Authors: Craig Thomas
Dmitri Priabin shivered in his uniform greatcoat as he watched Anna's son playing football on the snow-covered grass of the Gorky Park of Culture and Rest. The bench on which he was seated was rimed with frost which sparkled in the orange sodium lights. Beneath the lights which lined the paths through the park, Maxim and his friends would play until it was fully dark, and then on into the night, if they were allowed. He felt indulgent, despite the cold, though he knew that when Anna arrived she would scold all of them, him most of all for allowing them to get cold and damp and tired. He smiled at the thought, and at the high, childish voices, the imitations of star players' protests and antics. He contented himself with occasional glances towards the gigantic stone porch and architrave that marked the main entrance to the park. Beyond it, traffic roared homewards on the Sadovaya Ring and along the Lenin Prospekt. Workers hurried through the park, one or two of them stopping for a moment to watch the boys' football game; stamping their cold feet, rubbing gloved hands before rushing on into the gathering dusk.
Maxim had new boots - Dynamo First Class - which Priabin had purchased for the boy's birthday the previous week. The ball also belonged to Maxim. He watched as Anna's son dribbled past two friend-opponents and slid it inside the tall metal rod which marked one goalpost. Maxim pranced, hands in the air, after he had scored. Another boy protested at offside while the very diminutive goalkeeper picked himself out of the snow after his desperate, unavailing dive for the ball. Priabin clapped his gloved hands, laughing, then looked at his watch. Time to go - at least to begin to round them up.
He glanced towards the architrave and the Communist Party symbols carved upon it. Then, from beneath the curving weight of the stone porch, he saw Anna Borisovna Akhmerovna emerge, and he found his breath catching, as it almost always did when he unexpectedly caught sight of her; when it was no more than a few moments before she would be at his side. Hurriedly, with a great show of concern, he stood up and walked through the snow, waving his arms, collecting the teams. All the time, he was aware of her approach, half-amused, half eager, almost to the point of desperation. He still could not properly catch his breath. The boys crowded reluctantly, protestingly around his tall figure. He continued to wave his arms in shepherding gestures, turning eventually to where he knew she had stopped. Red-faced and puffing, he knew he could easily have appeared to be one of the schoolboys. He was taller and heavier, but closer to their age-group than he was to the woman who stood on the frosty path, arms folded, head slightly on one side, appraising the group of which he formed the centrepiece.
'I didn't realise the time… you're late, anyway,' he protested. Maxim waved shyly, a gesture he could not prevent but which was muted out of deference to his friends and the rough masculinity of their recent activity.
'Who won?' she called.
'I - don't know,' he laughed.
'Maxim's team - lucky swines!' one boy explained.
'No luck in it!' Maxim retorted.
Priabin walked towards Anna, feeling his cheeks glow. She was wearing a fur coat and hat with long black leather boots. Her fair hair escaped untidily from the hat. Her face was pale from the cold. Priabin could not bear not to touch her, but contented himself with a peck on her cold cheek and murmured endearment. Her gloved hand touched the side of his face, briefly; his skin seemed to burn more heatedly afterwards.
'Come on - all of you,' she ordered. 'Collect your things. Change out of those wet boots before you go anywhere! No, no, coats on first or you'll all catch pneumonia!'
The boys fought for places on the bench. Cold fingers fumbled and tugged at wet, icy bootlaces. Bodies that had wisps of steam about them in the freezing air struggled into overcoats and anoraks and thick jackets. The sons of civil servants, schoolteachers, one of them even the son of a Soviet film star. Boys from the same expensive block of apartments as Maxim. From the place where he lived with Anna -
'Come on,' he said. 'Hot dogs and hamburgers all round - but only if you're quick!' He turned to Anna. 'One good thing the Olympics did, from their point of view. We now have Muscovite hot-dog stands!' He sniffed the air loudly. 'I can smell the onions from here!' he exclaimed. The boys hurried into their shoes and boots arid coloured Wellingtons. Bobble-caps and scarves, and they were finally ready. Priabin handed Maxim a crumpled heap of rouble notes, and nodded towards the stone porch and the Lenin Prospekt beyond. 'Your treat,' he said. 'And none of you stray away from the stand before we get there!'
