Winter Hawk (41 page)

—and there was no transponder response. Kedrov wasn't there, twenty miles east of him in the marshes. Waggling into the sky perhaps a couple of miles to starboard, he saw the headlights of a vehicle as it bounced over the undulations of the main road from Aral'sk. He had crossed the road only three minutes earlier, on course for the pleasure lake. To reach it and hover there, near the strange pagoda that had been erected in the middle of the lake, hanging like a zeppelin near its mooring tower.

He had flown most of his route over the Aral Sea itself, low and fast. Fishing boats, the lights of an occasional village on the straggling shoreline. The shallow sea was virtually empty of commercial traffic, as was its shore of habitation. It was little more than a vast, moonlit puddle across which he dashed, disturbing the calm, icy water with his passage. The barren, flat landscape was relieved only by the mounds and peaks of frozen waves reaching out from the shore.

And now hurry had drained away; destination had been achieved, but purpose had been foiled. There was no light on his receiver to show the reception of his signal. And he was a thousand miles from the nearest friendly border.

They had selected the northwest of the Baikonur complex as his point of ingress because it was the boundary closest to the salt marshes and the least protected by radar patrols. The surveillance defenses of Baikonur seemed to straggle away into the desert just like the vegetation; or perhaps they considered that the Aral Sea supplied some natural obstacle to intrusion.

Gant studied the tactical screen, which was alight with flitting dots whose pattern of movement he had already discerned. Helicopter patrols. An outer circle of them, around the perimeter of the complex—expected and easy to avoid, or to use as a cover for his own movement. They would not come as far as this deserted place. Others moved with what seemed a greater urgency, crisscrossing the map on which they were superimposed. CIA intelligence had indicated that there was no more than a single flight of
MiL-24
gunships based at Baikonur. These were extra, unexpected patrols.

Purpose: to discover Kedrov, the missing agent-in-place. Minutes before, as he was still skimming the Aral Sea, the first radio transmissions he had picked up on the HF set had worried him. Was he expected? Were they waiting for him, too? Now he did not think so. And the urgency of the dots on his screen was belied by the routine responses and acknowledgments over the headset. They were looking because they had discovered Kedr&v was missing, not because they knew he had a rendezvous with a helicopter.

Their search had included the marshes. Was including it now. Dormitory towns, villages, isolated settlements, farms, factories, radar installations—everywhere. The search was being coordinated, and involved foot patrols, cars, and helicopters. Needle in a haystack. Gant had little worry they would find Kedrov. They might, however, find
him.

Gently, he lowered the Hind, the decision taken before he became clearly aware of it. The helicopter skimmed the artificial lake, raising its water into tiny waves; then Gant shunted it beneath the young fir trees, watching the rotors intently. Branches waved and lashed above the cockpit. The undercarriage bounced on sand, and he closed the throttles. The rotors wound down into silence, out of which the wind's noise leaped, banging against the Plexiglas. The trees above his head continued to sway and lean. He sighed, eased his frame in the restraint of his straps, and watched the tactical screen. Fireflies.

The stream of orders and reports filled his hearing, but he did not remove his headset or helmet.
Not here, not here, not here . . . couple of kids, looks like we might have found a black-market drop here . . . not here, no, nothing here, nothing nothing
. . . The reports poured into his mind. They hadn't located Kedrov, and they evidently had no idea where he might be. It was a blanket search that was turning into the boredom of routine.

Gant watched the perimeter patrols. They were calling in, too, hut maintained their conventional role. Because of the proximity of the launch, the security system of Baikonur was operating. It was its °wn justification. The closest helicopter to the bathing area was five miles away. It would pass perhaps three miles to the east of him as it swung onto the southward leg of its patrol. The next helicopter ^ould pass perhaps twenty minutes later. On the ground, only listening posts and mobile units interested him. Those he could bleed *nto the display at any time from the satellite's model of security Patrols. Tonight, however, there were more of them.

