Winter Hawk (13 page)

"Let—get Forensic to examine the car first," Priabin said carefully, aware of each syllable, weighing its unhurried, neutral tone. Why? Give nothing away, he answered himself. The numbers of army parkas and overcoats seemed to press toward him like a hostile crowd. Rifles—holsters—guns. Instinct outran logical deduction, but he moved with the certainty of a strong swimmer in calm, familiar waters. "Yes," he repeated, "Forensic first."

The approaching car was moving fast, and its engine noise distracted him. Made him flinch, seeing the crashed, soaking Zil in front of him, as if he heard the accident happening in his head. He turned. Coming from the direction of the main complex, not from Tyuratam. A German car, silver-gray. A small, quick sedan, a BMW. He knew it had to be Rodin's car, the general's wealthy, privileged son's shiny toy. Yes.

Rodin, capless, got out of the car and hurried toward the wreck. His fine, thin hair was immediately disarrayed about his head. He pushed blindly past Dudin, then his eyes met Priabin's with a wild look. He seemed unnerved by the stare of the KGB colonel. Carefully, as if pointing, Priabin lowered his gaze, drawing Rodin's anxious, frightened eyes after it.

To the bald spot, the lank strips of hair like drying leather thonging the stained, soaked yellow sweater. Rodin sobbed chokingly, just once. He did not look up, though he appeared to wish not to look at the dead actor. Did not wish to touch, kneel beside, stare into the dead eyes of—

—wanted not to be there, Priabin concluded. Yet aware of what he would find even before he saw it. He had not dared to hope for anything better than this. Priabin felt himself embarrassed, as if he had intruded upon a scene of private mourning. Eventually, Rodin looked up, still kneeling.

They understood each other entirely as their eyes met. Priabin's gaze waited for the young man like a statement of arrest. The KGB officer even nodded, half-consciously, confirming what he had learned, what had been confirmed for him. Rodin looked aside, his cheeks blanched, his eyes wet and shameful.

He called
you
, Priabin recited silently. He sensed Rodin gathering his story together like wisps of material to be woven. But you panicked, too, you told others. It was dangerous, but then you had no choice. You knew what youd done, what you'd find here. He called you, and you set the dogs on him and Viktor, my friend.

Because of
Lightning.

Slowly, now . . .

Rodin's face was bleak as he turned once more to Priabin, his hps primed with their cover story. Seeing the young man's obvious fear chilled Priabin. Ahead of him, something like—he glanced involuntarily at Zhikin's dead face—something like that, unless he was careful, so careful. They'd killed now, the barriers had come down, the cage had been left open.

And their panic was evident, too.

Care, care . . . Priabin stared over Rodin's blowing hair, even as the young man began his halting, unconvincing story. The low, surrounding hills were closer in the gathering twilight. Sleet blew spasmodically. He was cold. Tracks down to the river, a mud-stained car. He was alone, even though Dudin's bulky frame was close behind Rodin. He must keep his head down, he told himself; attract no suspicion.

Viktor-

Begin an act, then. Begin to dissemble even while you're listening to this nasty, murderous little creep. Act a part. Tell them nothing about Kedrov, just find him before they do. He knows about
Lightning.
When I know, Viktor, I'll have them.

He couldn't tell anyone, not yet, not until he had Kedrov. Then, oh, then, he could present Moscow Center with Zhikin's murderers—the fucking army! He'd screw them into the bloody floor before he'd finished with them, present them on a plate to the Politburo, to the Chairman.

I promise you, Viktor, I promise.

So play-act.

He sketched on his features a dim attentiveness that was without the least suspicion, as Rodin's story tumbled out. He shivered. Hodin, recovered for the moment, was explaining how he had heard, wondered if the accident had anything to do with . . . Sacha had been arrested, he'd been told . . .

