He glanced at his watch. One-fifteen. Time was racing ahead of him. Kedrov in the marshes, Rodin here, the weight of what he had been told. It seemed impossible to act, to lift that weight. A growing dread seemed to have invaded his frame, making him weak.
The song pained.
'But we need this treaty,' he heard himself saying, sensing that he wished to avoid the song and prolong the talk. Talk meant inaction.
Rodin shrugged. 'They don't. Puts them out of a job, drops them from the top of the First Division, wouldn't you say?'
'You do understand, Priabin?' Rodin asked him after a time. The song had almost reached its conclusion, its final statement of joss. Anna—
'What?'
'All this, man.' Rodin's arm gestured toward the soundless pictures on the television. Then he got up, crossed the room, and switched off the record. He stood, hands on hips, as if in challenge. 'You do understand?' he repeated.
The shuttle floated. Priabin concentrated upon it. It was over South America. Cloud draped the planet like a bridal veil. The image was unbelievably beautiful He could not make himself care what happened to the shuttle, or to its crew, not for a long time. When he finally spoke, he saw that Rodin had sat down once more and was halfway through another cigarette. He did not look at his watch but simply said:
'They can t do it. They can t be allowed to. We can t afford it. He shuddered, felt cold. The nasal, almost whining song was gone, and Anna, too, had faded below the level of consciousness; as if she could safely leave him to his own devices. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the frozen shepherdesses, at the floating shuttle
'I'm not arguing with you.'
'We all need the rest, dammit! The whole of the economy's fucked. People are fed up with having nothing in the shops and no money to spend anyway — it's as simple as that in the end. The army can't be allowed to screw them again.'
'Oh?' Rodin replied archly. 'They can't, can't they?'
'We have to stop it,' Priabin blurted out. His thoughts buffeted him like a wind. Maybe he could send a coded message, but they Wouldn't necessarily believe him — and to whom would he send the Message, the bloody Chairman himself? They'd ask the defense Minister to confirm or deny, always supposing they didn't dismiss it out of hand as the ravings of a lunatic. And then he'd be screwed like Sacha and Viktor. God, what could he do?
He studied Rodin.
Relief surged through him. Rodin was being flown to Moscow today. All he had to do was book a ticket on the same flight. Once *hey were in Moscow, he could begin to do something, talk to people, persuade them, with Rodin as his prize piece of evidence, proof—
'Not me,' Rodin replied, his face dark with suspicion and self-concern; no longer confident.
'You must.'
'And put my head in the gas oven? Piss off, policeman.'
'You have to help me.'
'What? You must be joking.'
'It's your only way out—' He left the sentence evocatively unfinished. His features wore an implacable look.
'Joke over, Priabin.' Rodin got to his feet and flicked off the television with a sharp, punching movement. Then he turned to Priabin. 'Forget it, brother. Forget I ever told you — or you and I will end up where Sacha is now.'
'I can't — not now. It mustn't happen.'
'It will happen. Nothing's more certain. It's early on Wednesday morning; tomorrow isn't such a long time. Go home and go to bed and get up on Friday.' He moved closer, appeared threatening though slight and dressed only in a robe. 'Nothing. Say nothing, Priabin. For your own sake.'
'No. We both know now, and we have to do something about it'
'You're crazy. You want to die? Like Sacha — they killed him like
'You can't.'
'Just watch me.'
'You have to help me.'
'You can't beat them.'
'Listen to me — just listen.' He had grabbed Rodin's slim arms, holding them fiercely. 'You're on your way to Moscow. You just have to do what is already arranged for you. I'll get a seat on the plane — we can both be in Moscow in time to stop this thing.' Rodin was shaking his head, but in a shamed sort of way, eyes cast down at the carpet. 'It's an act of war. And if the Americans ever suspect we had anything to do with the loss of their shuttle, there'll be a holocaust! Do you want that?' Kedrov's told them we have the weapon, he thought. They'll know we destroyed their shuttle.
'You're talking rubbish.'
'No. No, I'm not. It's your only hope of safety, and it's the only thing we can do. Your Papa and his pals are mad. They have to be stopped.' He was shaking Rodin's arms roughly. Then he released them. Rodin began to rub them at once, walking away toward the window. The tape would have to be erased or taken with him to Moscow — yes, taken to Moscow. Just in case.
Mikhail and Anatoly must be told to clean up thoroughly, and keep their heads down.
Katya and Kedrov in the marshes; Dudin was involved now. Kedrov should be kept under wraps until he got back from Moscow. Would he be safe out there? Anyway, he'd have to arrange all that tonight — in what remained of the night. One-thirty. He'd have to hurry. The plane ticket wouldn't be any problem, and he could be incommunicado as far as any callers at his office were concerned. He could do it.
'Well?' he asked Rodin's narrow back.
'No.'
He made as if to move toward the young man, but then remained standing near his armchair.
'You have to,' he said.
'They'll kill me.'
'Not if we win.'
'And the rest of my life — and yours?'
'You'll be protected. For God's sake, we have to do it.'
Would Rodin help him?
Ticket. Get on the flight, even if he won't agree. You can have him arrested in Moscow and taken to the Center. You'll have the tape to open him up with — a prerecorded corkscrew. Get the ticket, get on the plane, get Kedrov stowed safely.
One-thirty, thirty-two. Come on, get moving. Heat and energy seemed to mount in him. He steadied himself against the chair, and felt his strength return. Then he said:
'Think about it. It's your only hope — our only hope.'
'My father will have me killed if I ever do anything to harm him. You realize that, don't you?'
Rodin would not turn to look into the room but continued to stare out into the windy night. Priabin could clearly hear the wind howling at the building's comers, crying down the narrow street.
'He won't be able to harm you — not anymore.'
'So you say.'
Priabin was possessed by impatience; technique was deserting him. If he stayed he would say the wrong things, close the oyster again and alienate Rodin. He had other things to do, arrangements make.
