Firefox

Pavel had hurried to catch him up, and hold his shaking body until the epilepsy of reaction passed.

Gant climbed to his feet, and tried to put the vivid images from his mind. As he clambered and squeezed his way out of the back of the truck, he tried to consider the future, the hours ahead, to help drive away the past. He knew now that he could rely completely on Pavel Upenskoy.

In any and every word that the big man had spoken, Gant had sensed the contempt in which he was held by the Russian. It was as if, Gant admitted, he had been insulted with the company of a weekend flyer in the cockpit of the Firefox, Pavel having to tag him along until he could dump him outside Bilyarsk. Gant understood the ruthless professionalism of the big Russian. Where and how British Intelligence had recruited him, he did not know, but the old man, the nightwatchman at the warehouse, had muttered through his gums something about Pavel having had a Jewish wife, who was still in prison or labour camp for having demonstrated against the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia, twelve years before. That had been when Pavel had left him briefly alone with the old man who had tried to soften Pavel's harsh treatment of the American. Apart from that fact, Gant knew nothing about Pavel Upenskoy. Yet, strangely, he accepted the big man's contempt, and brusque manner with equanimity. The man was good.

Pavel and the old man were sitting at a small, bare table in the despatch-office of the warehouse. As yet, none of the day-staff had reported for work. Pavel intended to be long gone before they arrived. He looked up as Gant shut the flimsy door behind him, as if inspecting the American critically in the light of the naked bulb suspended from the ceiling. The room, like the warehouse, was cold and Gant rubbed his hands together for warmth. Pavel indicated the coffee pot on the ancient electric ring plugged into the wall, and Gant collected a chipped mug from the table and poured himself some black coffee. Without sugar, the drink was bitter, but it was hot. Uneasily, as if uninvited, he settled himself at the table. The old man, as if at a signal, finished his coffee, and left the room.

'He goes to see if we are under surveillance here,' Pavel explained without looking at Gant.

'You mean they…?' Gant began quickly.

'No — I do not mean they know where you are,' the Russian replied. 'These will not be the men who followed you last night, or that gang at the station — but the department of the KGB that is concerned with the security of the airplane knows who I am, and who the others are — they will be watching, no doubt, since the weapons-trials are in,' he looked at his watch, 'less than thirty hours' time!'

'Then — they'll know I'm on my way?'

'Not necessarily. They will merely be watching us.'

'If they stop us?' Gant persisted. 'It'll all be blown to hell, before I can leave Moscow!'

'No! If we are stopped, there are other arrangements.' Pavel seemed to be battling with some doubt in himself.

'What other arrangements?' Gant said scornfully. 'I've got to get six hundred miles today, man! How do I do it — fly?; Gant laughed, a high-pitched sound. Pavel looked at him in contempt.

'I am ordered to — die, if necessary, to ensure that you get away free,' Pavel said softly. 'It is not what I would consider a willing or worthwhile sacrifice… However, if we get out of here safely, then we shall not be stopped again until we reach the circular motorway, where another vehicle will be waiting, in the event of trouble, to collect you. If there is no trouble, then you continue with me. Understood?'

Gant was silent for a time, then said: 'Yes.'

'Good. Now, go and shave, in the next room — clean yourself up, a little, yes?' Gant nodded, and crossed the room. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, he heard Pavel say: 'Gant — can you fly that plane — really fly it?'

Gant poked his head back round the door. Pavel was staring into the bottom of his mug, hands clasped round it, elbows on the bare wooden table. His big frame seemed somehow shrunken in the blue overalls.

'Yes,' Gant said. 'I can fly it. I'm the best there is.'

Pavel looked up into Gant's eyes, stared at him for a long moment in silence, then nodded, and said: 'Good. I would not want to die to deliver faulty goods to Bilyarsk.'

He returned his gaze to the coffee mug, and Gant closed the door behind him. He switched on the weak, naked bulb, ran the water until it was lukewarm, and inspected himself in the speckled mirror. Pavel had cut his hair the previous night, and then he had washed it. It was short now, flat on his head, without hair oil. He looked younger, perhaps a little like he had done as a teenager in Clarkville — except for the ridiculous moustache that survived from his personae as Orton and then as Grant. He soaped his face with a stubby brush and tugged at the bristles of the moustache until it had become hairs floating in the grey shaving water. Then he began, methodically, to shave the rest of his face.

When he returned to the office, Pavel was obviously ready to leave. The old man had returned, and vanished again, presumably to keep watch.

'They are here,' Pavel said softly. Gant sensed a new tension about the man, his ordinariness showing through.

'How many?' Gant asked, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

'Three — in one car. The old man has seen them before. They are part of the team appointed to the security of the Bilyarsk project. They follow Mr. Lansing about Moscow, and Dherkov, the courier who comes from Bilyarsk. The old man thinks they are only watching — if they had come to make arrests, there would be more of them.'

Gant nodded when the Russian had finished. Then, his expression turned to one of surprise when Pavel drew an automatic from his overall pocket.

'What — ?'

'You can use this?'

Gant took the gun, and turned it over in his hand. It was a type he had not met before, a Makarov, but it seemed close enough to the Walther P-38 that he had used more than once, if only on the range. He nodded.

'Good. Don't — unless it's absolutely necessary!'

'Yes.'

'Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'Then let us be gone from here. It is a little before six — soon it will be light, and we have six hundred miles to go.' He opened the door, and followed Gant through.

Once they were in the big cab of the truck, whose nose pointed at the double-doors of the warehouse, Pavel started the engine and flickered the headlights. Gant spotted the old nightwatchman by the doors, then they began to swing open; Pavel eased the truck into gear and they rolled forward towards the widening gap of grey light. He caught a glimpse of the old man's face, smiling grimly, and then they were out into the side street, with Pavel heaving on the wheel of the truck to straighten it. Gant caught a glimpse of a black saloon further down the street, in the opposite direction to the one they had taken, and then they were turning into the Kirov Street, sodium-lit, grey, and deserted.

Behind them, the KGB car was quiet. No one had panicked, started the engine. Instead, one of the three men, the oldest and largest, had picked up the car telephone, and was in direct contact with KGB Colonel Mihail Kontarsky within seconds.

'They have just left — two of them, in the sanitary ware delivery truck. What do you wish us to do, Colonel?'

There was a pause, then: 'I will check with Priabin at the Mira Prospekt. For the moment, you may follow them — but do not close up!'

'Yes, Colonel.' He nodded to the driver, who fired the engine. The car pulled out from the kerb, past the now-closed doors of the warehouse, and stopped at the junction with the Kirov Street. The truck was a distant black lump on the road, heading north-east towards the Sadovaya, the inner ring road around the city.

'Close up,' the man in charge said to the driver. 'But not too close. Just enough not to lose him on the Sadovaya.'

'Right!' The driver pressed his foot on the accelerator, and the saloon shot forward, narrowing the distance between itself and the truck. By the time they were a hundred metres in the rear, the truck was slowing at the junction of the Kirov Street and the Sadovaya. The saloon idled into the kerb, waiting until the truck pulled out into the heavier traffic of the ring road. The indicator showed that the driver, the man Upenskoy, intended to turn right, to the south-east.