Priabin laughed. "Tell me about the telephone calls."
"Must have made twenty, sir. Do you want the exact log?"
"Not now. Just your impressions."
Other skaters smoothed onto the ice, bowed, and curtsied. Canadians, threatening the Russian medal places.
"Most of them were members of his little gang, sir. The booze, barbiturate, and buggery boys." Again, Priabin chuckled. "Tried his father a couple of times, but the general's down at the assembly building — they're rolling out the booster this morning."
"I know." He'd watched, from his window. "Go on."
"All his friends hung up. Couldn't wait for him to get off the line. They must have decided he's caught AIDS, mm, sir?"
"Get on with it."
"We've got everything on tape. The bug's working beautifully at the moment. He's been crying and shouting all over the place, pleading and begging. I almost feel sorry for the poor little twink?" He offered the remark tentatively, as if testing the water of his colonel's bigotries.
"Daddy's put him out of circulation, then?"
"He did order some groceries, sir, and a lot of booze. That was before he started calling his friends."
"He's been told to stay in. And not to talk to anyone, no doubt. Now, watch him carefully — I mean carefully. I want him soft, pliable, but not useless. When you think he's ready for a visit, call me and I'll come over straightaway. When he's lonely enough to talk to me."
With their telephoto lenses and high-powered glasses, they were just a few floors above and almost directly opposite. They couldn't miss the signs. Rodin had no need to draw his curtains for hours yet, and before nightfall he should be ready.
"Sir, we won't miss him picking his nose or scratching his bum, if that's what you want."
"Anyone else watching him—?" He broke off as the door opened. Katya Grechkova entered, a sheaf of papers and files held against her breasts. He waved to a seat opposite him. She turned her attention to the skaters, but only momentarily. The second-ranked Soviet pair were on the ice now, gliding into a lift and throw. The girl, in emerald green and white, flew through the air and landed safely. "That you can see, that is?" he finished.
"Don't think so, sir."
"Make as sure as you can. I don't want to be seen going in there, when the time comes. Stay out of sight. I don't want GRU interested — we are not interested in Rodin ourselves. Got it?"
"Invisible men, sir, me and Mikhail." Priabin heard a distant chuckle. Mikhail was at the camera's viewfinder or the surveillance glasses on their tripod
"Keep it that way," Priabin replied dryly, putting down the receiver. He tapped at his teeth with his thumbnail. A moment of irritation on Katya Grechkova's pale, freckled features, as Priabin looked up at her. "What's all that?" he asked.
"Kedrov, sir."
He waved his hand almost dismissively. Grechkova was punctilious in her respect for his rank. It had taken months to persuade her that it was largely unnecessary, entirely unsought. He watched the dog get up, stretch, idle its way as if propelled by the wagging of its tail over to her, who fondled its shaggy hair, stroked and patted it. The dog licked her hand.
Then she looked up, as if caught in some dereliction of duty. Priabin saw the vulnerability that normally remained private. She had an estranged husband in the army — this military district, but at army headquarters in Alma-Ata. Had the husband ever seen that small, vulnerable look? She was in the process of obtaining a divorce. Priabin was certain, and relieved, that she carried no torch for her commanding officer. Though he liked her.
"Anything new?" His tone was detached, but not without interest, though he had come more and more to persuade himself that the solution to his problem lay with Valery Rodin. Who knew everything about Lightning, without doubt — and who helped kill Viktor. If he found Kedrov, the agent-in-place, of course it would do a great deal of good.
"It's not confirmed, sir. Sorry — it seems the GRU may have discovered his hiding place a few hours ago. No, he wasn't there," she hastened to reassure.
Suddenly, Kedrov was the infinitely desirable, captive. The GRU mustn't get hold of him before he did.
"Thank God," he breathed. "Where?"
"An abandoned silo complex. He was camped out there, as far as I can discover. But he must have heard them and got away. It's here, sir. Only gossip, but it sounds likely to be true."
"What else have we got?"
"Not much."
She tossed her head after frowning over a summary sheet on her lap. She stood up and passed him the documents, tapping at the top sheet, running her unpainted nail down the list it contained. She placed the file on Kedrov over the picture of Rodin.
The second Soviet couple had finished their routine. Good marks for technical merit.
"Hm….." Priabin studied the digest of reports on Kedrov— friends, acquaintances, hangouts, social habits, sexual involvements. There really was very little that was new. It was the file of an agent who had disappeared; a spy there seemed little more to learn about. "Not much, is there?" he commented finally, lifting the file nearer to him so that the picture of Valery Rodin was once more revealed.
"Sorry," Katya replied, as if being personally blamed.
Rodin's features stared up at Priabin. Just a matter of time now, he thought, and felt the impatience vie with the sense of danger. Was he being reckless? Did the danger attract as much as the hope of a solution? I'll get the bastards, Viktor, any way I can, he swore silently, reaffirming a purpose, clouding his self-doubt.
"Can't be helped," he murmured. He flicked over the pages of the file. Drinker, occasional lecher, cinema buff, hi-fi enthusiast, bird-watcher — his hobbies seemed to offer little or no illumination. "No, there's nothing here." He sighed.
Concentrate, he instructed himself sternly. You have to find him before the GRU — time's running out, if they're chasing close behind. If they find him first, whatever he knows or doesn't know, you'll be right in the shit! They'll find out you knew all about his activities and never let on.
"Is anything wrong?" Katya asked.
He looked up abstractedly. "What?"
"Is anything wrong?" she repeated. She pursed her lips as she saw his face become secretive, closed. "You look worried."
"I just wish we could find him, Katya. We have to, before those goons in GRU do the job for us. If they even suspect that we were on to him and let him get away — you can imagine the consequences in this place."
"Why are they looking for him?"
"Presumably, just because he's missing from his work. Let's hope it's nothing more." He shook his head.*"They can't know anything, not yet." He stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. Then he crossed to the window. The booster was almost out of sight now. A snaillike hump in the distance, without real shape or identity, way beyond the assembly building that still contained the shuttle and the laser weapon. Sunlight gleamed on metal; everywhere. "He could be anywhere out there," he murmured. "But where?"
"Don't they always run to somewhere they know?" Katya prompted.
"Mm?"
"To feel safe?"
"Oh, yes, that's the theory anyway." His attention had moved from the main assembly complex and the railway leading toward the distant scrawl of gantries that marked the launch site, toward the chimney smoke that was shaded like charcoal scribble along the horizon above the serrated silhouette of Tyuratam. Rodin was there, he thought; he has the key. I know where to find him. "Yes, they do," he repeated. But not Rodin — he doesn't feel safe in his flat, just abandoned.
Impatience seized him once again, and he turned abruptly to Katya. She was looking at him, awaiting orders. He wanted to ignore her and leave at once, but her gaze seemed to prevent him. He must attend to the matter of Kedrov. He sighed and threw up his hands.