Firefox

'We do not know, Colonel,' Priabin said.

Kontarsky, despite his confidence, was adroit at displaying anger with his subordinates. He said: 'Do not know — we have had this photograph for hours!'

'We are checking, Colonel. The Computer and Records Directorate is giving it priority, sir,' Borkh felt called upon to say.

'Is it? Is it, indeed? And why them?'

'We are assuming that this man is a foreign agent, sir,' Priabin said. 'British, perhaps?'

'Mm. Is that likely?'

'Why don't we stop the truck and ask him, Colonel?' Borkh blurted out.

Kontarsky turned his angry stare upon him. 'Idiot!' was all he said.

Priabin understood. Kontarsky was looking for a spectacular triumph. He sensed that the man in the truck with Upenskoy was important, but he reacted by assuming that Bilyarsk was impregnable — which it was, Priabin had to admit — and that he therefore had leisure to play this man on a line, hoping that he would lead him to others, tie in with some big SIS or CIA operation. Priabin was irritated — but he, too, could not consider the threat of a single individual, even if he was travelling towards Bilyarsk, as anything to be taken seriously.

Kontarsky, seeing the keenness of his assistant's study of him said:

'What of your interrogation?'

'Nothing — so far. They're holding out, so far.'

'Holding out, Dmitri?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You showed the man Glazunov this photograph of someone who was pretending to be him — was he not outraged?'

Priabin did not feel called upon to smile. He said: 'Colonel — I don't think he knows who is in the truck with Upenskoy.'

'But — you and I agree the truck is heading for Bilyarsk?'

'Yes, Colonel — it must be.'

'Then this man, whoever he is, and from wherever he comes — must be a saboteur?'

'Probably, Colonel.'

'Undoubtedly, Dmitri.' Kontarsky rubbed his blue jowl. 'But, what can one man do to the Mig-31 that cannot be done by Baranovich and the others already on the spot — eh?' He was thoughtful for a moment, then he added: 'What kind of operation could it be? If we knew who he was, then we might net ourselves something very useful.' He smiled, and Priabin wondered again at his motives. Kontarsky was enjoying himself, of that there was no doubt. He expected some kind of additional success, connected with this man — but what? Priabin would have stopped the truck by now.

Kontarsky went on: 'I shall delay my flight to Bilyarsk by a few hours. Meanwhile, alert the security there concerning this truck… Borkh, get me Colonel Leprov in Records — I want this man identified as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Dmitri, get back to our friends and ask them once more who he is!'

Kontarsky's finger tapped the photograph of Gant as Borkh dialled the number and Priabin left the room.

* * *

Gant was tired, cramped with travel, his mind numbed by the endlessness of the Russian steppe, that great sweep of plain stretching as far as the Urals, two hundred miles beyond Bilyarsk. His mind had plumbed his own past, prompted by the similarity of the country to his own Mid-West. It had not been a pleasant experience, and he was sick with the memories and the petrol fumes that seeped into the cab.

It was dark now, and Upenskoy had switched on the headlights. The tail-car was a steady five hundred metres behind. It had picked them up on the outskirts of Kazan, taking over from its predecessor as they had crossed the vast new Lenin Bridge over the Volga which had replaced the ferry. The tail-car was not using its lights — but both he and Pavel knew it was there.

'How far now?' he asked, breaking a long silence.

'The turn-off is about four miles further on — then Bilyarsk is fourteen miles up that road.'

'And I have to meet the pick-up on that road — at the point you showed me on the map?'

'Yes.'

'Then it's time for me to leave you…' Gant said.

'Not yet.'

'Yes. The first copse up ahead, and I'm going to jump for it,' Gant said decisively.

Pavel looked across at him, then said, 'Very well. I will try not to let them overtake me for as long past the guard-post as possible. Then, with luck, I shall leave them behind when I abandon my trusty vehicle, which is bringing the benefits of modern plumbing to the Volga Hotel at Kuybyshev!' Pavel, curiously to Gant, roared with laughter.

Gant said, 'Don't get yourself caught.'

'Not if I can help it,' Pavel replied. 'Semelovsky will have passed through the guardpost less than fifteen minutes ago.'

'How do you know?'

'He was at the petrol station in Kazan. I didn't speak to him, but he was there.'

'How — did he get out of Bilyarsk? I thought it was sealed up tight until after tomorrow's show.'

'It is. He's from Kazan — his mother is dying, so they let him out — in company with a KGB man, of course. No, don't worry. The KGB man saw him on his way. They're not worried about him. They know he's one of us, and they expect him to return to Bilyarsk.'

'His mother is — really dying?'

'It would appear so — to the doctor, that is. However, she is a very tough old lady…' He smiled. 'Semelovsky will be waiting for you on the road.'

It seemed to Gant that every man he had come into contact with was under sentence of death. A sentence they all accepted as their lot He wanted to say something to Pavel, in the selflessness of the moment.

Pavel's voice cut across his mood. 'Trees coming up, and a few bends in the road, just to keep truck drivers from falling asleep!' He looked at Gant, and added: 'Don't say anything — your words would be useless, maybe even insulting. Just fly that damn aeroplane out of Russia!'

Three THE SUSPICIONS

A pair of men's shoes were placed on Police Inspector Tortyev's desk, under the hard strip-lighting, and the young man's attention seemed to be riveted upon them. He leaned back in his chair, one foot pushing against the desk, steepled ringers tapping insistently at his pursed lips. At that moment, He was alone in his office and had been for half-an-hour, because he had wanted to think. He had still not decided what to do about the shoes.

The chair creaked as he regained an upright position, and reached out a hand. He picked up the white label tied to one of the shoes, and read again that it was the property of Alexander Thomas Orton. Shaking his head, as if in puzzled amusement, he shunted the left and right shoes, which were not a pair — one being black, the other brown — together. One shoe was a size-and-a-half bigger than the other. The black shoe from Orton's body was still damp from its ducking in the Moskva. The other shoe, still shining and barely worn, though the heel was showing signs of wear already — the other shoe had been taken from Orton's room at the Moskva Hotel.

He shunted the shoes apart, then together again, his lips pursing as he did so. He whistled softly, tunelessly, his eyes staring at the shoes, as if willing them to inform him of the cause of their discrepancy in size. The hat size had been the same, the collar size the same, the overcoat at the hotel had fitted the dead man, the suits had fitted, the socks… but not the shoes. Why not? Did any man have shoes that varied so much in size? Why?

He pushed back his chair again, assuming his former position. It was, indeed, mysterious. The answer, of course, forming itself in his mind all the time he had been alone in his office, was that the man in the river was not the man who had booked into the Moskva Hotel, the man who had passed through security at Cheremetievo, who had taken that walk from the hotel along the embankment, only to be murdered.