Firefox Down

fiercely gripping the steering wheel.

'I don't know — love?' Anna said.

'Crazy — '

'Yes, love.' She was nodding to herself, confirming her analysis.

Gant looked at her. 'Have you got the nerve to cross the border without Harris? If he's expected along with us, then we'll have to bluff it out — he fell ill in Leningrad, something like that… we're angry at being delayed and having to cross the damn border in the middle of the night for talks early tomorrow. Can you do that?'

She nodded. 'Yes, I can do that.'

'OK. We have ten miles' rehearsal time. We might just make it before that crazy bastard wakes up.'

'Do you understand why he did it?'

'It doesn't matter — '

'It does! He's a murderer. I have to find a reason for that.'

'OK…'

'Harris and you — you were taking me away from him. He didn't believe I would come back…' She choked back a strange, crumpled, defeated sound in her throat, but she could not prevent tears from rolling down her pale cheeks. Gant flicked on the windscreen wipers. The view cleared of slush. The wipers squeaked across half-ice. 'He didn't believe…' she repeated, but the words were submerged. She shook her head violently, as if to clear it. 'He didn't…' Her voice was awed, and profoundly disappointed.

'And killing me makes everything right, uh?'

'Yes,' she replied, staring through the windscreen at the steadily falling snow. 'You are to blame. You have to be to blame. If you are to blame for everything that has happened to us, then I am not to blame and Dmitri is not to blame… but, especially me. I would be to blame for nothing, nothing at all…'

'It doesn't matter.' He glanced back at Priabin's unmoving form. 'We might just make it, even without Harris.' he announced, switching on the engine.

* * *

With the assistance of a Norwegian radio operator, Curtin was engaged in a long, wearying, intense conversation with the senior engineering officer, the station commander, and the pilot of the Hercules Aubrey had commandeered, at Bardufoss. Aubrey himself was using the high-speed communications system to talk to Shelley in London.

Aubrey was pleased with himself, with the situation, with the progress they had made. In a little more than two hours, he had put his shoulder to the great wheel of circumstances, and had managed to move it. He was tired, but felt elated. Later, he knew he would collapse, like a cliff sliding slowly into the sea. But not yet, not while things remained to be done.

'I shall be telling Director Vitsula that Gant is required in Oslo immediately for a full debriefing. In fact, he will be brought here. You do have the Harrier, Peter?'

Aubrey waited while his message was transmitted via geostationary satellite to Shelley in Century House, overlooking the river. Then the tapes gathered Shelley's reply at high speed, rewound, and spoke.

There was amusement in Shelley's voice, too, as he said, 'Yes, sir, we have a Harrier. It's already en route to Oslo, thence to Helsinki to collect Gant. Allied Forces, South Norway, will inform you of the aircraft's arrival. Won't Vitsula think it just a little suspicious that you had a Harrier collect Gant rather than something that can't land at the lake?'

There was a short pause in the message, but the operator knew that Shelley had not finished.

'There's quite a bit more yet, sir,' he informed Aubrey.

'Christ…' he heard Shelley breathing an aside, then clear his throat. 'Thank you, Bill. Yes — no, keep running the tape, man!' Then evidently, he addressed Aubrey directly. The old man was alert, almost trembling. He understood the first drops of rain from an approaching storm. 'Sir, message just received from Leningrad Station. Most urgent — the panic button, sir. Harris telephoned in with ten miles to go, and was cut off. They don't think it was the line, sir. Reception was quite good, in spite of the weather, and they swear the line was still open for some seconds after Harris stopped speaking. They even heard the pips demand more money in the slot.'

'My God.' Aubrey exclaimed, raising his hands in the air. 'Oh, my God.'

Curtin was watching him from the other side of the hut. He had paused in his conversation. Aubrey absently waved him to continue, as if dismissing him from the room.

Gant — what the devil had happened to Gant?

The radio operator waited for his reply. Looking slightly bemused and a little worried, Curtin continued his conversation with Bardufoss. His technical specifications, the details of what Aubrey had called their shopping list, the ranks and areas of expertise of the men volunteered, the strength and capacity of arms of the Royal Marines — all mocked him now. Curtin's words bore in upon him in the hot, paraffin-smelling silence of the hut. Curtin was discussing Blowpipe missiles, and dismissing the idea. They had not yet decided whether there would be sufficient room on board the Hercules for more than a handful of Royal Marines and their equipment. Aubrey had been prepared to discount the idea of reinforcements because the Russians still had no idea where the Firefox was located. There was less need of defence than of extra equipment. The bales of MO-MAT occupied a great deal of space, as did the tractor tug, and both were crucial.

But now, but now, his thoughts repeated. Where was Gant? Did they have him? He had to know.

He was deeply afraid. He had to talk to Vitsula, he had to have a report of Gant's arrival at the border, his crossing-if he arrived, if he crossed…

He had to. He needed news of Gant much as he might have needed a tranquilliser. Had to have news, had to — at once…

'Yes, Peter — I understand. I must talk to Helsinki. Message ends.'

He turned away from the console, rubbing his cheeks vigorously with his hands. He realised his palms were damp with nervous perspiration. Curtin had moved on to the subject of air transportable fuel cells and the number required. At Bardufoss, with the Royal Norwegian Air Force's Tactical Supply Squadron, things we're still happening. Everything was happening. The Hercules was already being loaded. Met. reports indicated that the dawn window in the appalling weather would occur, and the Slrop could take place on schedule. Hydraulic and lubricating oils now, and oxygen cylinders…

Madness, Aubrey could not help pronouncing to himself. He had taken leave of his senses. To have ever conceived of such a scheme — !

The radio operator had signalled Helsinki. Director-General Vitsula of Finnish Intelligence might already be seated before a console, awaiting his message. He must talk to him -

Aubrey knew there was nothing Vitsula could do. The Finns could not, would not cross the border. Gant was on his own until he crossed into Finland.

If he was still alive -

He must talk to Helsinki, must pretend, for his own sake, that there was something that could be done, that there were reassurances that might yet be gained. Mere talk. Filling the accusing silence.

The nose of the Firefox lowered, seemed to droop like the beak of some huge, black, drinking bird, as it moved over the crown of the slope onto the level stretch of the MO-MAT. Buckholz, who had been waiting for a sign of eventual success, felt relief begin to invade his chilled body. The winches creaked. He sensed the huge weight of the aircraft as he watched the nosewheel inching forward along the portable runway, dragging the long, streaming fuselage behind it. The nylon lines quivered with strain, and he realised that the three anchor trees that held the chain-winches must be under the same strain. They seemed to protest, sounding like the amplified noises of aching muscles.

Yet he felt relieved; close to success, Moresby's head and shoulders above the cockpit sill were another sign; an imitation pilot, making the Firefox appear to be an aircraft once more. Half an hour ago, it had been different. The undercarriage had become threatened by rocks and rubble on the lake bed. Brooke and his divers had had to inflate huge black buoyancy bags beneath the aircraft's wings to lift the undercarriage clear before it suffered structural damage. Then, when the rocks had been left behind, or removed, the divers had had to carefully deflate the bags once more and lower the undercarriage — main wheels first, very slowly and steadily — back to the lake bed. Though everyone had emphasised that it was no more than a hitch, it had affected Buckholz. Once winching had recommenced, he had obsessively watched the nosewheel, measured its progress — waited for it to reach and