Filipov looked dubious, and then said 'I - I'm not sure. Inspector.'
'Naturally. I am - you, too, Holokov?' The fat man nodded. 'Which poses a question - eh? Which of these two is the dead man?'
'How can we tell? They're very alike,' Filipov said.
'Their common disguise makes them alike, Filipov!'
Tortyev snapped. 'The face was ruined so that we would not discover that there were two men involved in this deception. Why were there two of them?'
Holokov looked bemused, and Filipov remained silent. Tortyev left his desk and began to pace the room. Suddenly, a sense of urgency had come over him, though he could not explain its origin. He felt a nervous energy, a sense of being trapped by the walls of his office. He looked up at the clock. It was ten-thirty. He turned to Holokov.
'What of that KGB man killed at the Komsomolskaia Metro Station yesterday evening - who killed him?'
'One of Orton's associates?' It was Filipov who spoke.
'Why not Orton - he's not dead, after all!' Tortyev replied, bending over Filipov as he sat in his hard upright chair before the desk. 'Why not Orton himself?' Filipov shrugged, as if he had no answer to the question. 'Who are Orton's associates? We have men you have pulled in, the usual crowd, the ones in Orton's file - you have searched their homes, their store-places. What have you found - eh? Nothing - nothing at all!'
He moved away from Filipov and Holokov, and began to reason aloud. 'Where is Orton - where have they hidden him? Why did he want it to appear that he had been killed? To throw us off the scent? Why not die in London, if that was the case, where we could not check so thoroughly, where we would not have the evidence of the body itself?' He paused, turned, paced the length of the room once in silence, and then continued. Holokov and Filipov sat mutely, digesting their inspector's ruminations. 'No. The answer does not lie there. Orton had to disappear here, inside the Soviet Union, inside Moscow. Why?'
He paused again in his stride, in the middle of his office, and said, calmly, but with a catch of excitement in his voice that both his subordinates felt: 'If we had not been persuaded that Mr. Alexander Thomas Orton was a drug-smuggler, what would we think he was? Eh? Based on what has happened - including the killing of a KGB man, which must have had something to do with this, and which shows the desperate extent of what has been happening - two deaths, a fake Orton and one of ourselves ... based on that, what would we think?'
He stood staring at them, willing them to arrive at his own conclusion, nervous of the leap his mind had made, hoping that theirs would leap in the same way. Holokov cleared his throat, fussily, apologetically, infuriatingly, and said: 'He is an agent?'
'Exactly!' Tortyev was smiling. 'He is an espionage agent, of the British, or the Americans - the drugs blinded us to the truth! Now, now he has disappeared - for what reason? Where is he - what is he up to - eh?'
Neither of his subordinates appeared to be possessed of further ideas. Gathering up the sheaf of photographs, Tortyev bundled them into his arms, and made for the door.
'Holokov - come with me. I want this face processed by the central computer - now! This man is dangerous, and I want to know who he is. The central registry of known or suspected agents may give us some clue as to his real identity.' He turned to Filipov. 'Get in touch with our people in the British Embassy, Filipov. Give them my authority for your enquiries, and tell them it's urgent. I want to know who Orton's contact is - and I want to know now!'
Filipov nodded, but the door had already closed behind the inspector and his fat assistant trailing in his wake. Filipov picked up one photograph that Tortyev's sweeping arms had failed to gather, and looked down at it. By chance, it was a photograph of Gant in the persona of Orton, rather than Fenton. He seemed to study it for a moment, turning it in his fingers, letting the face catch the light from the strip-light overhead. Filipov's dark, swarthy features were harrassed, his shoulders bowed with concern.
Filipov knew that it would take only a little time if Tortyev began to ask questions of the KGB informants who worked in the kitchens, the corridors and the typing-pool of the British Embassy, a little time before he began to realise that there were a multitude of connections between Edgecliffe and Lansing at the Embassy and the man in his persona as Orton. Fenton was SIS, based in London. He had come to Moscow this time undisguised, an ordinary tourist with a package holiday, and had gone to ground in the Embassy only an hour or so before his death - re-emerging briefly as Orton. Someone might have seen him, made the connection. They might even discover that the substitute for Fenton on the package holiday, now moved on to Leningrad, was not the man who arrived at Cheremetievo from London.
