"What can you do?"
"I wonder. I would like to stop Proteus — I would like to find Quin. Ethan, I trust your judgement. I trust those intuitions that a man like Pyott would not countenance. You have worked in intelligence, he has not. We are all chronically suspicious, perhaps paranoid. However, you and I and the others like us are all we have. Perhaps all “Leopard” has. Hm. Go back to the Admiralty, apologise to Giles Pyott — yes, please — and then keep your eyes and ears open. Ring me tonight —"
The intercom's buzz interrupted him. His secretary announced the arrival of some sandwiches and the imminence of a pot of coffee. Aubrey ordered her in. Before the door opened, Clark said swiftly. "What can you do?"
"I don't know, Ethan. Unfortunately, I shall have to do something, or else I shall begin sleeping badly at night. Ah, coffee and sandwiches — splendid!"
"We" ve got her."
"When?" Dolohov asked as Sergei closed the door of the Ops. Room behind him.
"Only minutes ago. The satellite's had terrible trouble with the cloud cover —"
"Show me. Admiral — " Dolohov nodded to the Ops. Room commander, then almost snatched the folded chart overlain with its sheet of developed infra-red film. Poor, pale smudges, like smeared rust or very old blood.
"The pattern's changed, as you can see." Sergei was leaning over Dolohov's shoulder. His finger tapped the sheet over the chart. "This was her three hours ago — same intermittent smudges, her mapping course, enough for us to tell she was still following the same search pattern. Then here we think there was another trace — " The smear was almost invisible. Dolohov did not move the chart closer to his face. “Then nothing for two hours, then this — then another fifty-four minutes before we got this." It was like the last ember of a dying fire. It was out of the random yet sequential pattern, and it had moved south and east of the other smears.
"You're certain?" Dolohov was looking at the rear-admiral.
"We" ve used sonar in that area, and we got nothing. If it is a submarine, then it is the British ship."
"Excellent! It works, how well it works, mm?"
"Too well."
"Come, Admiral — no sour grapes. You have a computer prediction on speed and course?"
"We have one, based on the last three traces. We need at least two more to be at all accurate."
"Show me, man, show me!"
One of the rear-admiral's aides scuttled into the control room, Dolohov leaned over the rail of the gantry. As he watched, the rear-admiral joined him. Then a curving line appeared on the projection below, from a position far out in the Barents Sea, making south and east towards the Tanafjord. It rendezvoused with the imaginary Soviet submarine trapped in the fjord.
"In excess of thirty hours," the rear-admiral murmured, "and no longer than thirty-six. That's the best we can do without another infra-red fix from the satellite. For the moment, she's disappeared again. Possibly cloud again."
"Good man," Dolohov said incongruously. He gripped the rear-admiral's shoulder. The man was considerably younger than himself, bespectacled and clerkish. A computer expert, perhaps, an academic; scientist rather than sailor. Nevertheless, at that moment Dolohov felt an unaccustomed affinity with the man. "Good man." He turned to Sergei. "Call Leningrad. Whether they're at the Grechko Academy or the Frunze Naval School, I want Ardenyev and his team informed at once. They will depart for Murmansk immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Dolohov turned back to the rear-admiral. "Keep up the good work. If the Red Banner Special Underwater Operations Unit does its job as well as you are doing yours, then nothing can go wrong!" He laughed throatily. "Excellent, excellent! I don't care what success the KGB has now in finding the man Quin — we will be able to present Moscow with Quin's toy. The man himself will have no value, and we shall enjoy the sunshine. Excellent, excellent!" His continued laughter caused one of the map table operators to look up.
The strip club was a short walk from Oxford Street, hunched in a narrow side street on the edge of Soho, as if aspiring to membership of that district, or recently expelled from it. Hyde had used it as a meeting place with Vassiliev because clubs of its type attracted the diplomats and officials of East European embassies, especially early on in their tours of duty, and even if Vassiliev had been under surveillance by his own people, such visits would have been regarded as misdemeanours rather than as suspicious or dangerous.
Hyde glanced at the membership ledger, having bribed the doorman. One or two new members that evening, but it told him nothing. They might be Vassiliev's friends, or football fans or businessmen staying overnight in London. Vassiliev's friends would have ensured their membership some time earlier, if this was an entrapment exercise. Hyde did not consider it was. They wanted him running, moving with apparent freedom. He went down the steps beneath a dim green under-sea light, the mingled odour of sweat, smoke and tawdriness coming up to meet him. The door opened to admit him — he had heard the buzzer sound from the doorman's cubicle as he began his descent.
Disco music thumped against his ears, flat, enervating, unmemorable. Strobe lights played over the heads of the audience. The tiny stage was empty, but there was a narrow bed lit by a silvery, ghostly light at the back of it. Hyde remained by the door. The large man with cropped hair wearing an out-of-style dinner jacket loomed at his shoulder. Hyde suspected he knew his profession and did not confuse him with the Vice Squad or CID. At worst, he would assume him to be Security rather than Intelligence.
It did not matter. Rather, it legitimised the club, provided a governmental patron.
There were only a small number of people waiting for the next bout on the stage. Vassiliev — he saw as his eyes accustomed themselves to the peculiar, winking gloom — was in a corner, near the stage, mournfully staring into a glass. There seemed no one who had noticed, or become concerned at, his entrance. He threaded his way between the tables with their grubby cloths and expensive drinks towards Vassiliev. The Russian seemed relieved to see him. If there were other emotions, conflicting ones, then the strobe flicker hid them. Hyde settled in a chair which faced the door, and immediately a waiter appeared at his side. No girls on the floor of the club, no hostesses. A curious puritanism pervaded the place. Untouchable, flaunting, indescribably crude, silicon-enhanced, the women came and went on the stage, separate and inviolable.
Near them, the pianist resumed his seat. The drummer rolled softly, as if communicating with his drums. A bass player leaned tiredly over the neck and shoulders of his instrument. All of them appeared to be awaiting some summons to Ronnie's in Frith Street, two blocks away. Most of the girls stripped to records, anyway. Hyde ordered a beer. It came in a half-pint glass, and there was no change from his pound note. He clicked his tongue and winked at the waiter.
Hyde sipped at his drink. The trio drew attention to the stage with a peremptory call to attention that echoed Oscar Peterson, then slipped into the strait-jacket of "I'm forever blowing bubbles" as a bath was wheeled on.
"Oh, Christ— bath night again," Hyde murmured. "Ivy the Terrible." The subdued chatter of the audience tailed off into a silence that was weary rather than expectant. "Well, Dmitri?"