"I understand, sir," Ardenyev supplied.
"You're impressed by the British equipment, Valery?"
Ardenyev paused. Sergei felt he was calculating the degree of flattery his answer should contain. "Very. We must have it, sir."
"Yes, yes — but, its effectiveness? It exceeds our expectations, mm?"
"Yes, sir."
"She'll keep on course?" Dolohov asked suddenly.
"I — think so, sir." Ardenyev seemed struck by the idea, as if he had not considered it before. "I think so. She's committed, now, under orders."
"Our activity won't discourage her?"
"I doubt that. The captain of the Proteus would have the authority to abort — I just don't think he will. As long as “Leopard” functions, he'll enjoy the cat-and-mouse of it."
"Exactly my reading of the man — of the situation." Dolohov looked at his watch. "She appears to be maintaining course and speed. We have five hours, or less. Success or failure." Sergei could hear the admiral's breathing. Hoarse gulps of air, as if the sterile atmosphere of the control room offered something more necessary than oxygen. "You'd better get off to Pechenga to join your men, Valery."
Ardenyev immediately stood up, an automaton galvanised by the order. Sergei felt the man was simply supplying an impression of instant action such as Dolohov would expect, had waited for.
"Wish me luck, sir."
Dolohov stood up and embraced the young man. "I do, Valery — I wish you luck. Bring me back the British submarine, eh?" He clamped Ardenyev's forearms again with his liver-spotted hands. Ardenyev felt the strength of desperation in the embrace. And of old age refusing to admit the growing dark. He felt sorry, and irritated. He felt himself no more than Dolohov's creature. Later, it would be different, but now it was unpleasant. He would be glad to be aboard the chopper, being flown to the port of Pechenga. "The weather won't prevent you?" It was a command, and a doubt.
Ardenyev shook his head, smiling. "Not if I can help it."
"Report in when you arrive — then wait for my order to transfer to the Karpaty."
"Of course, sir."
When he had left the room, Dolohov went on staring at the door which had closed behind him. From the concentration on his face, Sergei understood that the old man was attempting to ignore the voice of one of the rear-admiral's team who was reading off the updated weather report from a met. satellite for the Tanafjord area. To Sergei, it sounded bad.
Almost as soon as it lifted clear of the main runway at RAF Kinloss on the Moray Firth in Scotland, the Nimrod surveillance aircraft turned north-eastwards, out over the Firth, and was lost in the low cloud. A blue flare beneath the wings, the flashing red light on her belly, the two faint stars at wingtips, and then nothing except the scudding cloud across the cold grey water, and the driving, slanting rain. It had taken less than two hours to authorise a Nimrod to pursue the Proteus, carrying, in addition to her antisubmarine electronics, the encoded instruction to the submarine to return to base with all possible speed. The time was two minutes after six in the evening.
It was almost dark when they arrived. A luxury coach pulled up at one of the rear entrances to Hall 5, and Hyde, standing with the uniformed superintendent responsible for security and order at the rock concert, watched as Heat of the Day descended from it and slipped into the open door to their dressing rooms. Arrogance, self-assurance, denim-masked wealth. Hyde absorbed these impressions even as he studied the figures he did not recognise; managers, road managers, publicity, secretaries. The girl had not been with Alletson, and Hyde's immediate uncontrollable reaction was one of intense disappointment. After the hours in the car park and on the platforms of Birmingham International station and inside and outside Hall 5 — all with no sign of the KGB or the Ford Granada, but the more intensely wearing for that — there was an immediate impression of wasted time, of time run out. Of stupidity, too.
But she was there. Denims and a dark donkey jacket too big for her — was it her, certainly the jacket was too big for the present wearer? — slipping out of the coach without pause, walking with and then ahead of the two other women. The white globe of a face for a moment as she looked round, then she was through the lighted door and gone.
"Was she there?" the superintendent asked. His manner was not unfriendly, not unhelpful. Hyde had been scrupulously deferential and polite.
"I don't know." He felt a tightness in his chest. Was it her? Furtive, certainly furtive. Alletson had paused, allowed himself to be recognised, taken the limelight. Declaring he was alone, there was no girl. "I think so."
"The one with the too-big coat?"
"I think so."
"Okay. You'd better go and find out. Want one of my chaps to go with you?"
"No. I'll be enough to panic her by myself."
"Suit yourself."
"Thanks for your help."
Hyde crossed the tarmac, rounded the coach, and showed his warrant card to the PC on duty at the door. The superintendent was apprised of Hyde's real capacity, but it was unnecessary for anyone else to know. "Where are the dressing rooms?"
"Down the corridor, turn left. You'll see another bloke dressed just like me. And the press, and the bouncers and the hangers-on. Can't miss it."
"Not your scene, this?"
"I'd rather be at the Villa, yobs and all."
"They playing at home tonight?"
Too bloody true."
"Shame."
Hyde followed the corridor, and turned the corner into a crowd of pressmen and cameramen, carefully orchestrated outside the closed dressing room doors. Heat of the Day were back in business. Interest had to be stoked, and kept alight. Hyde pushed through the crowd towards the policeman on the door of one of the rooms. He waved his warrant card.
"Which one is Alletson in?"
"Who?"
"The short bloke with the wavy hair.“
"Uh — that one," the PC supplied, indicating the other door, outside which two bulky men in denims and leather jackets stood, arms folded. Hyde wondered who, precisely, they were guarding. A press or publicity secretary was informing the cameramen that they would be allowed to take their pictures just before the band went onstage. Her announcement was greeted with a chorus of groans. Hyde showed his warrant card to one of the band's security men, who seemed to loom over him.
"Who do you want?" The question was wrong, and revealing. Again, Hyde felt his chest tighten with anticipation. The girl was in there.
"I'm not after his autograph."
"So, what do you want?" Both of them seemed uncertain what to do.
"Just a security check. And I want to talk to Jon about after the concert. Getting away."
"I'll ask him."
"Don't bother. I'll talk to him." He made to reach for the door handle. A large hand closed over his own, and he looked up into a face adopting aggression reluctantly, uncertainly. "Don't be stupid," Hyde said. "It might be big trouble — will be big trouble." The two men glanced at one another, then his hand was released.
"Easy, eh?"
"I'll take it easy — don't upset the artiste, right?" Hyde opened the door without knocking. The girl turned in her chair, alert, nervous, instantly aware of what he was and why he was there. Alletson was lying on a camp bed, and the keyboard player, Whiteman, was scribbling with a pencil on stave paper.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked. Alletson's voice provided a more nervous, knowing undertone.
"Trish — what is it?"
The girl simply stared at Hyde as he shut the door behind him. Whiteman, oblivious to the other two and their anxiety, added, "Piss off, we're busy." He glanced contemptuously at the warrant card. "Autographs later," he sneered.