Firefox Down

Priabin almost felt sorry for the older man, even as he bridled at his tone.

Swiftly, he explained the disposition of forces, using the map on its easel. Vladimirov stood near him. There was a faint smell of whisky and cachous on his breath. He nodded violently, his rage and impatience barely concealed. When Priabin had finished his outline, Vladimirov studied him with the same piercing glance he had bestowed on the map and its pins.

'So,' he remarked at last, 'you will simply wait until he makes himself known to one of your men and then arrest him?' The sarcasm was evident and stinging. Vladimirov raised an eyebrow in further emphasis. Priabin felt his face redden and grow hot.

'These — are normal, tried and tested security procedures, Comrade General,' he said with heavy slowness.

'It was normal security that allowed the American to escape from the hospital.'

'I-'

'I have toured three departments in this building of yours so far,' Vladimirov pursued, 'and in each of them I have heard variations on the same refrain. Routine — normal — usual … even from Deputy Chairmen and Directors of Departments and their principal Deputy Directors and Assistant Deputy Directors — ' His arms were in the air, expressing exasperated hopelessness. 'People who should know better, much better, tell me the same things you do! Do you think it is enough, Colonel? Do you think you are doing all you can to apprehend the most important escapee in the whole of the Soviet Union?' Priabin glanced towards the door, whether for signs of help or out of embarrassment he could not be certain. The general raged on. 'This organisation of yours has too much experience with prisoners and not enough with escapers.' His lips parted in a thin, mirthless, arrogant smile. 'You're not up to the job, perhaps?' His left eyebrow lifted ironically once more. The expression did nothing to alleviate the heavy anger of the eyes. He turned back to the map. 'Well?' he asked. 'You've nothing to say? Nothing at all? Not an idea in your head, mm?'

Priabin cleared his throat and composed his reddened features. He was already considering how best, how painlessly, he could manoeuvre the general out of his office.

'I — am sorry you're not satisfied, Comrade General. You are, of course, unfamiliar with our methods…'

Vladimirov turned on him. The white light from the table-lamp fell on his cheek, giving it the dead, flat appearance of skin that had undergone plastic surgery. A lock of grey hair fell across the older man's creased forehead. He flicked it back into place.

'Unfamiliar? Aren't jailers very conventional — the same the world over?' he hissed. 'Dolts, buffoons with clubs and guns? Well? Have you an idea in your head, or not?'

Priabin stared at the map. A circle of pins, the weave of a net. Other maps in other rooms displayed other pins. A huge trawl-net being dragged across the city. He must surely be netted soon. The Sadovaya Ring, Red Square, the river, the broad avenues and boulevards, the narrow streets, the buildings and monuments — Gant was alone out there. He'd walked the city only once in his life before, and that for little more than an hour. on his way to rendezvous with the now-dead agent Pavel Upenskoy.

Priabin clenched his fist; began beating it into the palm of his left hand. Red Square from the Moskva Hotel, past GUM, down to the river — the murder had taken place there, then they'd fled via the metro to the warehouse near the Kirov Street… then he'd been driven out of Moscow the next morning in a van. He didn't even know the city, not at all — !

His forefinger traced the route that Gant, in his disguise as Orton, must have taken from the Moskva Hotel to his rendezvous near the bridge. Having reached the Pavolets metro station, he traced the route once more.

'Well, what is it, man?' Vladimirov asked impatiently. 'Are you awake or half-asleep?'

Priabin turned on the general, grinning. 'I think I'm awake, Comrade General!' he said with something akin to elation in his voice. It was at least enough of an idea to get rid of this uncomfortable old man.

'What is it?' Vladimirov's excitement was hungry and dangerous.

'Gant knows very little of Moscow. He must reason someone would be looking for him, he's valuable. If they know he's out, and they probably do, then they'd have people looking for him — low-grade people, unofficials, anyone they could get out of bed on a cold night — ! He might, just might, retrace his steps. It's the only piece of knowledge they all share — the route he took to his meeting with Pavel Upenskoy and the others.'

Vladimirov looked doubtful. Then he nodded, once. 'They might make an assumption — he might make it…' He stared at Priabin. 'Well, where do you begin? Quickly, man — where?'

Priabin flicked the intercom switch, 'Bring me the files on Upenskoy's cell — yes, all of them. Every name!' He glanced up. How many were there — Upenskoy. the old man, Boris Glazunov who died under interrogation, Vassily who'd disappeared without trace, one or two others, suspects only… it didn't seem much, but it was something. A beginning.

'He'll wait for daylight, if he tries it… for the crowds,' Priabin explained, once more facing the map. At that moment, he almost believed in his own idea, so convincing was his act for the imperious air force general. 'Yes, he needs the daylight and the cover of the crowds.' He turned as his secretary entered. She deposited the files, sneezed, and left. Vladimirov wiped the cover of one of the files. The name borne by the file was that of Boris Glazunov. Vladimirov opened it eagerly, in desperate, almost pathetic ignorance. It seemed a foolish idea to Priabin, but it appeared to more than satisfy the general. He shook his head gently.

Vladimirov looked up. 'Well, help me, man! There are names, addresses, relatives in here, in each of them. Put them all under surveillance. And get me the departments responsible for street surveillance in the areas you pointed out to me — quickly! Don't just stand there, Colonel — earn your salary for once!'

* * *

The Hercules had completed its southward run, utilising the airway and a civilian call-sign and flight number. The pilot had requested landing instructions from Ivalo airport and dropped below the Russian radar net. Then, using visual and electronic navigation, and its radar in the mapping mode, it had flown northwards once more, heading for the dropping zone. The SBS unit had departed from the two paratroop doors during the first run over the lake at three and a half thousand feet.

First light was no more than a greyness in the sky, patched with darker cloud. Snow flurried across the windscreen, causing the co-pilot to intermittently operate the wipers.

Every light on the Hercules had been extinguished.

'All clear ramp doors and depressurising,' the pilot heard the loadmaster announce over his headset. 'Ramp opening, ramp down and locked.'

'Roger. Ninety seconds to Initial Point.'

'After IP, heading two-one-five, skipper,' the navigator informed him.

'Roger — two-one-five.'

'Roger… turning to two-one-five… two-one-five steady.' Ahead of the aircraft, the dawn attempted to lighten the sky beyond the flurrying snow. The wipers cleared the screen. Stunted and dwarf trees confused the pilot's sense of distance. 'Speed coming back to 160 knots.' The undulating, snow-blurred outlines of the land seemed to rush just beneath the belly of the aircraft. 'Wheels down,' the pilot announced. 'Flaps down.' It was a precaution, in case the aircraft came into contact with the ground. 'Lamp on, Diane — '

'OK — ready this end,' the loadmaster replied.

'Lake in sight,' the co-pilot said:

Ahead of them, beyond the last, straggling trees, the apparently smooth surface of the frozen lake stretched away, narrowing as it did so. Trees crowded down to the shore, like a fence around the ice.

'Got it. Keep the wipers on.' Snow rushed at and alongside them.'I've got the smoke marker-'

'Altitude fifteen feet… twelve… ten…'

'Stand by-five, four, three, two, one… Go!'

The nose of the Hercules tilted up slightly as the five pallets followed each other, sliding off their metal tracks and disappearing through the open ramp. The aircraft seemed to bob up, floating on a slight swell.

'Drop good-all away, clean and tight. Ground party already beginning to recover… ready to close up this end.'

'Roger, Diane, standby for ramp closing.'