Now, he knew that the bad weather might last a week. It would worsen for the remainder of that day, and though the following day might begin a little better, it would rapidly close in once more. There might be short breaks, windows in the weather, but they were unpredictable. By the time it finally cleared, the Finns would have cordoned off the entire area and informed the Russians where they could find their precious MiG-31!
Aubrey choked silently on his enraged frustration. He was helpless; bound and gagged. He could do nothing, nothing. Unless the Skyhook arrived before the expiry of the deadline, at midnight the following night, then it would all have been wasted, all have been for nothing.
And he would have failed, and he would have to attempt to live with the increasing sense of guilt he felt concerning the people who had died. Aubrey shook his head. He did not want to have to do that. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and it pained him. He had no defences against it.
All he could see ahead of him were the explosive charges clamped to the airframe, the mutilated cockpit instrument panel and systems consoles — then the bang. Snow, earth, metal — then nothing!
Damn, damn, damn, damn -
Guilt thrust itself once more into his consciousness, a weed growing through concrete. Pavel, Semelovsky, Fenton, Baranovich — especially Baranovich. He had killed them all, only to fail to catch the ball they had thrown.
Damn the weather and the helicopter…
And damn Kenneth Aubrey!
'Mr. Aubrey?' It was the voice of his radio operator. The communications equipment from the Hercules had been transferred to the hut.
Aubrey turned his head to respond, thankful for the interruption. One of the Norwegian army guards passed the window, face held to one side against the blowing sleet and snow. 'What is it?' Aubrey asked.
Curtin was at the top of a pair of step-ladders, leaning against a huge map of the Finnmark, the Kirkenes area, and Finnish Lapland. It was sedatory work, Aubrey thought. Curtin was intently applying red-flagged pins to the map, designating Soviet activity along the border. There were no red flags inside Finland. There had been little movement along the border, and no aerial reconnaissance since the weather had worsened, according to reports from Eastoe in the Nimrod.
'Mr. Shelley from London, sir,' the radio operator replied. Aubrey joined him at the console, lowering his overcoated body onto a flimsy-looking swivel chair. He had retained his coat as a vague protest at inactivity, as if to suggest he might be called away at any moment or be engaged in some furious travel. Aubrey had to feel that his own sojourn at Kirkenes was utterly transitory.
'Hello, Peter — what can I do for you?' he said off-handedly.
After a few moments, when the Receive light had winked out and the tape had re-run, he heard Shelley say: 'Just to report that they're on the train, both of them. One of our scouts saw them go through the barrier, inspection and everything.' He sounded pleased. The rescue of Gant was working like clockwork, and it irritated Aubrey. Shelley would have an easy and notable success with it -
He crushed his anger in the silence. Shelley was waiting for a comment.
'Well done. Peter — is everything else in place?'
'Harris will pick them up at the station outside Leningrad — Kolpino-when they leave the train. He'll have the travel warrants and the visas for them to cross into Finland. Director-General Vitsula has agreed that a team will meet them at the border, just to take the weight off their shoulders when they've got that far. It's looking good on the operations board — fingers crossed, sir.'
Aubrey waited beyond the time when the Transmit light indicated that he could speak once more. Shelley's success made him envious. It had been his idea to rescue Gant and the woman the CIA were prepared to throw away — and now under Shelley's control it looked as though it might work.
And yet, it was the damned aircraft that he really wanted! The Firefox-that was the real prize — the big one, as Charles Buckholz might have described it. The big one…
'Well done, Peters.' he repeated eventually. 'Keep me informed. Harris should do a good job — he's worked for us before. Out.'
He stood up and returned to the window, wrapping his overcoat testily and showily about him. Curtin watched him from the top of his step-ladder, tossed his head and grinned, and went back to his map and his pins. A gap in the sleet again showed Aubrey the lower slopes of the lumpy, barren peaks of Skogeroya and the grey, featureless Varangerfjord beyond them. An awful place -
A mirror of failure.
At least Gant would be saved -
And Aubrey admitted that at that moment Gant seemed a poor prize without the aircraft he had stolen.
Dmitri Priabin continued to stare as the last carriage and the guard's van moved around the curve of the line just beyond the end of the platform. Then the train was masked by an oncoming express. Anna and Gant had disappeared.
His thoughts were in a turmoil. He felt paralysed and weakened to such a degree that it was difficult to remain standing; impossible to move — to turn and walk or run to the nearest telephone, the nearest fellow-officer -
The flight of his imagination horrified him. He had actually thought of telling someone — of reporting it to his superiors — !
His hands were shaking. Nerves in his forearms made them seem chilly, even beneath his greatcoat. He rubbed his arms to stop them quivering. As he did so, he realised his body was bent. He was leaning forward as if he were about to vomit. He straightened up very slowly, his eyelids still pressed tightly together — warding off what he had witnessed or retaining the dampness behind them. The pain of it, the waves of shock, went on like a series of coronaries, each one worse than the one before. He could not escape the image — her face, Gant's disguised but recognisable face, together.
He heard himself breathing very quickly. He sniffed loudly, and wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. He was facing down the length of the platform. And Oleg was coming towards him from the barrier, still wearing the overcoat that smelled of mothballs.
'Damn,' he muttered between gritted teeth.
Suddenly, Oleg was an enemy. A KGB man. A spy-catcher. He must know nothing.
'You all right, Colonel?' the older man asked in a not unkindly tone. 'You look a bit pale?'
Drrütri tried to smile. It was more like the expression of a wince at sharp pain. 'Yes, all right, just indigestion.'
'Oh — Comrade Akhmerovna got off all right, then, did she?' Oleg persisted, smiling; almost winking as he continued: 'Did you catch a glimpse of the bloke she was with, sir?' The grin was broad, jokey, knowing. Priabin stifled a groan. 'Travelling on business, like you said, but with this bloke wearing a hairpiece.' He continued to grin at Priabin, expecting a jocular reply. 'You might have trouble there, sir,' he added. Priabin again provided a slim, pale smile.
'One of her colleagues in the Secretariat, I gather,' he said stiffly, and moved away, He had to find somewhere to think, to decide. It was racing beyond him, he was losing control, falling apart — Oleg was making him want to scream — he felt he would explode if he didn't get away from him.