Serov turned away from the window without hesitation, as if he had seen the movie that window screen had to offer, many times before; the rerunning of a popular success, without suspense because the ending is known.
'Tidy up, Sergeant,' he snapped as he opened the door. 'This set may have to be re-dressed today or tomorrow.'
'Sir.'
Serov closed the door behind him.
Gant looked up from the insistent, unnerving image of his curled, stiff hands. His watch, showing three- twenty, had ceased to evoke further anxieties. It merely recorded the passage of wasted time. He now had almost an hour of first light to negotiate in Soviet airspace. Even at the MiL's maximum speed, that might be as much as two hundred miles of flying before he reached either the Pakistan or Turkish border. The situation had become hopeless; he had slid wearily into acknowledgment of that, his fears deadened by familiarity.
He stared across the harshly lit main cabin. The primitive heating failed to resist the chill of the night outside, which was intensified by the banging of the wind against the fuselage and the creaking of the rotors. Opposite him, trussed into the jump seat, was the cause of his sullen, muddy depression. Adamov. Soon he would have to kill the man — after gaining as much information as the man could supply. Throttle or suffocate him, so that the uniform remained unmarked. Adamov's uniform would-fit, just. His collar size determined the fact that he would have to be murdered.
Helicopters droned distantly to the south and east, but the Hind remained undiscovered. It seemed no longer like something parked near the picnic area, but rather a dumped vehicle, long abandoned and left to rust. And still he could not kill Adamov and leave this place.
The man's eyes seemed to ask, again and again, who are you? He did not seem to be afraid, or to anticipate a violent demise. His eyes were vivid with curiosity and anger. Had they not been, he would have been easier to kill. There was a hollow in Gant's chest and stomach that was watery, queasy with danger and the dread of violence still to be inflicted. The watch measured the slow, reluctant steps he was making toward hurting Adamov. Soon; it would have to be soon.
The incident at the gas station, the flight across the Aral Sea, the waiting here, all seemed to have finally drained him. He seemed to have nothing left. He had lost control of the mission. He could not even bring himself to return to the cockpit, to look for the signal light on the transponder. He knew the light would be dead. Kedrov would not be making the rendezvous.
Then go!
The lethargy was huge and frightening, like a great weight of water above him. He'd let go. Already beaten.
Gant was weary of Adamov's dumb yet too vivid presence and the intermittent drumming of his boot heels on the cabin's metal floor. He stood up awkwardly and quickly, like a drunk getting to his feet. His head whirled emptily. Adamov flinched, even attempted to cower, securely pinioned as he was. Gant ignored the momentary fear. Avoided it, rather. He dragged open the cabin door and leaned hatefully into the freezing wind, which did not even begin to clear his head. He jumped down.
Bitter cold immediately, chilling through him, so that he believed that he must have been warm in the cabin. He, tugged the fleece-lined flying jacket closer around him, with a sudden loathing of the huddled figure he made. The wind seemed to cry from a great distance, thin and fitful though it was. He felt each of the thousand miles to safety, each of the twenty to where Kedrov had not arrived, and the great emptiness around him.
Kedrov slowly faded in his mind, and the reluctance he had felt at hurting Adamov also lessened. Soon he would be able to go through with it, make him talk, use the uniform. He rubbed cold hands hard against numb cheeks, leaning his back against the fuselage. He sighed with deep, tired, empty anger. The sighs became an expression of failure and isolation. He should have turned back when he'd filled the tanks; should never have believed he could make it.
He shivered continually with cold. To warm himself, he began to walk, patrolling the margin of the man- made lake, beginning to think of his own safety. He could abandon the helicopter inside Baikonur, steal a car or truck, make it out that way… he could take the Hind as far as its fuel allowed and then find a vehicle… he could fly to the nearest American consulate or embassy or diplomatic mission and walk in and ask them to get him home — just as soon as he disposed of Adamov, put on his identity and his uniform. And that would be soon now, soon.
The startling calls of ducks, other wildfowl. The dull, fretted lapping of the water, the stiff, dry rattling of sedge and reeds, the thin, searching cry of the wind. He walked on, deliberately oblivious to the passage of time. Occasionally, the drone of distant, hunting helicopters sounded above the wind, but he sensed no threat. He was safe until he chose to move.
A startled goose flung itself into the wind from the reeds at his feet. Gant threw up his hands to protect his face and stumbled backward as if pushed. He almost fell. Involuntarily, he cried out in a stranger's high-pitched voice, a near scream of shock and terror. The wild goose skittered across the ruffled metal of the lake s gleam, then gained height and grace and curved behind the pagoda, carried by wind and fright and wings. He stood, idiotlike, staring open-mouthed at its passage and the widening circles of its flight.
Then he turned and ran, shaken out of every feeling except panic, back toward the Hind. He felt as if his limbs had been untied, his mind cleared. Get out, get out, get out, his thoughts insisted.
He blundered against the helicopter, dragged open the cockpit door, and heaved himself into his seat, newly afraid. No! No light from the transponder. He had been terrified that he would find the light illuminated, Kedrov's summons peremptory and unignorable. The APU was still on, the main panel glowed with other lights. Two minutes warm-up, two minutes to takeoff. Even as he completed the preflight checks and decisions, his eyes continued to stare at the transponder and its unlit signal. Not yet, not yet. He's dead, dammit, forget Kedrov, he isn't there. In two minutes he would be airborne, and he knew where he was going, knew it for certain. Kedrov's contact was from the diplomatic mission in Tashkent. He had easily enough fuel to get him there. He would walk in to the mission and ask for the Company's man — easy. They weren't looking for him, not yet, they wouldn't have the place guarded, blocked off. He had the time.
Engine-start. He switched on Baikonur's Tac channel. Throttles open. The rotors moved with an initial reluctance, then began turning more swiftly. He would not need to kill Adamov — at least not until later. He began to listen to the reports from the patrols, a feverish excitement mounting in him, all thought of Kedrov and the mission banished.
He released the brake. On the tactical screen, the fireflies were more numerous, more concentrated, but nowhere near him, nor between him and the Aral Sea. He would have to loop well to the south before taking up a heading for Tashkent. As long as they had no idea he was there, they would not close the mission in Tashkent against him—
— glanced up through the Plexiglas, searching the night for the bird that had startled him. It must have settled or flown off. Like a talisman, he couldn't risk harming it.
Twenty feet, thirty, forty… fireflies, the search that must have found Kedrov hours before and was now just waiting for him to show fifty feet. Gant swung the Hind around on its axis, pointing it westward. Fifty miles to the Aral Sea.
Then he saw the light on the transponder. And groaned. A steady light — now! Kedrov had switched on. The fireflies of the search were concentrated in the area where he should be.
No, the bastard was dead, no…
The Hind was moving westward, increasing speed, the trees distressed by its passage, the lake shrinking in his mirrors. Seventy miles an hour, eighty, the airspeed indicator hovering around one hundred. He was out, safe.
Over the Tac channel, he could hear cars involved in the search, troop units being moved by helicopter and truck, MiLs congregating — just where Kedrov should be. They were searching the marshes now. Someone had ordered it, it wasn't an accident. Reports and positions flew.
He was five miles from the lake. Then he heard the name Kedrov. The poor bastard was alive, free, and they were looking for him. Six miles away, seven now. He was almost thirty miles from Kedrov and leaving him behind fast.
The Hind slowed. He cursed the light on the transponder and he cursed Kedrov. Raged at the swarming
