Valery. Understand?' The question was a slap across the face.

'Yes, sir.'

'See you in, say, seven hours' time? Enjoy your party.'

The receiver purred in Ardenyev's ear. His mood was suddenly, inexplicably deflated. He felt sober and dry- mouthed. He looked at his watch. One o' clock. Dolohov and his scientist from Novosibirsk would be here by eight. Shrugging, he pushed open the door to the officers' mess, to be greeted by a roar of welcome and insult.

* * *

The two packs were still in the aft escape chamber. He removed his overalls, rolled them into a bundle, and stowed them in the pack containing the explosives. This he took with him as he climbed back through the hatch into the room below. He hid the pack in a steel cupboard containing repair equipment. Then, he once more closed himself into the darkness of the chamber. He flicked on his lamp, and checked the second pack. He removed a tool- kit already clipped to a belt, and two bulky packages which he strapped to his thighs. He had an image, for a moment, of his ridiculous appearance if he were seen and caught on top of the hull of the Proteus, and then it vanished in a rush of nerves and tension. He had trembled, and the pool of light cast on the floor of the chamber wobbled.

He turned the wheel of the hatch, and lifted it. The hard light of the pen poured in and he felt exposed and vulnerable. His legs felt weak, despite the reviving swallow of rum Lloyd had given him, and the coffee he had ordered from the galley in his KGB persona. He waited, but the nerves did not seem to abate. He cursed them silently. He wanted to drop from the ladder to the floor of the chamber. He held on, grinding his teeth audibly, his eyes squeezed tight shut. It was like a malarial illness. His whole body was shaking, revolting against the idea of leaving the dark in order to climb into the spotlit brightness of the submarine pen.

Then the mood passed. The illness retreated, and he was able to swallow the phlegm in his throat, and to feel strength returning to his legs. He lifted the hatch once more, and raised his head above it. The curve of the Proteus's hull prevented him from being able to see either of the guards, and he waited. Two minutes later, the port guard appeared, his head bobbing along the horizon of the hull. He was smoking a cigarette. Clark waited until he had turned in his patrol, with hardly a glance at the submarine, and the starboard guard had come into view, making for the seaward end of the pen. Still only two of them. He was able to diminish what opposed and endangered him to these two men. Two against one, that's all it was. He felt calmed.

He waited, but without the bout of nerves returning, until the two men had passed out of sight, and returned. Each patrol, from the point opposite the escape hatch back towards the bow of the submarine and returning to the escape hatch, took three minutes and a few seconds. The time, however, when they both had their backs to him was less, since they were not on identical courses. Two and a half minutes of running or working time.

He watched them, heads down, one of them whistling tunelessly and the other slouching with both hands in his pockets, Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, until they passed out of his vision towards the bow of the