As soon as he passed the Bilyarsk junction, glancing at the guard-post as he did so in the deepening dusk, Pavel Upenskoy knew that his time was limited. Without slowing, taking one hand from the wheel, he unzipped his jacket, and tugged an old service automatic from his waistband. He laid it gently on the passenger seat which Gant had occupied.
The tail-car had abandoned the idea of following him without lights. He could see the spreading stains of its headlights on the road behind. He wondered whether it would stop to consult the guards on the road to Bilyarsk, but it did not — probably, they were in conversation with them by radio. They would learn that he had not stopped, or slowed — and they would wonder why.
Upenskoy reckoned on having perhaps ten miles of road before they would become suspicious, or whoever they were answerable to ordered them to investigate his mysterious passenger. Then they would overtake, and order him to slow down. He knew the road between Kazan and Kuybyshev fairly well. It was farming country, isolated villages miles apart, some farms, but no town on the road before Krasny Yar, itself only ten or fifteen miles from Kuybyshev. He would not be allowed to get that far.
He had accepted the risks. He knew how important the Bilyarsk project was to the Soviets, how vital it was to NATO. He understood the desperation behind the plan to steal the aircraft. And the desperation that had induced Edgecliffe to sacrifice himself, and poor Fenton, and the others. He prided himself that Edgecliffe knew his worth, and would not lightly throw him away. Now, however, he was on his own, expendable — he was to avoid capture, if possible, for at least twelve hours, until Gant… There was no time to wonder about Gant, or to retrace the uncomfortable, depressing feeling the man exuded, like body odour.
He decided that he would run for it — there would be no road-blocks, in all probability, before Krasny Yar. He had to make sure he could get close enough to stand a chance of hiding there. He knew no one in the town, but that thought didn't worry him. He needed only shelter which he could find, and food which he could steal — then… He sensed that it did not do to consider the future. No, he would not think about it, merely react when the car behind him made its move.
He thought about Marya, his wife. It was time, he considered, to allow himself that luxury. How old was she now? Thirty-seven, three years older than himself. Twelve years in prison — for demonstrating against the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. Her original sentence had been for three years, but she had smuggled out pamphlets and writings describing her treatment in prison, had been discovered, and her sentence had been increased by ten years. Pavel knew, with a sick certainty, that she would never be released — that she would not take that much favour from a regime she hated and despised.
Marya was Jewish, and highly educated. She had once been a school-teacher, before her political activities had got her dismissed, then locked away. He had never understood how she came to marry him, simple, uneducated as he was. Yet he worshipped her for having done so, and he had spent the last twelve years trying to be worthy of her. Whatever had been asked of him by Edgecliffe and Lansing, and those who had preceded them at the British Embassy, he had done.
He was not sure, because one could never be sure of such things, but he thought it probable that his wife had been given forcible mental treatment, such as was concomitant with Kremlin and KGB thinking. Anyone who dissented must be a lunatic, thus ran the official line. Yet the worst thought of all was not that, but the fact that, because of the way the years in prison would have aged her, he might have passed her in the street without recognising her. He was almost afraid, should that impossibility ever come to pass.
He checked the driving-mirror, and saw that the car had pulled up on him. He glanced to his side, checking that the gun had not shifted. The butt still lay towards him so that he could snatch it up. He checked the mirror again. The car was flashing its lights now, as if to overtake. Pavel smiled grimly. They knew that he knew who they were, and they assumed, in semi-divine arrogance, that now they had decided the little game was played out, he would fold like a house of cards. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the lights of the car dropped away behind, then spurted nearer as the car realised he was attempting to escape.
They were on a straight stretch of road, but a stretch that had not yet been converted and widened to dual carriageway. To overtake him, the car would have to pass close to him, in the northbound lane. It was that for which he hoped. If he attempted to outrun the car for long enough, he reckoned on insulted KGB arrogance to make that attempt to pass him. He watched, the smile set on his features, as the car attempted to stop him by flashing its lights. He accelerated up to seventy miles an hour.
Again, the lights fell away behind, and then neared suddenly. Pavel knew that the men in the car would be angry by this time — they were unused to being defied, in any way at all. He tensed himself, and studied the road ahead. There were no trees on this stretch, merely the road itself bordered by low banks which separated it from the wheat-growing countryside through which it passed. The bank would have to do, would do for his purposes.
The car began to nose out into the other lane, cautiously, as if suspecting some trick. The driver was hanging back, still flashing his lights. Then the car seemed to leap forward, as the driver's foot went hard down and, almost taking Pavel by surprise, was all but level with his cab before he reacted. Viciously he swung the wheel, and the truck swerved across the road. He heard, and felt, the tearing impact as the two vehicles collided, then he straightened the wheel, and the lights of the car wavered crazily before ploughing into the bank. He took his foot from the accelerator, and braked sharply. The truck screeched to a halt. He rolled down the window and listened. There was silence. The engine of the car had stalled as it collided with the bank. He picked up the gun and climbed down from the cab. The car was more than a hundred yards away, its nose buried in the bank. As he walked towards it, he could see the body of the front-seat passenger lying across the bonnet, thrown at seventy miles an hour through the windscreen.
He was surprised when the rear door fell open and a dark shape slumped onto the road. He stopped, tense for movement. The flash from the gun and the noise of the shots, two sharp, flat cracks shocked him as if they were entirely out of place in the scene. One bullet missed him, the other tore through his shoulder. Raising the gun, as if oblivious of his wound, he fired twice in return. The dark figure slowly, balletically, extended itself on the road.
He did not have to inspect his wound to know that it would make steering the heavy truck almost impossible. Holding the wounded arm at his side, he turned back to the truck and, with great difficulty, a mist of pain before his eyes, sweat cold on his brow, he hauled himself aboard. With a supreme effort, his whole frame shaking, he shoved the truck into gear and pulled away from the scene of the accident, his body leaning heavily on the steering wheel, his eyes clouded with the pain and the loss of blood. He had only two thoughts in his mind — to get to Krasny Yar before he passed out, and the face of his wife, Marya, as he remembered her…
Pavel Upenskoy died when the truck failed to negotiate a bend in the road ten miles from the scene of the accident with the KGB car, overturned, and he was flung unconscious from the cab onto the road. The truck half- mounted the bank, then fell back on top of his body.
Pyotr Vassilyevich Baranovich was no longer puzzled by the American, Gant. At first, and during the first hour or more of his presence in the house in Tupolev Avenue, he had been increasingly puzzled by his behaviour. He had watched the man eat his meal, served by the woman who lived with Kreshin, a secretary from the finance office of the Bilyarsk project. He had watched the American, and had not understood him. He had studied him while they talked of his journey, and of Pavel — who was God knew where by now on the road to Kuybyshev, or in the hands of the KGB — and still been puzzled. Then they had begun to talk of the Mikoyan Mig-31, the Firefox as NATO called it, and he had seen the eager, dry hunger, like lust, in the man's eyes and he no longer was dubious about Buckholz's choice of pilot.
Gant, he understood,
Semelovsky had left them almost as soon as he had delivered the American, to return to his own quarters. They would not meet again until they reported to the hangar to prepare the aircraft for the weapons trials the following day. Kreshin and he, on the other hand, would pass through the security net into the factory complex together at two in the morning.
Baranovich was aware that the KGB would keep a careful watch upon himself and Kreshin and Semelovsky throughout the night. Without doubt, they would have orders to arrest them hours before the flight. That was only to be expected. But, until the work was done on the weapons-system they would not touch him. All they could do