Noisily, the party of footballers and would-be diners ran off. Football boots, trailed carelessly, clattered on the frosty path as they ran. The ball bobbed between them before it was retrieved.
'He's not going to take any chances with that ball!' Priabin laughed.
'Like his mother,' Anna replied, slipping her arm into that of Priabin. 'He can recognise a good thing when he sees it!'
'Bless you,' Priabin said awkwardly, blushing. He patted her hand.
She leaned her face against the shoulders of his greatcoat, then said mischievously, 'Those new shoulder boards are very hard.'
He burst into laughter. The noise of the traffic was louder as they walked towards the archway. Away to their left, across the darkening park, the double line of lights along the banks of the river were fuzzy. An icy mist hung above the Moskva. Priabin shivered. He had remembered their argument the previous evening.
As if she read his thoughts, Anna murmured: 'I'm sorry about last night - '
'It doesn't matter.'
'I'm still glad about that damned aircraft - I'm still glad it's been stolen,
it's gone-
!' she added vehemently, as if making an effort to fully recapture her emotions of the previous night; rekindle their argument.
'I know,' he soothed.
'When I think- !' she burst out afresh, but he patted her hand, then grabbed her closer to him.
'I
know
it,' he murmured. 'I know it.'
He detested the vehemence in her blind, unreasoning hatred of the MiG-31 project. It was an intellectual hatred, the worst kind. He had loathed the previous evening and the argument that had seemed to leap out of the empty wine bottle like a jinn. He had been totally unprepared for it. He had informed her of the death of Baranovich at Bilyarsk almost casually, his head light with wine and the meal she had cooked to celebrate his promotion. He had been high on drink, and on his colonelcy. Blind. He hadn't seen the argument coming, hadn't watched her closely enough. Baranovich had been the trigger. As he held her now, he could hear her yelling at him across the dining table.
'
Baranovich is dead
?' she had asked. '
You pass me the information like a bundle of old clothes? Your project - your damnable bloody project has killed Baranovich? His mind was - priceless! And that filthy project killed him
!'
There was much more of it. Priabin crushed Anna's body to him to prevent the working of memory, feeling her slightness beneath the heavy fur coat. She struggled away from him.
'What is it?' she asked, studying him intently.
He shook his head. 'Nothing - nothing now…'
'Come on, then. The boys will be getting cold - in spite of their hot dogs!' She reached for his hand, like an elder sister, and pulled him towards the arch and the traffic beyond. He matched his step to hers. The flushed lightness of his mood had disappeared, and he blamed Baranovich, the dead Jew. Anna had met him no more than three or four times. He was not a friend, not even a real acquaintance. Instead, he had become some kind of hero to her; even a symbol.
He shook his head, but the train of thought persisted. It was almost six years earlier, from Anna's account, that her role with the Secretariat of the Ministry of Health had brought her into contact with the Jewish scientist. He had developed a prototype wheelchair for the totally disabled, which used thought-guidance via micro-electronics for its motive power and ability to manoeuvre. Anna had taken up the project with an enthusiasm amounting to missionary zeal. After eighteen months, the project had been scrapped.
Correction, he admitted to himself. He could hear the group of boys around the hot-dog stand now, above the rumble of the traffic. The smell of the onions was heavy, almost nauseating. Correction. The Ministry of Defence had acquired the project for its anticipated military applications; acquired Baranovitch, too. The design for the wheelchair which was never built found its way eventually into the MiG-31 as a thought-guided weapons system.
Anna had never forgiven them for that, for creating a means of more efficient destruction; out of the prototype for a wheelchair.
Them - ?
Everyone. The military, the Civil service, the Politburo - even himself. She had never forgiven anyone.
'Come on, come on,' he said with forced enthusiasm as the boys gathered around him, full mouths grinning, feet shuffling, the lights of passing cars playing over the group. The hot-dog seller stamped and rubbed his hands. Onion-breath smoked from the stand. 'Where's your car?' he asked Anna. She gestured down the Lenin Prospekt. 'See you at the apartment, then,' he said. 'Take as many as you can… the rest of us will get the metro.'
She nodded, and smiled encouragingly. He knew his face was dark with memory. He nodded. 'OK - all those for the metro, follow me!' He marched off pompously, making Anna laugh. The boys, except for Maxim and the film star's son, followed in his wake, giggling.
