'I see,' Moresby replied.
'It doesn't have a runway and we don't have any way of putting it back on the ice,' Buckholz said quickly, aghast at the clear sound of disappointment in his voice. 'Over.'
'Tractor tug and a great deal more MO-MAT,' Moresby snapped. 'Over.'
'Gentlemen,' Aubrey said calmly, all trace of satisfaction carefully excluded from his voice. 'How long before the aircraft is ashore? Over.'
'Two hours at least. Over.'
'Then we have two hours, Squadron-Leader, Charles. I suggest we begin talking in true earnest, don't you? Over.'
Before he replied, Buckholz glanced at the Firefox. And felt Aubrey's stupidity in having no fall-back, and his illogical, desperate brilliance in daring to assume the airplane could fly out of Lapland. And, he admitted, he too wanted her to fly again. She had to fly -
He glanced at Moresby, who shrugged. Then the air force officer nodded, even smiled. A tight little movement of his lips beneath his clipped moustache. 'Very well,' he breathed in the tone of an indulgent parent. 'Very well.'
'OK, Kenneth. Give us a few minutes to round up some people whose opinions we need — then we'll throw it on the porch and see if the cat laps it up!' Buckholz felt a strange, almost boyish exhilaration. In front of him, the wings continued to emerge from the water. The black snout seemed to seek him, the cockpit to stare at him.
Menace.
'Just make sure you don't lose Superpilot at the last fence, uh, Kenneth?'
Vladimirov yawned. It was an exhalation of his tension rather than an expression of weariness. He quickly stifled it. The room was small and cramped, the tape-recorder on the folding table almost its only furniture apart from a number of chairs stacked against one wall. The bare room accommodated himself, Andropov, and the senior interrogator from the KGB Unit on the Mira Prospekt. All three of them leaned their elbows on the table in the attitude of weary gamblers. A sheaf of pages — hurriedly typed and corrected and now overlain with the interrogator's scribble — lay near the recorder. Vladimirov had a pad and a ball-point pen in front of him. He was no longer concerned to disguise the fact that he doodled occasionally. There were few words on his pad, and little meaning. Andropov's pad was clean, unmarked.
Vladimirov had lost his eagerness to hear Gant's sufferings under drugs, his hallucinations and illusions, his terror at dying and his attempts to persuade them that he was not. He had listened to the two interrogations several times in that cramped and almost foetid room, and he loathed something in himself that had actually anticipated the experience. When they had first arrived he had wanted to hear them. Now, he did not.
The tape continued in silence. Gant had hit his head on the floor, silencing himself. Nothing -
Vladimirov had learned nothing from re-hearing Gant screaming for them to listen to him. Even with the volume turned down, it was horrid. He had helped to torture Gant. It was his shame that was being replayed in front of the Chairman of the KGB.
Slowly, he looked up, and shrugged, 'Nothing,' he murmured.
'Mm. Your opinion?' Andropov snapped at the interrogator, who flinched before he replied deferentially.
'Comrade Chairman-' he began. Andropov appeared to be impatient, but could not quite bring himself to wave the deference aside. Instead, he merely pursed his mouth and nodded the man along. 'I–I am not familiar with the kind of information the general is seeking.'
'Was the American about to reveal something or not?'
'You mean-'
'From his condition, from the frenzy in his voice and manner at the end of the tape, was he trying to tell you something?' Andropov had begun to doodle on his pad as he talked. Strong bold curves which vanished beneath heavy geometric shapes.
'Yes, Comrade Chairman.'
'Then, what was it?'
'I-that I cannot say.' The senior interrogator shrugged, brushed his hand through his hair, stared at his notes, shuffled them, looked up once more. He spread his hands. 'I — he believed in me as an American general, and he believed that the man he could not see was Aubrey, the British — '
'I know who Aubrey is,' Andropov interrupted icily.
'Yes, of course. He — he was attempting to assure us that he was not dying — '
'Because he knew he hadn't burned in the explosion you pretended had occurred on the MiG-31-yes, yes. We all understand that much. Now, what was he going to tell you? Vladimirov, surely there are some clues in what he said, what he couldn't help letting out?' Andropov's pale eyes gleamed behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. Vladimirov felt pressed. The Chairman's perspective was a larger one than his own. He wanted an answer so that he could avoid the First Secretary's censure, because if it was used against him, he might remain no more than a minor figure on the Politburo. However, his desire for an answer was no more urgent than Vladimirov's own. He wanted the MiG-31 more than ever. His insurance would be the recovery of the aircraft.
'Perhaps, but I can't see it. He does not talk — anywhere — about landing the aircraft.'
'And yet he must have landed it?'
'Of course he did!' Vladimirov snapped testily. 'Do you think he jumped out without using his parachute?' Almost immediately, he signalled a silent apology. 'Yes, he landed it,' he said more softly. Then he looked at the interrogator. 'Very well. Rewind the tape to the point — oh, where he first claims he wasn't burned… find that.'
The interrogator looked at his rough transcript and then rewound the tape. He followed the numbers flicking back on the counter, checking it with the column of numerals at the edge of each page. Then he stabbed his finger down on the Stop button. He looked at Andropov, who nodded. The tape began to play.
The mimic playing the part of Aubrey cried out immediately: 'He's not dying!' Vladimirov leaned forward, head cocked, intent upon the charade, trying to hear something through the illusion, through the familiarity of the dialogue; through his recurring shame. The interrogator in his guise as the American general murmured that Gant was, indeed, dying. Vladimirov remembered, and could clearly envisage Gant's hand clawing as if with a life of its own up the uniform worn by the interrogator. He had pulled out the earpiece through which the interrogator was receiving reports from those monitoring the television cameras focused on the bed. Gant had tried to pull the interrogator towards him…
'Not burned, not burned…' he had heard the American repeating. He seemed pressed to tell something, to explain, to correct their mistake. Vladimirov could not prevent the pluck of tension and excitement he felt in his tight chest. Not burned, not burned … What had been happening in his drugged, confused, disorientated head at that moment? What had he wanted to say so desperately?
Andropov's fingers tapped silently on the edge of the table, as if accompanying the words with appropriate music. The interrogator was merely performing a charade of concentration. He did not know what to look for. He had not been a pilot.
'Not burned… drowning… drowning — on fire, but water, water…' Gant continued on the tape, his voice mounting, losing control, trying to convince them that their diagnosis was wrong, that he was not dying of burns. 'Not burned… landed — '
'Stop it!' Vladimirov shouted. The interrogator jumped, then pressed the button. 'Very well — you heard that? He said that he landed-'
'And where does that get us?' Andropov asked with withering sarcasm. 'You already knew that, didn't you?' He smiled thinly. 'Now, where did he land? Which one of your roads or tracks?'