He had to thread a path between them, avoiding every thing-aural and visual detection most of all. Keeping low—

—changing IDs. He opened the cockpit door, and the wind buffeted him. He gritted his teeth and squinted against the flying sand that pattered on his overalls, slapped his cheeks. He removed a shallow box from the rear of the cockpit, releasing the straps that held it. He climbed down onto the sand, cursing his luck with the wind. Against the sky, he saw distant towers and gantries and radio masts, and their proximity unnerved him. Distances extended without limit and took on the complexion of something animate and hostile. He sensed the silence of the machine by which he knelt, remembered Mac; then, muttering inarticulately, he opened the box to search for what he required.

Strips of adhesive plastic, too flimsy, but he couldn't use the spray cans and the stencils, not in this wind. Beneath his hands lay the means of changing the Hind's identity to that of a GRU or KGB patrol. The insignia, the numerals, the ID flashes were all accurate—

—useless. He stood up, closing the box savagely, then thrust it back into the cockpit. His fist banged against the fuselage. He ground his teeth. There was no transmission from Kedrov. He could avoid visual sighting, in this darkness with the moon aging and dimming, and could avoid the listening posts and the car patrols—or be mistaken for one of their own—if only he could go now, move at once, just the twenty miles to the marshes . . .

Distantly, he heard the helicopter patrol away to the east, as predicted and expected. He banged the fuselage again with his fist. Where in hell was Kedrov? Where was the signal? Away behind his hunched back, the miles unrolled toward Afghanistan and Pakistan. A thousand of them. To the west, beyond the Aral Sea and the Caspian, Turkey lay a thousand miles away. He shivered.

Eventually, he climbed back into the cockpit. He huddled into himself in his seat. On the tactical screen, the fireflies moved with darting, seemingly purposeful activity. As he reached for the headset, his hand quivered. Then he jammed the earphones against his head. The transmissions flew back and forth; response, acknowledgment, report, description, response, order, position, reference, report—
nothing here, cleared this area now . . . nothing here . • • nothing, nothing, nothing.
They hadn't found Kedrov, they had no idea where he was. Gant's hands had clenched into fists in his lap-He realized he had been sustained for the last hours, since
Garcia
's

MiL had been destroyed, by the single, simple idea that Kedrov was not the problem. Getting to him was the task, the mission, not finding him.

Nothing, nothing, nothing . . . Where in hell was he?

He felt the first tremor of panic. Unease was sliding toward anxiety like an unbalanced cargo inside him. He looked at his watch. Two-thirty. They'd be looking for him, on both sides of the Afghan border. Which escape route could he use, back that way or west toward Turkey? The thought of escape made his mouth dry. The priority route was Afghanistan, but that was before they'd stumbled across the mission and shot down the transport helicopter. They'd killed Garcia and his crew, and by now they'd long known he had escaped, leaving Mac's body behind. They'd be waiting for him. It had to be Turkey.

Where was Kedrov?

Two thirty-one. Twenty minutes since his arrival. Time was operating like a thermometer, recording an inexorable rise in his temperature, and his tension. Twenty minutes already gone. He had perhaps no more than five hours of darkness left—and a thousand miles meant a minimum of five hours' flying time. In another minute, slow daylight would begin to encroach on the other end of his journey, exposing his last moments in Soviet airspace. How long could he afford to wait for Kedrov?

He could not ask the question clearly. His head spun with a storm of anticipations and shied from any answer. How long? Where was Kedrov? Two thirty-two.

He remembered Adamov, presumably conscious by now, tied to the jump seat in the main cabin. And now, with a narrow, cold certainty, he knew why the GRU captain was still alive. Not because his body might have been found, not because there might be a search for him . . .

. . . because he might need the uniform. The papers. Even the man.

When he tried to get out. He might have enough fuel, he might not. Superstitiously, he was afraid to risk another gas station. He might need a uniform, ID, information. So Adamov was alive.