He realised that Edgecliffe had to be told, and quickly. He got up from the chair, in a quick, nervous bound. He could not call from Tortyev's office, the line would be monitored. Yet he could not leave the building - Tortyev would be back within ten minutes, perhaps a little more. As far as he knew, the telephones the 'social lines', as they were called - in the off-duty rest-rooms on the second floor would not be monitored at that time of night. He would have to risk it. He had to call Edgecliffe, before Tortyev received any information from the informants in the British Embassy. He closed the door of the office noiselessly behind him.
At the direct order of the Head of Intelligence, 'C', Kenneth de Vere Aubrey had condescended to temporarily vacate the usual offices of SO-4, his own section of the SIS's Special Operations Function, and to take up residence in a specially prepared and utterly secure room within the complex of the Ministry of Defence.
Aubrey did not like M.O.D. He and his number two, Shelley, had occupied the room with its wire-print and secure telephones for most of the day and evening preparing it with the maps that now covered the walls European Russia, the Barents Sea and north into the Arctic Ocean, the Moscow Metro system, a Moscow street plan. All the necessary landscapes and seascapes of his operation. Now the room had acquired two other occupants, the Americans Buckholz and Anders, his aide. They had commandeered two of the small desks that had been moved in, scorning, apparently, the trestle-tables that Aubrey had drafted in with the original furniture. Shelley, returning to the room from a journey to the kitchens, saw Buckholz talking on one red telephone, and Anders up the step-ladder, pinning a satellite weather photograph of the Arctic region on the wall next to the map of the same region. That map, like the others of European Russia and the North Sea, was ringed by satellite weather-pictures. It was not those, however, that especially caught Shelley's eye. His gaze was drawn to the map of European Russia that Buckholz had begun working on when he had left with the supper dishes for the kitchens. Aubrey had allowed no one inside the room except himself, Shelley, and the two Americans who had arrived a little after eight. It was now one o'clock in the morning in London, two hours ahead of Moscow time.
Shelley walked over to Aubrey and stood beneath the huge map, looking up. Facing him now, instead of the clean unmarked map, was something that made him, thousands of miles away, frightened and dubious.
He had a sudden image of Gant standing belligerently before him in his hotel room - and he regretted his stupid, petty dislike of the American. What Shelley was staring at was Buckholz's breakdown, in graphic form, of the Russian defence system, which Gant would have to penetrate, even if he got the Firefox off the ground at Bilyarsk. Much of what was on the map Shelley already knew, but to see it, indicated in coloured pins and ribbons, shocked him thoroughly.
Near the top of the map, extending deep into the polar pack at the neck of the conical orthomorphic projection map was a yellow ribbon, in great loops reaching upwards. This signified the effective extent of the Russian DEW-line, the least of Gant's worries.
What really attracted his gaze, riveted his attention, were the sweeps of small pins that marked the fighter bases, those known or guessed, and the missile sites.
The fighter stations, all of which would be manned in a twenty-four-hour readiness manner, would possess at least a dozen aircraft that could be scrambled within minutes. These bases were marked in blue and extended along the northern coast of the Soviet Union from Murmansk and Archangelsk in the west to the Taimyr Peninsula fifteen hundred miles to the east. The bases were a little more than one hundred miles apart.
Below these pins were two sweeps of red circles, showing the missile sites. These were slightly less than a hundred miles apart, and extended over the same area of the map, its total east-west projection. Each missile site was semi-fixed, and possessed perhaps a dozen or more surface-to-air proximity and infra-red missiles, launched from concrete pads. Between each pair in both chains, though unmarked, Shelley nevertheless knew there would be mobile, truck-borne missiles, perhaps half-a-dozen to each convoy. The radar system would be located at each of the missile bases, linked to the central radar-control, which processed the information supplied by the DEW-line.
Shelley felt mesmerised by the two sweeps of red circles, one along the coast, the second another three hundred miles or more inland, following the same path.
It looked like a plan of a classic battle, an army drawn up in two parallel lines - an army of missiles, in this case, linked to radar that scanned every cubic foot of air over the Soviet Union. Gant would have to cross each line, and avoid the fighter-scramble that would follow hard upon his theft of the Firefox.
And, thought Shelley, Buckholz hasn't yet filled in the positions of Soviet spy trawlers, missile cruisers of the Red Banner Northern Fleet, and submarine activity in the Arctic Ocean and the Barents Sea.
He saw that Aubrey was looking at him, quizzically, perhaps even vulnerably. 'There are a lot of them eh, Shelley?' he said softly.
