Firefox Down

'Christ — ' Gant rubbed his forehead, inspecting his fingers for dampness. Very little. He was surprised. He checked his body. Hot, yes, but no sense of rising panic. The movement of the train, north-west towards Leningrad and the border, lulled his body. The first stop was Kalinin, a hundred miles from Moscow. Perhaps they were safe until then.

He could not panic, he decided. The woman had coped, coped with much more, over a much longer time. While she remained almost calm, so would he.

'Listen,' he said, leaning forward, reaching out his fingertips. She withdrew her hand, holding it against her breasts. He sat back. 'Listen- think about it. What will he do? What will he think?'

'I-God, I don't know…'

'Will he — will he blame the CIA? Will he blame me?'

'What do you mean?'

The daylight outside was failing. It was as dark as late evening already. The tadpoles of melted sleet wriggled across the window. A collective farm lay unused beneath a layer of snow. A tractor huddled near a hedge.

'Does he love you enough to blame everyone else except you for what he saw?' Gant explained with some exasperation. 'Is he that blind? Will he blame the CIA, the British, me — ?'

'Instead of me?' Gant nodded. 'Perhaps- '

'Will he report us to his superiors? Will they stop the train?'

'I — don't think so…' Anna's brow creased into deep lines. Gant guessed her age to be around thirty-eight or nine. Older than the young colonel he had seen on the platform. He leaned back and closed his eyes. What had he seen? Seen her trying to reassure him… yes. He'd understood that there was no danger, even through his shock. What else — ? The man? Smiling, laughing, holding her -

His face when she climbed aboard the train, in the moment before he saw Gant — ?

Love. Something from paintings, almost religious — what was it? Adoration — ? Adoration…

And he began to believe that they were safe… safe, unless -

'Could he follow us?' Gant asked sharply.

'What?'

'Could he arrange to follow us — himself?'

'Why?'

'To kill me.'

'Why?'

'He might — just might work it out. If he believes in you, he'll blame me most of all, lady. And he could keep your dark secret and put the clock back to yesterday, if he killed me. I wouldn't even be able to tell tales on you.' The Makarov was in the suitcase. Later, he would think about transferring it to his inside pocket.

'Do you think he would do that?'

Gant shrugged. 'He might — you know him, not me. You've screwed up what was a nice neat assignment. He could either hate you, or me. There's no one else to attract his interest.' Gant leaned back, closing his eyes. His lack of panic surprised him.

Maybe it was the woman's presence? She was a talisman who had, perhaps, become a hostage. He felt safe with her. Adoration… yes. Priabin was besotted with the woman, and he could use that to his advantage. Priabin might come after them, but he wouldn't betray her, give her up.

He'd blame the good old US of A and one of its citizens.in particular. Yes, he'd want to kill Gant.

Gant could not believe his luck. The car journey after Vassily had helped him, the apartment for most of the day, the disguise and the easy access to the platform and the train — they were all dreamlike, unreal. It had been going too well.

But this — this was real luck.

He found himself thinking aloud: 'This is real luck…'

Immediately, the woman's face narrowed. She despised him. He could not help that. Real luck. He might have had thousands of KGB looking for him, but now, thanks to her, he had only one who was looking in the right place. And, as they say, his lips were sealed.

It was working out. He could make it, with those odds. The papers and the disguise had stood up, would stand up. Harris would be meeting them at a quiet- suburban station with a car and new documents. And, if heskept Anna by his side or in front of him like a shield, he had nothingfo worry about… nothing at all. '

'Stop it!' she said intently. He opened his eyes. 'Stop it!'

What-?'

'You're smiling — you're enjoying it!' She was very close to tears. Her teeth nibbled at her full lower lip. Her pale, drawn features seemed inappropriate to the expensive hairstyle, the costly, fashionable clothes.

'All right,' he said. 'I'm sorry. It was good not to be the one who's really alone for a change. I am sorry.'

She nodded. 'I — ' she began.

'Could you go back?'

'I don't know — I thought so, before, before — '

'Take it easy. Maybe the Company will lay off, if this all works out?' He watched her shaking her head. The blonde hair flicked from side to side. On the platform, she had seemed so much in control, so much the stronger partner. But, she was weakened by her own love. She wasn't so much afraid of getting caught as of losing her lover. Well, maybe the Company would release her if she pulled this off…? Miracles did sometimes happen.

He looked at his watch. Five hours to Kolpino. They had tickets for the restaurant car. She'd have to make up before she appeared in public -

Gant retreated from concern. It complicated matters. She was, effectively, his hostage, and that was the easiest and most satisfactory way to think of her.

* * *

Dmitri Priabin had dismissed his driver when the car dropped him at Anna's apartment. He had hurried from the lift and fumblingly unlocked the door as if half-expecting to find her there. The apartment was, of course, empty.

He tore the expected letter open, glanced at the excuse of business in Leningrad, his eyes highlighting the love that constituted the remainder of the letter. Then he crushed it, threw it across the room, and retrieved it only moments later, thrusting it into his pocket. Without conscious decision, he had packed a suitcase with a civilian outfit — a disguise, he thought — and then he had left the apartment once more, slamming the door hollowly behind him. Maxim was with her father — whatever happened, the boy was safe. Whatever happened to Anna, whatever was discovered — whatever part he played himself — her father could protect his grandson even if he could not save his daughter.

In one way, then, it would be clean.

He hailed a taxi. Conscious thought seemed to have caught up with bodily activity, and he ordered the driver to take him to Cheremetievo airport.

Flights to Leningrad -

He had to inspect the airport security anyway, it lay under his authority. They would expect to see him.

And what would he do? What was he planning that required the suitcase on the seat beside him? He did not really know. Thought had not yet overtaken reaction, to discover what lay in the future. It, like his body, was content simply to be active. He was hurrying to the airport — he appeared to be pursuing…

Who and what was he pursuing?

His hand touched the holster at his hip, providing the answer. The American — Gant. He wanted to kill Gant. He would kill Gant! In his death lay safety. Anna would be safe, he would be safe.

The driver had a bald, shining head. His ears were red and prominent. The sleet flew at the windscreen, rushing towards the wipers, then sliding jelly-like to either side. It was hypnotic.

Priabin shook his head, waking himself. If there was a flight to Leningrad, he could overtake them. They