The truck pulled out, then the man in the passenger seat said: 'Colonel — Colonel, they're on the Sadovaya now, heading south-east. We're pulling out — now.' The car skittered across the road, and was hooted at by an oncoming lorry, straightened, and the truck was more than five hundred metres away. 'Close up again,' the man said, and the driver nodded. He skipped the saloon out into the outside lane, and accelerated. Kontarsky's voice came over the radio receiver.
'Priabin has just requested you to pick up the man Upenskoy — he has the other two, Glazunov and Riassin. Who is that in the truck with him, Borkh?'
'I do not know, Colonel — it should be—'
'Exactly! It should be Glazunov, should it not, if Upenskoy is making a real delivery somewhere… should it not?'
'Yes, Colonel. The truck has turned onto Karl Marx Street now, Colonel — it looks as if they're heading out of the city, all right.'
'Where is Upenskoy scheduled to deliver?'
'I don't know, Colonel — we can find out.'
'He will have to report to the travel control on the motorway, Borkh, we can find out then. You follow them until they reach the checkpoint, then we shall decide what to do. Priabin is bringing in Glazunov and Riassin — perhaps they will be able to tell us?'
The men in the car heard Kontarsky's laughter, and then the click of the receiver. Borkh replaced the telephone, and studied the truck, now only a hundred metres ahead of them on Bakouninskaia Street, headed like an arrow north-east out of the city, towards the Gorky road.
'Our Colonel seems to be in a merry mood this morning,' the driver observed. 'Then, he hasn't spent the night in a freezing car!'
'Disrespect, Hya?' Borkh said with a smile.
'Who — me? No chance! Hello, our friend is taking a left turn,' he added. The car was crossing the Yaouza, the tributary of the Moskva, flowing south at that point to join the river at the Oustinski Bridge. The truck ahead of them had turned left directly after the bridge over the sluggish tributary. The car followed, keeping its required distance. 'Think he's spotted us?'
'Not necessarily — he's picking up the Gorky road, maybe — see, I thought so — right onto the Chtcholkovskoie Way, and heading east.' Borkh said. 'He's on his way to Gorky, all right.'
'And to Kazan — and then to…?' the driver, asked, smiling.
'Maybe — maybe. That's for our Colonel to worry about.'
'And worry he will,' the third man added from beneath his hat in the back seat, where he was stretched out comfortably.
'Oh, you're awake then, are you?' Borkh asked with heavy sarcasm.
'Just about — it must be the boring life I lead, and the boring company,' the man replied, settling himself back again.
'You will have your photograph taken at this checkpoint,' Pavel was saying as he pulled the truck into the side of the road, along the narrowing line of bollards that signified the lane for heavy goods vehicles. Gant, looking ahead, saw that they were approaching what, to all intents and purposes, was a customs post, as if the motorway ringing the outskirts of Moscow marked some kind of territorial boundary.
'Are they KGB on guard here?' he asked, as the face of a soldier in drab brown uniform slid past the cab window.
'No — Red Army. But they're commanded by a KGB man — he'll be sitting in that hut over there.' Gant followed the nod of Pavel's head, and observed a young man in civilian clothes lounging in the doorway of a wooden hut, smoking a long cigarette. Gant could not see through the window into the interior — the newly-risen sun reflected in a sheet of yellow-orange from the glass.
'What happens — just a check on papers?' he asked.
'Usually, and your photograph is taken, from the smaller hut next to the office, but don't smile — they'll wonder what you're trying to hide!' Pavel smiled grimly, and tugged on the handbrake loudly. 'Now, get out,' he said.
Gant opened the door, and climbed down. The tension in his stomach was returning, but not severely — it seemed just to be moving up a gear from the slightly unsettled feeling that had been with him ever since Pavel had told him that the saloon had followed them all the way from the Kirov Street out to the motorway. He resisted an itching desire to look behind, to see the faces behind the windscreen of the KGB car.
Pavel stood beside him, casually smoking a cigarette. Gant tried not to look about him with too obvious an interest. His cover presumed him to have undergone this formality a number of times before.
A military guard collected their papers, and took them away and into the office. Gant idly watched the cars and lorries that drew up in the three lanes that were used by outbound traffic. The circular motorway swept above them on huge concrete piles, and he could hear the thrumming of the traffic from overhead.
'One of the men from the car has just gone into the office,' Pavel said levelly. 'You know where the car is, if you have to run for it…'
'You think it might come…?'
'No. At the moment, you are unremarkable as far as they are concerned. Ah, here come our papers.'
The same guard crossed from the office, his boots clattering distinctly on the concrete, and handed them their papers, which had been stamped with the necessary permit for travel as far as Gorky on the main road. At Gorky, they would need another permit to travel as far east as Kazan, and then another from Kazan to Kuybyshev. Pavel nodded, stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette, and climbed back aboard the truck. Gant, careful not to watch the door of the office, rounded the front of the truck and regained his seat.
Pavel switched on, slid the engine into gear, and drew away. A red and white barrier slid up in front of them, to allow them to pass beneath the motorway out onto the Gorky road.
Pavel looked across at Gant, and said, 'Gorky by lunchtime, and Kazan in time for tea — or don't you Americans take tea?' He laughed, encouraging Gant to smile.
Gant said, 'Are they tailing us?'
Pavel looked into the wing-mirror, and said: 'No, not yet — but they'll have someone pick us up later on. Don't worry! The KGB aren't worried — just curious. They want to know who you are!'
'You mean they don't believe I'm this guy Glazunov?'
'If they do now, they won't do before long. Your picture will be at the records office of the State Highway Militia by this afternoon, and checked against existing photographs of Glazunov, then they'll
'And they'll stop us, and ask me?' Gant persisted.
'Perhaps. But — they are very confident, at Bilyarsk. Let us hope they want to play a waiting game. There are alternatives for you at each of our scheduled stops, so don't worry. If they stopped us on the road, they would be asking for trouble, wouldn't they?' He smiled. 'We shall hope that they leave us alone, until they come to be just a little bit afraid — and that takes a long time for the KGB.
It was early in the afternoon when David Edgecliffe, looking immensely regretful, grave and dignified, identified the body of his agent, Fenton, as the mortal remains of Alexander Thomas Orton. He stood with Inspector Tortyev of the Moscow Police in the mortuary, a cold and depressing room, and gazed down at the battered, barely recognisable face and nodded after a suitable pause and catch in the throat. The wounds did not take him by surprise. Fenton looked now as Gant might have looked, in his personae as Orton. There was not sufficient left of the features for anyone to be able to distinguish between the American and the Englishman — especially since Gant had gone through two further transformations since he left the Moskva the previous night.
'Yes,' he said softly. 'Insofar as I can judge, that is the body of Mr. Orton.' He looked up at Tortyev, who dropped the cloth back over Fenton's ruined features.
'You could not be mistaken, Mr. Edgecliffe?' he asked.
'I — don't think so, Inspector,' Edgecliffe said levelly, with a tiny shrug. 'There was a — lot of damage, of course.'
'Yes, indeed. Almost as if his former associates did not want him to be recognised?'
