The Hercules passed southwards over the narrow neck of the lake. A stronger flurry of snow rushed at them, obscuring the pilot's glimpse of tiny, moving figures on the ice. Then the lake was behind them.
'Initial heading — two-two-four.'
'Roger-turning on to two-two-four… ramp closed.'
The Hercules skimmed the stunted trees to the south of the lake. Whenever the flurries of snow revealed the horizon, the lightening sky appeared full of dark, heavier cloud.
Delaying his decision for as long as possible, Gant watched the apartment block of stained, weatherbeaten grey concrete that overlooked the Riga Station on the Mira Prospekt. In the windy, snowy light of dawn, he watched the first overcoated, booted, scarved inhabitants leaving for work. Cheap curtains had been drawn back at a hundred windows; faces had glanced at the day. without enthusiasm. The traffic had begun to flow along the wide street. Trains left the station noisily and arrived in increasing numbers from the northern and north-eastern suburbs.
He had returned to the Mira Prospekt almost by the route he had taken to the US Embassy, taking to the streets only when they began to fill with the first flow of workers heading into the inner city. He had made better time once there were hundreds of other pedestrians. He had even risked a short trolley-bus ride, but the sense of closeness of other bodies, the growing claustrophobia of the self-imposed trap, had forced him to walk the remaining distance.
He was there simply because he remembered the address of Boris Glazunov, whom he had impersonated during the truck journey from Moscow to Bilyarsk with Pavel. Boris Glazunov was married — he remembered the details of the papers Pavel had given him. Boris Glazunov had been arrested, but perhaps they would know someone — a name, an address, a codeword, something…
He had passed the warehouse near the Kirov Street where he had spent the night after Fenton had been killed. It was locked and empty. The old man, too, must have been arrested. He had hurried away from there, alert and fearful. Glazunov's was the only other address he knew belonging to anyone even remotely connected with the operation to steal the Firefox. He had at least to try.
He was cold, but no longer hungry. He had drunk a bowl of thick soup, eaten bread and a thick-crusted, grey-doughed meat pie from a stall selling hot food to early workers. It was parked near a building site on the Sadovaya Ring. The food gave him indigestion but temporarily rid him of his growing sense of unreality. He could not decide the centre of the unreality. It frightened him. He had learned to be wary, alert, clever, but to what purpose? What could he do? How many days and nights could he spend on the streets, without papers and with a diminishing supply of roubles and kopecks, eating from steaming food-stalls and riding claustrophobic trams and trolleybuses? He could see no end to it — and that was his real fear.
He waited for twenty minutes, until he was certain that the apartment block was not under surveillance, that no one and no cars were halted suspiciously for long periods, that no police or KGB had arrived. The traffic thickened — Party limousines sped past old saloon cars and heavy trucks, using the yellow-painted centre lane. The trains came and went monotonously. People left the apartment block, and its companions lining the Mira Prospekt, in greater and greater numbers.
Eventually, he was stamping his feet in the too-big shoes as much with impatience as cold, and then he crossed the thoroughfare at the nearest pedestrian lights and climbed the stepstothe foyer of the apartment block.
'Yes — quickly. You must come at once. The Gagarin apartment block on the Mira Prospekt, near the Kulakov intersection. Please hurry — you must bring your, car… the American has just entered the apartment block — No, I do not know whether they are waiting for him. It is the apartment of someone who — was arrested, but I do not know what happened to his family… but I have just seen a KGB car pull up in front of the block. Yes, someone must have spotted him, someone I did not see. What? They're sitting in the car still… I must go in and warn him — Yes, you must hurry. Park in Kulakov Lane. What is your car? Yes, and the number — quickly, please. No, no, they are still sitting in the car — I think that must mean there are people already inside… I must hurry. Please reach Kulakov Lane as quickly as you can!'
The wide, grubby foyer of the apartment block possessed a sticky, stained linoleum floor. The walls were badly in need of a fresh coat of cream paint. One of the six lifts did not work. Gant, unnoticed amid the hurrying tenants leaving the building, attempted to envisage Glazunov's papers as they had been handed to him by Pavel. He could see the grainy identification picture which was later replaced by one of himself, he could see the name, see the overlying official stamps, the address…
The number, the number -
A hurrying woman bumped into him, seemed to search his face with a scowl on her own features, then hurried away. The tiny incident drained him of energy… concentrate-
Apartment — four, four, five-? Five-four, yes, five-four… nine, nine — ! Apartment 549. He stood in front of a set of lift doors. Only odd-numbered floors were served by the lifts on that side of the foyer. For a moment, the foyer appeared entirely empty, except for the concierge — who might or might not have been more than that — reading
Then a lift door opened on the opposite side of the hall. Footsteps, hurry -
He glanced towards the concierge. He was still reading his paper, uninterested in anyone who passed; apparently uninterested in Gant. Someone called the man, and he turned his head, then went in, shutting the door behind him. The lift door in front of Gant opened. He waited until the lift was empty, entered, and pressed the fifth- floor button. It seemed a tiny but important victory that the concierge had taken no interest in him. He probably thought it was someone coming back for something he'd forgotten, if he thought at all.
People tried to press into the lift on the fifth floor before he could get out. He squeezed through them, not ungrateful for the press of their bodies, their scents and smells. He did not resent or fear them for that brief moment. Then the door closed and he was alone in the corridor. Linoleum, chipped and stained, on the floor, a succession of brown-painted doors, dirty green paintwork on the walls lt was an infinitely depressing place. He checked his direction, then followed the trail of mounting numbers on the doors. Some of them were missing. Radios played pop music loudly behind many of the doors, as if to drown out something else.
Five-four-nine. He raised his fist, and hesitated. He listened. Radio playing, but not loudly. No other human noises. He looked back down the corridor. No one. Swallowing, breathing deeply, he knocked loudly on Boris Glazunov's door.
At the third knock, as if at a general signal or alarm, a number of things happened. The lift doors sighed open, and Gant turned his head. A young man emerged, saw him -
The door opened. Gant turned. A tall man faced him, a grin already spreading over his face as he evidently recognised the caller. Someone spoke from inside the flat, a man with an authoritative tone. The young man near the lift shouted. His voice seemed full of warning.
Gant's hand remembered the Makarov in the coat pocket, and clenched around its butt. The tall man's grin spread. His hand moved from behind his back, slowly and confidently. He was intent upon the widening fear in Gant's eyes. The young man was running towards him down the corridor shouting, his shoes clattering on the linoleum.
Gant half-turned, half-drew his hand from his pocket. Then the young man, ten yards away, skidded to a stop and yelled his name. A plea rather than a challange. The tall man had stepped forward through the doorway, his hand now holding a pistol, bringing it up to level on Gant's stomach. Gant squeezed the trigger of the Makarov, firing through the material of the coat pocket. The noise was deafening, ringing down the corridor, pursued by the explosion of the tall man's gun which discharged into the ceiling. Plaster-dust fell on Gant's hair and shoulders.
'Quickly! Gant — quickly!' the young man shouted, grabbing his sleeve. Gant thought the face familiar, distorted by urgency as it was. A second KGB man was emerging from the room at the end of the apartment's hall. Gant fired twice, wildly. The man ducked out of sight. Gant heard a window slide protestingly up, felt chilly air on his face. 'Come!'
