Firefox Down

that Pyott and Curtin were watching him. He could see the model of the Firefox on the table between them, as if they had moved apart solely to reveal it. For a moment, his eyesight became unfocused, the model seemed almost to dissolve as he thought of Gant. The telephone connection clicked and stuttered.

'Kenneth?' he heard Vitsula say at a great distance.

'Yes, Hanni — can you hear me?' It was a ridiculous remark, clashing absurdly with the coloured tapes, with a loaded Hercules transport aircraft and a giant Sikorsky helicopter flying several hundreds of miles north.

'Perfectly, Kenneth — you caught me as I was about to call you.'

'You have news?' Pyott and Curtin had stopped murmuring. Both of them were staring in his direction. 'Good news, I hope.'

'All communications are to be between the two of us.'

'I understand — our people have the same idea.'

'Good. Then I can tell you that you have — you would call it, I think, a qualified yes.'

'Qualified? How?'

'There is a strict time-limit.'

'We feel we need a minimum of four days — '

'Then I am sorry, but you do not have it. Forty-eight hours is the offer I am authorised to make. No.negotiations.'

'Forty-eight hours? Impossible — !'

'Nevertheless, that is the offer. After that, Finnish units will move into the area, seal it off, and inform the Soviet Union of the precise location of their aircraft. I think my government sees some political advantages in this course of action.'

'It's still impossible, Hanni,' Audrey almost pleaded.

'It is a fact, however. Pernaps you will consider it more carefully…?'

'Forty-eight hours from when?'

'The clock is already running. Noon today — GMT, of course. It is already less than forty-eight, Kenneth.'

* * *

They had not hit him again. He had not been kicked. He had lain there for almost a minute, staring at the drying white rime of dampness around the toes of Priabin's boots until the young colonel had helped him to his feet. Vladimirov had stared through the net curtains, out of the tall windows down towards the square for a long time. Then Andropov had ordered a map to be brought in. A secretary spread it on the surface of the large, ornate desk, and then retired. Gant, reseated on a more substantial chair, waited. The broken, delicate French chair had been removed from the room.

Andropov rose and spoke briefly to Vladimirov at the window — the general sucked his bruised knuckles while the Chairman talked — and then sat down once more. Slowly, Vladimirov turned from the window. Light fell on his profile for an instant, and Gant recognised that the man was in no way calmed or mollified. He wondered whether he was the most dangerous, or merely the most obvious, enemy in the room.

'Major Gant,' Andropov began, crooking his finger at the American, 'there would appear to be some discrepancies in your account — would you show us, please, on this map?'

Gant got up slowly and moved to the desk. The map was a large-scale projection of northern Finland and Norway, and the Kola Peninsula area of the Soviet Union. It was weighted down where it had been unrolled by a gold inkstand and a large paperweight that might have been jade.

'General Vladimirov,' Andropov commanded quietly. 'You wish to ask the Major some questions?'

'Yes,' Vladimirov replied tensely. He remained on the opposite side of the desk from Gant. His long forefinger tapped over the map like a blind man's stick, probing and uncertain. Gant saw only the lake for a moment, then refocused. 'Where was the MiG-25 destroyed?'

Gant hesitated, counting the seconds as he had begun to do in the long silence after Priabin had helped him to his feet. Each second of silence was valuable; he had no idea why. It simply postponed…

'There, as far as I can remember,' he said at last.

Vladimirov's finger tapped the map. 'Quite so. Correct. This is the closed valley you described — there is wreckage at this point, here…' Gant nodded. Vladimirov did not continue. His finger merely continued to tap at the indicated point on the map. Gant looked up into his face. His eyes gleamed. The general was barely in control of his emotions, but Gant saw clearly the lucid, suspicious intelligence of the man. He might be the most obvious enemy in the room — perhaps he was also the most intelligent? Certainly, he was the most expert…

'So?' Gant said in a surly tone. The general's lips twitched. 'Wreckage? I told you that.'

'Strangely, though, our reconnaissance photographs — which have been examined by experts — indicate no signs of wreckage from the MiG-31. How would you account for that, Major?'

Think, think -

'Uh — it's got to be around there somewhere…' In control of his features, he straightened and looked at Vladimirov. 'I hit the button, the airplane was on fire, I parted company from the seat, I saw the airplane explode — how far away it was by that time, I don't know.'

'And you landed — ?'

'Less than a mile from the MiG-25's wreckage, I guess…'

'So you consider that a radius of-oh, what, ten miles? A radius of ten miles around the point would contain the wreckage of the MiG-31?'

'Can't be more than that. It was a couple of seconds, maybe ten — speed was down, and I saw the explosion…' He nodded, inwardly envisaging that moment of suspension as the burning Phantom raced away from him and he turned over and over before parting company with the ejector seat — then the Phantom had exploded, a bright orange ball of flame… Yes, that was it. Hold onto that. With luck, the reconnaissance photographs were of too narrow a strip. Time, time -

'I see,' Vladimirov murmured, fingering his top lip, making little hollow plopping sounds as he tapped it against his teeth. Then he bent to Andropov's intercom, and snapped, 'Bring in the exhibit, please.'

One of Andropov's bodyguards from the outer office dragged something that looked like a rucksack into the room, then left as Andropov's wave dismissed them. Gant stared at Andropov, who was smiling. Then he looked into Vladimirov's face. The general's mouth was working, is if he were chewing at something indigestible and cold. Finally, Gant looked back towards the pack. Priabin bent to pick it up. His smile was almost radiant. He brought it to the desk and dropped.it at Gant's feet.

'Your parachute, I imagine?' Andropov remarked.

'No-!'

'There are not too many of these lying casually unused in the snow of Finnish Lapland. In fact, I should be surprised if there were any others. A pity. I believed your story — except that I knew about this, of course.'

Gant leaned on the desk. 'That's not my 'chute, man! The airplane blew up just after I ejected. I buried my 'chute near the landing point. Where did you find this?'

'Exactly where you had buried it. Not far, in fact, from the village where you borrowed those clothes — which smell of Lapp, I must observe. Dung, grease and sweat…'

'It's not my 'chute!' Gant shouted.

'It is, Gant,' Vladimirov snapped. 'You landed that aircraft somewhere — where was it? Where is it?'

'No-'

Andropov pressed the buzzer on his intercom. Immediately, two of his personal bodyguards, torsos large and muscled beneath their suits, stepped into the room. Gant watched them, tensing himself, counting the last futile seconds. Now he knew why he had been counting. It was a record of the time before this began, before the pain.

His fists clenched. Priabin's hand was at his holster. The two large men moved swiftly, lightly towards him, almost as if they floated over the carpet. They were close — he tensed -

Stomach, jaw, back, head, legs, side…

As he fell, they punched then kicked. Perhaps a dozen blows were struck before he lay stretched on the floor, each a separate, new, agonising pain. It was an assault. Frighteningly fast, terrifyingly damaging. He felt