Firefox

Kreshin seemed to come to a decision. Baranovich's hand was still on his shoulder, and the older man could feel the muscular effort the man was making, to control the tremor.

'If — you, you can do this — then, so can I…' he said.

'Good. Drink your coffee now, and warm yourself. That guard over there thinks you are afraid. Don't give him the satisfaction.' Unable to complete the heroic fiction, he added: 'Even if such ideas are nonsense, to an intelligent man…'

'What do we do?' snapped Semelovsky, as if eager to complete the whole process, including his own demise. 'We have little time left. Kreshin and I have slowed the work on the tail-assembly as much as possible — but it is nearly complete.'

Baranovich nodded. 'I understand. Grosch, my bete noir, my devil — he, too, will become suspicious if we do not finish within half-an-hour, or a little more.' He sipped at his coffee, and then took a bite from a hefty ham sandwich that had been brought down to him. 'Of course, you realise that our friends over there are indicating in no uncertain manner that — the game is up?' He looked at Semelovsky.

'Of course — we knew that. The weapons trials would be our deadline.'

'And — you don't mind?'

'Do you?' Semelovsky asked pointedly.

Baranovich looked at the muttering guards for a moment — at each of the four faces turned to him. He wanted to answer in the affirmative, to explain that life becomes harder to throw away, the older one gets, not easier. That it is the young who make glad sacrifices, for good causes or for bad. He wanted to explain that the old are tenacious of life, on any terms. Instead, feeling a heaviness of responsibility, and of guilt, he gave the answer he knew they both needed, and wished to hear.

'No,' he said.

Semelovsky nodded. 'There you are, then,' he said.

Baranovich swallowed the bile of guilt at the back of his throat. He, it was, who had led them here, to this place, and who would lead them, in time, to the cellars, and the questions, and the pain.

Baranovich was ruthless, with others, as with himself. He shrugged the guilt away and decided that he would, at least, grant them a quick death.

'It has to be the fire we talked about — over there. No, don't look about like that… by the second prototype. One of us has to be over there for some reason at the time we decide the operation will start. What do you think — what time shall we decide?'

'Six-thirty is the latest possible!' Semelovsky snapped in his habitual fussy, irritated manner. 'I guessed it would come to that,' he added.

'It is the only sensible place,' Baranovich said. 'Right in the area around the second prototype. As I said, it may damage the second plane, which will be to our American friend's advantage. Certainly, it will mean that this aircraft…' he tapped his hand on the cool metal of the fuselage at his side. 'This one will be ordered out of the hangar. If Gant appears at the right moment and climbs into the pilot's couch, no one will ask to see his papers, or his face.' He studied their reactions, saw the inevitability of death looking out from their eyes.

Semelovsky nodded, his features softening. He said: 'I, for one, have no great relish at the thought of Colonel Kontarsky taking out on my skin the anger and frustration of his ruined career.'

'You understand what I'm saying, Dya — also?' Baranovich asked.

The young man was silent for some moments, then he said: 'Yes, Pyotr Vassilyeivich — I understand.'

'Good. You have your gun?' Kreshin nodded. 'Good. That means that you, Maxim Dyich, will have to start the fire. Besides,' he added, smiling, 'you look the least dangerous.'

'Mm. Very well. At — six-ten, I shall excuse myself, and make for the toilets. If a guard accompanies me, so much the worse for him!' The little, balding man seemed ridiculous as he puffed out his narrow chest, and squared his stooping shoulders. Yet Baranovich knew that Semelovsky was capable of killing, if necessary. In some ways, he was the most desperate of the three of them, the newly-converted zeal never having seemed to cool. He was a crusader.

'Only if necessary are you to kill the guard,' Baranovich warned. 'We don't want you hurt.'

'Not before I start the fire — eh?' Semelovsky's eyes twinkled. Baranovich could sense the challenge that the little man felt, the same kind of bravado, though Baranovich did not know it, that he had revealed at the gate when Gant was in the boot of his car.

'No, not before.' Baranovich relaxed into the partial honesty of the moment. 'When you come out from the toilet, you will find the necessary materials stacked against the wall of the hangar, behind Prototype Two — some drums of fuel.'

'I don't need to be told how to start a fire, Pyotr Vassilyeivich,' Semelovsky said, bridling.

'I agree. Just make it big, and bright.'

'It will be done.'

'At six-twelve,' Baranovich said. 'Then you and I, Ilya, will have to cover the path to the second aircraft until the blaze is sufficient to distract all the security guards — all of them. Understand?'

'Yes. We — are part of the distraction?'

Baranovich nodded. He looked beneath the fuselage of the aircraft as he heard the sound of returning voices in the echoing hangar. 'Time to get back to work,' he said. He looked at his watch. 'Start counting the seconds now,' he said. 'It is five-twenty-three now. Synchronise your watches when you can do it without being observed.'

He looked back at his two companions. Suddenly his eyes felt misty. 'Good luck, my friends,' he said, and turned to the pilot's ladder and began to ascend. Kreshin watched his back for a moment, and then he followed Semelovsky towards the tail of the Firefox. He glanced once in the direction of the guards, now being relieved and reporting back to their officer.

Concentrate your hate on them, he told himself. Hate them, and what they represent, and what they do. Hate them…

* * *

Kontarsky looked at his watch. The time was seven minutes past six. He had just received a directive from the Centre that the Tupolev TU-144 airliner carrying the First Secretary, the Chairman of the KGB, and the Marshal of the Soviet Air Force had left Moscow, and was expected to land at Bilyarsk at six-thirty. Kontarsky had been profoundly shaken by the news. The plane was not scheduled to arrive until after nine. He could do little but wonder why the First Secretary should be precipitate in his arrival. He suspected that it was some kind of pressure put upon him, a calculated insult. The Tower had been put on stand-by, to land the aircraft. There was nothing else he could do, except what he was engaged in at the moment, futile recriminations, coupled with the more practical step of once more contacting Priabin and, through him, receiving a progress report on the foreign agent who had penetrated Bilyarsk, and who was still at large.

* * *

A team of men sat at rickety tables in the bare duty-room in the security building, each analysing the reports of the teams who had combed the project area thoroughly. The final search had just been completed. Like the others, it had drawn a blank.

Below them, in a smaller roorn, with white walls and powerful lights, Dherkov and his wife were being questioned. Each had been made to watch the other's suffering — and neither of them had told him what he wished to know. He was unable to admit the possibility that they knew nothing of importance. There had been too many frustrations, too many blind alleys. To him, and to the interrogators, they were merely stubborn.

The doctor had used drugs. He had ruined the man's mind almost immediately, sending him into deep unconsciousness from which he had emerged incoherent. The woman, despite the massive jolt to her resistance that such damage to her husband must have been, still refused to betray the whereabouts of the agent, or his identity. Kontarsky had ordered the doctor to use the pentathol again, on her, but the doctor had been unwilling. Kontarsky had raged at him, but he suspected that the dosages were too small.

Kontarsky's fingers drummed on the desk as he waited for his connection to his office at the Centre. Priabin could not be found, for the moment. Kontarsky's call was being transferred to the computer-room. As he waited, his eyes roved the team of men bent at their tables, in shirt-sleeves for the most part, intent, driven. No face turned up to him with an answer, with a possible line of enquiry. Kontarsky felt the bitter, selfish anger of a man who sees a fortune turn to ashes in his hands. He had felt, throughout the night, that he had only to reach out and he would