Priabin had not told them, Gant thought to himself once more. He warmed himself with the knowledge. He stood with his back to the long table where Anna was now showing her papers and answering the few deferential questions offered by the Border Guard captain in command of the crossing-point. Gant could see beyond the shadow of the tower, the distant red and white pole on the Finnish side. Lights glowed from the windows of the huts like signals. The Finns who were to meet them would be watching the door of this customs office, waiting for their re-emergence. They would get into the car, the Russian pole would swing up, they would be through. Sixty or seventy yards, and they would be in Finland.
Don't think about it, he told himself, feeling his hands quiver in the pockets of his overcoat The snow that had gathered on his fur hat had melted, and began to trickle down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. Don't think about crossing…
If he did dwell on it, his mask would crack in the closing seconds of his performance. It was easy, acting this officious senior diplomat or civil servant. An older man, testy with authority, dry and sharp like a fallen brown holly leaf. These people were half-afraid of him, half-afraid of his power to make telephone calls, speak to superiors, complain, condemn. They had hurried their questions, their examination of his papers. They had not wished to search his luggage. They had accepted his explanation that their Finnish companion, expected to drive them, had fallen ill — too much drink, he had snapped with an acid dislike — but they had important, vital meetings later that same day… planes were grounded in Leningrad, as they knew, thus the car. He was angry at losing sleep, at delay of any kind.
He paced a little now, while Anna answered the brief questions. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Nerve, he thought. Hold on -
Act.
He glared at the captain over his half-glasses. The captain caught his look, and immediately surrendered Anna's papers, making the most of a polite bow to her.
'Thank you,' Gant said with little grace. 'Now, we may go?'
'Of course, sir-please…' He opened the door for them. Gant preceded Anna out into the snow and the lights. Stepping into the glare, he almost froze, as if he had been exposed and recognised. Then he walked on to the car. Impatiently, he held the passenger door open for Anna, and she climbed in. Then, merely nodding dismissively in the captain's direction, he rounded the bonnet to the driver's door. The captain himself held it open for him.
'A successful conclusion to your business, sir,' he offered.
He bent to climb into the driver's seat. Then he heard the approaching car. Its engine made it clear that it was moving with speed. Stifling a groan, keeping the tremor from his frame, Gant looked up. He saw headlights rounding a bend, dancing towards them. He knew it was Priabin. He hadn't found — hadn't even looked for — the man's car. He should have killed him…
He glanced at Anna's face. She knew, too. The captain was alarmed, then alert and decisive. He waved two guards armed with Kalashnikov rifles forward. They positioned themselves in the headlight beams. The car swayed, then slewed halfway across the road as it stopped in a skid. The door opened.
Gant realised the barrier had been raised. He slammed the door. Already, the pole was beginning to descend. He switched on the engine, revved, put the car into gear. The captain bent to warn him, an arm raised to point at the barrier. His head flicked away as they both heard Priabin shouting. In the mirror, Gant saw Priabin running towards them, waving his ID wallet above his head, calling his rank and name and their identities -
He let out the clutch and accelerated. The barrier was coming down. He skidded, but the car slid forward before it started to swing round — the barrier bounced on the roof, shattering the rear window with its impact. He swung the wheel, grinning at Anna, and let the car accelerate as soon as he came out of the skid.
'Stop them!' Priabin yelled. 'Stop him, stop him!' His ID was thrust under the captain's nose. The man stepped back half a pace, made to salute. The two guards had turned to follow the flight of the car. Priabin bellowed, 'The tyres-the tyres!' The guards opened fire. 'The woman is a hostage!' Priabin yelled, his words drowned by the first rounds fired from the two rifles. Horribly, one of them was on automatic. 'The tyres, only the tyres!' he continued to bellow, his voice little more than a screech, hoarse and unheard. The car slid across the road, spun almost to face them, stalled. The two rifles continued firing, both now on single shot. 'Stop, stop-!'
The Finnish barrier was up, a car was revving. Priabin could see its exhaust rising in the glare of the lights. He was running alongside the captain, who had drawn his gun.
Gant was running. He had got out of the car, hesitated for only a moment, and then had begun running towards the other barrier and the car that was moving forward to protect him.
'Shoot him, shoot him — he's the American pilot! Kill him.'
Gant was alone. Running alone.
PART THREE
THE AIRCRAFT
'.. -the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.'
TWELVE:
Through The Window
She had swivelled in the passenger seat to stare back through the car's rear window at some excitement on the road behind, just like a child. And it was as if he were gently remonstrating with that child when he turned her in her seat. Except that by turning her he could not prevent harm from coming to her. She was already dead. Gant knew that even as he gently moved her. He knew before he saw the neat blue hole in her forehead, just at the hairline.
He had told her to keep down, had tried to push her back into her seat; but her arm had become limp and unresponding. Anna had turned to look back at Priabin, standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms. Gant had heard one of the two Kalashnikovs on automatic. The bellow of sound had unnerved him more than the concussions of the first bullets; the thuds against the boot and into the rear seat.
He stared at her face for only a moment. Very pale. Her eyes were open. They hardly registered shock, were without pain.
He let her body fall back against the seat and wished he had not done so. She looked very dead the moment he released her. Her head too rapidly flopped onto her shoulder, the hair spilled over her cheek, and there was a snail-track of saliva at the corner of her mouth. He withdrew his hands, holding them against his chest, afraid to touch her again. They were shaking as he bunched them into fists. He groaned.
The Vietnamese girl, burning…
He grabbed the door handle. His hand froze for a moment, then flung open the door. Two bullets immediately thudded into it, making the plastic of the panel bulge near his knuckles. He knelt behind the door. The two rifles ceased firing. He straightened, smelling on the freezing air the exhaust from the Finnish car moving towards him. He ran. He heard Priabin shout something; the voice sounded almost demented above the noise of Gant's breathing and heartbeat and squeaking footfalls. He hunched his body against the expected impact of rifle bullets.