He felt worn. The black helicopter had become gray-bellied, green-mottled, somehow less sinister as it floated above him and passed eastward toward Tyuratam. Yet there was no relief in its lack of special interest in him. Glancing at the map that he had half opened on the passenger seat had been a mistake. There were roads everywhere around Leninsk-Kuznetskiy and Tyuratam and the other towns and villages. But where he was heading — in fact toward the perimeter in any direction — roads narrowed, straggled, disappeared, merged. They needed perhaps no more than a dozen barriers to seal off the whole of the vast Baikonur complex from the rest of the Soviet Union; just so long as they stopped the trains and the planes, as they had done.
Plane, light aircraft. He felt sick as he remembered. During a Code Green the previous year, a light aircraft had strayed into maximum-security airspace and been shot down without challenge or apology or warning. Baikonur was a place of logic, of inescapable necessity. Things were not weighed, simply laid down in orders and regulations and systems. One huge steel box whose lid could be slammed shut at a moment's notice. Had been.
Fifty-five. Priabin eased his foot on the accelerator. The Volga's heater seemed more inefficient than usual; he was chilly, even within his overcoat. His forehead was cold with drying perspiration. The fawn car could be seen in the mirror. The helicopter had disappeared. He glanced at the car's clock. Nine-seven teen — three hours since he had been in Valery Rodin's bedroom, since he had found the boy's body, three wasted hours. Telephone, radio, trying to contact the Center — he'd known almost at once he wouldn't get through, but he'd gone on trying, arguing, hoping.
Just to find himself on this road, tailed by the GRU, knowing that the security of Code Green had bottled him up. He would get only as far as Novokazalinsk and no farther. It was like a brick wall with which he was destined to collide.
He thought of the main hangar and the shuttle craft and the laser battle station as pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle on the point of completion, missing only the last few segments of the pattern that was Lightning in all its enormity. He ground his teeth. He could do nothing, nothing.
Fifty-eight. He slowed the car without thinking. Nine-nineteen. Ten miles from the flats now, perhaps forty more to go. Why bother? Forty more.
He hardly thought about Gant. Strangely, the American was reduced to insignificance now. Serov had Gant. Gant was as good as dead. Perhaps he hadn't ever wanted revenge, then? No, he had, just never expected the opportunity — and now, now he had himself to think of.
False horizon, very close. Against the narrowing road, a group of black silhouettes against the pale sky. The cars were carelessly disposed across the road, there were converging lines of red and white cones, even a barrier. One truck, men in yellow overblouses laying the cones out, military cars — four of those — and the coffee stand parked at the side of the highway, a shabby gray caravan with a side window and a ledge. Men near that, too. Men in the road, cones, barrier, truck, cars, overcoats, uniforms, guns…
Brick wall. Collision. His body felt jolted, shocked by something as real as physical impact. Not Novokazalinsk, then. Here. They were waiting just for him, Serov's GRU people.
The fawn car slowed, maintaining its distance behind him. One of the officers ahead was waving his arms to emphasize the paraphernalia and authority of the temporary arrangements on the highway. Priabin knew his journey was over. He stopped the Volga, fifteen hundred miles away from Moscow Center.
12: Solitary Confinement
Kedrov's form, strapped into the chair, seemed tense and resentful, struggling to defy the questions that buzzed and murmured around his head. Veins stood out on his arms and the backs of his hands where they gripped the padded arms of the black chair. Veins on his temples, too. Fierce concentration, the effort of denial, furrowed his brow. He was as taut as an overwound spring and yet utterly helpless. The contradiction amused Serov, satisfied him in a way he did not analyze; never analyzed. Only Kedrov's lips and tongue seemed involuntary agents. The willpower being suggested by his whole frame was absent from his mouth. He could not help himself answering the questions of the interrogation team.
Of course, the pupils of Kedrov's eyes were unnaturally open, considering he was facing the window. His eyes were too bright, with a stare that reminded Serov of utter disbelief—how can this be happening? — as it always did during such drug-assisted interrogations—why am I talking? I don't want to talk. Such involuntariness, such childlike, babyish inability and weakness was always — what? Satisfying to watch? Yes. He possessed Kedrov and the American, he had robbed them of everything, even will. In Kedrov's case, he controlled the man's mind.
Serov rubbed his chin. It was smooth from a recent shave. The landscape of his thoughts was open, rolling, sunny; he could see a great distance from the promontory of his successes that night. Rodin, Kedrov, the American pilot, whose story he had learned from that clown Adamov, discovered tied up in the Hind's main cabin. The pieces had fallen like lucky cards. Serov was confident, even eager. Priabin, too, would soon come entirely within his orbit. Then it would be finished with.
There was a trace of excitement in him, like a strange liquor moving through his stomach. But it was a sober sensation. When there was time, the American would be gutted, emptied of everything he knew — and he would know a great deal — while Priabin would disappear. Kedrov, of course, would meet the fate of a spy and traitor once he had confessed.
"… long have you been spying for the Americans, Kedrov?"
"What did you tell them?"
"How much do they know?"
"… send your signals?"
"Orlov…?"
Serov watched Kedrov's face attempt control around the mouth that no longer belonged to him. His voice stuttered like a cold engine, then the spy began to helplessly condemn himself, spilling his answers like water from a leaky bucket.
"… bicycle shop… don't understand? American equip-quip-ment…"
One of his people, standing behind the straining Kedrov, shrugged with the ease of the interrogation. Serov nodded slightly, condescending to share the man's amusement. Sunlight fell coldly on the sweating, straining man in the chair, his whole body thrust forward against the restraint of the straps.
"… every, every week — don't, can't — remember…told them, told them — no, told, no! — told them when, when… arrived from Semipal, pal, pala — tin… sk….." The sweat was soaking his shirt, running on his face as if he had just plunged his head under a pump. … know — know no… nothing, everything….."
"Tell us what they know, in every detail."
"Do they know dates, times?"
And so it would go on. Not long now. Serov looked at his watch. Nine-forty. Kedrov was like a tooth where all the enamel and even the soft inner had been drilled through; they were down to the nerve. He'd told them almost everything, it was all on tape.
"Lightning?" he snapped, impatience disturbing him, spoiling his sense of satisfaction. "Kedrov, what do you know about Lightning? What have you told the KGB about Lightning?"
Kedrov did not even look in his direction, but continued to stare as if he could see nothing ahead of him. But he spoke almost immediately, answering Serov.
"… noth — not asked, nothing, told him — don't know noth— know, know. Heard — in the shithouse… heard, heard, told noth, nothing….." His voice babbled on, his will a tiny, shrunken ball kicked around between the questioners. He could not help himself.