Zhikin's body was being lifted gently upright in the driver's seat, being fed slowly back through the broken windshield by one of the Forensic officers. The man handled the body carefully, almost reverently. But the head flopped grotesquely on its broken neck, filling Priabin's throat with bile.

4: Dropping Zone

General Lieutenant Pyotr Rodin
of the Strategic Rocket Forces, deputy commandant of the Baikonur Cosmodrome, lay awake and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. The shadows up there, in the corner, were warm and brown, not dark; they mirrored both his satisfaction and his concern.
Lightning
—and his son; the defense minister s pleasure and congratulations at progress, and his son's appearance at the scene of the accident that had killed that— actor.

The shadows darkened and lightened, as if catching his mood as it varied.

The television broadcast had been amusing—for the most part. The old buffoon Nikitin had appeared against a backdrop of the Kremlin and a frozen river Moskva, Calvin the American President against a snowbound Washington projected behind him. They had danced their mincing, polite dance, the deceived and the deceiver; a farce. Calvin, as predicted, had had to pledge himself to appear in Geneva more than a week earlier than he had expected—all that had been satisfactory, most pleasing. Rodin had been able to laugh at both statesmen equally. Nikitin, doing only what the army wished, though he did not know it, thought he was in the driver s seat. Calvin would not risk the opprobrium of world opinion by being seen to hesitate now. The final touch to the canvas of the launch of the shuttle on Thursday and its rendezvous with the American craft in orbit was pure comedy. Nikitin thought that a good idea, too, the idiot.

The broadcast had ended with a flurry of despicable images. Satellites being deployed, SS-20s and cruise missiles being withdrawn, silos being emptied of ICBMs, barbed wire being rolled up, tanks going into mothballs—the music of Beethoven accompanying the lurid betrayals. That last couple of minutes had distressed and angered him. Even Zaitsev's call from Moscow had not sufficed to restore his confidence and good humor. Zaitsev, the defense minister and leader of the pro-army faction on the Politburo, had dismissed Rodin's anger as futile.
The withdrawals voorit be happening, will they?
he had assured.
Why be angry, then, with the fiction?

Nevertheless, it was easier for Zaitsev to be dismissive, at Stavka—general staff—headquarters or the ministry, than it was to feel lighthearted at such rubbish here in Baikonur. The images of, of—surrender had ruffled his good humor. After a few large whiskeys he had retreated to his bed. And slowly, his confident mood had returned.

Only the thought of his son, Valery, disturbed his calm now. He studied the darker shadows on the ceiling. An old cobweb hung there, drifting back and forth in the heat rising from the lamp. Rodin distracted himself from his son by allowing the images of the broadcast to return. And Nikitin's voice and other voices seeped into his mind, to be met with a frozen, confident contempt.

We cant afford your toys any longer!
That had been one of Nikitin's outbursts at a Politburo meeting, so Zaitsev assured the general staff.
We must have this treaty with the Americans before we are bankrupted by you and your games! The army must pay the grocery bill!

My God.

They had laughed, he and his cronies. It had taken almost a year to persuade the Politburo to keep
Linchpin
, the laser weapon project. And to keep it secret and outside the terms of the damn treaty. A small victory in the middle of the army's defeat by the politicians.

Rodin felt his temperature rising, but did not quell his emotions. They visited him now like the familiar twinges of old age; known and tolerable. And they strengthened his resolve.
Lightning
would change everything. By Friday, the world would be different. The Nikitin faction on the Politburo would be subservient once more. The treaty would be—worthless to the Americans.

Peasant women bewailing another bad harvest . . . corruption throughout the civil service . . . always the same wailing cries of the inefficient and incompetent—
we cant afford you.
We want to sell you out, sell our country out.

'Hie bedside telephone rang, startling him. His recriminations had been as leisurely as a reverie. He sat up in bed, the shadows in the comer of the ceiling now without meaning. The clock on the bedside table showed it to be almost midnight.

"Rodin. Yes?"

"Comrade General—Serov here. Have I disturbed you?"

