Winter Hawk (40 page)

"No," he admitted as an answer to Rodin's challenging question; it was like an admission of abnormality.

"Then you haven't been on the mountaintop." Rodin giggled. They all feel like that, always."

"And they killed Sacha, just like that."

Rodin's head jerked back as if avoiding a blow. His thin face became enveloped in shadow. What might have been an involuntary tear gleamed. Rodin snapped, wiping at his eye, "Let's have some music on. I'm bored with all this talk."

Priabin watched him cross to the hi-fi. There was no urgency in the KGB colonel; as if his knowledge restrained him in the armchair to which he had returned. He felt empty, as if at the end of a passion, or some great defeat of his most cherished hopes. Tired.

"I wonder what you like, policeman?" Rodin murmured to himself. His long fingers flicked along a shelf of LPs. "Ah—what about this? About your era, I would have thought."

He stood up, unsheathed the record, placed it on the turntable. A few moments later, the words struck against Priabin's thoughts as if Rodin had seen into some secret part of him and was using an interrogation technique of his own. Softening Priabin up.

Anna. The song was Dylan, of course. The American CBS album, no cheap copy. Not political Dylan, which Anna had always preferred, but the Dylan Priabin himself would always choose—had always chosen.

He was intent on the words, his face paled by the shocks of memory, and the likeness of his own history to the present. Anna and that damn wheelchair that had become part of the weapons systems of the Firefox. A wheelchair for the totally disabled, governed by brain impulses, corrupted into a thought-guided weapons system; its inventor, Baranovich, corrupted, too. He shook his head, hating the clarity of the past. Rodin studied him, his own face abstracted, filled with memories.

. . . if 1 could only hear her heart a-softly pounding . . .

He glanced at his watch. One-fifteen. Time was racing ahead of him. Kedrov in the marshes, Rodin here, the weight of what he had been told. It seemed impossible to act, to lift that weight. A growing dread seemed to have invaded his frame, making him weak.

. . . and if only she was lying to me . . .

The song pained.

"But we need this treaty," he heard himself saying, sensing that he wished to avoid the song and prolong the talk. Talk meant inaction.

Rodin shrugged. "They don't. Puts them out of a job, drops them from the top of the First Division, wouldn't you say?"
tie
returned his attention to the music.

... I'd lie in my bed once again . . .

. . . yes, and only if my own true love was waiting . . .

"You do understand, Priabin?" Rodin asked him after a time. The song had almost reached its conclusion, its final statement of joss. Anna—

"What?"

"All this, man." Rodin's arm gestured toward the soundless pictures on the television. Then he got up, crossed the room, and switched off the record. He stood, hands on hips, as if in challenge. "You do understand?" he repeated.

The shuttle floated. Priabin concentrated upon it. It was over South America. Cloud draped the planet like a bridal veil. The image was unbelievably beautifuL He could not make himself care what happened to the shuttle, or to its crew, not for a long time. When he finally spoke, he saw that Rodin had sat down once more and was halfway through another cigarette. He did not look at his watch but simply said:

"They can t do it. They can t be allowed to. We can t afford it. He shuddered, felt cold. The nasal, almost whining song was gone, and Anna, too, had faded below the level of consciousness; as if she could safely leave him to his own devices. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the frozen shepherdesses, at the floating shuttle
Atlantis.
"No one can afford this project, you know that," he said. "The Union's bankrupt. Are they so mad that they can't see that? Why else would we be signing the bloody treaty?"

"I'm not arguing with you."

"We all need the rest, dammit! The whole of the economy's fucked. People are fed up with having nothing in the shops and no money to spend anyway—it's as simple as that in the end. The army can't be allowed to screw them again."

"Oh?" Rodin replied archly. "They can't, can't they?"

"We have to stop it," Priabin blurted out. His thoughts buffeted him like a wind. Maybe he could send a coded message, but they Wouldn't necessarily believe him—and to whom would he send the Message, the bloody Chairman himself? They'd ask the defense Minister to confirm or deny, always supposing they didn't dismiss it °ut of hand as the ravings of a lunatic. And then he'd be screwed hke Sacha and Viktor. God, what could he do?

He studied Rodin.

Relief surged through him. Rodin was being flown to Moscow t°day. All he had to do was book a ticket on the same flight. Once *hey were in Moscow, he could begin to do something, talk to peo-pie, persuade them, with Rodin as his prize piece of evidence, proof—

"Not me," Rodin replied, his face dark with suspicion and self-concern; no longer confident.

"You must."

"And put my head in the gas oven? Piss off, policeman."

"You have to help me."

"What? You must be joking."

"It's your only way out—" He left the sentence evocatively unfinished. His features wore an implacable look.

"Joke over, Priabin." Rodin got to his feet and flicked off the television with a sharp, punching movement. Then he turned to Priabin. "Forget it, brother. Forget I ever told you—or you and I will end up where Sacha is now."

"I can't—not now. It mustn't happen."

"It will happen. Nothing's more certain. It's early on Wednesday morning; tomorrow isn't such a long time. Go home and go to bed and get up on Friday." He moved closer, appeared threatening though slight and dressed only in a robe. "Nothing. Say nothing, Priabin. For your own sake."

"No. We both know now, and we have to do something about it"

"You're crazy. You want to die? Like Sacha—they killed him like
that."
He clicked his fingers. "I'm staying alive. Whatever my father has in mind for me, I'm staying around for it."

"You can't."

"Just watch me."

"You have to help me."

"You can't beat them."

