'Right. You know what to do,' Vorontsyev said, 'You two to the back window you spotted earlier — break in if it doesn't give in ten seconds. Understand?' They nodded. 'The rest of you, the front with me. We'll have to break in, and quickly. You two take the first floor rooms, you downstairs…' He addressed the driver with this remark. 'Be careful. I don't know who, or what, is in there — except that you can bet a bloody alarm will go off as soon as we break in.' One of the men grinned. 'But we're experts. We know what to expect. You try to
He looked at each face in turn. Each man nodded. Then he walked ahead of them, briskly, towards the house. Their footsteps behind him seemed to clatter on the frosty pavement He watched the curtained, blind windows as carefully as he could.
Nothing seemed to be awake, or moving, in the house. There appeared to be no duty-staff. Which would be consistent with the house being only an occasional office for the KGB. And, he thought, perhaps consistent with the timing of the
He suddenly wondered whether the Englishman was still alive. His interest, and importance, must surely have passed?
The house was surrounded by a high, dark hedge, behind which was a short gravel drive. They kept to the lawns that flanked it, their feet crunching through the stiff grass, their trouser-bottoms wetted by the frost. Still the house seemed empty, or dead. Vorontsyev pulled the Stechkin from his holster — he had exchanged the Makarov for the heavier gun with the larger clip in Novosibirsk.
They paused, of one mind, at the edge of the lawn. The gravel drive surrounded the house like a stony moat. Vorontsyev motioned the two men detailed to the back of the house to move off. They trod with comic stealth and lightness along the gravel drive as it curved to the rear of the house. Vorontsyev studied the windows at the front of the house, as he had done earlier in the night. The door was stout, but the downstairs windows were not barred. The Leningrad office must have decided not to draw attention to the house by such methods of increasing security. Fortunately.
They crossed the scuffling little space of the gravel, and gathered in a little knot by the window, a large bay whose sill was at the level of their heads.
Vorontsyev said; 'Office, or bedroom, or lounge?'
'Probably lounge or rest-room, sir,' one of them volunteered — the driver.
'Agreed. Up on the sill — have a look at the catch.' As he was helped up on to the sill, Vorontsyev inspected the window frame. Not the original, but a standard wooden frame; sash-cord. 'Well?' he said, looking up.
'It's wired, sir.'
'Can you open it quickly if you smash the window?'
'Yes, sir.'
Vorontsyev looked at his watch. Thirty seconds for them to reach the back window they had chosen, then ten seconds. He waited, then: 'Smash it!'
The driver punched his gloved fist through the pane of glass, just above the catch. The noise was horribly loud in the cold air. Then he said, 'Up and away, boys!' Two of them, Vorontsyev and another man, heaved at the window, and it slid up protestingly. The driver dropped into the room, gun out, and pulled back one curtain.
Vorontsyev clambered over the sill, then turned to help the last man in. There was sufficient light for them to see the door in the far wall. Only then, when they were all inside, did Vorontsyev notice the alarm ringing deep in the house somewhere. It galvanised him.
'Let's go!'
He ran across the room — a frail-looking chair with spindly, glossy legs spun out of his way as his overcoat caught it. He opened the door, and peered out. A big hallway, wide stairs leading up into the darkness. There was a gleam of light, probably coming from under a door, up on the first floor. He prodded the two detailed men, and they took the stairs in a run. The light increased, as if a door had been opened. A voice called out.
Vorontsyev heard 'Hold it, friend!' No more than that. No shooting, yet. The instruction 'Watch him!' then more footsteps.
The driver had crossed the hallway with its chequered tiles, and was opening the door of a room. His head ducked round the door, then he was back out.
'Nothing,' he called, and set off towards the rear of the house.
A shot from what must be the second floor — but towards the rear of the house. The back stairs, the old servants' stairs probably, which meant the two men had broken in and made for the second floor.
Where was the door to the cellars? For a moment, the size of the house defeated him. Then he realised he should have entered at the back of the house. Only the servants would have needed to enter the cellars — and the door would be in the kitchens. No — ground floor reception rooms here, left and right, that door to the kitchens, butler's pantry — and cellars. He followed the direction taken by the driver.
The body thudded on the lowest stairs, and rolled almost gently on to the tiled floor. Dark overcoat, fair hair, hidden, broken face. One of the two men from the second floor search. Someone had thrown him over. He heard faint shots, and a distant cry.
He was losing impetus, he realised. How many seconds had now passed? He burst through the door at the rear of the staircase, and stumbled down three steps, into the huge, gloomy kitchen. A door at the other end of the room was open — the kitchen was some kind of dining-room as well, it appeared. Scraps of food on a table, washing-up in an old sink. Dirty plates. There was no sign of the driver.
He opened two cupboards before he found the door to the cellars. He should have noticed the light beneath the door. It was on, showing the wooden steps leading down. He hesitated, then stepped on to the topmost stair.
A scuffle of footsteps, a muttered voice, sharp with feverish command. He went down the steps quickly. They twisted halfway, almost doubling back. A man in civilian clothes, but carrying an army rifle, was facing him in front of an open door. There was a narrow corridor behind him, and rows of metal doors. And the atmosphere of a prison where once there had been racks and bins of wine.
He fired before the man had time to challenge him. He had been asleep, was leadenly awakening still, for the alarm sounded only as a muffled buzz down there. He fell against the door, a stupid open-mouthed look on his face.
Vorontsyev was still at the bottom of the steps when he saw the other man, a thick dressing-gown tied with a cord, his greying hair ruffled from sleep. He was opening one of the doors, and there was a gun in his hand.
'Halt, or I fire!' Vorontsyev snapped, and the man's head lifted with a jerk, as if he had not noticed the gunshot that had killed the guard.
Somewhere in the house, two more shots. They seemed to startle the man in the dressing-gown as much as Vorontsyev's order. He had a bunch of heavy keys in his right hand, which he was using to open the door, and the gun was evidently awkward in his left hand. Vorontsyev watched the gun, and then the right hand turned the key in the lock, and the man's body began to disappear into the cell he had opened. Vorontsyev fired twice, but missed.
He ran. The pain in his toes came back. He had forgotten the frostbite, even when he patrolled the street outside during the night. A dull ache he gave none of his attention to. Now these few steps hurt. He cannoned off the wall, opposite the open cell door, and then saw the man in the dressing-gown lying by the wall, the gun waveringly pointed at something inside the cell.
Vorontsyev kicked out at the wrist, and the gun flew up and away. The man turned to look at him, evidently afraid now that his concentration on killing the Englishman had vanished. And the fear turned to pain. There was a dark stain spreading across his shoulder; he must have been hit by a lucky ricochet.
Vorontsyev dragged at the collar of the dressing-gown, and the man winced with pain. Novetlyn, having failed in his attempt to kill Folley, realising that it could only be a break-in to rescue him — somehow the Centre knew about Folley — was now desperate to sink into unconsciousness. His shoulder ached crazily, more than any wound had any right to, and he moaned aloud as he was pulled backwards out of the cell. The image of Folley heaped in a foetal plea on his filthy cot disappeared. As the man who had shot him tried to jerk him to his feet, Novetlyn passed out.
Vorontsyev let the body drop again to the floor. The man had passed out; and more, he'd given up trying.
