"You changed your mind then, skipper — decided to come?" came a voice from the door of the MiL. A grinning, cold-pinched face, blown fair hair above a dark naval jersey. Senior-Lieutenant Andrei Orlov, Ardenyev's second-in-command and leader of Blue section of the special operations unit. Ardenyev summoned a wave he hoped was optimistic, then looked up at the sky, wrinkling his face.
"The pilot's moaning about the weather, skipper," Orlov added. "It's just having to turn out in this muck, I reckon."
Orlov took Ardenyev's arm, and he swung up into the hollow, ribbed interior of the helicopter. The door slammed shut behind him. Someone groaned with the cold. Young faces, five others besides Orlov. Blue section. Ardenyev nodded at them, business-like. Then he clambered through into the helicopter's cabin. The pilot nodded to him. His face was disgruntled.
"Get your clearance — we're on our way," Ardenyev told him, "just as soon as I get aboard your pal's chopper. Take care." Already, the inertia of the mission had affected him, sweeping him along like a current growing stronger each moment. An easy and familiar adrenalin invested his body. His mind was clear now. He clambered back into the passenger compartment. "OK, you lot?" Each man nodded. Most of them grinned, nerves flickering like small electric shocks in their faces and arms. "Good. See you on the Karpaty. Open the door, Andrei."
The door slid back, and Ardenyev dropped lightly to the ground. He crossed the patch of wet, slippery concrete to the next pad, and the door to the second MiL opened with a screech. The senior michman who was his deputy leader in Red section hauled him aboard, wiping sleet from his jacket even as he slammed the door shut behind Ardenyev.
"Thought you weren't coming, sir," he offered. His face was bony and angular beneath the cropped hair. Viktor Teplov.
"Thanks Viktor. Lieutenant Orlov thought just the same." He looked round at the other five men, grinning. One or two older faces. Red section was the senior team in the unit. The faces were as they should be. A couple of good youngsters, too. "Everyone keeping warm?"
"With difficulty, sir," Teplov answered.
"Let's get going, then." He clambered through to the passenger seat beside the pilot. "Very well, Lieutenant, shall we proceed?" he said as he strapped himself into the seat.
"You're going to be very lucky, Captain, to get down on to the Karpaty. The weather out there is worse than this."
"I have implicit faith in your skills, Lieutenant." He gestured towards the windscreen of the helicopter where two huge wiper blades and the de-icing equipment struggled with the sleet. "Shall we go? I take it you're cleared for take-off?"
"We are. We" ve been waiting an hour, fully cleared."
"What's the matter, Lieutenant?"
"I" ve told my superiors — I" ve told anyone who will listen."
"Told them what?"
The wind is force four plus. What if we can't get down, just can't make it?"
"The Kiev, I suppose. Why?"
"Let's hope it's not too bad for the Kiev, then. The range of this chopper means that once we get out there, we haven't enough fuel to get back. You should be in a MiL-8, one of the big boys, all of you. They shouldn't have assigned this—"
"Shouldn't have assigned you, you mean? Two small, light helicopters were requested. The rescue ship contains all our equipment. The Kiev's no good to us. MiL-8s can't land on the Karpaty. Now, we can go?"
"All right. Just wanted you to know."
"I'm grateful."
The pilot lieutenant cleared with the tower. Ardenyev settled himself more comfortably in his narrow seat. The two Isotov turbo-shafts began to whine, and above his head the rotor blades quickened, cutting through the sleet, swirling until they were transformed into a shimmering dish. The lieutenant altered the angle of the rotor blades, the engine pitch changed to a higher note, and the helicopter moved off its chocks. The pilot paused, checking his instruments, the wheels of the MiL were just in contact with the ground. The pilot's knuckle was white on the stick.
"The wind," the pilot observed gloomily.
"Yes."
The MiL lifted, with seeming reluctance, from the patch of concrete. The sleet whirled round them in the downdraught. A fist of wind swung at them, made contact, knocked them sideways. The pilot shuffled his feet on the rudder bar, juggled the stick and they steadied, drifted, steadied again, and rose above the lights of the helicopter base. A white dish beneath them, darkness above.
"See what I mean?" the pilot offered. "We're right on the edge of possible flying conditions." The wind buffeted them. It seemed a physical strain on the pilot to maintain course. It had seemed a struggle to alter the stick and head the MiL out to sea, as if the helicopter was some reluctant, untamed animal.
"Yes, I see," Ardenyev replied thoughtfully. "Is our fellow traveller with us?"
The pilot looked in his mirror, then spoke into his throat-mike. The other pilot's voice was a pinched, unreal sound.
"He's there."
A shudder ran through the fuselage, as if it had received a powerful blow, some direct hit with a weapon.
Hyde opened his eyes. For a moment, Shelley's features were unfamiliar. Then he recognised Aubrey's aide, and attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his ribs, and his back, and he groaned. Hands pushed him back down on the hard bed. He could feel the thin, hard, uncomfortable blanket beneath his fingers, and he wiggled his toes, eyes very tightly shut for a moment until he opened them in relief.
"You're all right," Shelley said. "God knows how, but you're just bruised pretty badly."
His neck and shoulder ached more than his back and ribs. "One of them hit me," he complained.
"We assumed that was the case. It's why you" ve been out so long."
"How long?"
"Almost four hours."
"Christ." He covered his face with his hands, as if the light hurt him or he was ashamed. "Jesus, my head."
"I caught the end of the concert. Mine feels much the same."
"Very funny."
"Who was it — Petrunin?"
Hyde's eyes snapped open. "How did you know?"
"Routine surveillance report on the embassy. Unauthorised trip north by the Resident. It had to be you and the girl."
"I saw him." Hyde saw Shelley motioning towards another part of the narrow, cream-painted room. A door closed. Shelley's face appeared above his own again, and then he was being helped to sit up. Shelley proffered a mug of tea. Hyde sipped the sweet, scalding liquid, hands clasped round the mug as if to warm them. "I almost had her." They were alone in the room now. "I'm all right?"
Shelley nodded. "You're all right — just a bit crook."
"I feel it. The girl panicked. She's like something high on LSD. Seems to think they're coming out of the woodwork for her."
"She's right."
"That bloody rock band. They got in the way."
"Where do you think she is? Do you think they" ve got her?"
"I don't know. She could be anywhere." Hyde concentrated. "I got the impression Petrunin had gone back off the platform — the bloke who clobbered me was being pushed towards the steps — the girl was down the other end of the platform. One of them went after her. He might have made it."
"By the time I got here, they'd all disappeared. No one saw the girl."
"Shit."
"I know."
"What does Aubrey want us to do?"
"He's otherwise occupied. He's taken control of the submarine business. He seems to think it's in a hell of a mess."