"Listen to me—just listen." He had grabbed Rodin's slim arms, holding them fiercely. "You're on your way to Moscow. You just have to do what is already arranged for you. I'll get a seat on the plane—we can both be in Moscow in time to stop this thing." Rodin was shaking his head, but in a shamed sort of way, eyes cast down at the carpet. "It's an act of war. And if the Americans ever suspect we had anything to do with the loss of their shuttle, there'll be a holocaust! Do you want that?" Kedrov's told them we have the weapon, he thought. They'll know we destroyed their shuttle.

"You're talking rubbish."

"No. No, I'm not. It
's
your only hope of safety, and it's the only thing we can do. Your Papa and his pals are mad. They have to be stopped." He was shaking Rodin's arms roughly. Then he
released

^em. Rodin began to rub them at once, walking away toward the
window.
The tape would have to be erased or taken with him to
Moscow
—yes, taken to Moscow. Just in case.

Mikhail and Anatoly must be told to clean up thoroughly, and keep their heads down.

Katya and Kedrov in the marshes; Dudin was involved now.
Kedrov
should be kept under wraps until he got back from Moscow. Would he be safe out there? Anyway, he'd have to arrange all that tonight—in what remained of the night. One-thirty. He'd have to hurry. The plane ticket wouldn't be any problem, and he could be incommunicado as far as any callers at his office were concerned. He could do it.

"Well?" he asked Rodin's narrow back.

"No."

He made as if to move toward the young man, but then remained standing near his armchair.

"You have to," he said.

"They'll kill me."

"Not if we win."

"And the rest of my life—and yours?"

"You'll be protected. For God's sake, we have to do it."

Would Rodin help him?

Ticket. Get on the flight, even if he won't agree. You can have him arrested in Moscow and taken to the Center. You'll have the tape to open him up with—a prerecorded corkscrew. Get the ticket, get on the plane, get Kedrov stowed safely.

One-thirty, thirty-two. Come on, get moving. Heat and energy seemed to mount in him. He steadied himself against the chair, and felt his strength return. Then he said:

"Think about it. It's your only hope—our only hope."

"My father will have me killed if I ever do anything to harm him. You realize that, don't you?"

Rodin would not turn to look into the room but continued to stare out into the windy night. Priabin could clearly hear the wind howling at the building's comers, crying down the narrow street.

"He won't be able to harm you—not anymore."

"So you say."

Priabin was possessed by impatience; technique was deserting him. If he stayed he would say the wrong things, close the oyster
^a
gain and alienate Rodin. He had other things to do, arrangements

make.

Leave him, then? He did not want to . . . felt he could not risk . . . but he had arrangements that must be made. Leave.

"Look, I'm leaving now."

Rodin turned. "Who are you going to tell?" he shouted, his face white, the cords in his neck standing proud.

"No one. No one—not here. You think I'm mad? It's my life, too. No, I have things that need doing."

"You're going to be on that plane?"

"Yes."

"Damn you, then!" Rodin screamed.

"You told me knowing I was a policeman. You told me because you were afraid of it," Priabin soothed. "Think about it. I can save your life."

'The hell you can. Get out, damn you—get out!"

Rodin's fists were formed into claws and raised in front of his chest. He looked dangerous, and unbalanced. As if he might fling himself in an attack upon Priabin, or throw himself from the window.

"Think about it," Priabin shouted back. "Lock the door, don't answer the telephone, and think about it."

Priabin turned away, picked up his overcoat in the hall, opened the door, and let himself out of the flat. He sighed with fear and weakness, leaning back against the door for a moment, head raised. He was sweating profusely.

Rodin, he knew, should not be left alone. But he couldn't involve Anatoly and Mikhail. If they were suspected, they were dead. They had the tape, and they must keep their heads down until the storm had blown over. Kedrov he had to hide somewhere, in Katya's custody . . . Dudin had to be bought off with some cock-and-bull story about security ... he had to get a seat on that morning flight. His head spun.

He crossed to the staircase and began to run down the first flight. Every moment he was away from Rodin would be filled with anxiety. Hurry, then, be as little time as you can. Hurry.

My God, he thought as he reached the lobby of the building. My God, they're going to start the next war!

10:
Collision Course

There was still no
glow from the tiny light on the receiver. Kedrov had not activated the transponder hidden in the cheap radio. It was not receiving Gant's signal and sending its precoded reply, which only his receiver was able to pick up. Gant knew where Kedrov should be—less than twenty miles away. Either he wasn't there, or—

Gant dismissed the thought as it bullied against his resolve. Kedrov had to be there. Alive.

The white dot that represented the Hind remained motionless on the moving-map display, hovering to the northwest of the marshes, outside the farthest security perimeter of the Baikonur complex; just outside. Fifty miles behind him, the shore of the Aral Sea; twenty miles ahead, the salt marshes. The Hind shivered like a restrained and impatient horse as he held the machine twenty feet above the distressed, dull surface of a man-made lake. Trees quivered or leaned in the wind, encircling the lake like a stockade s wooden wall. The helicopter was hidden from sight by the trees, yet Gant could not bring himself to land and switch off the engines and await Kedrov's response to his signal.

Beyond the trees, the desert was etched with the fine engraved lines of irrigation channels. In a later season, crops would grow there. In summer, people would swim in this artificial lake. He remembered the satellite pictures of the area used in his briefings. He had been able to pick out the heads and reclining torsos of swimmers and sunbathers in the vastly magnified, grainy monochrome Pictures. Now, in winter, the tiny resort was closed; cabanas, the °afe, the boathouses all deserted and lightless. They'd made certain the place was unoccupied in winter before suggesting it as a target point for his arrival.

His hands, feet, whole body it seemed, made the constant tiny movements and adjustments that kept the Hind steady above the lake. He glanced at his watch. Time of arrival, two-ten, Wednesday morning. He had perhaps five hours' darkness left—