Winter Hawk (42 page)

Katya shook her head. "No, I didn't," she confirmed.

"Pity we haven't got a mike rigged up. Why has he taken the
^b
*ck off the set?"

Kedrov shook the set as if he, too, wondered whether it was forking. Evidently, there was no sound from it. One of its batteries
^e
U from the case, then another detached itself. Kedrov appeared Momentarily alarmed, then grinned. He replaced the radio on the ^ble. He seemed calmer, though his face was etched with creases of
^a
ftxiety. He looked at his watch again, then the radio, then his ^atch . . .

• . . radio. The windbreak rattled. Priabin hunched forward on the small, folding chair placed in front of the screen. The noises of the stiff spikes of sedge were ghostly. The helicopter's drone diminished in the distance. Radio . . .

A point at the center of the radio's exposed circuitry still glowed. Without batteries? Kedrov had retreated and sat down once more, his eyes still on the table and the radio. His shadow no longer fell across the transistor set. Where was the power coming from, without its batteries? It should not be working.

But it was. It wasn't an ordinary radio.

Priabin's hand gripped Katya's arm. She winced with pain, exhaled. He shook her arm excitedly.

"It's not a radio," he whispered fiercely.

"Sir?"

"It can't be. It's working without batteries. There's no lead—it's a dummy set. What the hell is it? It must have some other power source, something that doesn't look like an ordinary battery." He was murmuring quickly, to himself as much as to Katya; chasing ideas that ran ahead of him. "What's going on, Katya? What?" It's working, but not as a radio, he thought. Why? For what reason? "It's still working," he said aloud, "but not as a radio set. It can't receive without its batteries."

And then he knew.

Transmission. It was some kind of transmitter, the glowing light only to inform Kedrov it was operating. The signal was
inaudible.
Dear GodI

"It"—he had to clear his throat—"he—he's signaling to someone."

Dear God, Kedrov expected to be rescued. He was waiting to be rescued!

"How?" was all Katya could say. Dudin had overheard and was crouching beside them now.

"I don't know."

"Colonel, let's move in now," Dudin offered.

"Not yet. Let me think." Rescue, rescue . . . someone was coming for Kedrov—at least, Kedrov believed it. But who, and how? Should they make sure of Kedrov now? Or—but how the hell could anyone get this deep into Baikonur? The idea was impossible.

"Sir?"

"Colonel?"

"No, no, just let me think." Priabin stood up. The wind
leaped
on him over the top of the canvas. The navigation lights of a helicop' ter glowed, moving against the background of stars. He could just make out its engine noise above the wind. How?

Everything, his imagination tempted. Everything—there for the taking . . . just wait. Kedrov has run out of time, he's terrified he's too late already. It must be soon. A half hour, an hour at most—
sooner
than that. Just wait.

Rodin was forgotten.

"Someone's coming for Kedrov," he said, looking down at his companions, whose faces lifted from the screen and were palely lit by its monochrome glow. Between their features, Kedrov stared out unseeingly, desperately hoping he was on the point of rescue. "We're going to have him, or them, too," Priabin added, his voice eager.

Serov stood opposite the window of Valery Rodin's flat. The empty room around him was the very one used by Priabin's KGB surveillance team until only a couple of hours earlier. He was alone. Overcoated, hands clasped behind his back, standing. Near his toe, scratched into the floorboards, were the marks left by a tripod. He had seen them in the light of his flashlight. Otherwise, there was little trace, beyond remaining scents and the feeling of recent occupation, of the surveillance team.

Priabin. It rested on the answer to the question, was Priabin dangerous? What did he already know? Serov had consulted the file on the KGB's head of industrial security at Baikonur. The man's history was intriguing—the dead woman, the Firefox fiasco, his survival of an incident that should have ended his career, perhaps even his life. Priabin was a survivor. But there was something about the roan ... he was difficult to comprehend, to thoroughly know. He
^w
as a mystery to Serov and therefore dangerous.

Something might have to be done about him, and soon. Just as decisive a something as the act soon to unfold at the uncurtained Window opposite.

"Door's open," a voice whispered in the shadows of the room, disembodied—unnerving except that Serov knew it came from the
^s
mall transceiver clipped to his overcoat.

"Go ahead," he murmured in reply. The room seemed charged ^ith the static from the open channel. He raised to his eyes a small Pair of binoculars, suitable for low-light conditions. And studied ^°din's form stretched on the bed.

The team was in the flat. Breathing, quick and tense, filled the room. Lock picker, two heavies, and a doctor to administer the overdose of drugs—whichever drug Serov decided upon in the
next
few minutes. They were in the hallway. Rodin lay on the bed, robe in disarray, deeply unconscious; drink and hashish. He was a drugged, incompetent, dangerous mess—

—rubbish to be thrown out. Serov listened to the team's combined breathing, felt his muscles tighten and contract with their tension. For himself, he was prepared to assume the calm of the detached observer, certain of the outcome of the drama he was witnessing.

The door opened behind him, startling him. He turned angrily. A young radio operator, carrying his set, apologized awkwardly.

"You said, sir—" he began.

The older sergeant, accompanying him, merely snapped: "The communications unit you requested, comrade Colonel."
_i
"Yes, very well, get it installed and working—over that side of the room."

He turned away abruptly, in time to see the door of Rodin's bedroom opening. He stared. The team was in black civilian trousers and sweaters; ski masks. He felt excited by the menace they so thoroughly portrayed on the screen of the window. Two, three of them, and the doctor.

Rodin sitting up, startled awake, one of the team moving to him, another to the curtains at the window, dragging them closed—

—sharp disappointment, Rodin's distant, tinny voice protesting, breathing from one of the team as if engaged in strenuous exercise, the heartbeat of another, all filled the room. Serov's frustration at being cut off from the unfolding drama was as audible to him as the sounds from the transceiver, and the noises of the two men behind him.

