Gant crossed to the window and the iron fire-escape. The young man climbed out and began to descend. There was frozen snow and ice on the rail and the steps. The young man danced carefully down them as quickly as he could. Gant watched the door of apartment 549 as he climbed over the window sill and felt for the first step. Then he was outside, shaking with cold and reaction.
Familiar — the face behind the two or three days' stubble of dark beard — familiar…
He clattered down the first flight, then the second, slipping once, pursuing Vassily -
He had helped Pavel throw Fenton's body into the river. He had disappeared after the metro journey, near the warehouse. Vassily. Gant looked back up the twisting fire-escape. A face had appeared at the window, a walkie-talkie clamped to its cheek. He saw a pistol, too, and then looked down once more, aware of the treacherous nature of the ice-covered steps.
Relief, the excitement of danger being met and overcome, filled Gant. Vassily bobbed ahead of him, half-a- flight further down. He chased him.
First floor — ground floor. Rear of the building. Lock-up garages, dustbins, football goal painted on a brick wall. He bumped into Vassily, almost breathless.
'Vassily-!'
Vassily grinned.'Come. Quickly…'
They ran across the courtyard. Then Vassily jumped at a garage door, clinging to the low roof, kicking his legs, easing himself up and onto the felted roof. Gant followed. He could hear whistles and shouts now, but no noise of vehicles other than the muted roar of traffic on the Mira Prospekt. Vassily crouched as he ran across the roof, then he jumped out of sight. Again, Gant followed.
He dropped into a snowy patch of garden. A dog barked. Vassily was already climbing a fence when Gant caught up with him. Gant heaved himself over the fence and dropped into an icy alley way.
Vassily ran to the corner of what appeared to be a narrow, quiet street. When Gant reached him, he said, 'I hope she is here…'
There were a few parked cars. Vassily seemed to be searching for one in particular, reciting numberplates half under his breath. Gant's chest hurt with the effort of drawing in the icy air.
'She — ?' he began.
'Yes-there!'
They ran across the street.
'Get down, both of you!' the driver snapped as she eased the car away from the pavement, then turned left. Gant's face was against Vassily's arm. He could taste the worn leather of his jacket.
'They were — waiting,' Gant said as the car turned right, travelling at no more than thirty miles an hour once it had done so.
Vassily's face, close to his own, frowned. He nodded his head vigorously. 'Yes. I was not sure. I was watching you. The moment you entered the building, a car pulled up in front. It was KGB, but they did not get out. I knew then that they were waiting for you.' A police car passed them, siren flashing, heading in the direction of the Mira Prospekt. 'I was almost too late!'
'How long have you been following me?'
'Most of the night.'
'Why didn't you make contact?'
'He was ordered not to!' the driver snapped. 'He always obeys orders — we all do!' Gant felt the force of the driver's resentment.
'Are we being followed, Comrade?' Vassily asked very formally, surprising Gant. His face was serious, perhaps in awe of the driver.
'No.'
Gant felt the car turn sharply left. After a silence, he raised his head, and was shocked to see the cosmonaut's monument, the rocket atop its narrowing trail of golden fire, drifting past-the car windows. He clenched his hands together to stop them from shaking. They were near the Unit, heading for it — !
'What is it?'
'Where are we going?' he snapped in a high, fearful voice. They were leaving the monument behind them now.
'We have a place…'Vassily assured him.
'A change of clothes for you,' the driver said. 'A change of appearance. Papers. Everything is to be provided for you.' The resentment was deep, angry. The woman disliked, even hated him. Who in hell was she?
'OK-what then?'
'I must get you out of Moscow.'
'And Vassily?'
'Vassily is not trusted — not as much as is necessary.' Vassily shrugged at her words. He grinned, almost pathetically. 'They do not consider he is capable of the task.'
'And you are?'
The car had stopped at traffic lights. Gant could see them through the windscreen. The car was almost new, the fawn-coloured fabric of the seats very clean. It was a large saloon. Gant was suspicious. Then the blonde woman turned her head, so that she was in profile as she answered him.
'I have certain qualifications,' she announced. 'The greatest of which is my capacity to be blackmailed into helping you. I have been told that Vassily is someone who keeps changing addresses, who deals in black-market goods as well as espionage work. He is useful, but not
She turned her head as the lights changed. The car drew away, accelerating. They passed the Ostankino television tower, a steel needle against the heavy sky. Gant stared at Vassily, disconcerted, troubled by the woman's resentment. Almost afraid of help now that it had come.
Waterford lifted his head as the noise of the chain-saw ceased. At the far end of the clearing that had been made and was still being enlarged, a tree fell drunkenly forwards with a noise like the concussion of a rifle. Immediately, branches were lopped from it and stacked for later use in general camouflage. At the perimeter of the clearing which reached from the shore of the frozen lake back into the trees in a rough semi-circle, bundles of white netting lay ready for use. Already, much of the camouflage netting had been strung between the trees, forming what might have been the roof of a huge, open-sided marquee.
Two RAF mechanics were laying and checking nylon ropes which stretched from the trees that held the winches down to the shore. They had selected the stoutest trees, capable of taking the strain imposed by the three chain-lever winches which would be used to haul the Firefox out of the lake. The winches were anchored to the trees and additional steel anchor pins had been hammered in the frozen ground — not reaching a sufficient depth in the soil to completely satisfy Waterford or the Senior Engineering Officer from Abingdon. Even the Royal Engineer mechanics who would operate the winches were unconvinced there was a sufficient safety margin. They would only know, however, when they tried.
Waterford returned his attention to the group of marines around him. Six of the SBS unit were seconded as divers, which left the eighteen in front of him in full Arctic combat kit. The group was framed by upright or slightly leaning pairs of long, cross-country skis and vertical ski-sticks. Each man bore a laden pack on his back. Nine of them also carried radio equipment. They were assigned to work in pairs rather than their more usual threes and fours, and their duties were reconnaissance rather than defence. His early warning system, he thought — which was all they could be with their small numbers.
Their rifles were slung in white canvas sleeves across their chests, below their snow-goggles. The usual mixed bag favoured by an elite force such as SBS — some standard L1A1s, a few 7.62 sniper rifles, one or two of the new, short-stock 5.56 Enfields, and a couple of the very latest 4.7 mm Heckler & Koch caseless rifles. Even in their disguising sleeves, they possessed the appearance of plastic planks narrowing at one end. Waterford himself had one, for evaluation on behalf of the army. He thought it ugly, futuristic, and effective, firing its bullets from a solid block of propellant rather than a cartridge case. It had the stopping power and accuracy to penetrate a steel helmet at more than five hundred metres. He appreciated the weapon.
Looking at the rifles, he reminided himself he must stress yet again the reconnaissance nature of their
