about to close the door behind him, he heard Pavel say: ‘Gant - can you fly that plane - really fly it?’
Gant poked his head back round the door. Pavel was staring into the bottom of his mug, hands clasped round it, elbows on the bare wooden table. His big frame seemed somehow shrunken in the blue overalls.
‘Yes,’ Gant said. ‘I can fly it. I’m the best there is.’
Pavel looked up into Gant’s eyes, stared at him for a long moment in silence, then nodded, and said: ‘Good. I would not want to die to deliver faulty goods to Bilyarsk.’
He returned his gaze to the coffee mug, and Gant closed the door behind him. He switched on the weak, naked bulb, ran the water until it was lukewarm, and inspected himself in the speckled mirror. Pavel had cut his hair the previous night, and then he had washed it.
It was short now, flat on his head, without hair oil. He looked younger, perhaps a little like he had done as a teenager in Clarkville - except for the ridiculous moustache that survived from his personae as Orton and then as Grant. He soaped his face with a stubby brush and tugged at the bristles of the moustache until it had become hairs floating in the grey shaving water. Then he began, methodically, to shave the rest of his face.
When he returned to the office, Pavel was obviously ready to leave. The old man had returned, and vanished again, presumably to keep watch.
‘They are here,’ Pavel said softly. Gant sensed a new tension about the man, his ordinariness showing through.
‘How many?’ Gant asked, keeping his voice steady with an effort.
‘Three - in one car. The old man has seen them before. They are part of the team appointed to the security of the Bilyarsk project. They follow Mr. Lansing about Moscow, and Dherkov, the courier who comes from Bilyarsk. The old man thinks they are only watching - if they had come to make arrests, there would be more of them.’
Gant nodded when the Russian had finished. Then, his expression turned to one of surprise when Pavel drew an automatic from his overall pocket.
‘What-?’
‘You can use this?’ Gant took the gun, and turned it over in his hand. It was a type he had not met before, a Makarov, but it seemed close enough to the Walther P-38 that he had used more than once, if only on the range. He nodded.
‘Good. Don’t - unless it’s absolutely necessary!’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us be gone from here. It is a little before six - soon it will be light, and we have six hundred miles to go.’ He opened the door, and followed Gant through.
Once they were in the big cab of the truck, whose nose pointed at the double-doors of the warehouse, Pavel started the engine and nickered the headlights.
Gant spotted the old night watchman by the doors, then they began to swing open; Pavel eased the truck into gear and they rolled forward towards the widening gap of grey light. He caught a glimpse of the old man’s face, smiling grimly, and then they were out into the side street, with Pavel heaving on the wheel of the truck to straighten it. Gant caught a glimpse of a black saloon further down the street, in the opposite direction to the one they had taken, and then they were turning into the Kirov Street, sodium-lit, grey, and deserted.
Behind them, the KGB car was quiet. No one had panicked, started the engine. Instead, one of the three men, the oldest and largest, had picked up the car telephone, and was in direct contact with KGB Colonel Mihail Kontarsky within seconds.
‘They have just left - two of them, in the sanitary ware delivery truck. What do you wish us to do, Colonel?’
There was a pause, then: ‘I will check with Priabin at the Mira Prospekt. For the moment, you may follow them - but do not close up!’
‘Yes, Colonel.’ He nodded to the driver, who fired the engine. The car pulled out from the kerb, past the now-closed doors of the warehouse, and stopped at the junction with the Kirov Street. The
Gant poked his head back round the door. Pavel was staring into the bottom of his mug, hands clasped round it, elbows on the bare wooden table. His big frame seemed somehow shrunken in the blue overalls.
‘Yes,’ Gant said. ‘I can fly it. I’m the best there is.’
Pavel looked up into Gant’s eyes, stared at him for a long moment in silence, then nodded, and said: ‘Good. I would not want to die to deliver faulty goods to Bilyarsk.’
He returned his gaze to the coffee mug, and Gant closed the door behind him. He switched on the weak, naked bulb, ran the water until it was lukewarm, and inspected himself in the speckled mirror. Pavel had cut his hair the previous night, and then he had washed it.
It was short now, flat on his head, without hair oil. He looked younger, perhaps a little like he had done as a teenager in Clarkville - except for the ridiculous moustache that survived from his personae as Orton and then as Grant. He soaped his face with a stubby brush and tugged at the bristles of the moustache until it had become hairs floating in the grey shaving water. Then he began, methodically, to shave the rest of his face.
When he returned to the office, Pavel was obviously ready to leave. The old man had returned, and vanished again, presumably to keep watch.
‘They are here,’ Pavel said softly. Gant sensed a new tension about the man, his ordinariness showing through.
‘How many?’ Gant asked, keeping his voice steady with an effort.
‘Three - in one car. The old man has seen them before. They are part of the team appointed to the security of the Bilyarsk project. They follow Mr. Lansing about Moscow, and Dherkov, the courier who comes from Bilyarsk. The old man thinks they are only watching - if they had come to make arrests, there would be more of them.’
Gant nodded when the Russian had finished. Then, his expression turned to one of surprise when Pavel drew an automatic from his overall pocket.
‘What-?’
‘You can use this?’ Gant took the gun, and turned it over in his hand. It was a type he had not met before, a Makarov, but it seemed close enough to the Walther P-38 that he had used more than once, if only on the range. He nodded.
‘Good. Don’t - unless it’s absolutely necessary!’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us be gone from here. It is a little before six - soon it will be light, and we have six hundred miles to go.’ He opened the door, and followed Gant through.
Once they were in the big cab of the truck, whose nose pointed at the double-doors of the warehouse, Pavel started the engine and nickered the headlights.
Gant spotted the old night watchman by the doors, then they began to swing open; Pavel eased the truck into gear and they rolled forward towards the widening gap of grey light. He caught a glimpse of the old man’s face, smiling grimly, and then they were out into the side street, with Pavel heaving on the wheel of the truck to straighten it. Gant caught a glimpse of a black saloon further down the street, in the opposite direction to the one they had taken, and then they were turning into the Kirov Street, sodium-lit, grey, and deserted.
Behind them, the KGB car was quiet. No one had panicked, started the engine. Instead, one of the three men, the oldest and largest, had picked up the car telephone, and was in direct contact with KGB Colonel Mihail Kontarsky within seconds.
‘They have just left - two of them, in the sanitary ware delivery truck. What do you wish us to do, Colonel?’
There was a pause, then: ‘I will check with Priabin at the Mira Prospekt. For the moment, you may follow them - but do not close up!’
‘Yes, Colonel.’ He nodded to the driver, who fired the engine. The car pulled out from the kerb, past the now-closed doors of the warehouse, and stopped at the junction with the Kirov Street. The
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