As if he read the American's thoughts, Pyott smiled and said, 'You're flattering me with your undivided attention, Kenneth… nevertheless, there are things to be done.' Pyott's eyes roamed the Ops. Room. His curled forefinger now rubbed at his small auburn-grey moustache. Scampton was, to all intents and purposes, at their disposal. But, what to do with its resources? Where to begin? 'I agree that Eastoe might make a single overflight. I wonder, however, whether photographs will give us enough information? It's getting pretty dark up there by now.' Aubrey's face, Pyott noticed, wore an intense, abstracted air, like that of a child furiously engaged in building a sandcastle in utter ignorance of the behaviour of tides. Aubrey was preparing himself to bully, to plead — to ignore the diplomatic in favour of the covert. And yet, his priorities might be the only really important ones in this case…
'We need someone to take a really close look,' Aubrey remarked quietly.
'Mm. Director Buckholz — Charles — what is your honest feeling? What do we have up there, at this moment?'
'I side with your Squadron Leader Eastoe, Colonel. Gant was picked up visually, pursued, and shot down. We've got wreckage up there, is my best guess.' Pyott turned to Curtin who merely nodded in support.
'I'm not disinclined to agree with you…' Aubrey made an impatient noise, but remained silent. Pyott continued: 'You all know the delicate political situation. Finland agreed — largely because of personal links between Kenneth and the DG of Finnish Intelligence — to this covert overflight by the MiG-31, if its capture was successful. Perhaps they know, or suspect, what has happened. I would expect them to take a very negative line… unless you, Charles, can convince your government, as I must convince mine, that pressure should be brought to bear?' Pyott shrugged. 'I am suggesting that we hold our fire until we are ordered to proceed by our respective governments. In other words, you and I, Charles, must be very convincing. Now, are we prepared to say, hands on hearts, that the Firefox might still be intact and the pilot alive?' He paused, looked at each of them intently. Almost willing them to answer, Aubrey felt. Then he added: 'Well? Time to consider, gentlemen?'
'Not for me,' Aubrey declared firmly. 'It may very well be true. I, for one, must know for certain.' Aubrey glared at Charles Buckholz. 'Charles?'
'I don't know — look, you could be right. I hope to God you are. But — it just doesn't look that way to us.'
'Will you say that it does — just for the moment?'
'I don't know
'We can't just write the whole thing off, Charles — !' Aubrey cried, standing up. His chair collapsed behind him, making a disproportionate noise in the Ops. Room. 'There has been too much expenditure of planning, time, and lives involved. You must want to be certain, surely? The Russians will want to be, and we may already be behind them in a race we didn't even know we'd entered!'
Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I — ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.
'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know — and they may know it already — they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.
Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.
'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.
Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz — we have to follow this thing through.'
Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'
Pyott nodded. 'We will.'
'We must get our political masters to order us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.
'OK.'
'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'
Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene — let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'
The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.
'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.
Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal conjunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.
'There!' he said with intense triumph.
'You're convinced it's in one piece?'
'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles — besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it — from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone under the ice, so to speak.'
Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours — Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'
'Can we-?'
Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance — a direct order to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'
Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching RAF officer. He had come quickly down the metal steps from the glass-fronted gallery which contained the communications equipment. All that could be seen from the floor of the Ops. Room was a row of bent heads. The Pilot Officer hurried towards them.
'Mr. Aubrey — Colonel Pyott, I think you'd better come quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe wants to speak to Mr. Aibrey urgently.'
'What is it?'
'I don't know, sir — the Squadron Leader just said it was very urgent and to get you to the mike at once.'
Pyott strode after the RAF officer as soon as the young man turned away. Aubrey scuttled after them both, his eye glancing across a litter of paper cups, bent backs in blue uniform shirts, scribbled blackboards and weather charts, before he concentrated his gaze on the metal steps as he clattered up them behind Pyott. Eastoe was waiting for him behind the glass, pausing on tape for a scrambled spit of sound that would be Aubrey's speeded-up reply.