Northlight

Croder spread his hands open. His smile was almost apologetic. 'I've no wish to complicate things, Mr Ambassador. It's simply that we want to have every answer ready.'

'We're talking about Russian double think,' the CIA chief nodded.

'It's that convoluted?'

'Not really,' Croder said. 'What I'm saying now is that if, for example, the Soviets wished to scuttle the proposed summit conference for whatever obscure reason, they couldn't do it more simply than by faking this tape and allowing us to come by it.'

'You believe that's what they did?'

'I believe it's most unlikely. We're just covering the contingency. Most unlikely of all is the idea that a naval officer could lend himself to the deceit, however threatened or cajoled or bribed with honours and promotion.'

The ambassador watched Croder with his large head lowered and his eyes level. 'Then you believe this tape is genuine, and that it gives us irrefutable evidence that the Soviets in fact ordered the attack and sinking of the submarine. Is that correct?'

A faint apologetic smile. 'Not quite. I don't believe in the least that the Soviets — by which you mean the Soviet authorities — ordered the attack on the Cetacea. I believe that when she was discovered either close to the twelve-mile limit or actually within Soviet waters, the officer in command of No. 4 torpedo battery made the attack and sank the boat.'

'Without getting permission?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'For one of several understandable reasons. He's young, keen, ambitious, perhaps. What a bone to bring to the mat of his superiors! The hero of the hour, destroying in the nick of time an American nuclear submarine in the act of spying on the Soviets' most important naval base — the gateway to the Atlantic, bristling with the most highly secret technology.'

The ambassador went on watching him, his eyes narrowed now. I didn't know if he knew who Croder was, other than a key man in the Foreign Office. 'He didn't think there was time to get permission to do this thing?'

'Oh, he knew there was time. The boat was moving very slowly, and they were keeping track of it. We heard that.'

'Then why didn't he call up a superior officer?'

'I believe he thought they might deny him permission.' Croder spread his hands again, shrugging.

'I don't understand.'

Croder took a pace or two. 'There was once a wealthy widow who placed all her money in a phoney investment that looked highly attractive, and when she lost it all her accountant asked her why on earth she didn't consult him first. She said rather sheepishly she was pretty sure he wouldn't have let her do it.'

'My God. He was out to get that sub on his own initiative?'

'It's what we believed,' the CIA chief said reasonably, 'when the KAL plane was shot out of the sky. At first, anyway.'

Croder looked down at his shoes. 'It's what I still believe, despite a great deal of fanciful evidence to the contrary.'

The CIA chief glanced at him. 'You don't think there's any kind of connection?'

'Not in a sequential sense. I think it's a repetition of the same basic situation.'

'Okay,' Morrison said finally. 'I can report to my president, then, that the British government believes, on the evidence of this tape recording, that the Cetacea was attacked and sunk by a Soviet naval officer, without prior warning. Is that right?'

'Very nearly.' Croder. 'Those in the British government most able to analyse the raw intelligence data believe it, yes.'

'Bob?' The ambassador was looking at the CIA chief. 'That's your opinion too?'

'I guess it has to be.' He gave a shrug, tilting his head. 'In my field we tend to look for skeletons in all the cupboards, but in this case I think that's very simply what happened. A United States submarine was found too close to the Russian coast and they sank it. And we have the evidence on tape.'

There were five of us when we came into the street: Croder, Kinsley, the two boffins in their white lab coats and me. The political people stayed behind to go on with the meeting at a higher level, I suppose. But even if they'd left the building at the same time I think they would have been all right, unless they'd been too near the boffins as they climbed into their cars.

The blast tore the nearside door away and I didn't see anything more because I was spinning round and going down flat onto the pavement while the echo of the explosion started coming back from the houses and glass tinkled as the windows blew in. I wasn't close enough to feel anything more than the shock-wave, and as soon as the worst of the debris had come down I got onto my feet and turned round and took a look at the car. There wasn't anything we could do for the two men because they'd been inside when the thing had gone off, triggered by the ignition switch or a rocker mechanism or something like that.

I was a bit deafened but I could hear Croder asking if we were all right and Kinsley called out yes, then I went up the steps to the house to use a telephone as the last of the dead leaves came floating down in a moment of unnatural autumn.

The only clear thought in my head was that the actual target hadn't been the two boffins. It had been the tape, and now we'd have to start all over again.

'What?'

'How long have you slept?'

Kinsley was standing in the doorway looking down at me. I'd holed up in one of the soundproof cubicles where you can catch some sleep or just get away from the din outside when there's a big operation on and everyone's showing their nerves.

'An hour,' I told Kinsley.

'How are you feeling?' He looked very tight-faced, and kept prodding his fingers through his stiff black hair.

'I'm feeling all right.' I put my shoes on and got off the bunk, finding my jacket. 'Have you got something else for me?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Moscow.'

'When?'

'Tonight.'

'What's happened?'

'They're on to Karasov.'

'The sleeper?'

'Yes. Someone found he'd made a copy of that tape.'

Everything became suddenly still.

'Was he blown?'

'No. He got out in time.'

'Where is he now?'

'God knows. But we've got to find him, before they do.'

'Yes, I see.'

Somewhere there was another man running.

8 FANE

'I'd say he's frightened.'

There were bits of white floating under the bridge. 'Doesn't he trust us?'

'I don't think it's a question of that.'

It could be ice, coming down-river. The air was freezing.

'You think he's been there too long?'

'As a sleeper?'

'Yes.'

'Possibly.' He stood with his hands in the pockets of his fleece-lined coat, looking down at the river.

I'd asked for Ferris but they said he was messing about in Hong Kong, helping to China watch. That didn't sound like Ferris.

I'd kicked up a stink, of course, but there wasn't enough time to make any changes: they'd put me onto the midnight flight after two hours' crammed briefing.

I didn't like their not giving me Ferris.

'What's that stuff?' Fane asked.

'I don't know. Probably ice.'

In a minute he said: 'You're not happy about me, are you?'

'I've no choice.'

'What are your objections, exactly?'

He was a shortish man, neatly dressed, with a clear white skin and perfectly regular features, the eyes level and the nose short and the mouth clear cut. There was nothing about him you could find interesting, or like, or dislike.

'I prefer working with people I know,' I said, 'that's all.' I looked up from the water to the gold domes of the Kremlin. 'With people who know me.'

'I'm told you're difficult,' Fane said. He took out a packet of cigarettes.

'Yes.'

'That won't worry me. The only thing that would worry me is your doing something stupid.' He offered me a cigarette but I shook my head.