Gant said gently: 'The — anti-radar…?'
'Ah.' Baranovich shook his head. 'About that, I know nothing. It is the most secret aspect of the whole project — a Jew with a long record of dissidence would not be allowed to become familiar with it.' Gant nodded.
'I have to know,' he said, 'whether the Russians can switch it off by remote control when I'm airborne — or if I could switch it off by accident?'
Baranovich looked thoughtful for a moment, puffing stolidly at his pipe. Once again, Gant was forcibly reminded of a university seminar, rather than a vital intelligence briefing.
'No,' the Russian said, shaking his head, then rubbing his nose with thumb and forefinger. 'As far as I have heard from rumours — and those rumours have been few and uncertain — I understand that the anti-radar capacity is not mechanical at all.'
'What in the hell…?'
'As far as I understand it, that is so,' Baranovich repeated levelly. 'It is something — perhaps a skin, even a paint, of some kind, like the low-friction finish developed for certain American airline projects?' Gant's eyes widened. 'Mm. Even we know of it — American security is not as good as the Pentagon would like to think…However, as I was saying, it would appear that the anti-radar stems from some such system, so that the radar-beam flows over the surface of the aircraft, and passes on, nothing having registered on the screens. I do know that the system can be neutralised for safety requirements, such as landing at your own airfield in the worst weather, by the pilot, but I can't tell you how it is done.' His face darkened. 'You won't be able to use it, Mr. Gant. I only repeat what I have heard. And we both know it works. That part of the project has been developed elsewhere, not in Bilyarsk.'
There was a silence, then Gant said, 'How long can you give me inside the cockpit?'
'No time at all, I think. The security is tighter than ever. You know that the First Secretary is flying down here tomorrow to witness this triumph of Soviet technology? Accompanied by Andropov, the Chairman of the KGB, and other Party notables, of course. Well, because of that — or, even, because of us, Semelovsky, Kreshin and myself — the security is massive, more than ever before.' He paused and puffed at his pipe in silence. Then he added: 'A special detachment of GRU troopers was flown in yesterday. They will be under the command of the KGB, of course, but there are more than one hundred of them, in addition to the considerable garrison already here.' He spread his hands in front of him. 'Which is why we have been forced to the extremity we have in order to get you into the hangar area…' Baranovich's eyes twinkled, and he smiled. 'You will need to have your hair cut even shorter, of course, so that the helmet and sensors can work efficiently, and your photograph taken for a very special set of papers — but nothing more will need to be done to you.'
Gant shrugged. There was no resistance whatever to the idea of disguise, of assumed identity. His indifference to his own identity, a quality that Buckholz had understood from the first, made him successful as a chameleon. Most agents attempt, subconsciously, to retain something of themselves — an item of clothing, a mannerism, an inflection — as if they were swimmers, fearing to leave their personalities heaped like clothes until they should come back, fearing they might not be there when they returned. Gant had no such qualms, conscious or subconscious. Orton, Grant, Glazunov — and the man he was shortly to portray, whoever he was — they were shadows, as he was.
'What about my route — what's the lay-out of the hangar area?' he said bluntly.
Baranovich watched the American's face for a moment with keen eyes, then nodded as if satisfied, and stood up, gesturing Gant to where a large-scale drawing hung like the edge of a white tablecloth from the small dining-table. Kreshin had left it there after Gant had finished eating.
Baranovich fussily straightened and smoothed the pencil-drawn map of the huge compound, and began to point out its features to Gant.
'We are here,' he said, 'almost in the centre of the living-area — and all technical and scientific staff enter the hangar and factory complex through this gate…' His finger traced a route along the streets until it stopped at a line marked in red, further marked by red crosses at intervals. 'Yes,' Baranovich continued, 'there is another fence, electric, and guarded by these watch-towers…' his finger tapped at the red crosses, 'inside the perimeter fence, which keeps us and the project divided from the village. There is only one other gate in this fence — over here, on the other side of the airstrip.' Again his finger tapped at the stiff paper. 'That is used only by security personnel — it is the one you will use.'
'How for God's sake?'
Baranovich smiled.
'With bravado, naturally — and a little help from myself and the others. Don't worry about it.' The Russian returned to his pipe, sucked at it energetically, and spilled a thick cloud of smoke from his lips. Gant wrinkled his nose, as if in disapproval. 'Do you smoke?' Baranovich asked.
'No. Not any more.'
Nodding, Baranovich reached into a pocket of his worn, leather-elbowed jacket, and pulled out a packet of American cigarettes.
'Learn again — now,' he said simply.
'Uh?'
'Learn to smoke in the next hour, before you rest.'
Gant pulled a face. 'They're not Russian,' he said.
'A status-symbol? Foreign cigarettes, in the mouth of the person you will be, will prove as convincing as anything else — even your papers.' Baranovich smiled, then returned his attention to the map. Gant picked up the pack of cigarettes from the map, and slipped it into the breast-pocket of his overalls. 'From this gate, you will make your way to this area here, on the far side of the runway.' The long finger tapped. Gant watched, as if fascinated, the mottled, thick-veined hand as it lay on the white background of the map. 'This building is the main hangar, where both prototypes are stored. We will be working here through the night, preparing the airplane that is to take part in the trials. Attached to the hangar are the security offices, right on the spot, and also the pilots' rooms. You see that?' Gant nodded. 'Good. You have to go upstairs, and along this corridor…' Baranovich's finger was now tracing the direction on a second-storey plan of the buildings attached to the huge main hangar. 'The other buildings — they are merely the laboratories, wind-tunnels, test-houses, and the like. Waste no time with them. Get yourself to the pilots' dressing-room as soon as you can. Red Air Force Lieutenant-Colonel Yuri Voskov will arrive some hours before the flight. You must be ready for him.'
'What about visitors?' Gant asked. 'I could be there for three, four hours.'
Baranovich explained patiently, as if to a child: 'Conceal the body — there are a number of lockers, metal ones, all with good locks.' He smiled. 'The pilots complained of a great deal of pilfering of the Western luxury items supplied them for being well-behaved and well-adjusted… the locks are good. As for yourself, since you do not appear to be very much like Voskov, except in general build — you will be taking a shower.'
'For three hours?'
'You will appear to be taking a shower. Once it nears the time for our little — diversion to occur, you will dress and the visor of the helmet will conceal your features. We on the weapons-guidance system request the pilots to wear the helmets until removed in the laboratory. It will not seem strange that you are wearing it even an hour or more before the flight.'
Gant nodded. 'What about this diversion?'
'You need not worry. I have a very small radio device which will tell you when to come down from your room to the hangar area. What you will see there will enable you to enter the cockpit and roll the aircraft out of the hangar, without anyone being in the least suspicious.'