'Too many,' Shelley blurted out. 'Too bloody many by half! He hasn't got a chance!' He dropped his eyes, seeing Aubrey's anger at his impolitic display of emotion. 'Poor sod,' he muttered.
Four.
THE CONCEALMENT.
Gant was tired, yet his mind refused to stop racing.
Baranovich and the woman, Kreshin's mistress, fussed round him fitting his disguise. Kreshin himself sat in one of the room's low, inexpensive armchairs, watching intently, as if studying the American, expecting to learn something from the way he moved, the way he stood still.
Gant despised the building tension and excitement within himself. It was the wrong way to be, he knew.
Yet however he strove to control his feelings, he could not avoid hanging over the edge, staring into the abyss of the hours ahead.
The disguise was, when he considered it, inevitable.
There was only one way to walk through a tight security net which was on the look-out for the least unfamiliar thing - to be a part of that net. Baranovich got up from his knees and stood back, hands on hips, in the posture of a couturier inspecting his creation. Gant self-consciously pulled the uniform jacket straight at the hips, adjusted the belt, and looked across at himself in the mirror. The cap he now wore hid his newly-cropped hair, cut close to his head, so that the contacts inside his flying helmet that would control the weapons-system would function, picking up his brain patterns, transmitting them to radar, missiles, or cannon.
Underneath the dark peak, the face that stared at him was cold, narrow, lined and tired. It was the face of a stranger, despite the fact that nothing in the way of disguise had been done to it. In the wall-mirror, all he could see of himself besides was the collar of the brown shirt, the dark uniform tie, and the bright tabs on the laps of his uniform jacket.
'That is - good,' Baranovich pronounced at last. 'It is a good fit now that Natalia has made the little alterations.' He smiled over Gant's shoulder at the woman, who was sitting on the arm of Kreshin's chair, her arm about his neck, as if seeking warmth. Something about the uniform seemed to disturb her, make her seek physical contact with her lover.
'Captain Grigory Chekhov, attached to the Security Support Unit of the GRU, at present assigned under the command of...'
'Major Tsemik, KGB officer responsible for security of the Mikoyan project, Bilyarsk,' Gant finished for Baranovich, a slight smile at the comer of his mouth.
Baranovich nodded. 'What do you think of him, Ilya?'
'Very - convincing,' Ilya Kreshin offered, holding the girl's hand at his shoulder. 'At least, he frightens Natalia - doesn't he?' He was smiling at the girl as he looked into her face, and she tried to smile back. 'You see?' he added, turning back to Gant and Baranovich. 'She takes you for the real thing, and she helped you into the disguise!' He laughed loudly, reassuringly, patting the girl's hand as he did so.
'You recall the rest of your operational background?'
Baranovich asked. Gant nodded. 'Good. Now, sit down, or walk about - let that uniform become comfortable - strut a little!' There was an almost malicious humour in Baranovich's blue eyes. Gant smiled, and began to walk up and down the room. Baranovich watched him, and then said: 'No - with the thumbs tucked into the belt - so...' He demonstrated by hooking his thumbs into his trousers. Gant copied him.
'That is good. You must always remember - you will only give yourself away if you fail to be what the guards at the gate expect. And they will expect to see a captain who is arrogant, detached - who means business. If you get the chance, reprimand at least one or two of them, for minor things - their uniform, for example, or anyone who is smoking.' Again Gant nodded. This was an expert talking, one who knew the look of the KGB, or the GRU, intimately, through long and bitter experience. Gant surrendered his own ego, accepted the expertise he was being offered. 'Now - sit down. You stand rather well, eh, Ilya?'
Gant sat down, first wiping the seat of the vacant armchair, and inspecting his fingertips for dust. Then he sat in the chair, completely relaxed, one booted leg crossed over the other. Without looking at them, he drew a silver cigarette case from his pocket, and a rolled-gold lighter - items he could only have purchased in the KGB luxury shop across the square from the Centre itself in Dzerzhinsky Street - extracted an American cigarette, lit it, exhaled noisily, picked tobacco from the tip of his tongue, and then turned his head and looked stonily towards Kreshin in the armchair. The young man clapped loudly.
'It is amazing,' Baranovich observed. 'How melodramatic it all was - and how correct. His face clouded, as if he were assailed at that moment by a bad memory, then he smiled, his eyes clearing, and added 'That was very good - you have the gift, Mr. Gant. You can be, without trying, someone else...'
