We appeared to be driving in orbit round the university; the colossal tower was still quite close on our right. If we stayed near it, at least we'd know where we were.
"Right again," I said.
Now we were on another wide boulevard, heading back towards the esplanade. The big road stretched ahead, empty of traffic. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, "Slow down, Mal. Come down to fifty ks."
"Roger," went Mal, and eased off the accelerator. He'd been doing about sixty-five, and let the needle fall back. With one eye on the mirror he said, "Stand by. The Lada's closing. No — cancel that. They've eased off again."
The next thing we heard was Whinger calling, "Stand by for contact. I'm going in."
I knew what he'd done: on the long straight he'd built up speed and was coming in at the opposition on one fast run. I twisted round in my seat just in time to see a wild flare of headlights sweeping sideways, then the black silhouette of a vehicle momentarily on end, standing on its nose for an instant before hurtling off the near side of the road. Seconds later there was a brilliant flash, and flames leapt from the wreck.
I braked and pulled in to the kerb.
"Nice one, Whinge," I called.
"You OK?"
"More or less." He sounded well hyped up.
"Sustained a bit of damage, but we're still mobile. Davai, da vair We carried on for a couple of blocks. Then Mal said, "No he's dropping back."
"Whinge," I called.
"You got a problem?"
"Yeah front tyre's going down."
"Next right, then. Get off this fucking great road."
We turned into a tree-lined side-street and came to a halt a hundred yards from the junction. Behind us the grey Volga crawled round the corner and crept under a tree.
"Turn and park on the other side," I told Mal.
"Face this way, so you can cover us.
I jumped out and ran across to Whinger's car. The air was full of the stink of burning rubber. Smoke was rising from the offside front wheel. Rick and Pavarotti were already grappling with spare and jack, with Whinger standing back on the alert against the trunk of a tree.
"Tyre's knackered," said Rick.
"The bumper got pushed into it by the impact. The bastard's almost on fire. It's worn right through."
"Steering OK?"
"Should be when we get this wheel on."
I went over to Whinger.
"What was all that about?"
"Ask me another. There were three young guys in it. At least one of them had a pistol, too."
"You up-ended them, anyway."
"Yeah. I got up to eighty ks and came at them without lights.
Took their back end away."
"Zdorovo! That party won't be doing any more driving tonight."
We could have done without that little episode. It broke our concentration and meant that, as we finally approached the churchyard, we had to go through our mental preparation all over again.
This time Whinger made the drive-past, dropping Rick and Pay off on the embankment to walk in and recce the stable on foot. Only when they reported all clear did we prepare to move in.
Never in my life had I felt more nervous. I kept thinking, Once we get underground I'll be OK. What I do not want is any confrontation with all this hardware on our hands. We had no plausible explanation to offer if we were caught. We were prepared to shoot our way out of trouble if we had to, above or below ground, and we hoped that if the police found bodies, they would chalk them up as victims of some Mafia feud. But as for being grabbed in possession of the bomb to that we had no answer. If we were forced to run for it, we might not even get back to the barracks at Balashika. I had visions of a gigantic escape and evasion scenario
Mal remained perfectly cool, and that helped steady me. He hadn't seen the yard before but I'd briefed him on the layout, and now I talked him in, yard by yard.
"Here's the gateway, coming up. There's the church ahead. Keep round to the right.
Stop opposite the doorway. Here we are GO!"
Rick materialised from the stable, opened the rear door of the Volga and dragged section one of Apple half-way out.
"Pay's done the locks," he whispered.
"Great."
Mal remained in the driving seat with his engine ticking over in case he needed to take off suddenly. Toad grabbed the handles on the other end of section one. Together with Rick he carried it into the stable. I seized the SCR canister from the boot and staggered in with that. A moment later Toad and Rick brought in section two. Last out of the car was my bergen, containing lightweight hoist, ladder, nets, rubber bags, dry-suits, digging tools, head-torches, spare batteries, overalls and other essential paraphernalia. The pack alone was one hell of a weight.
"That's it," I hissed at Mal through his open window.
"See you later."
He eased the Volga gently forward, through the bend into the rear yard, swung round and came back past us. We saw his brake lights glow for an instant before he nosed out on to the main road. Then he was gone.
In the ink-black stable we stood and listened. I found I was hyperventilating, but I knew that now the most immediate danger of having the hardware discovered in the car was over.
Now, in an emergency, we could do a runner or shoot our way out, leaving the stuff behind, and, if challenged, deny all knowledge of it.
The yard was very still, the church dark. We waited a couple of minutes. Nobody moved or spoke. Then I whispered, "OK."
Our individual tasks were carefully pre-planned. Toad kept watch on the doorway. Pay, the tallest, slung a loop over the main roof beam to take the top hook of the hoist. I broke out the nets, which were made of thick green nylon with a three-inch mesh, and manoeuvred the steel cases into them.
We'd just got the first one trussed when Toad let out a hiss.
Torches snapped off Everyone kept still. But it was only the usual problem women crossing the yard from the church — and in a moment we moved again.
With all three cases netted, I pulled on my dry-suit, got Rick to zip up the back, and took over from Toad at the door while he got his suit on.
Pavarotti had the hoist well secured, the pulleys running smoothly.
"Looks good," I whispered, running my torch beam over his ropes.
"Rick?"
"Hello."
"I'm going down. We'll aim to be back at the base of the shaft at midnight. Lift the lid and have a listen then, anyway. If we're not back, try again every half-hour."
"Roger. Happy landings."
Feet into the top of the shaft. Ease down the ladder. Once my feet touched, I took a careful look round the floor in my immediate area. No signs of disturbance other than our own. The same damp, muddy smell of decay.
I switched off my head-torch to save the battery, jerked the ladder and felt it rise past me as somebody lifted it clear. Then I heard scuffling noises as the first of the loaded nets the SCR started down. I was tempted to peer up the shaft and watch it coming, but didn't fancy being under it if a rope should break or anything went wrong with the hoist; so I stood to one side and waited until the heavy bundle sank gently to the floor, then released the shacide.
Before the second net came down there was quite a pause. I imagined the guys struggling to manoeuvre the heavy case into position, on end above the mouth of the shaft, without letting it bump or scrape. Then more scuffling, scratching noises started, and I switched my torch on again in time to see the bulging net appear. Once more I released the shackle and twitched the rope, then walked the case out of the way on its corners and laid it gently on its back. Its weight was formidable, and I knew that the third component, section two, was ten kilos heavier still.