'In that case, because our service collects anything and everything and, like the careful housewife, never throws anything away, we have to have an order of preference. We'll have to look at the computer-index.'
'Very well,' said Tortyev, seemingly glad of action. 'I'll help you.'
'Thanks.'
'Besides which — this place is beginning to smell of Jews — and death,' Tortyev added.
'Very well, then — I'll ring for a car.'
'Don't bother — at this time in the morning, it'll be quicker to walk.'
It was four-forty when the two men left the room together.
Gant had moved a chair into the shower-cubicle and arranged a fold of the shower-curtain to shield him from the spray. The cubicle was full of steam.
He was in no doubt that Pavel was dead by now, or in some local KGB 1 cellar, having his name and mission beaten out of him. It troubled Gant to know for certain that Pavel would take a lot of punishment before he would tell, if he ever told. Again, he was forced to feel responsible.
More than Pavel, however, who might well have died neatly and quickly in a gunfight of some kind, he was troubled by Baranovich and the others. He had never encountered dumb, accepting courage such as that before, and it puzzled him.
Gant had removed his uniform, and was sitting in the cubicle in his shorts. The GRU uniform, now an encumbrance, had gone into the same locker as Voskov. He had had to hold the body with one hand, to stop it toppling outwards, while he flung the creased bundle that had been Captain Chekhov into the corner of the locker. He had not looked into Voskov's face and thankfully he had locked the body out of sight once more. Then he had turned on the shower. The steam, though it made his breathing unpleasant, kept him warm. He sat astride the chair, his arms folded across the back, chin resting on his arms, letting the constant stream of the hot water lull him, closing his eyes. He could not sleep, and knew he must not, but he tried to reduce the activity of his thoughts by the semblance of sleep.
At first he didn't hear the voice from the room beyond, from the rest-room. The second call alerted him and he sprang to his feet, unconsciously being careful not to scrape the chair on the floor of the shower.
'Yes?' he called.
'Security check, Colonel — important.'
It had to be the KGB — it had to be Kontarsky's last fling, his final attempt to trace the agent he must suspect was already inside Bilyarsk.
'What do you want?'
'Your identification.'
Gant panicked. He had left Voskov's papers in his pockets, bundling the body quickly and thankfully into the locker. Now they wanted to see his papers — if they didn't see them, then they would want to see him…
He wondered how he might bluff his way out. The nervous reaction had jolted him awake, and his pulse was hammering in his head, and he found it hard to catch his breath. Though he only half-suspected it, this latest, unexpected jolt was drawing vastly on his reserves of control. Clearly, above the levels of the blood's panic, he thought that Voskov would be a pampered individual, one likely to take unkindly to such an intrusion.
Loudly, irritatedly, he called out: 'I am having a shower, whoever you are. What do you mean by disturbing me with your stupid questions?' To him, his voice sounded, in the steam-filled curtained hole, to be weak, high- pitched, unconvincing. He heard a cough, deferential, abashed, from the man in the rest-room. He peered through the steam and the shower-curtain. There was a shadow, against the light from the door into the bathroom. It was two or three steps across the space of tiles between himself and that shadow.
'Sorry, Colonel, but…'
'This is your idea, of course — soldier? It is not Colonel Kontarsky's direct order that the rest-room should be searched, and myself questioned?' He felt his voice gaining power, arrogance. He could play the part of Voskov — it was a part close to his own professional arrogance, expressing his own contempt.
'I — orders, sir?' he heard, and knew that the man was lying.
Gant hesitated, until he thought the moment was almost past and he was too late, then he barked: 'Get out, before you find yourself reported!'
He waited. No doubt the man could see his shadow, as the shower-curtain wafted against his skin, drawn in by the heat. He wondered whether the man would dare cross that space of cold tiles, just to be sure. He had left the gun, Chekhov's regulation Makarov automatic, in the pocket of Voskov's bathrobe, hanging behind the bathroom door. He cursed himself for that lapse, and wondered, at the same moment whether he could kill the man with his hands before a shot was fired.
The moment passed. Again, Gant had the sense of something massive, a whole world in orbit, turning over, leaving him spent, tired, drained.
'Sorry, sir — of course. But — be careful, sir. The Colonel issued us with instructions to kill — the man's dangerous. Good luck with the flight, sir,' he added ingratiatingly. Gant felt his blood pumping like a migraine in his temples.
He hardly heard the bathroom door close behind the man who had been only a voice, and a shadow against the light. When he realised that the patch of light which had outlined the KGB man was no longer there, he stepped from behind the shower-curtain, and fumbled in the pocket of Voskov's bathrobe. He clutched the gun in both hands, then pressed the cold metal of the barrel against his temple. Then he held his left hand in front of his face. He saw the tremor, faint, but increasing. His face registered the fear, as if he were looking at something outside himself, something inevitable that he could not prevent. He sagged, dripping wet, onto the seat of the lavatory, head hanging, gun held limply between his knees.
Gant was terrified. He knew he was about to have the dream again, that the last minutes had drained him of his last reserves of bravado, self-deception, and nerve. He was a limp rag, an empty vessel into which the dream would pour. He could not stop it now.
He felt his muscles tightening behind his knees, in his calves. He knew he had to get dry, get into Voskov's pressure-suit while he could still move, before the paralysis that inevitably accompanied the images trapped him where he sat. He tried to get up, but his legs were a long, long way from his brain, and were rubbery and weak. He sagged back onto the seat. He punched at his thighs, as if punishing them for a rebellion — he struck himself across the thigh with the barrel of the gun, but he felt little. The hysterical paralysis had returned, taken over…
He was trapped, he knew. He could only hope that the dream, and the fit, would pass in time.
He could smell burning in his nostrils, and the noise of the shower crackled like wood on a fire. He could smell burning flesh…
There was a kind of grotesque, mocking courtesy about the way in which Baranovich, Kreshin, and Semelovsky were served with their coffee and sandwiches at the side of the aircraft itself. While the technicians, including the still-grinning, obsequious, ironical Grosch, left the hangar for the restaurant in the adjoining security building, the three suspected men were ordered to remain by the junior KGB officer in command of hangar security. Guards stood with apparent indifference ten yards from them.
Baranovich, as he sipped the hot, sweet liquid, was grateful that the KGB, as yet, seemed to have little idea of what to do with them. It would seem, he thought, that they had taken the easiest path, making sure that a number of eyes were upon them, at every moment. Baranovich smiled at Kreshin, whose lip trembled as he attempted to imitate the gesture.
Baranovich said: 'I know, Bya, that it looks very much like a firing-squad, with the three of us with our backs to the plane, and the guards with their rifles at the ready.' Kreshin nodded, and swallowed, still trying to smile. 'Don't be afraid,' Baranovich added softly.
'I — can't help it, Pyotr,' Kreshin replied.
Baranovich nodded. 'I gave up being afraid many years ago — but then, it was when the flesh no longer seemed to call so very strongly to me.' He placed his hand on Kreshin's shoulder as the young man stood next to him. He felt Kreshin's frame trembling beneath his strong grip. Kreshin looked up at him, wanting to face the truth, and wanting to be told comfortable lies. Baranovich shook his head sadly. 'You love her very much then?'
'Yes…' Kreshin's eyes were bright with moisture, and his tongue licked at his lower lip.
'I — am sorry for that,' Baranovich murmured. 'That will make it very hard for you.'
