Firefox Down

reporting it to his superiors — !

His hands were shaking. Nerves in his forearms made them seem chilly, even beneath his greatcoat. He rubbed his arms to stop them quivering. As he did so, he realised his body was bent. He was leaning forward as if he were about to vomit. He straightened up very slowly, his eyelids still pressed tightly together — warding off what he had witnessed or retaining the dampness behind them. The pain of it, the waves of shock, went on like a series of coronaries, each one worse than the one before. He could not escape the image — her face, Gant's disguised but recognisable face, together.

He heard himself breathing very quickly. He sniffed loudly, and wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. He was facing down the length of the platform. And Oleg was coming towards him from the barrier, still wearing the overcoat that smelled of mothballs.

'Damn,' he muttered between gritted teeth.

Suddenly, Oleg was an enemy. A KGB man. A spy-catcher. He must know nothing.

'You all right, Colonel?' the older man asked in a not unkindly tone. 'You look a bit pale?'

Drrutri tried to smile. It was more like the expression of a wince at sharp pain. 'Yes, all right, just indigestion.'

'Oh — Comrade Akhmerovna got off all right, then, did she?' Oleg persisted, smiling; almost winking as he continued: 'Did you catch a glimpse of the bloke she was with, sir?' The grin was broad, jokey, knowing. Priabin stifled a groan. 'Travelling on business, like you said, but with this bloke wearing a hairpiece.' He continued to grin at Priabin, expecting a jocular reply. 'You might have trouble there, sir,' he added. Priabin again provided a slim, pale smile.

'One of her colleagues in the Secretariat, I gather,' he said stiffly, and moved away, He had to find somewhere to think, to decide. It was racing beyond him, he was losing control, falling apart — Oleg was making him want to scream — he felt he would explode if he didn't get away from him.

He strode towards the barrier, hearing Oleg's sarcastic: 'Sorry I mentioned it, Colonel sir,' behind him. Don't upset the man! He paused and turned. 'It was a very obvious wig,' he said with studied lightness. Then he smiled. Oleg returned the expression, nodding and chuckling.

'Wasn't it though — what a shocker! They always make me laugh, wigs. Don't know why — haven't got much myself — but, wigs — !' He burst into laughter. Priabin joined in for a moment.

'The wind all right, sir?' Oleg asked solicitously.

'Bit better, thanks.'

'You got anything?' he asked, fishing in his pocket and bringing out a wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These are good — get them in the beryozhka shop. American, they are. Better than those peppermint things they make in Minsk. Try one.' He held out the wrapper. There was fluff from his pocket on it. Priabin did not dare risk reaching out his hand. He could envisage fumbling with the wrapper, tearing it, spilling the tablets, arousing Oleg's suspicions.

'Don't do anything for me. It's vodka I need!' he announced as heartily as he could.

'Comeon, then, sir-'

Priabin shook his head. 'I've taken enough time off-better get on with my tour of inspection.' He shrugged. 'See you, Oleg.'.

He touched his cap with his gloves and walked off.

'A real pity, sir — ' he heard Oleg offer.

'What?' he snapped, turning on his heel.

Oleg was holding out the wrapper of indigestion tablets. 'These,' he said. 'They smell of mothballs — taste of 'em, too. Don't blame you for refusing.'

Priabin smiled. 'Bye, Oleg.' He strode towards the ticket barrier, passed through it with a nod to the KGB man who must have inspected Gant's papers, glimpsed the poster displaying the pictures of the American pilot, and passed into the station's main concourse. A wig… attracting attention to a distraction. See the wig, see the silly vanity, the life-style and personality it suggests — miss the pilot beneath.

The air outside the Leningrad station was cold. It was as if he had walked into a sheet of glass. He breathed deeply, many times. His head would not clear. It was like a night sky against which rockets and other fireworks burst. Crazy, useless schemes, exploding, leaving their fading images on an inward eye. He had no idea what to do.

Except he knew he could not report her. He could not tell his superiors, could not tell Vladimirov, that the woman he lived with, the woman he loved, was aiding Gant in his escape from Moscow. They would arrest her, interrogate her, make her talk — then dispose of her. Into a pine box or into one of the Gulags, it was the same thing in the end. Reporting her would be her death sentence.

'Gant-!' he murmured fiercely, clenching his fists, then pulling on his gloves in a violently expressive manner. 'Gant — '

Anna was running a terrible risk. She was in the utmost danger.

He clattered down the station steps towards his limousine.

Where?

What to do?

They were going to Leningrad — in all probability, they'd leave the train before it reached the city. Someone would be waiting for them, an Englishman or an American…

And then it struck him, jolting him like a blow across the face. She was leaving — leaving with the American — she was getting out-

He climbed into the back of the black car and slammed the door behind him.

'The apartment!' he snapped.

The driver turned out into the square. Railway stations all around the square. Images of departure, of fleeing.

He did not know what to do. He knew only that he must not lose her.

* * *

The train gathered speed, passing the television tower, its top hidden by low grey cloud. Sleet melted on the window, becoming elongated tadpoles of water. The closest suburban stations all exhibited the same functional, deserted appearance as they headed north-west out of Moscow. The compartment was warm. A loudspeaker softly provided Tchaikovsky. Gant did not know how to begin the conversation he knew he must have with the distraught woman who sat opposite him. She was staring at her hands, which seemed to be fighting each other in her lap. Her lover, she had replied to his first question. The man she lived with. He had been unable to find another question to ask. Instead, he had stared out of the window as if surprised that the train was still moving, still being allowed to continue on its journey.

Finally, as the suburbs flattened into parkland, grey and white beneath the driving snow and low cloud, and then rose again into the old town of Khimki-Kovrino, Gant turned away from the window.

'What will he do?' he asked, staring at his own hands, as if imitating the woman's supplicatory posture. She looked up, startled back to her present surroundings. Her features appeared bruised with emotion.

'What — ?' she replied in Russian. He wondered whether her use of her native language — he had spoken in English — was some way of keeping him at a distance. Or simply security?

'I said, what will he do, the man you live with?' he repeated in Russian.

She shook her head. 'I don't know — !'

'He knew it was me,' Gant explained unnecessarily. 'And he guessed we were together.' He cleared his throat. 'What would he make of it?'

'He knows about me!' she exclaimed, beating her fists in a quick little tattoo on her thighs. 'He already knows — !'

'Jesus-H-Christ…' Gant breathed, leaning back in his seat.

The small compartment was hot, even though he had removed his formal overcoat and unbuttoned his jacket. He fiddled with the half-glasses on his nose, but did not remove them. 'He knows about you…' he repeated in English.

'He's known about me for a long time. He's done nothing about it. He — ' She looked up, and essayed a smile. 'He's very much in love — ' She might have been talking of a favourite Son and another woman. 'It pains him — sometimes he can't sleep — but he protects me…'