Firefox Down

Aubrey disowned his words, his hand sawing through the fuggy, paraffin-smelling air. Then he wiped his lips, as if what he had said amounted to little more than a geriatric dribble of sounds.

'I'm sorry,' he said with exaggerated, ingratiating apology.

'I forgot myself for a moment.' He moved closer to Curtin, placing himself near the heat from the wood- burning stove, rubbing his hands as if cold. He looked directly at Curtin instead of the floorboards of the hut, and said, 'Forgive me for asking — but the aircraft could not fly, of course?'

Curtin shook his head. 'No…' he said. The word was intended to be definite, to end the speculation he could see beginning to cloud Aubrey's pale eyes, but it faded into a neutral, hesitant denial. Aubrey seized upon it.

'You don't seem sure — '

'I am sure.'

'Then why not be definite!' Aubrey snapped, his face sagging into disappointed folds once more.

'I am, but-'

'But what?'

'I — it's been immersed in water for more than forty-eight hours… you've got a smidgeon more than twenty- four hours…' Curtin shook his head, almost smiling. 'It is impossible,' he announced. 'I'm sure of it.'

Aubrey persisted: 'As a matter of interest, why did you hesitate?'

'Because — well, because I've heard of Navy planes getting a ducking and making a comeback — ' He held up his hands to stop a torrent of questions from Aubrey. 'It took weeks, Mr. Aubrey — weeks! Well, maybe one week anyway. I just remembered it had happened, is all. It doesn't help you. Us.'

'You mean the aircraft is immediately damaged by immersion in water?'

'Sure, the damage starts at once.'

'But the damage is not irreparable?' Aubrey's voice hectored, bullied. Curtin felt interrogated, and resented the small, arrogant Englishman who was too clever for his own good and too self-satisfied ever to admit defeat.

That depends on how it went in, whether it was all shut down, sealed… Hell — !'

'What is the matter?'

'I don't know the answers, for Christ's sake! You're crazy, Mr. Aubrey, sir, crazy.' He climbed off the table and stretched luxuriously, as if about to retire. The gesture was intended to infuriate Aubrey and it succeeded.

'Damn you, Curtin — stay where you are and answer my questions!' He pressed close to the American, undeterred by his greater height and bulk. Curtin thought, quite irreverently, that Aubrey was squaring up to him ready to fight.

'OK, OK — if it passes the time,' he murmured, regaining his perch on the table. -

'Just answer me this — could the Firefox fly?'

Curtin shrugged, hesitated, and then said, 'I don't know — and that's the truth.'

'Then who would know?'

'Why don't you ask the Senior Engineering Officer — what's his name, Moresby? The guy from Abingdon. He's standing right next to the airplane, he knows the state it's in — ask him!'

The radio operator was sitting erect in his seat. 'Get me Squadron-Leader Moresby, at once.' Then he looked at Curtin and held up his hand, displaying his fingers in sequence as he spoke. 'We have the pilot, almost safe… We have the runway — the lake… We have twenty-four hours… the aircraft needs to fly fifty or a hundred miles, no more, to be safe from recapture. Is that asking too much?'

'Much too much — but you don't want that answer, I guess,' Curtin murmured.

'Squadron-Leader Moresby, sir — '

'I'm coming, I'm coming — ' Aubrey's eyes gleamed, almost fanatically. 'I won't let it go!' he said. 'Not yet, anyway. I won't.'

TEN: 'Nessie'

'Don't kill him, Dmitri! Dmitri, think — !'

Gant's hand had stopped reaching for his breast pocket. He remembered that he had not transferred the Makarov from his suitcase. Priabin's pistol was pointed directly at him, even though the man was staring into Anna's face. His head had flicked towards her the moment she shouted. Gant remained motionless, an observer of the scene. There was no way in which he could move quickly enough across the compartment, before Priabin had time to shoot him. He forced himself to remain still.

'Anna-?' Priabin exclaimed in the tone of a child that does not understand a parental order. He was being prevented from doing something he very much wanted to accomplish.

'Don't kill him, Dmitri,' Anna repeated, her hand moving slowly towards his gun. He kept it trained on Gant and out of range of her grasp. 'How can I escape from this if you kill him?'

Priabin appeared deeply confused. 'You? But, you come with me. You'll be safe, then — '

'Do you think they'll allow that? Don't you think they'll know I allowed him to be killed? It's a trap, Dmitri — I have to do what they want!'

He held out his left hand, and she caught it with the fierce, clamping grip of a vice. She clung to him, he to her. Then he shook her hand, gently.

'It won't be like that,' he said soothingly. Gant saw that he was sweating, and not simply because of the heating in the compartment. He was almost feverish with purpose. And now he was witnessing his schemes begin to dissolve. 'It won't be like that, Anna!' he reiterated more firmly, attempting to persuade himself.

'It will,' she said, 'I know it will — you don't know them.'

'Believe her,' Gant added, and they both looked at him with utter hatred. He quailed. Priabin was a man still in shock and panic, revolving harebrained schemes to save his mistress. The situation eluded Gant. He did not understand how to use it to his advantage. He was certain that the wrong word would act like a spark on the Russian.

'Shut up!' Priabin snapped unnecessarily.

Gant squeezed into the corner of his seat, his eyes flicking upwards for an instant to his suitcase. But there was no chance, no hope.

As if room had been made for him, Priabin sat down at the other end of the seat, the gun still aimed at Gant. Gant felt the cold of the window against which his back was pressed seeping through his jacket, between his shoulder-blades.

Priabin spoke to Anna without looking at her. He still held her hand. Anna's fingers were white and bloodless, twisted in his.

'Listen to me Anna,' he began. 'If he tells us where the aircraft is-you know, don't you?' Gant nodded carefully, his face expressionless. 'If he tells us, we can pass that information on. We — we could get out of it like that. All they want is to know where the plane is, nothing else — that's their only interest in him. I can say… can say that I followed a hunch, or he was reported to me as seen boarding the train, alone — we struggled, the gun went off, but he'd told me everything…!' He stared at her. 'It would work!'

'And they'd be sure as hell to turn you over, Anna,' Gant said quietly. He realised he could not remain silent. Ever since he had noticed the bloodless fingers gripping those of Priabin. He had understood that she was not a contestant, rather the prize for which he was fighting with Priabin. If she became persuaded of her lover's case, then she would allow Gant to die. She hated him as much as Priabin did. At his words, Priabin's gun jabbed forward in little threatening movements. The man's eyes were grey, and now as unyielding as slate. His face wore a sheen of perspiration, and his cheeks were flushed. He looked feverish. 'Believe me,' Gant added, forcing himself to continue, 'I know them. They've wasted people on this operation already — he knows that. Even Baranovitch.' The name was like a stinging blow across her face. 'They'll use anybody. He's right — the man's right. They're only