He was growing numb with cold or something else. He blew on his hands, shuffled his feet. He turned in his seat, staring westward. No longer toward the marshes and Kedrov. He looked at the instruments. Still no glow of light from the transponder. Kedrov's set was not responding to the signal, he couldn't be at the agreed rendezvous.

He was hunched into himself, his hands like frozen claws in his lap, his head bowed, chin on his chest. On the unregarded tactical screen, the defenses of Baikonur sparkled like cold stars—radar, missile launchers, gun emplacements, listening posts. Gant felt nothing but emptiness around him.

Where was Kedrov?

Where?

"What's he doing?" Priabin whispered.

"He's just woken up—he fell asleep," Katya added, as if surprised by Kedrov's behavior. "Curled up like a frightened child, head under the blankets—look." She tapped the TV monitor. A cable snaked away from it across the frozen stretch of marsh, along the rotting jetty to the borescope that had been inserted into a narrow gap in the houseboat's planking.

Priabin studied the image. A low-light television camera with a needlelike probe was attached to the hull of the boat. One of Du-din's team had approached Kedrov's hideout and checked that the camera and its borescope could be installed without Kedrov being aware of the fact. More than an hour before. Now the
black-and-
white image of the houseboat's single interior room could be observed from a quarter of a mile away.

Priabin rubbed his gloved hands to warm them—perhaps
almost
to express a kind of gloating pleasure.
On
the screen, in the
center
of the circular image, Kedrov stirred on his narrow bunk and
looked
at his watch. Priabin involuntarily did the same. Almost three o'clock. The effect of the time on Kedrov was alarming. He sat
bolt
upright on the bunk, stiffly flinging aside the blankets that had covered him. His face showed he was clearly appalled, as if he had
not
quite awakened from a nightmare. Priabin winced as he exhaled, so real and close was the man's fear. Kedrov was a terrified man. Had he sensed the camera, the men surrounding his hiding place?

A helicopter passed distantly. GRU patrols. There were more of them than Priabin expected. Looking for
him
, the man on the TV screen? Extra security because of the launch? Priabin was
sensitive
to the pace of events.
He
could still lose this race.

Rodin. He must get back to Rodin, soon. The boy was dangerously isolated and afraid. The ticket for the morning flight was waiting at the Aeroflot desk. Kedrov had to be taken now, and hidden elsewhere. Katya must look after him—once he'd mollified pudin.

Kedrov stood up. His frame had enlarged as he moved across the
narrow
room toward the hidden needlelike lens. His face was white, distorted by the fish-eye vision of the tiny lens. He was leaning heavily on the table in the middle of the room, staring down at the—what was it? Priabin leaned closer to the screen. Yes—a transistor radio, unremarkable in every way. Kedrov was staring at it with the same mesmerized attention a rabbit would give to a snake. His whole frame could be seen quivering, as if an earthquake had struck the boat. What was wrong with him?

Kedrov tore off the back of the radio, exposing its circuit boards and wiring. Touched it, studied it as if it contained his whole future, looked at his watch, studied the radio, looked at his watch . . .

Katya, beside Priabin and Dudin, was puzzled but silent.

"Colonel—" Dudin began.

"Not now, Dudin," Priabin snapped. His breath was smokily whipped away by the wind crying across the marshes. The canvas windbreak erected around the screen rattled as loudly as the frozen reeds and sedge. He concentrated on Kedrov's puzzling behavior.

Watch, radio—something glowed in the center of the radio's innards, though Priabin had not seen Kedrov switch on the set. Had he missed it?

"Did he switch it on?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Did you see him switch on the radio?" He raised his voice as another helicopter passed overhead, closer than the previous one.
There
were no lights around him, no radios or walkie-talkies being used—and not just so as not to alarm Kedrov. Priabin could not risk attracting GRU attention to their stakeout.