Winter Hawk

seemed pleased with Gant's silence, with the drawn expression on his features. 'Mm— who is he, Priabin?'

'He's — American.'

'Of course. You've established nothing more?'

'I know who my prisoner is, if that's what you mean,' Priabin replied. 'I know all about him.'

Serov turned on him, his eyes dark and angry. He was perhaps two or three inches shorter than Priabin, but broader. His face was set in hard, angular lines and blunt planes. His expression warned. Priabin sensed his own weariness, and a new caution at the back of his mind. Rodin, Lightning—this man knew everything about Lightning and must not so much as suspect that Priabin knew. His thoughts rushed in his head like vertigo. He kept his face expressionless, except for the slightest indication of self- satisfaction, as Serov snapped;

'Then who is he, Priabin — who is he?'

Serov turned away to look at the prisoner, and Priabin said softly: 'His name's Mitchell Gant — formerly Major Gant, United States Air Force. Doesn't the name ring a bell, Serov? Not one small bell?'

Serov turned, stung by the insolence of Priabin's voice, his face sharp with anger, his removed glove raised as if to slap at the speaker. Then shock caused his mouth to open soundlessly. Priabin smiled.

'You know him, then?'

'That one?' He whirled around once more. 'Him? Hes that American?'

'He is, Serov — oh, yes, he is. They sent him for Kedrov, obviously. They need Kedrov before the treaty is signed.'

Serov turned to face Priabin. 'How long have you known about him?' he demanded. His voice accused like his eyes.

'It was' — careful! — 'accidental,' Priabin explained. The heat and tension in the cabin of the houseboat affected him. He sensed Serov's disbelief. 'We were looking for drugs. That's how we stumbled across Kedrov.'

'Just like that? An American spy you just stumbled across? How much do they know?'

'I'm — not sure. Enough, certainly, to send Gant to collect him.'

Serov considered his next words for some moments, then said: 'We must get them back. We must know everything the Americans know. You — you're to be congratulated, Priabin — and you, Lieutenant. Both of you. Yes — congratulated. You've saved — the secrecy. The Americans evidently have nothing, otherwise they wouldn't want this bundle of rubbish in the corner. Yes.' He turned to Gant and his guard. 'Get him outside. Shoot to wound if he doesn't go quietly — quickly, man. You — take this spy with the American. Get moving.'

Priabin studied Gant's face. Complete failure was clearly branded on it. All.anger and fear had died. Priabin attempted to feel satisfaction that Gant, though living, was a prisoner with only a brief and violent future before him. The satisfaction would not come.

Rodin. Valery Rodin. Lightning. That was what he had to do now. He had to accompany Serov, make his report, try to leave as quickly as possible. This complicated matters. Damn Serov's stumbling across Gant now. He had to make that Moscow flight in the morning. His head whirled with anxieties. Serov was dangerous, though distracted for the moment by his two prisoners. The weight, the enormity of Lightning, lurched against Priabin's frame as physically as an assault. He had to be calm, and careful, and get to Rodin as soon as he could.

He followed Serov and Katya out of the cabin, ducking his head as he went through the doors. The wind hurled itself at him. The dogs accompanied the prisoners, growling and yapping. Tail-less

Dobermans. Gant and Kedrov were surrounded by armed GRU troops as they were ushered along the rotting jetty. A Mil-8 transport helicopter stood on the ice fifty yards away. Gant had lost, Kedrov had lost.

He had to win. Had to.

Could not, not now—

Priabin gagged, feeling his throat hot with nausea. He pressed his gloved hand over his mouth, tried to swallow; felt his stomach surge again and again with shock, and growing, virulent fear for himself. The lock picks dangled from his other hand, ignored. He tasted sickness, and saliva, then swallowed and tried to calm his body, his sense of his own danger.

When there had been no answer to the bell, to his knocking, he had anticipated something bad, but not this.

Rodin's skin was cold, white-blue. The empty pill bottle lay betrayingly beside the rumpled bed. Priabin did not believe its statement — it was too obvious. So they knew.

He backed away from the bed, withdrew unsteadily from the bedroom, flicking off the lights and turning in one movement, ready to fly the scene. The living room was gray with the morning's first slow, leaking light. The furniture assumed vague contours, a half life. He went to the window from which he had watched Rodin. Scanned the block of flats, the curtained windows, the stained concrete; a light here and there, most of the flats still in darkness. It was six in the morning. Two hours before the Moscow flight left. He had come to collect Rodin and found him dead.

No bruising, but the throat was slightly raw. He knew what had been done and by whom. Serov, Serov, who had seemed willing to credit the KGB with the capture of Gant and Kedrov, seemed careless to detain him, even ordered him home for a well-earned sleep… a bluff heartiness… false, just an act. Katya he'd kept behind like a schoolgirl while she wrote out her report on Kedrov. Himself he'd allowed—

— to come and witness what had been done. Rodin killed easily, quickly, faked to look like suicide.

He was alone with the secret of Lightning. Gant was insignificant, Anna's memory was not apparent anywhere in the cavern of his thoughts. It was only himself, his life — or death — he admitted slowly. He was his only concern. Serov held him in his hand, he already knew everything.

Then get out. Get that flight to Moscow. Get out — now.

Proof?

They would have to listen.

Five after six. Call the airport, check that the flight isn't delayed, then get out. Trap. The thought loomed. Serov's people could already be outside, already on the stairs. He looked out of the window. No, nothing yet. Call the airport.

He picked up the receiver with a gloved hand. After touching Rodin's cold face, his stiff jaw, his neck where there was no pulse, he had replaced his gloves… then the gagging nausea had risen to his throat, minutes after he had entered the apartment.

He was sweating inside his overcoat. The central heating had come on, the flat was warming up. The curtains in the bedroom were open, people would see Rodin lying there and disapprove. Eventually, someone would report his not having moved for hours or days. Draw the curtains across — no, leave everything just as it was, you were never here.

'The Moscow flight,' he blurted as soon as the woman at the check-in desk identified herself. Aeroflot. 'Is it scheduled to leave at the usual—?'

'No flights will be leaving today.'

'Listen,' he snapped, knowing the circumstance even before it was explained. 'This is Colonel Priabin, KGB. I have a seat reserved on the Moscow flight. What time does it leave?'

'I–I'm sorry, comrade Colonel. All flights have been canceled.'

'What?' He looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. Dawn sliding across the carpet like a slow gray tide lapping near his boots. The room constrained him. Already? Already? It shouldn't happen yet.

'The usual emergency, sir. Just been brought forward twenty-four hours. Routine, comrade Colonel. I'm sorry if you—'

'I have the most urgent meeting in Moscow today!' he bellowed.

Frosty tone, then. 'I'm sorry, comrade Colonel. We have our orders here.'

'Yes, yes. Let me speak to someone in authority, he began to say in his mind, but the order slipped away. It was pointless. 'I understand,' he said. 'Code Green has been initiated a day early. I understand. Thank you.' He put down the receiver thoughtfully, his hand moving in a slower, simpler world than his thoughts.

He had to get out. Code Green, the usual security measures surrounding any launch at Baikonur. The whole of the complex became isolated from the rest of the country; no flights in or out, no trains, no radio or telephone contact. But this was twenty-four hours early- This was Serov.

Effectively, he was already bottled up inside the Baikonur complex, cut off from Moscow. There was no other