Winter Hawk (67 page)

He gave his attention to the Soviet foreign minister, Vladimir Shiskin, who stood beside him. He had not been as successful as Zaitsev in appearing engrossed by the view. His square, sallow features—Zaitsev had to lower his eyes to the man's face, Shiskin was a short man—were alert like those of a cornered animal. While he appeared to stare across Lake Geneva, Zaitsev's thoughts had not, for a moment, left the subject that had raised itself between them-Shiskin, of course, had had to be briefed. As the most
prominent
pro-army member of the Politburo, apart from himself, it had been necessary to tell him—unfortunately necessary—of the
compressed
launch schedule for the laser weapon. It would be Shiskin who would prepare, then mollify, Nikitin.

"You're satisfied, then?" Shiskin repeated. "This is not a move of desperation?"

"No, it is not a desperate move." Zaitsev smiled sardonically. "Is that your question, Vladimir Yurievich, or does it originate with another of our little group? Were you told to ask it?"

"It is—a general feeling, my friend. A general feeling." Shiskin seemed to acquire stature from his fiction of. consensus. Zaitsev glanced at the television monitor to his left. Farther along the gallery, Nikitin and the American President were reassuring the world; basking in their separate lies. Behind them, the town's miniature image retreated into the evening darkness. The fingertip mountains were purpled, indistinct. Zaitsev glanced through the windows again, then back to the screen. Somehow, the shrunken image of Geneva and its landscapes satisfied him more.

"Very well," he said. "And are you sure of our party?" He watched Shiskin's eyes. They were doubtful, as was the group they reflected. Afraid, naturally. But not deserters, not yet.

"Confident."

"Then assure them Rodin knows exactly what he is doing—and that what he is doing has the full approval of Stavka."

Rodin was—what? Panicking? Possibly, but that was an easy thing to do, at the eleventh hour. On the brink of
Lightning.
And destroying the American shuttle as soon as possible would bind their group on the Politburo more closely to Stavka and the army. Nevertheless, Zaitsev wished he had spoken personally to Rodin. What exactly was happening at Baikonur? Was anything amiss?

He rubbed his chin once more, his contemplative gaze directed at the television monitor, from which the voices of Nikitin—speaking in English in honor of the occasion—and Calvin issued like those of distant children, crouched in separate corners of the room, speaking to each other through tin cans connected by string.

"Consider the phoenix," he murmured. "What?"

"The phoenix. The army mustn't be allowed to burn to ashes just
^ln
order to be reborn—must it, Vladimir Yurievich?"

I don't see—"

"Don't you? We are here, you and I and the others, precisely because the old men were removed. Policies have changed. Nikitin Reamed of a twenty-first-century army, high technology to the fore-"^nt—before he decided to give the people toys to play with. He's reneging on solemn promises made to the army—for the sake of gadgets in the shops. Computer games instead of thinking missiles." Zaitsev smiled at his own grandiloquence. "He wants the phoenix to burn itself to death and
not
rise from its own ashes. We have to prevent that. If we do not, history will judge us." His tone was calculated, but he found himself impressed by his sentiments. Perhaps it was the proximity of the monitor and the events it foretold, perhaps the distant mountains, perhaps the American entourage or even all the marble from all over the world that decorated this place . . . anyway, Shiskin was nodding docilely, attempting stature once more.

"I agree, my friend. We all agree." Shiskin sighed.

"Good, good." Calvin was speaking from the monitor. Zaitsev looked along the gallery. In reality, it was too confined for the televised press conference, but the backdrop of the city, lake, and mountains was considered too delicious to be omitted. The worlds press representatives were crushed together on a steeply raked dais and seated on narrow chairs; like an audience at an intimate little theater club. The larger settings of the Salle des Pas Perdus and the great Assembly Room were reserved for the climax of the drama the following day. Farce? No, Zaitsev could not quite call it that. The treaty was still dangerous—not quite a farce. All the elements of one, but no one in the theater was laughing yet. He nodded slowly to himself, and realized he was nodding in time to
Calvin
's portentous phrases as if they were soft, commanding taps upon a military drum.

