hands, his shoulders locked above his hurting back and buttocks.
'Come on — get on with it, Captain!' Moresby was yelling again.
'Come on, come on, come on…'
'Make sure that the bloody fire's out! Look after — who is it, Henderson? — and get the poor sod out from under that bastard tree!' Waterford's orders bellowed over the R/T.
He heard the two remaining winches yield the nylon lines inch by inch, as the anchor trees bent. The tyre that filled his gaze seemed to lift further, almost mounting the logs. Then a rapid noise in the distance, at the edge of the clearing -
'Oh, Jesus-!' he wailed. Rapid clicks, quiet pistol-shots. He was about to warn the men with him to get out of the way, to save themselves, when he realised it was the chain-winch winding the line through to take up the slack as rapidly as possible. Three lines now, almost three, three in a moment or two -
'Come on, come on, come on…'
'Fuck this for-'
'Come on!' Moresby yelled. 'Have you finished anchoring the other trees?'
Then he saw the line on the port leg snap straight, take up the strain, quiver and remain still. He heard the single winch click and click again and again. The nose of the Firefox steadied, as if the animal it had become sensed a superiority of strength in its captors. He exhaled in a great sigh.
'Is that tree holding?' Moresby shouted.
'For the moment, sir,' the engineer captain replied.
'Anchor it to three secondary trees, then.'
'Sir.'
Someone near Buckholz grunted a cheer. In front of him, the tyre had slid back behind the little barricade of logs. It just rested against them now. He raised his eyes. The port and nosewheel lines were shivering into still tension. The trees — did they still quiver and lean or was it the cold sweat in his eyes, the effort he was making, that gave them the appearance of movement? He lowered his gaze to the starboard wheel. The tyre had moved away from the logs.
The cacophony of orders and responses had become muted. Calm. He waited. His body was numb; even the tremor had gone from his muscles. He felt locked into this posture, into this effort. The captain ordered the new winch to begin once more, slowly. The Firefox protested. Its nose swung slowly round, almost balefully, the wheel protesting on the waffle-like surface of the portable runway. He saw the tension in the line from the starboard leg ease. The marker flag stopped dancing and became a rag flicked by the wind. Buckholz waited.
The port winch stopped. He could not feel his hands around the wooden lever, could hardly feel the next man's body against his.
Then he heard Moresby say, 'One, Two and Three — haul away!' He groaned. Moresby added: 'OK, you lot down there — relax. And thanks. Thanks everyone…' Buckholz tried to unclasp his hands. The starboard wheel moved a few more inches from the heap of logs. They rolled after it from the pressure of the lever. Moresby continued talking, requesting a full damage report. Buckholz's back cried out in protest as he straightened up. His legs felt weak. He staggered a few steps, then bent painfully to chafe them back to usefulness. He groaned softly with every breath.
Then, when he could walk, when his feet began to hurt with reawakened blood, he hobbled as swiftly as he could towards the scene of the fire. A canvas sheet covered something. He glanced back into the clearing. There was something else, uncovered by the tree, being lifted and moved out of the aircraft's resumed path.
Two dead, then -
He looked into Waterford's face. It was blackened by smoke, but the man seemed uninjured, unlike the two SBS men beyond him, whose hands and faces were being salved and bandaged. Hot scraps of camouflage netting dropped like windborne flakes of ash from the trees above them. The ground was slushy, slippery with melted snow and foam. Waterford stared at him.
'Two dead?' he said.
Waterford nodded. 'Two — and two injured… not badly burned.' The man's face seemed to become chalky and vulnerable as he added: 'Thank God.' Then at once he was again his usual persona. 'You can help me,' he ordered Buckholz. 'Make a full damage report. Well, come on — '
Waterford strode off. Buckholz, before following him, watched the taut lines, the inching forward along the MO-MAT of the three undercarriage wheels, all of them now on the level. Moresby was once more seated in the cockpit. Buckholz, on the point of sighing with relief and delayed shock, held his breath. The auto-destruct. They were in as much danger of losing the airframe as ever. Perhaps more. Moresby had been distracted. Time had passed — how much? Minutes… perhaps seven minutes. Seven.
His body was trembling from head to foot. He hurried after Waterford on weak legs, as if hurrying away from the aircraft and the danger it now represented.
The whole clearing smelt of burning.
Priabin began to realise he was cold. He seemed to be floating. At least, part of him was floating. A much smaller part, right at the back of his head, was aware that something was wrong. But, there were no answers, only images; dreams, nightmares, visions, pictures, memories. In most of them, he was apologising to Anna.
He apologised for his work, for his colleagues, for his uniform, for his rank, and for things he knew he had never done; actions never taken, crimes not committed.
He sensed she accused him, though she did not appear in most of the pictures or memories or dreams. Not even her voice. But somehow he knew that she was accusing him, and he understood the nature of the charges. No, he had not beaten up those demonstrators in Red Square, no, he had not had those people shot for black- marketeering, no, he had not had those Jews interrogated and beaten and the one who died had had a weak heart. No, he had not refused that writer a travel visa and passport; no, he had not prevented people from leaving the Soviet Union; no, he had not ensnared those businessmen by using women to sleep with them; no, he had not operated the cameras that filmed them…
Some night-bird moved in the bush… above his head, throwing down a weight of snow ontahis face. He opened his eyes. The snow was in his nose and mouth. He was aware of his entire body, and of its lowered temperature. His fingertips and toes were numb, his arms and legs cold, his torso chilled. He struggled to sit up, and looked around him.
The car had disappeared. He knew no more, for the moment, except that he had expected it to be there. It was a car he had approached, even sat in. His car — ?
His car was further down the road, towards the village…
Anna's car.
Harris's body. Harris? How did he know the man's name? He rubbed his arms with gloved hands, slapped his upper body, then crawled out from the shelter of the bush into the snow that was now falling steadily. The wind appeared to have dropped.
Harris?
Gant-
He remembered. Remembered, too, all the images and visions; the countless apologies to Anna, who had refused to appear in his dreaming, even though she was close at hand. Anna — ?
Gant — Anna.
He knew more; all of it.
He climbed to his feet, and a great weight of ballast appeared to move in his head. He groaned and clutched his temple. The bruise was numb yet tender. He could feel a tiny amount of caked blood, like frost. Anna had gone with Gant. He staggered a few steps. The faint tyre-tracks of the car led out of the lay-by, heading west towards the border.
He knew everything now. Gant and Anna had abandoned him in the lay-by while they made their escape. But the American had made a mistake — he had left Priabin alive. He congratulated himself on Gant's error.
He began to jog, awkwardly at first, his head beginning to pound as soon as he moved. He ran, head down, through the falling snow. Out of the lay-by, onto the deserted main road. He glanced up the road, towards the border. Empty. He bent his head again and began running, chanting over and over in ragged breaths his prayer that Gant had not sabotaged the car he had commandeered from the railway police at Kolpino.