Priabin waved to her without turning round. He envisaged her clearly. Thirty-eight, small-faced, assured, fashionable, ambitious. A senior assistant secretary to the Secretary to the Ministry of Health; a prominent and successful civil servant. Her income was greater than his.
As they clattered down the steps into the Park Kultury metro station, he thought that last night he had begun to understand her. He started fishing for the fare in his trouser pockets, hitching up the skirts of his greatcoat to do so, his gloves clamped between his teeth. Yes, he had at last begun to understand.
It was that damned project. It had always been that damned Bilyarsk project. She had wanted revenge for what they had done, for never developing and mass-producing that bloody wheelchair.
So, she had begun to work for the Americans…
He gripped a handful of change and small denomination notes and heaved them out of his pocket.
She had begun to work for the Americans…
'We have one chance-just one,' Aubrey said with heavy emphasis. 'If we can get in before this approaching front brings winter's last fling with it - ' He tapped the projected satellite photograph with a pointer. ' - then perhaps we can beat the Russians
and
the Finns to the Firefox.' Pyott, who was operating the slide projector, flicked backwards and forwards through the satellite pictures as soon as Aubrey paused. They fluttered grey and white on the old man's face as he stood in front of the screen, pointer still raised. Finally, Pyott switched off the projector. Buckholz put on the Ops. Room lights. 'Well?' Aubrey asked. 'Well, Giles?'
Pyott shook his head and fiddled with his moustache. 'This front is producing heavy snow at the moment, and it's bringing a lot more behind it - heavy snow showers, high winds, even the possibility of electrical storms. As you so neatly put it, Kenneth, it's winter's last fling over northern Europe and Scandinavia- I don't know. I really don't know.'
'It won't take us forty-eight hours to arrive on the site, Giles - '
'I realise that, Kenneth. But, the Skyhook's already making very slow time. We shall be very, very lucky if it gets there at all.'
'The winches we have are capable of moving something as heavy as the Firefox. She'll have to be winched out of the lake.'
'And then what do you do with her?'
'The Skyhook
will
arrive.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Then we must salvage what we can and destroy the rest!' Aubrey turned his back on Pyott and crossed to the plot table. Curtin, seated on a folding chair, watched him in silence. Buckholz appeared genuinely distressed and firmly in a dilemma. Aubrey glared at the Mack model of the MiG-31, at the map of Finland and northern Norway, at the coloured tapes and symbols.
He turned on his three companions. 'Come on,' he said more pleasantly, 'decide. The Finns don't want the aircraft on their territory. If we removed it before the Russians found out, they'd be delighted with us! Their strong language is bluff -
mostly
bluff. We have placed them in an awkward spot. In twenty-four hours, perhaps less, no aircraft will be able to fly in that area, there will be no aerial reconnaissance to interrupt us. There will be no detachment of Finnish troops flown in, either. We would be on our own.
We -
at least our forward detachments - are little more than sixty miles from the lake. We're
nearer
than anyone else! One full Hercules transport could drop all our requirements and our people on the spot!'
Aubrey paused. He felt like an orator who had come from the wings towards the podiurn and, discovered an extremely thin, utterly disgruntled audience. Buckholz, instead of looking in his direction, seemed to be looking to Pyott for an answer. Curtin was doing no more than acting out his subordinate rank. Pyott was brushing his moustache as vigorously as if attempting to remove a stain from his features.
'I - ' Buckholz began, still not looking at Aubrey. 'My government wants this thing cleared up - I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, Washington is becoming a little impatient…' Aubrey watched Buckholz's face. The Deputy Director of the CIA had said nothing of his last lengthy telephone conversation with Langley. This, apparently, was the burden of it. 'I've argued the weather, the logistics, the lack of a fall-back operation, the political dangers and pitfalls. The White House still wants action…' Now, he turned directly to Aubrey, and added: 'I have my orders, Kenneth. I don't like them, but I have to try to carry them out. I don't have any answers, but I sure
want
some!' It was evident that Buckholz had been browbeaten by Washington. He had been ordered to mount some kind of recovery operation, however much he rejected any such idea. Buckholz shrugged. 'It has to be done - something has to be done.'