"Good, good," he repeated,
as
if approving Calvin's
sentiments.
Then he chuckled, a sudden and unnerving noise. "We won't fail, he announced. The certainty of the words seemed, even to him, clouded with fervor. "We can't afford to," he added. "And failure is impossible." Yes, he had achieved the right confidence of tone. He slapped his broad hand on Shiskin's shoulder. "Cheer up,
Vladimir
Yurievich, cheer up. We're almost at the winning post."

He glanced from the screen beside them to the misting glass of the huge window. Garish lights from the city, encroaching
darkness
masking the lake. The mountains glimmering like weary ghosts ol themselves. He shivered. He found Geneva an alien place, as if he had no right to be there.

Zaitsev removed his hand from Shiskin's shoulder, sensing that its pressure was no longer reassuring; maybe even threatening.

The press gallery broke into applause. The conference was at an
end.
The purpled, garishly lit darkness outside the windows seemed to rush headlong against the glass.

Foggily, he saw that it was ten o'clock. He did not understand why the hands of the old-fashioned clock on the wall should impinge quite so vividly, but they did. For a moment they obtruded more than the pain of the blows, more than the fear» of Serov's unbridled rage.

Priabin fell heavily again. Serov's boot struck him in the side, sinking into his ribs. The pain slowly, irresistibly penetrated his dulled, disoriented awareness. No one else touched him. Just Serov. No one asked him questions, not even Serov. There was just the beating.
I owe you pain
, he'd announced with the voice and manner of a bank clerk; except that his eyes were fierce and greedy. At first, his people had held Priabin, but with the second flurry of blows— he could only use his right hand—and the second bout of kicks while he lay huddled in a fetal position on the floor, Serov's men served only to drag him each time to his feet, then let him go so that Serov could bull against and into him.

No questions, nothing but the beating. He was quite vividly aware he was becoming drunk with pain. He saw Gant drop out of sight from the MiL's main cabin, over and over again like an unending loop of film. Mostly, however, he saw Anna's dead face, Rodin's limbs splayed on his bed, Katya's form disguised by the heap of coats he had thrown over her. Gradually, these recurring images explained the beating. He had deserved it—

—and however horrible, he allowed no part of him to oppose or struggle. It was unimportant that it was Serov administering the blows.

Kick in the head, his hands had not covered it quickly enough— —a red mist, his agonized coughing and groaning much too loud ^ his ears, inside his head, huge noises. His body could no longer tense in expectation, he felt his ribs grinding together. Flashes of Pain bloomed, died, spread again, were replaced by others; an artillery bombardment. His hands moved in a slow, lost way down to his §roin, clutching at that more fiery area of pain. Red mist—

—slowly, frighteningly slowly, clearing to a wet, gray fog, and [he noises in his ears becoming those in the room rather than in his body.

• • tried to look for the clock but could not locate it. Red sec-°nd hand strutting, couldn't find it. He heard
himself
groaning, but almost as close to him he could hear heavy, labored breathing . . , boots. He flinched.

The fog cleared enough for him to see through a gauzy spider s web just in front of his eyes. He feared for his sight. Boots, Serov's boots, bloodstained; blood on the bent trouser knee, Serovs hands clasped together, already showing the blue of bruising, caused by uniform buttons, by Priabin's teeth, which ached and seemed loose . . . like his whole head as he moved it fractionally to look up into Serov's face. Serov leaned forward, staring intently at him, his mouth wet and hanging open as he dragged in air; hands. Not clasped—the spider's web clearing a little more, thank God—but the bruised one holding the other gently, almost kindly; that one was white, unmarked. Priabin made a precise inventory of Serov's hands. It seemed like a test he must pass. Short fingernails, colored not with dirt but blood—the difference between the two hands?

