'Sorry, sir — of course. But — be careful, sir. The Colonel issued us with instructions to kill — the man's dangerous. Good luck with the flight, sir,' he added ingratiatingly. Gant felt his blood pumping like a migraine in his temples.
He hardly heard the bathroom door close behind the man who had been only a voice, and a shadow against the light. When he realised that the patch of light which had outlined the KGB man was no longer there, he stepped from behind the shower-curtain, and fumbled in the pocket of Voskov's bathrobe. He clutched the gun in both hands, then pressed the cold metal of the barrel against his temple. Then he held his left hand in front of his face. He saw the tremor, faint, but increasing. His face registered the fear, as if he were looking at something outside himself, something inevitable that he could not prevent. He sagged, dripping wet, onto the seat of the lavatory, head hanging, gun held limply between his knees.
Gant was terrified. He knew he was about to have the dream again, that the last minutes had drained him of his last reserves of bravado, self-deception, and nerve. He was a limp rag, an empty vessel into which the dream would pour. He could not stop it now.
He felt his muscles tightening behind his knees, in his calves. He knew he had to get dry, get into Voskov's pressure-suit while he could still move, before the paralysis that inevitably accompanied the images trapped him where he sat. He tried to get up, but his legs were a long, long way from his brain, and were rubbery and weak. He sagged back onto the seat. He punched at his thighs, as if punishing them for a rebellion — he struck himself across the thigh with the barrel of the gun, but he felt little. The hysterical paralysis had returned, taken over…
He was trapped, he knew. He could only hope that the dream, and the fit, would pass in time.
He could smell burning in his nostrils, and the noise of the shower crackled like wood on a fire. He could smell burning flesh…
There was a kind of grotesque, mocking courtesy about the way in which Baranovich, Kreshin, and Semelovsky were served with their coffee and sandwiches at the side of the aircraft itself. While the technicians, including the still-grinning, obsequious, ironical Grosch, left the hangar for the restaurant in the adjoining security building, the three suspected men were ordered to remain by the junior KGB officer in command of hangar security. Guards stood with apparent indifference ten yards from them.
Baranovich, as he sipped the hot, sweet liquid, was grateful that the KGB, as yet, seemed to have little idea of what to do with them. It would seem, he thought, that they had taken the easiest path, making sure that a number of eyes were upon them, at every moment. Baranovich smiled at Kreshin, whose lip trembled as he attempted to imitate the gesture.
Baranovich said: 'I know, Bya, that it looks very much like a firing-squad, with the three of us with our backs to the plane, and the guards with their rifles at the ready.' Kreshin nodded, and swallowed, still trying to smile. 'Don't be afraid,' Baranovich added softly.
'I — can't help it, Pyotr,' Kreshin replied.
Baranovich nodded. 'I gave up being afraid many years ago — but then, it was when the flesh no longer seemed to call so very strongly to me.' He placed his hand on Kreshin's shoulder as the young man stood next to him. He felt Kreshin's frame trembling beneath his strong grip. Kreshin looked up at him, wanting to face the truth, and wanting to be told comfortable lies. Baranovich shook his head sadly. 'You love her very much then?'
'Yes…' Kreshin's eyes were bright with moisture, and his tongue licked at his lower lip.
'I — am sorry for that,' Baranovich murmured. 'That will make it very hard for you.'
Kreshin seemed to come to a decision. Baranovich's hand was still on his shoulder, and the older man could feel the muscular effort the man was making, to control the tremor.
'If — you, you can do this — then, so can I…' he said.
'Good. Drink your coffee now, and warm yourself. That guard over there thinks you are afraid. Don't give him the satisfaction.' Unable to complete the heroic fiction, he added: 'Even if such ideas are nonsense, to an intelligent man…'
'What do we do?' snapped Semelovsky, as if eager to complete the whole process, including his own demise. 'We have little time left. Kreshin and I have slowed the work on the tail-assembly as much as possible — but it is nearly complete.'
Baranovich nodded. 'I understand. Grosch, my bête noir, my devil — he, too, will become suspicious if we do not finish within half-an-hour, or a little more.' He sipped at his coffee, and then took a bite from a hefty ham sandwich that had been brought down to him. 'Of course, you realise that our friends over there are indicating in no uncertain manner that — the game is up?' He looked at Semelovsky.
'Of course — we knew that. The weapons trials would be our deadline.'
'And — you don't mind?'
'Do you?' Semelovsky asked pointedly.
Baranovich looked at the muttering guards for a moment — at each of the four faces turned to him. He wanted to answer in the affirmative, to explain that life becomes harder to throw away, the older one gets, not easier. That it is the young who make glad sacrifices, for good causes or for bad. He wanted to explain that the old are tenacious of life, on any terms. Instead, feeling a heaviness of responsibility, and of guilt, he gave the answer he knew they both needed, and wished to hear.
'No,' he said.
Semelovsky nodded. 'There you are, then,' he said.
Baranovich swallowed the bile of guilt at the back of his throat. He, it was, who had led them here, to this place, and who would lead them, in time, to the cellars, and the questions, and the pain.
Baranovich was ruthless, with others, as with himself. He shrugged the guilt away and decided that he would, at least, grant them a quick death.
'It has to be the fire we talked about — over there. No, don't look about like that… by the second prototype. One of us has to be over there for some reason at the time we decide the operation will start. What do you think — what time shall we decide?'
'Six-thirty is the latest possible!' Semelovsky snapped in his habitual fussy, irritated manner. 'I guessed it would come to that,' he added.
'It is the only sensible place,' Baranovich said. 'Right in the area around the second prototype. As I said, it may damage the second plane, which will be to our American friend's advantage. Certainly, it will mean that this aircraft…' he tapped his hand on the cool metal of the fuselage at his side. 'This one will be ordered out of the hangar. If Gant appears at the right moment and climbs into the pilot's couch, no one will ask to see his papers, or his face.' He studied their reactions, saw the inevitability of death looking out from their eyes.
Semelovsky nodded, his features softening. He said: 'I, for one, have no great relish at the thought of Colonel Kontarsky taking out on my skin the anger and frustration of his ruined career.'
'You understand what I'm saying, Dya — also?' Baranovich asked.
The young man was silent for some moments, then he said: 'Yes, Pyotr Vassilyeivich — I understand.'
'Good. You have your gun?' Kreshin nodded. 'Good. That means that you, Maxim Dyich, will have to start the fire. Besides,' he added, smiling, 'you look the least dangerous.'
'Mm. Very well. At — six-ten, I shall excuse myself, and make for the toilets. If a guard accompanies me, so much the worse for him!' The little, balding man seemed ridiculous as he puffed out his narrow chest, and squared his stooping shoulders. Yet Baranovich knew that Semelovsky was capable of killing, if necessary. In some ways, he was the most desperate of the three of them, the newly-converted zeal never having seemed to cool. He was a crusader.