"All done here, sir," the transceiver said over his heart.
"Very well. Stage-dressing completed?"
"Almost."
"Hurry it along — but miss nothing. Well dofie. Out." He turned to the sergeant and the radio operator, who came swiftly to attention; impressed, perhaps even abashed, by what had occurred across the street. "Very well. Put me in touch with headquarters — Captain Perchik."
"Sir." Call sign, fine-tuning; then he heard Perchik's voice. He took the proffered microphone, snapped down its Transmit button, and said: "Give me a full report, Perchik. Quickly. One of your one-minute digests I enjoy so much for their brevity."
"A good night, sir?" Perchik asked, his voice responding to the eager lightness of that of his superior; a momentary camaraderie. Perchik knew what he had been doing.
"A good night. Now hurry. I want this Kedrov. What have you got as the chef's recommendation on the menu?"
"Chef's recommendation, sir — stay away from the social contacts, the sexual contacts are a bit off tonight, we haven't any of the close-friend hiding places — it's off…" Serov smiled, even chuckled. Perchik was clever as a cat at obsequiousness. "But the chef does recommend recent pastimes and hobbies as something you should try."
"And?"
"Going through the man's whole behavior pattern, his every move, for the last month, we've come up with a bicycle repair shop — really black-market — in Tyuratam, but Kedrov isn't there, and the KGB hauled in the owner of the shop two days ago."
"So he's offered no leads or they'd have Kedrov by now. What else?" There was a clipped, military manner about Serov now, something lighter and less intent than the observer of Rodin's murder. This efficient portrait was another part he enjoyed playing.
"Bird-watching — the feathered kind, sir," Perchik added without creating any sense of wasting time. "Out in the salt marshes. Where we go duck shooting, in season."
"I know, Perchik. Disgusting sport, if you can call it that. Bird-etching, mm? He's applied for permits from the KGB? Or from us?"
"KGB handle that sort of minor stuff, sir."
"Many times?"
"We've counted almost a dozen, sir. Those marshes are full of rotting hulks, old hides, hunting cabins, you name it."
"That will do for a start. Priority air search of the area of the marshes." He looked at his watch, holding up his wrist so that the dial caught the light of the street lamp. Three twenty-five. "Order that at once. It's a long shot, but he must be somewhere — why not there? He must know the area. Get it done, Perchik."
"Sir."
"Out."
Serov dropped the microphone into the Sergeant's waiting hand and walked to the window. The curtains had been drawn back once more, but the room was in darkness. Light crept in from the street like an orange fog. It touched Rodin's stretched-out legs, his disordered robe. One arm hung over the side of the bed — yes, he could make that out with the glasses; the other lay folded on his chest. A sweet, dreamless sleep, a nice touch of fiction. Sooner or later, someone would wonder why the boy didn't move. He'd be found eventually; maybe even his father might call.
A pleasant anticipation…
"Outside, sir," the transceiver announced.
"Good," he said at once. "I'll join you."
Serov turned away from the window without hesitation, as if he had seen the movie that window screen had to offer, many times before; the rerunning of a popular success, without suspense because the ending is known.
"Tidy up, Sergeant," he snapped as he opened the door. "This set may have to be re-dressed today or tomorrow."
"Sir."
Serov closed the door behind him.
Gant looked up from the insistent, unnerving image of his curled, stiff hands. His watch, showing three-twenty, had ceased to evoke further anxieties. It merely recorded the passage of wasted time. He now had almost an hour of first light to negotiate in Soviet airspace. Even at the MiL's maximum speed, that might be as much as two hundred miles of flying before he reached either the Pakistan or Turkish border. The situation had become hopeless; he had slid wearily into acknowledgment of that, his fears deadened by familiarity.
He stared across the harshly lit main cabin. The primitive heating failed to resist the chill of the night outside, which was intensified by the banging of the wind against the fuselage and the creaking of the rotors. Opposite him, trussed into the jump seat, was the cause of his sullen, muddy depression. Adamov. Soon he would have to kill the man — after gaining as much information as the man could supply. Throttle or suffocate him, so that the uniform remained unmarked. Adamov's uniform would-fit, just. His collar size determined the fact that he would have to be murdered.
Helicopters droned distantly to the south and east, but the Hind remained undiscovered. It seemed no longer like something parked near the picnic area, but rather a dumped vehicle, long abandoned and left to rust. And still he could not kill Adamov and leave this place.
The man's eyes seemed to ask, again and again, who are you? He did not seem to be afraid, or to anticipate a violent demise. His eyes were vivid with curiosity and anger. Had they not been, he would have been easier to kill. There was a hollow in Gant's chest and stomach that was watery, queasy with danger and the dread of violence still to be inflicted. The watch measured the slow, reluctant steps he was making toward hurting Adamov. Soon; it would have to be soon.
The incident at the gas station, the flight across the Aral Sea, the waiting here, all seemed to have finally drained him. He seemed to have nothing left. He had lost control of the mission. He could not even bring himself to return to the cockpit, to look for the signal light on the transponder. He knew the light would be dead. Kedrov would not be making the rendezvous.
Then go!
The lethargy was huge and frightening, like a great weight of water above him. He'd let go. Already beaten.
Gant was weary of Adamov's dumb yet too vivid presence and the intermittent drumming of his boot heels on the cabin's metal floor. He stood up awkwardly and quickly, like a drunk getting to his feet. His head whirled emptily. Adamov flinched, even attempted to cower, securely pinioned as he was. Gant ignored the momentary fear. Avoided it, rather. He dragged open the cabin door and leaned hatefully into the freezing wind, which did not even begin to clear his head. He jumped down.
Bitter cold immediately, chilling through him, so that he believed that he must have been warm in the cabin. He, tugged the fleece-lined flying jacket closer around him, with a sudden loathing of the huddled figure he made. The wind seemed to cry from a great distance, thin and fitful though it was. He felt each of the thousand miles to safety, each of the twenty to where Kedrov had not arrived, and the great emptiness around him.
Kedrov slowly faded in his mind, and the reluctance he had felt at hurting Adamov also lessened. Soon he would be able to go through with it, make him talk, use the uniform. He rubbed cold hands hard against numb cheeks, leaning his back against the fuselage. He sighed with deep, tired, empty anger. The sighs became an expression of failure and isolation. He should have turned back when he'd filled the tanks; should never have believed he could make it.
He shivered continually with cold. To warm himself, he began to walk, patrolling the margin of the man-made lake, beginning to think of his own safety. He could abandon the helicopter inside Baikonur, steal a car or truck, make it out that way… he could take the Hind as far as its fuel allowed and then find a vehicle… he could fly to the nearest American consulate or embassy or diplomatic mission and walk in and ask them to get him home — just as soon as he disposed of Adamov, put on his identity and his uniform. And that would be soon now, soon.