Serov must have, must have, must have—broken his arm or wrist or something when he jumped—yes, yes! The memory from a few minutes before struck him with the force of some epochal discovery of science or philosophy, thrilling him. He remembered seeing Serov's left arm in a sling when they brought him into this room.

"Colonel, sir?" someone murmured. He hardly caught the words. The pain seemed to have been increased like the volume of a radio just at the moment he fully remembered about Serov's arm and his vision finally cleared. His body shrieked with pain. He grunted, dribbling blood. It tasted of salt. He moved his thick tongue around his teeth; loose? He prodded each tooth with his tongue, escaping the pain that cried and rushed through the rest of him, by narrowing his awareness. Left side, upper, lower ...
right
side, lower, upper . . . front, the incisors, one by one. Priabin became absorbed in the examination of his teeth.

Until dragged to his feet. Every part of him protested against the movement. They held him in front of Serov, and his body
winced
and hunched into itself at the suggestion of further pain.

"Sit him on a chair!" Serov's voice seemed to roar. His
bruised
hand waved toward Priabin, who tried to duck. Serov laughed.

Priabin felt his body dumped onto a chair, the chair
prevented
from tipping backward by someone's hand. The angles and edges o* the chair created fresh areas of suffering. His consciousness slowly returned to his slumped body. He looked up. Serov, clearly
¹¹¹
focus, was watching him, his bruised hand cradling his other elbow gently.

The clock. The second hand. Ten-ten. Where was he?

He looked slowly, cautiously around him. Three GRU uniforms,
anonymously
filled—no, one of the faces belonged to the lieutenant who had brought him back. And Serov. Screens, too. A computer console and
a
large-scale map projection. A glass wall to the room, tinted and almost opaque. The dull glow of numerous lights coming through it. Rows of what might have been spectators dimly to be perceived. Mission control?

"Where's he gone, Priabin?" he heard Serov ask, and was irritated by the intrusion. His body seemed to be gradually swallowing his bruises and the rushes of pain in a general ache. He held his ribs. Pain, but no tearing sensation when he breathed. Not broken, then.

"Who?" he replied automatically. His voice was thick. He gingerly took out a handkerchief and spat into it. Like consumption; bright blood in the saliva. "Who?" he repeated.

"You know who." Serov's voice seemed tired, as if the real purpose of their encounter was already accomplished. "The American. Where is he?"

Priabin carefully shook his head. Pain lurched like a solid mass from temple to temple.

"No idea."

"Why didn't you go, too?"

"No idea." Priabin dabbed his swollen lips with the handkerchief
^a
nd then inspected the daubs of blood. Wiped his bruised, numb chin. "Stupid, wasn't it?"

Serov sat forward on his chair, growling like an animal. "What's the matter with you, Priabin? Where are you, for Christ's sake?"

Priabin shrugged, wincing against the pain the tiny gesture evoked. "Nowhere," he murmured. Almost anesthetized. Strange, his whole body seemed to be going warmly numb* as if he were ®Uing luxuriously asleep in a soft bed. "Nowhere ..."

Move him over to the console," Serov snapped, rising from his chair. It tipped over onto its side. "Let him look at the map. It ^ght j
₀
g hi
_s
memory. Come on, Priabin, do some of our work for ^ Tell us where you think he is. While you still can."

As Priabin was lifted and shunted across the room still seated,
he
^Saw
on one of the screens a glowing image of the launch pad.
The
erector cage starkly lit, the flank of the giant G-type booster stages splashed white and coldly blue. It didn't matter where Gant was, after all. It didn't matter a bit.

The flashlight beam sufficed for his narrowed consciousness. He made no search for the main switch, no move to use the shrouded inspection lamps whose cables curled like dead black snakes across the littered, dusty concrete floor of the hangar. Touching upon, sliding across, illuminating only parts and sections of angles, surfaces, planes, the light was enough. He was afraid of greater light, not because the windows were open to the sky and his presence would be betrayed, but because he feared to see the whole expanse of the place at once. Some kind of hope proffered itself always just out of range of the flashlight's beam.