"OK, sir," the Sergeant murmured.

"Not now!" Serov stormed, hand moving as if to clutch at his heart. Then he added more softly: "In a moment, Sergeant."

"Sir." The sergeant clumped away.

He uncovered the transceiver on his breast like a treasured pet-Breathing, Rodin's repeated, frightened questions, the laughter of one of the team—Grigori, possibly. The comms set at the back of the room crackled and hummed, awaiting his attention. Serov
stared
at the closed curtains, as if anticipating some vivid shadow play to be thrown upon them by the lights of Rodin's bedroom.

He could trust the team, just as he could trust the two me*
¹

behind
him. There was no risk in using them to dispose of a gen
eral
's son. They were his creatures.

General Rodin would be an implacable enemy, should he ever discover the truth of his son's death. However, there was no danger of that. But a sacrificial goat might divert any suspicion from himself. He recalled the generals cold, stiff features looking down at him. The glittering eyes had seen Serov's capacity to destroy his queer son. When he heard of Valery's death, Serov might be the first person he would think of in connection with the event. Might indeed.

Suicide, then. Serov rubbed his chin. There was the smell of cigarette smoke in the room now, the scrape of matches as the sergeant and the radio operator lit acrid Russian tobacco. Serov wrinkled his nose fastidiously. Watched the curtains opposite, then looked at his watch. Three-ten in the morning. Rodin hadn't been gagged—no bruising must appear around his mouth.

"Why, why, why?" came repeatedly from the transceiver, not "who? who are you, what do you want?"

Serov could not resist saying, "You know why."

"Who?" Rodin blurted. Someone laughed once more—yes, Gri-gori, whose stereotyping even included the slightly manic giggle; it was surprising how often members of his special teams fulfilled their cinematic stereotypes. Then: "Serov? Is that you, Serov? For Christ's sake, where are you? What do you want, man?" It was both question and bribe.

"Yes—I'm across the street, Rodin. Where your friend Priabin had his men installed." The sergeant cut off a guffaw of laughter in ^e shadows behind him. "You remember your friend Priabin? What you spoke about together?"

"You've been watching me?" Rodin's voice was terrified, certain °f its future.

"Everyone's been watching you, dear boy."

"For God's sakel I told him nothing!" Rodin bellowed; but the small noise from the transceiver was contained, even swallowed, by room. "My father—he can't want you to do this, he can't—•"

"He doesn't even know."

"Then you can't do it!" Hysterical relief, the voice at the point of breaking. "You need his order—•"

"Security is my concern."

"I told him nothing!"

I don't believe you." Serov stared at his gloved hands, flexing

the fingers, spreading them in front of him. He smoothed the gloves as he had seen the general do only hours earlier, on the steps of the officers' mess. Businesslike, fastidious rather than sinister.

"I told him nothing!"

"Now you're protecting him, too," Serov observed calmly. "Security is my responsibility. It's security I'm interested in here. I'm ensuring things remain—secure." He listened for a moment to Rodin's ragged breathing, then he said: "Very well—do it." And above Rodin's scream of protest and terror, he added loudly: "Make it suicide. Suicide!"

He stared at the curtains. A delicate blow to the head or neck, or a gripped nerve to render Rodin unconscious, silence the noise he was making.

"Don't bruise him," he snapped, as if he could see the struggle taking place on the bed rather than simply overhearing it.

A narrow tube down the throat, and whiskey or cognac—the choice was unimportant—and then the Valium or whatever tranquilizer or sleeping pill the doctor discovered in Rodin's bathroom cabinet or bedroom drawer. No overdose of heroin or cocaine, but a signposted suicide; sleeping pills washed down with drink. The boy would be unable to avoid swallowing the mixture. The tube would leave nothing but a little rawness at the back of his throat, unlikely to interest the coroner. Murder would not be a possibility.

The initial spluttering, the exerted breathing of the team, the murmured instructions, went on for some time, but slowly, inevitably subsided. There was a cadence about it, a diminuendo, which Serov quite liked; and a decency in the violence taking place offstage, as it were—behind closed curtains. Something domestic and suburban and inescapably ordinary. So fitting. So belying.
Rodin's
father would believe in the suicide, and if he wondered why, then-'

Serov turned abruptly from the window. The room could be redressed with KGB surveillance paraphernalia, easily. Now he had given himself the option
of
incriminating Priabin, should it
prove
necessary. Over the transceiver he could hear calm
breathing
noises, movement, whispers, routines; as if they were arranging the body for viewing—which, in a sense, they were. Yes, it might be best to implicate Priabin, arrest him—tonight? Certainly today. He postponed decision. If he didn't use the suicide to involve
Priabin,
then it would simply bring the pain of guilt to the general. And that was satisfactory, too.

He turned to the window, briefly. Still curtained. They'd draw them back before they left, switching off the room lights. Someone
would
see the body from this block of flats when daylight came. Yes, all very satisfactory, neat.

"All done here, sir," the transceiver said over his heart.

"Very well. Stage-dressing completed?"

"Almost."

"Hurry it along—but miss nothing. Well dofie. Out." He turned to the sergeant and the radio operator, who came swiftly to attention; impressed, perhaps even abashed, by what had occurred across the street. "Very well. Put me in touch with headquarters—Captain Perchik."

"Sir." Call sign, fine-tuning; then he heard Perchik's voice. He took the proffered microphone, snapped down its Transmit button, and said: "Give me a full report, Perchik. Quickly. One of your one-minute digests I enjoy so much for their brevity."

"A good night, sir?" Perchik asked, his voice responding to the eager lightness of that of his superior; a momentary camaraderie. Perchik knew what he had been doing. ^