guardrail of the catwalk. He was blind to the scene below, as if undergoing some strange fit or blackout. Nikitin and the others would raise their hands in horror and back away— disown the army and the laser weapon and the research and development program and continue with their emasculation of Russia's defenses. They would not stop until they had butchered the army, just as the pig Stalin had done — for other reasons — in the thirties. Hie motive did not matter; the country would be weak, ineffectual, unable to defend itself. The open hand of our society. baubles, television sets, cars, packaged food, was what Nikitin offered them, and, and they seemed to want it.
Rodin shook his head. His vision cleared. The weapon was directly beneath him, loaded and locked into the shuttle craft's cargo bay. In minutes, the cargo doors would be closed, the signal would be given, and the shuttle would begin its journey on the transporter. It should take thirteen hours for the transporter to reach the launch gantry, twelve at best, and another three hours to hoist it atop the booster stages. He had ordered the whole operation to be completed in seven hours maximum. Beyond that, fueling would take another two hours, and final checks a further half hour. Then— launch. Nine and a half hours. Impossible, they claimed. Do it, he had insisted.
Power, emanating from the scene below, the renewed urgency he saw and sensed, the speed of movement, the first noises of the closing of the cargo doors of the gleaming shuttle. Power—
The logic of what he intended was inescapable, yet it seemed elusive. It was his responsibility. He had to demonstrate the weapons capabilities, like a crude sideshow trick to capture to attention of peasants. Otherwise, the Politburo would retreat, renounce—
He nodded his head. The transporter s locomotives roared and howled below. Still-life for a long moment, everyone watching. Then, with a tremor like anticipatory nerves, the shuttle moved inches, then a foot, then more… A cheer, echoing in the vast spaces. He looked up rather than down, at the splinters of wood and the crazed metal that hung from the shadows of the roof. The American had broken in like a vandal, stealing evidence. The glimpse of the broken skylight, the vague future it sketched, confirmed his decision. Serov had to recapture them. Meanwhile, he would put the weapon into orbit — then think, consider the consequences of his decision. The shuttle was moving slowly, inexorably now toward the gaping main doors. He smelled diesel, ozone, metal, heard the cry of mechanical effort.
If the American lived, if Priabin proved—? Russia would be vilified, the situation thrown back in their faces — and the army,
Bleakly, he qualified his optimism. Even if they didn't understand, he was not prepared to leave his country and his service defenseless, as the Americans seemed ready to do. He could find a calming sense of purpose in that.
'I want to know which way out they plan to take — now!'
Drugs — no. Beatings — no. Electrodes — no. Sensory deprivation — too long, and no. He wanted to employ the instruments of his craft. With Priabin, he had underestimated, miscalculated. Not taken the man seriously because he looked little more than a boy and had messed up badly in the past. Here, with Kedrov, it was different. He wanted to use the skills…
But it was a matter of power, the power of his presence, his will. Like recovering a lost faculty. He knew that this was part of a program of recuperation, like a special diet for an invalid, and however much Serov wished to ignore insight, he could not avoid that debilitating image of himself. Priabin had held a knife at his throat and he could all but feel its vile trickle now as his throat constricted with remembered fear and present hate. His broken arm throbbed, but he could easily have clenched his fist and beaten it time and again into Kedrov's face, lying there on the pillows and looking helplessly up at him. He had to gut Kedrov by will and presence alone, without the other aids.
Kedrov's eyes blinked a number of times. Serov could see his soft, exposed throat swallowing, again and again. Antiseptic and the other disliked hospital smells filled the small, narrow room in which Kedrov had been restored to something like his former self; drained of the drugs, his mind put back together.
Eventually, Kedrov said in a hoarse whisper, his throat evidently sore from tubes: 'I don't know. I don't know anything.' He shook his head slowly from side to side like an uneasy sleeper to emphasize his denial.
'You must know,' Serov snapped, then controlling his voice. 'The American was coming for you. You must know the route.'
'I — don't.' Kedrov sighed. Fear trembled on the point of overcoming lassitude, but failed. His eyes appeared weary arid damp, his skin almost translucent.
Serov felt an itch of anxiety that he had to prevent from becoming a shudder. The truck that had crashed through the roadblock had been a false alarm — drunks. They'd crashed into a ditch; he'd see they got years for what they'd done. Afghanistan was too good for them. His hand clenched behind his back, his nails biting into his palm. When he heard they were drunks, he had felt deeply unnerved, almost too weak to stand upright. He hadn't yet reported to Rodin — Kedrov and the idea that he knew the answer had come like a desperate last gleam of daylight. And the man didn't know!
Must know…
'You must,' he murmured in a voice he would normally have disclaimed as his own. 'You know, Kedrov, you know.'
Again, Kedrov shook his head slowly, sleepily, like a child not wanting to hear any more of a story, wishing to sleep. Christ, had he had himself driven like a madman from mission control just for this? It was ten minutes since they'd found the drunks, since the gunship
Priabin and the American had made a fool of him. He knew the story of his humiliation had become common gossip, common property in GRU headquarters. People sniggered behind his back; out of earshot. Serov wanted to beat—
'I don't,' Kedrov confirmed.
'Who was your American contact? How did he get in and out?'
'Train… car? I don't know. He brought the transmitter to Orlov's, then we never saw him again.' Kedrov was willing to talk freely now, without drugs or fists. It confirmed that he was telling the truth when he claimed to know nothing. Of course he knew nothing.
'What about the others?' Serov cried. 'How were you recruited in the first place? Not by the old man, surely?' He felt the edge of the bed press against his thighs. He stared down into Kedrov's open, amiably uninvolved features. The man might have been smoking hashish, or lying back smugly after coitus.
'No. Years ago I was recruited in Moscow when I visited my sister. I wanted money — oh, a lot of money, I offered' — he smiled, then continued—'I offered my wares, the Americans wanted to buy the laser weapon was a real bonus.' As soon as he paused, his eyes began to leak tears, which ran into his ears, then wet the pillow at either side of his head. He appeared to pay no attention to them and continued to murmur his story. 'It was my way out, to America. I would have money, a flat overlooking Central Park, a new identity, Women, good clothes, anything I wanted.' There was no emphasis, no timbre in his voice. 'I would have had everything I ever dreamed about.' His eyes were still leaking, and he seemed to be faring at something through his tears. 'I didn't know who was coming, how they would come, which way we would leave. I only knew they had to come for the photographs and everything I could tell them… I think it was all a last-minute thing, too hurried to work Properly.' His tears neither increased nor diminished, his voice simply stopped. He did not look at Serov.
Serov looked down at Kedrov's features, then turned quickly away. Their blankness, their introspective tears, their unawareness of him, their pale resignation, all defeated him. For Kedrov, he hardly existed.
He slammed the door of the small room behind him. The GRU guard snapped to attention, his rifle vertical, barrel in front of his face. Serov hardly looked at him as he growled:
'There's some rubbish that needs clearing out of that room. See that its done tomorrow morning — dispose of it.'
