Winter Hawk

Just to find himself on this road, tailed by the GRU, knowing that the security of Code Green had bottled him up. He would get only as far as Novokazalinsk and no farther. It was like a brick wall with which he was destined to collide.

He thought of the main hangar and the shuttle craft and the laser battle station as pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle on the point of completion, missing only the last few segments of the pattern that was Lightning in all its enormity. He ground his teeth. He could do nothing, nothing.

Fifty-eight. He slowed the car without thinking. Nine-nineteen. Ten miles from the flats now, perhaps forty more to go. Why bother? Forty more.

He hardly thought about Gant. Strangely, the American was reduced to insignificance now. Serov had Gant. Gant was as good as dead. Perhaps he hadn't ever wanted revenge, then? No, he had, just never expected the opportunity — and now, now he had himself to think of.

False horizon, very close. Against the narrowing road, a group of black silhouettes against the pale sky. The cars were carelessly disposed across the road, there were converging lines of red and white cones, even a barrier. One truck, men in yellow overblouses laying the cones out, military cars — four of those — and the coffee stand parked at the side of the highway, a shabby gray caravan with a side window and a ledge. Men near that, too. Men in the road, cones, barrier, truck, cars, overcoats, uniforms, guns…

Brick wall. Collision. His body felt jolted, shocked by something as real as physical impact. Not Novokazalinsk, then. Here. They were waiting just for him, Serov's GRU people.

The fawn car slowed, maintaining its distance behind him. One of the officers ahead was waving his arms to emphasize the paraphernalia and authority of the temporary arrangements on the highway. Priabin knew his journey was over. He stopped the Volga, fifteen hundred miles away from Moscow Center.

12: Solitary Confinement

Kedrov's form, strapped into the chair, seemed tense and resentful, struggling to defy the questions that buzzed and murmured around his head. Veins stood out on his arms and the backs of his hands where they gripped the padded arms of the black chair. Veins on his temples, too. Fierce concentration, the effort of denial, furrowed his brow. He was as taut as an overwound spring and yet utterly helpless. The contradiction amused Serov, satisfied him in a way he did not analyze; never analyzed. Only Kedrov's lips and tongue seemed involuntary agents. The willpower being suggested by his whole frame was absent from his mouth. He could not help himself answering the questions of the interrogation team.

Of course, the pupils of Kedrov's eyes were unnaturally open, considering he was facing the window. His eyes were too bright, with a stare that reminded Serov of utter disbelief—how can this be happening?  — as it always did during such drug-assisted interrogations—why am I talking? I don't want to talk. Such involuntariness, such childlike, babyish inability and weakness was always — what? Satisfying to watch? Yes. He possessed Kedrov and the American, he had robbed them of everything, even will. In Kedrov's case, he controlled the man's mind.

Serov rubbed his chin. It was smooth from a recent shave. The landscape of his thoughts was open, rolling, sunny; he could see a great distance from the promontory of his successes that night. Rodin, Kedrov, the American pilot, whose story he had learned from that clown Adamov, discovered tied up in the Hind's main cabin. The pieces had fallen like lucky cards. Serov was confident, even eager. Priabin, too, would soon come entirely within his orbit. Then it would be finished with.

There was a trace of excitement in him, like a strange liquor moving through his stomach. But it was a sober sensation. When there was time, the American would be gutted, emptied of everything he knew — and he would know a great deal — while Priabin would disappear. Kedrov, of course, would meet the fate of a spy and traitor once he had confessed.

'… long have you been spying for the Americans, Kedrov?'

'What did you tell them?'

'How much do they know?'

'… send your signals?'

'Orlov…?'

Serov watched Kedrov's face attempt control around the mouth that no longer belonged to him. His voice stuttered like a cold engine, then the spy began to helplessly condemn himself, spilling his answers like water from a leaky bucket.

'… bicycle shop… don't understand? American equip-quip-ment…'

One of his people, standing behind the straining Kedrov, shrugged with the ease of the interrogation. Serov nodded slightly, condescending to share the man's amusement. Sunlight fell coldly on the sweating, straining man in the chair, his whole body thrust forward against the restraint of the straps.

'… every, every week — don't, can't — remember…told them, told them — no, told, no! — told them when, when… arrived from Semipal, pal, pala — tin… sk…..' The sweat was soaking his shirt, running on his face as if he had just plunged his head under a pump. … know — know no… nothing, everything…..'

'Tell us what they know, in every detail.'

'Do they know dates, times?'

And so it would go on. Not long now. Serov looked at his watch. Nine-forty. Kedrov was like a tooth where all the enamel and even the soft inner had been drilled through; they were down to the nerve. He'd told them almost everything, it was all on tape.

'Lightning?' he snapped, impatience disturbing him, spoiling his sense of satisfaction. 'Kedrov, what do you know about Lightning? What have you told the KGB about Lightning?'

Kedrov did not even look in his direction, but continued to stare as if he could see nothing ahead of him. But he spoke almost immediately, answering Serov.

'… noth — not asked, nothing, told him — don't know noth— know, know. Heard — in the shithouse… heard, heard, told noth, nothing…..' His voice babbled on, his will a tiny, shrunken ball kicked around between the questioners. He could not help himself.

Priabin knew from Rodin, then, only from Rodin. Another tiny jigsaw puzzle piece that fitted satisfactorily. He rubbed his chin once more, after indicating that he had no further questions. Besides, it was becoming too routine, he was losing interest.

Nine-fifty. He looked up — not really looking at Kedrov anymore or even listening to the questions and answers, but half sunk in a vague reverie — and one of his lieutenants beckoned to him. He mouthed urgency, even as his eyes surveyed the room, and his nose wrinkled at its scents and odors.

Serov indicated that the interrogation should continue, and moved to the door.

'What is it?' he snapped, closing the door on Kedrov's babble.

'Comrade General Rodin — he's here!' For a moment, Serov could not understand the cause of the lieutenant's concern, even surprise. Then he remembered.

'Calm down. You know nothing. If you can't keep your face straight, stay out of his sight. Understand?' Rubbish — he always had rubbish to deal with. This one, part of the team that had removed Rodin, and worried as soon as the little shit's father shows up. For Jesus' sake! 'Where is the general?'

'In your office, sir.'

'Very well — oh, go and get yourself a cup of coffee, man. And stop filling your trousers. It's over and done with. Go on.'

Serov waved him away and turned to the stairs. One flight up, why wait for the elevator? He composed his features to a mask of enthusiasm and success as he climbed the stairs. A window showed him the square, and the Cosmonaut Hotel on its other side. Traffic, normality, sunlight, cobbles, and statuary. When he entered his office, he must appear to greet Rodin with the news of Kedrov's successful interrogation. Rodin's news would — must — be like a douche of cold water thrown over that enthusiasm. Yes.

He mounted the half-flight of steps, leaving the view of the square. A patrolling helicopter had buzzed above it like a fat bee. He paused for a moment outside his office door, then went in. His male secretary nodded toward