The telephone began to ring.
Katya s danger was the first reaction that began to surge in him, until he realized it was not the same telephone. It was the one he had been going to use to call Tyuratam's KGB chief.
His mood vanished. He grabbed the receiver and almost shouted into it: "Priabin. Yes?"
"Sir?" It was Mikhail.
"Mikhail — look, I'm busy, urgently busy. Clear the line, will you? I'll take any report later on."
"Sir, this is important," Mikhail announced heavily. Priabin could clearly hear restrained anger in his breathing.
"Oh, very well, Mikhail," he sighed. "What is it?"
"Two things, sir. We've been trying to get hold of you—"
"Yes, yes," he snapped. "What two things?"
His body twitched with impatience. Katya was out there in the icy night, close to Kedrov. In an hour they could have him. He closed his free hand into a tight fist, clutching his image of Kedrov.
"His father rang him almost an hour ago — to confirm the poof's leaving first thing in the morning. The early flight out."
"Why?"
"When the old man was here, sir, he — he beat his son up. Screaming. Knocked him about. We couldn't hear, but we saw a lot of it. Old Rodin was shouting his head off. Now we know what he was saying. It's tomorrow."
"Damn," Priabin said softly, but the news was strangely without impact; a small pity for the son, an abstract dislike of the father and his behavior. But the disappointment, the sense of being cheated that Mikhail implied he should feel, were both absent. "That's it, then," he added with a sigh.
"Sir — the other piece of news." Mikhail's exasperation was insubordinate.
"What?"
"He — he's asked to talk to you, sir — the poof, not the father."
"Asked?"
"He must have checked, found the phone was bugged. Little creep just picked up the receiver and spoke to us. Demanded to speak to you — said he had something to tell you."
"Something to tell?" Priabin began. It was as if a drug injected minutes before only now began its stimulating effect. His mind seemed to become urgently intent. He leaned forward in his chair, his hand scrabbled for his pencil; Kedrov and Katya and the marshes retreated. He was tempted and greedy. "What exactly did he say?"
Mikhail's tone changed, became enthusiastically relieved. "Said he had to talk to you, sir. You want to hear the tape of what he said?"
"No, just tell me."
"He said he had something important to tell you, something you'd be interested to hear. He said he had to talk to you tonight because, as we no doubt knew already, he was leaving for Moscow on the morning flight. Real wise guy."
Lightning—had to be—Lightning.
He could have it all. He felt dry-mouthed with anticipation
"When was this?"
"Fifty-two minutes ago, sir."
"He hasn't rung back?"
"He's been packing. Quite calm, by the look of it. No drugs, just one brandy. He seems to be waiting for you, sir — as if he's sure you'll come."
Priabin shook his head. If he was that certain, then it was Lightning.
"I'll come. Straightaway."
"One other thing, sir. He says he won't let you in. You'll have to talk to him from here — stand where he can see you. Talk over the phone."
"Why?"
"Who knows, sir?"
Priabin was puzzled, but that was unimportant. Dudin could go to Katya's assistance with a team. They could watch until he could get there himself. First he had to hear what Rodin had to say. Katya's maps and notes lay on the desk, scattered like archaeological evidence of some lost civilization. He could hardly think of Kedrov now; Rodin was the prize. Rodin had had Viktor killed, and Rodin wanted to talk to him about Lightning—and he would know so much more than Kedrov. Anticipation raced in his mind, clear and quick as glimpses into a certain future.
"No one's with him?"
"He's alone, sir. No one's rung, either. He hasn't called anyone else. He's just waiting, sir."
"The waiting's over," Priabin announced excitedly. "Ill be there as soon as I can. Is he up or down?"
"Neither. Suspended, sir."
"Good. I'm on my way."
He dialed Dudin's number immediately. He would make sure Katya was safe and didn't go in single-handed — as she just might if no one turned up soon — and ensure, too, that Kedrov couldn't slip away. His heart bumped and his forehead felt hot. His cheeks burned as if with embarrassment.
"I promised, Viktor," he murmured as he waited for the telephone in Dudin's office to be picked up. "I promised."
Midnight.
Gant touched the rudder pedal with his left foot to maintain his heading, eased the column, maintained his height with the collective pitch lever in his left hand, and listened to the fluctuating, reluctant rpm of the two Isotov engines. He was aware of each of his tiny movements, most aware of the engine noise as the Hind moved at thirty feet above—
— that. On the main road between Urgench and Tashauz. Closed, apparently deserted. Lifeless. A gas station, windows boarded, weeds moving in the downdraft all over the pavement. He had seen nothing else except a few parked trucks, lights extinguished and drivers presumably asleep in their cabs, a couple of cars streaming white light along the ribbon of the road. The lights of Urgench were the palest smear in the mirrors.
He was beginning not to believe. He was beginning to sweat again, to panic. The gas station should have been open. Its remains were there, sliding into ruin; it was shown on the moving map, but who in hell would have thought to update the positions or financial viability of gas stations?
It was closed. Thirty feet below the Hind's belly, with boarded windows. It had been deserted years before. Gas pumps, hoses bent hand-on-hip, a corrugated plastic roof that was dirt-covered, clumped with mosses, a wooden garage with drunkenly leaning doors, the single-story wooden house that was lightless, where—
— lights flicked grubbily on behind a thin curtain! His heart lurched with relief. Not lightless, not abandoned. Immediately, he dropped the Hind carefully toward the courtyard. The engine noise was fragile, uncertain, like the beat of an ancient, weakened heart. He felt the wheels touch, the helicopter bounce as if pleased; then he throttled back to ground-idle.
The low house — shack, no more — needed painting. It had looked so dilapidated he thought it must have been empty. Its door opened. A man in a thick coat and dark, baggy trousers stood in the light of Gant's main lamp, hand shielding his eyes. Gant adjusted the lamp so that it shone directly on the man — garage manager or whoever he was, it didn't matter; there was fuel beneath this weed-strewn, dusty concrete.
Stay smart, he told himself. Stay smart. Tension coursed through him, indistinguishable from relief.
Hie man walked into the light, waving at the beam as if fending off insects or repeated blows.
Gant moved the throttle levers to flight idle, and the rotors growled reluctantly into a dish. He eased the column forward and gently raised the lever until the helicopter shunted forward, waddling and uncertain in its progress. He watched the edge of the shining rotor dish as the Hind moved toward the corrugated roof.
He watched the pumps intently, watched the roof's hp, watched the rotor dish, whirling—
— satisfied he was as close as possible, he lowered the lever, eased back the column, applied the brakes. The helicopter sank, bounced, stopped. He altered the throttles — noise boomed around the cockpit from the roof and the pumps — and stop-cocked the engines and applied the rotor brake.