Thurston waited for his explanation, and Lloyd said, lamely, "That Russian has been following a very poor trail for an hour. As if he knew we were here."
"You're imagining it, skipper."
"As if he knew he was looking for a submarine that wouldn't show up on his sonar," Lloyd added.
"The evidence is in front of you, man. It may not be conclusive, but there is evidence there to suggest Grishka encountered the British submarine with its anti-sonar system working. Surely?"
"I will admit that not every trace of heat emission can be explained by temperature differences in the sea — perhaps there are identifiable traces of prop-wash and turbine activity, perhaps the faint gas traces help us —" The rear-admiral looked round at his subordinates, then shrugged. "We will pinpoint the British submarine at the position signalled by the Grishka and await any satellite confirmation there might be."
"Excellent. She is on course. ETA?"
"On the basis of our supposition, no more than eighteen hours."
Dolohov was about to reply when the door to the control room opened, and a man in civilian clothes — very Western, Dolohov noticed, a sweater, windcheater and corduroy trousers — stood in the doorway. The man came forward into the light, and Dolohov saw that he was grinning. His hair was blown awry. Dolohov returned the smile, and waved away the junior officer accompanying the man.
"Valery — Valery, my boy!" he announced, ignoring the others in the room, embracing the newcomer, kissing him on both cheeks, a greeting that was returned by the younger man.
"Admiral — sir," the younger man acknowledged when held at arm's length by Dolohov. The rear-admiral seemed surprised to discover that the civilian, in addition to having a permit of entry to his operations room, was some species of naval officer. The haircut, the acknowledgement of rank. Yet almost like a son to the admiral. A little spurt of envy flared in the rear-admiral. This man was not to be treated like a schoolboy slow at his sums, apparently.
"You" ve come straight here?" Dolohov, even as he asked, was already drawing the younger man towards the window of the control room, already extending his free arm to direct the other's gaze. He was revealing a prized object of desire. The rear-admiral bowed frostily as he was casually introduced, resenting the intimacy that had invaded his clinical, sterile control room. "Captain Valery Ardenyev, commanding the Red Banner Special Underwater Operations Unit," Dolohov explained with evident pride, almost with a proprietorial, parental tone, then ignored the rear-admiral. "Down there," he said to Ardenyev. "We" ve marked her with a green light. A colour all to herself."
"You're sure, sir?"
"We think so. She's on course, eighteen hours away from the fjord."
Ardenyev stood looking down at the map table for some time. Dolohov, like a senior priest, allowed him silence and lack of interruption to his meditations, even though there was an impatience about his flinty features that made him appear both older, and much younger.
"The weather's worsening, sir," Ardenyev said finally. "But of course you know that." Ardenyev grinned as he brushed his hair back into place.
"It isn't that bad, Valery," Dolohov replied with a touch of acid.
"Not yet. I'll have to study the reports, and the predictions."
"You have doubts?"
"Not yet, sir. Not yet."
"We" ve eighteen hours, Valery."
"We have to transfer to the salvage vessel long before that, sir. By helicopter."
Dolohov gripped his arm. "Valery — it will be all right," He was instructing Ardenyev, even the weather. Commanding them both. "It will be. We'll have her." He turned to Sergei, his aide, whose position within the small group of the rear-admiral's team seemed an obscure insubordination to Dolohov. "Sergei, get me an up-to-the-minute weather report for our area of interest. And get me all the met. predictions for the next twenty-four hours — now, Sergei." Then Dolohov turned back to Ardenyev as to a child he had indulged, and who now must become obedient. "It must be done, Valery. It must be done."
"If it's possible, sir, it will be. I promise you that."
The rear-admiral, observing the dialogue, conceived the idea that Ardenyev was not without calculation and guile. Dolohov responded by grabbing the younger man's arm, and pressing it with gratitude and what appeared to be affection. The rear-admiral recalled gossip concerning the way in which Ardenyev's career had been jealously promoted by the admiral. Some connection with Ardenyev's father, even grandfather, he had heard. For his own part, the rear-admiral had risen by loyalty to the Party, and distrusted this Soviet version of what the British called the "old boy network". And he distrusted young naval officers in civilian dress with easy manners and obvious self-confidence. Elitist adventurers.
The rear-admiral withdrew to the other side of the control room, to await the updated satellite surveillance information. A small hope that Dolohov was precipitate, even mistaken, he nourished in his stomach like the warmth of a drink.
The College of Education was a new one, built in the grounds of a Victorian magnate's former residence in the suburb of Edgbaston. The original house, having fallen into disrepair both before and after the compulsory purchase of the grounds, had disappeared. A tower block hall of residence stood on the site, bearing the same name as the grandiose house that one of Birmingham's Ozymandiases of trade or industry had erected to his own glorification. Two or three small, supposedly exclusive housing developments encroached on the perimeters of the college campus.
Hyde parked his car outside the tower block and sat for a moment considering his forthcoming interview with Tricia Quin's flatmate, Sara Morrison. Birmingham CID had talked to her the day the Quin girl appeared and disappeared, and had described her as unhelpful. Hyde had checked with the interviewing DC, who had amplified his observation by referring to the Morrison girl as a "Lefty cow, anti-police, good background — isn't it usually the case", and wished Hyde the best of luck with her. A moment of futility as dispiriting as weariness overcame Hyde, then he got out of the car and slammed the door.
The sky was overcast, sombre with rain. The downpour that it threatened was postponed only by the strong, gusty wind that swept paper and dust and old leaves across the grass and the concrete walks around the hall of residence; hurried and chafed the few figures he could see. An overriding impression of concrete and glass and greyness, a modern factory complex. He hurried up the steps into the foyer of the tower block.
A porter, uniformed and officious, emerged from a cubicle, wiping his lips. Hyde showed him the CID warrant card which avoided explanations, and asked for Tricia Quin's flat. The porter, evidently unimpressed by the length of Hyde's hair and his casual dress, begrudgingly supplied the number, and the information that Sara Morrison was in the flat at that moment. He had seen her return from a lecture half-an-hour before. Hyde went up in the lift, unamused by the mock-intellectual graffiti that decorated its walls. He gathered, however, that punk rock had achieved the status both of an art form and a political weapon.
A long corridor, blank, veneered doors. The carpet was marked and already worn, the plaster on the walls evincing settlement cracks. He knocked on the door of 405.
The girl who opened the door wore her hair in tight curls. Her face was instantly suspicious rather than intrigued or helpful. A mouth that pulled down into a scowl almost naturally, it seemed. Sallow skin, no make-up, a creased blouse and uniform denims. Her feet were bare.