People tried to press into the lift on the fifth floor before he could get out. He squeezed through them, not ungrateful for the press of their bodies, their scents and smells. He did not resent or fear them for that brief moment. Then the door closed and he was alone in the corridor. Linoleum, chipped and stained, on the floor, a succession of brown-painted doors, dirty green paintwork on the walls lt was an infinitely depressing place. He checked his direction, then followed the trail of mounting numbers on the doors. Some of them were missing. Radios played pop music loudly behind many of the doors, as if to drown out something else.
Five-four-nine. He raised his fist, and hesitated. He listened. Radio playing, but not loudly. No other human noises. He looked back down the corridor. No one. Swallowing, breathing deeply, he knocked loudly on Boris Glazunov's door.
At the third knock, as if at a general signal or alarm, a number of things happened. The lift doors sighed open, and Gant turned his head. A young man emerged, saw him -
The door opened. Gant turned. A tall man faced him, a grin already spreading over his face as he evidently recognised the caller. Someone spoke from inside the flat, a man with an authoritative tone. The young man near the lift shouted. His voice seemed full of warning.
Gant's hand remembered the Makarov in the coat pocket, and clenched around its butt. The tall man's grin spread. His hand moved from behind his back, slowly and confidently. He was intent upon the widening fear in Gant's eyes. The young man was running towards him down the corridor shouting, his shoes clattering on the linoleum.
Gant half-turned, half-drew his hand from his pocket. Then the young man, ten yards away, skidded to a stop and yelled his name. A plea rather than a challange. The tall man had stepped forward through the doorway, his hand now holding a pistol, bringing it up to level on Gant's stomach. Gant squeezed the trigger of the Makarov, firing through the material of the coat pocket. The noise was deafening, ringing down the corridor, pursued by the explosion of the tall man's gun which discharged into the ceiling. Plaster-dust fell on Gant's hair and shoulders.
'Quickly! Gant — quickly!' the young man shouted, grabbing his sleeve. Gant thought the face familiar, distorted by urgency as it was. A second KGB man was emerging from the room at the end of the apartment's hall. Gant fired twice, wildly. The man ducked out of sight. Gant heard a window slide protestingly up, felt chilly air on his face. 'Come!'
Gant crossed to the window and the iron fire-escape. The young man climbed out and began to descend. There was frozen snow and ice on the rail and the steps. The young man danced carefully down them as quickly as he could. Gant watched the door of apartment 549 as he climbed over the window sill and felt for the first step. Then he was outside, shaking with cold and reaction.
Familiar — the face behind the two or three days' stubble of dark beard — familiar…
He clattered down the first flight, then the second, slipping once, pursuing Vassily -
Vassily — !
He had helped Pavel throw Fenton's body into the river. He had disappeared after the metro journey, near the warehouse. Vassily. Gant looked back up the twisting fire-escape. A face had appeared at the window, a walkie-talkie clamped to its cheek. He saw a pistol, too, and then looked down once more, aware of the treacherous nature of the ice-covered steps.
Relief, the excitement of danger being met and overcome, filled Gant. Vassily bobbed ahead of him, half-a-flight further down. He chased him.
First floor — ground floor. Rear of the building. Lock-up garages, dustbins, football goal painted on a brick wall. He bumped into Vassily, almost breathless.
'Vassily-!'
Vassily grinned.'Come. Quickly…'
They ran across the courtyard. Then Vassily jumped at a garage door, clinging to the low roof, kicking his legs, easing himself up and onto the felted roof. Gant followed. He could hear whistles and shouts now, but no noise of vehicles other than the muted roar of traffic on the Mira Prospekt. Vassily crouched as he ran across the roof, then he jumped out of sight. Again, Gant followed.
He dropped into a snowy patch of garden. A dog barked. Vassily was already climbing a fence when Gant caught up with him. Gant heaved himself over the fence and dropped into an icy alley way.
Vassily ran to the corner of what appeared to be a narrow, quiet street. When Gant reached him, he said, 'I hope she is here…'
There were a few parked cars. Vassily seemed to be searching for one in particular, reciting numberplates half under his breath. Gant's chest hurt with the effort of drawing in the icy air.
'She — ?' he began.
'Yes-there!'
They ran across the street. She? Who? Vassily bent to peer at the driver of the car, then nodded. He pushed Gant into the back seat and climbed in after him.
'Get down, both of you!' the driver snapped as she eased the car away from the pavement, then turned left. Gant's face was against Vassily's arm. He could taste the worn leather of his jacket.
'They were — waiting,' Gant said as the car turned right, travelling at no more than thirty miles an hour once it had done so.
Vassily's face, close to his own, frowned. He nodded his head vigorously. 'Yes. I was not sure. I was watching you. The moment you entered the building, a car pulled up in front. It was KGB, but they did not get out. I knew then that they were waiting for you.' A police car passed them, siren flashing, heading in the direction of the Mira Prospekt. 'I was almost too late!'
'How long have you been following me?'
'Most of the night.'
'Why didn't you make contact?'
'He was ordered not to!' the driver snapped. 'He always obeys orders — we all do!' Gant felt the force of the driver's resentment.
'Are we being followed, Comrade?' Vassily asked very formally, surprising Gant. His face was serious, perhaps in awe of the driver.
'No.'
Gant felt the car turn sharply left. After a silence, he raised his head, and was shocked to see the cosmonaut's monument, the rocket atop its narrowing trail of golden fire, drifting past-the car windows. He clenched his hands together to stop them from shaking. They were near the Unit, heading for it — !
'What is it?'
'Where are we going?' he snapped in a high, fearful voice. They were leaving the monument behind them now.
'We have a place…'Vassily assured him.
'A change of clothes for you,' the driver said. 'A change of appearance. Papers. Everything is to be provided for you.' The resentment was deep, angry. The woman disliked, even hated him. Who in hell was she?
'OK-what then?'
'I must get you out of Moscow.'
'And Vassily?'
'Vassily is not trusted — not as much as is necessary.' Vassily shrugged at her words. He grinned, almost pathetically. 'They do not consider he is capable of the task.'
'And you are?'
The car had stopped at traffic lights. Gant could see them through the windscreen. The car was almost new, the fawn-coloured fabric of the seats very clean. It was a large saloon. Gant was suspicious. Then the blonde woman turned her head, so that she was in profile as she answered him.
'I have certain qualifications,' she announced. 'The greatest of which is my capacity to be blackmailed into helping you. I have been told that Vassily is someone who keeps changing addresses, who deals in black-market goods as well as espionage work. He is useful, but not their person! I am.'
She turned her head as the lights changed. The car drew away, accelerating. They passed the Ostankino television tower, a steel needle against the heavy sky. Gant stared at Vassily, disconcerted, troubled by the woman's resentment. Almost afraid of help now that it had come.