'You all right?' the guard asked. Gant turned directly to him. Immediately, he realised the guard was staring at his bruised temple and swollen lip. Something slow but certain began to form behind the man's eyes.
'Yes, sure,' Gant said, then struck at the man's face. The guard half-stepped, half-fell backwards against the wall. There had seemed no strength in the blow. Gant moved inside the rifle and struck again, and again, his fists beginning to flail at the man because he felt he would be unable to overpower him.
The guard slid down the wall to end in a slumped crouch, rifle between his knees. Gant ran, clattered down the first flight of stairs, glimpsed the ranks of oil paintings again, took the second flight as quickly as he could in the slopping shoes, and reached the gallery overlooking the main hall. He almost collided with a man in uniform. Lieutenant. KGB.
'What is it?' the officer asked. Someone else in uniform emerged from another room. The alarms were loud. Gant shook his head.
'I thought I saw him — ' he began.
'Where? Up there?'
'No, coming down this way… it was just a glimpse. I could have been wrong…'
'Very well.'
There were four people on the gallery now, two in uniform, one in a white coat, one in a suit. Gant did not recognise any of the faces, but he knew he could not be certain. He did not know how many people had seen him since his arrival.
'Are you the one he escaped from?' the officer asked.
Gant nodded, shamefaced. 'Yes.'
'I thought so,' the lieutenant sneered, nodding at the livid bruise. 'Serves you right. God help you if they don't catch up with him — your mother won't know you!' He turned, motioning to the guard in uniform. 'Up these stairs —
Gant looked over the gallery, down into the main hall. Two men in white coats were moving up the sweep of the marble staircase to the first floor. Someone who might have been the American general during his interrogation followed behind them. He moved slowly and angrily.
Gant walked swiftly along the gallery, opened a door at the end of it, and found himself at the head of a flight of narrow stairs. He clattered down them, one hand bracing himself against the bare plaster of the wall because he was increasingly afraid to make demands upon his body. It seemed like the fuel leak in the Firefox, the gauges in the red, waiting for the first, hesitant sound of the engines dying. He felt he might suddenly seize up, be unable to move.
The stairs twisted to the right, then descended again. Ground level — ? A narrow corridor, quarry-tiled. He opened the door at the end of it. A room that might once have been a vast kitchen was now dotted with armchairs, a television set, radio, a still-smoking cigarette which had fallen onto the carpet from the ashtray where it had been left. He stepped on it, grinding it into the carpet -
They wouldn't rescue the monkeys and the cat if the place caught fire…
He left the room by a door at the far end of it, knocking over a half-full glass of beer as he brushed past a small table, then he crossed a narrow passage. Through frosted glass, moonlight shone; almost impossibly, it was an outside door. A shudder ran through his body. Coats, uniform greatcoats, scarves and hats hung from pegs inside the door. He shuffled through them, found a donkey jacket, snatched at a bright scarf, and tried the outside door.
It opened. He slipped through, closed it softly behind him. The alarms were still loud. Outside alarms -
He judged himself to be at the rear of the house. Blocks of sombre flats marched away from him. Lights from the house spilled onto the gravel that surrounded the building. Here, the dark hedges were replaced by a high stone wall, against which a car was parked. Gant ran to it.
The wind was cold once he moved out of the lee of the house. He shrugged on the coat and wrapped the scarf around his face. He thrust the pistol into his right-hand pocket. He tried each door of the car. All of them were locked.
The door opened behind him. He turned slowly, attempting to deflect suspicion. Two men — no, a third armed man behind them, in uniform. More lights flickered on in the ground floor rooms, throwing their glow at him.
Vladimirov stepped forward, the guard moving swiftly to his side, his rifle raised to his shoulder and aimed directly at Gant. Vladimirov's face was chilled by the wind and half in shadow, but Gant saw his smile of undiluted pleasure. Hopelessly, he tugged at the door handle behind him. Locked.
Two men at one corner of the building, rounding it, slowing, then moving forward. A solitary figure at the other end of the building. The wall behind him, Vladimirov in front -
Vladimirov moved forward, closing on Gant. The guard kept his rifle at his shoulder. His aim did not waver. Two white-coated doctors, emerging from the doorway, shivered with the raw cold. Two plainclothed KGB men followed them.
He turned, then, and mounted the bonnet of the car, feeling the weakness of his legs as he clambered onto the car's roof. The thin metal flexed beneath his weight. A bullet smacked flatly into the wall, inches from his face.
Vladimirov screamed at the guard. 'His
He turned to the wall, elated as if by alcohol or drugs. He jumped, scrabbled, his fingers clutching then being skinned by the rough stone as he slid back to the roof of the car.
'Stop him!'
Footsteps running on the gravel. He did not bother to look, knowing there was time for only one more effort. He stood up, swayed — heard footsteps skidding only feet away and heavy shoes striking the metal of the car's bonnet — and jumped.
Clung, heaved, felt the weakness again, heaved once more, his face sliding inch by inch up the stone, then the wind hitting into his face as it cleared the wall. Something touched, then grabbed at his left leg. He lashed out. Two bullets smacked against the stone near his left hand, then he heaved himself astride the wall. Looking down, he blanched at the drop. Two more bullets, the heat of one of the rounds searing his leg below the knee. He swung both legs over the wall, and dropped towards the pavement. A car passed, headlights on. A quiet side street -
He crumpled as he hit the pavement, sitting down hard. He questioned his ankles, waiting for the pain of a sprain or twist.
Then he stood up. Looked up. A face appeared. He drew the Makarov and fired at it. The bullet chipped dust from the capping stone. The head disappeared. He glanced up and down the street. Ill-lit canyons opened between blocks of flats. The street lamps were dim and few. He ran across the street, sensing the moment he reached deep shadow.
Sensing, too, the opening of gates, the switching on of engines, the beginnings of pursuit. His leg ached but he thought the flesh only scorched. He had escaped. He did not consider the alien city, not yet — only the concealing night as he ran.
'The Hercules flies south along the airway — my people drop by parachute, the Hercules drops off the Russian radars as if landing at Ivalo, then doubles back below the radar net and makes a low-level pass — booting these five pallets out of the cargo door as it goes…' Waterford broke off, and turned from Aubrey to the pilot. 'One smoke flare enough of a marker for you?' he asked. The pilot nodded. Waterford returned his gaze to Aubrey. 'Buckholz and the non-parachutists will come in on the two Lynx helicopters we've got here.' Without even the trace of a smile, he added, 'Simple.'
Aubrey was nodding abstractedly. When Waterford had finished speaking, he looked up. 'Very well.' He glanced at his watch. 'You'll be ready for take-off in…?'
'One hour maximum,' the pilot answered.
'Good.' Aubrey's gaze traversed the interior of the transport aircraft. The SBS men under Waterford's command were now coming aboard, bringing their weapons, packs, skis and diving equipment with them. In conjunction with the WRAP Air Loadmaster, Brooke and another marine officer were checking the manifest of the equipment the aircraft had brought from Scampton. Aubrey wondered whether or not he should address the marines.