Serov. GRU commandant.

"What is it, Serov?" Why did he always react to Serov's voice or presence with a certain hostility? He shook his head.

"Sir—General, it's a delicate matter ..."

Serov was being uncharacteristically sensitive and hesitant.

"Is it
Lightning
?" Rodin asked, too quickly. He almost hoped that it was.
Lightning
was not a delicate matter, merely crucial. Something prickled in his chest like a warning of illness.

"No, comrade General, it's your son," Serov announced, his adopted tact no longer present. His habitual sneering calm had reasserted itself. Rodin felt his own hostility rising.

"Valery? Lieutenant Rodin?" he corrected himself. "What about him?" He wanted to ask, what is wrong, what has happened? And surprised himself with such a wish. Something chilly seemed to wrap itself around his heart like a cold scarf. "What about my son?" Control of his voice was an effort.

On the ceiling, the shadows were larger. The central heating seemed to have switched itself off

"I—General, I have considered this matter very carefully. I suggest that your son should be sent on leave, perhaps even to Moscow, for the present. Perhaps a two-week furlough?" Serov's manner seemed incapable of retaining deference for much longer. The bully in him was always close to the surface.

"You call me at midnight to tell me that?" Rodin blurted in reply. "To suggest he go on leave?" Genuine irritation had been recovered; he felt more in control of himself.

"I—apologize, comrade General. It's taken me a lot of time to come to this conclusion, but now that I have, I think my advice should be acted on as soon as possible."

"Why?" His voice was too quick, too high.

"Sir, I arranged that accident to—plug a leak. It did not have to involve your son." What was Serov hinting at? What had Valery done? He felt hot once more, his heart stone-heavy in his chest. He was angry with his son; Valery had again caused him trouble, embarrassment, that was more than obvious; but because it was Serov, there was that edge of fear, too. "Unfortunately, it required the immediate removal of the actor—"

"Well?" Rodin almost shouted, ashamed of his rising fear.

"Unfortunately, after coming to us and cooperating with us, your son has managed to interest the KGB commandant, Priabin, in the matter, and in himself. The accident has become a suspicious circumstance in Priabin's eyes, one in which your son is—"

"My son was not involved!" Rodin shouted. His free hand trembled, plucking at the comforter. His reactions confused him. They were muddied, stirred up like a pool by Serov's words. He tried to analyze his emotions, but was unpracticed.

He looked at the photograph on his bedside table, ornately framed in silver. A snowbound Moscow park, a handsome young woman in a tailored suit exposed by her open fur coat, fur boots on her feet, but a fashionable felt hat rather than one of fur on her dark hair. A pram, and a child in it. He had taken that snapshot himself. Had Valery been a disappointment to him since then? No, no, only when he had begun to grow, attended school, was too much and too long under his mothers influence . . .

He regained control, and snapped: "Get to the point, Serov. Are you suggesting my son has been insecure?"

"The word I would choose is—indiscreet, comrade General."

"Then?"

"Your son has interested the KGB. I would rather they did not talk to him."

"You attracted the KGB's attention by staging that accident."

"We had to kill the actor, a queer—your son's friend. He knew too much and he was being asked about
Lightning
by the KGB. Does that satisfy you?"

"Serov, you're impertinent—insubordinate." Rodin began to feel breathless. He pressed his free hand on his chest, hard. And calmed himself. Valery's actor friend—the words hurt like a physical pain. Valery blabbing to his circle about
Lightning
:, Serov prepared to kill to keep the matter secure . . . kill.

"General, I apologize. It was my professional anxiety." The voice did not soothe, but seemed confidently silky with threat. To Valery? The man would not dare.

"Yes, Serov, yes." His voice was high.

"The accident was designed to stop the leak. To warn others."

"Yes."

"Your son must go on leave." Rodin felt himself led along a dark path, his guide a creature determined to rob him. "If he is not here, then all the gaps will be stopped up. There will be no further leaks."