of the Mikoyan Mig-31, the Firefox as NATO called it, and he had seen the eager, dry hunger, like lust, in the man’s eyes and he no longer was dubious about Buckholz’s choice of pilot.
Gant, he understood, needed, for some deep reason of his own, to fly the airplane. This man seated before him had been bundled from America to England, then to Russia, from Moscow to Bilyarsk, like so much washing - and he had allowed it to happen to him because at the end of the journey, like a monstrous child’s prize for good behaviour, was the shiny toy of the Mig.
Semelovsky had left them almost as soon as he had delivered the American, to return to his own quarters.
They would not meet again until they reported to the hangar to prepare the aircraft for the weapons trials the following day. Kreshin and he, on the other hand, would pass through the security net into the factory complex together at two in the morning.
Baranovich was aware that the KGB would keep a careful watch upon himself and Kreshin and Semelovsky throughout the night. Without doubt, they would have orders to arrest them hours before the flight. That was only to be expected. But, until the work was done on the weaponssystem they would not touch him. All they could do was watch from a car across the street.
This was why Gant’s presence in the house, so apparent a security risk, was in reality a safety precaution. It was safer than trying to hide him anywhere else in Bilyarsk.
It was the last place they would look.
Baranovich had no intention of dwelling on his personal future. Like Gant himself, and like Aubrey in London, Baranovich accepted the slivers of time that were given to him, and did not seek to understand what might occur in the future hours and days. He had learned to live like that in Mavrino, and before that in the labour camps. He had known what he was doing when he had accepted the order to work at Bilyarsk, to develop the purely theoretical work that had already been done on a thought-controlled weaponssystem, by a man now dead. The KGB had been aware of what they were doing when they released him to take up the appointment. Baranovich had lived on borrowed time for many years, almost since the end of the war - no, before that, he corrected himself, since a soldier lives, on borrowed time, especially on the Russian front in winter. Because he had done so for the greater part of his life, it came as no special occasion now to understand that he was living on borrowed time.
‘How well have you been briefed?’ he asked, settling himself to throw off the useless speculations about himself and the character of the American.
They were seated in Kreshm’s living-room, small, warm and comfortable. The younger man had left them alone - Baranovich suspected that he and the woman were making love in the next room, perhaps with the desperation of the young to whom time, borrowed or otherwise, is precious. Kreshin would, perhaps, be trying to forget the hours ahead in the illusion of passion. Baranovich had told Gant that he could speak without being overheard. The house was indeed bugged - but for that evening the electronics expert had rigged pre-recorded tapes to supply innocuous talk and the noise of the television a background mutter, for the KGB listeners.
‘I told you - I flew some of the Mig-25 copies we built in the States for a couple of years, then I spent months on the simulator flying the Mig-31,’ Gant replied. In his turn, he was impressed by Baranovich.
The man’s patriarchal appearance, white hair and goatee beard, clear blue eyes, and unlined brow, demanded respect.
‘No doubt your training, then, was thorough,’ Baranovich said, smiling, puffing at his pipe, seemingly relaxed as if he and Gant were happily theorising in a university common-room. It had been a very long time, perhaps forty years, since Baranovich had been in such a room.
‘It was,’ Gant agreed. He paused, then said: ‘The weaponssystem … you need to
Gant, he understood, needed, for some deep reason of his own, to fly the airplane. This man seated before him had been bundled from America to England, then to Russia, from Moscow to Bilyarsk, like so much washing - and he had allowed it to happen to him because at the end of the journey, like a monstrous child’s prize for good behaviour, was the shiny toy of the Mig.
Semelovsky had left them almost as soon as he had delivered the American, to return to his own quarters.
They would not meet again until they reported to the hangar to prepare the aircraft for the weapons trials the following day. Kreshin and he, on the other hand, would pass through the security net into the factory complex together at two in the morning.
Baranovich was aware that the KGB would keep a careful watch upon himself and Kreshin and Semelovsky throughout the night. Without doubt, they would have orders to arrest them hours before the flight. That was only to be expected. But, until the work was done on the weaponssystem they would not touch him. All they could do was watch from a car across the street.
This was why Gant’s presence in the house, so apparent a security risk, was in reality a safety precaution. It was safer than trying to hide him anywhere else in Bilyarsk.
It was the last place they would look.
Baranovich had no intention of dwelling on his personal future. Like Gant himself, and like Aubrey in London, Baranovich accepted the slivers of time that were given to him, and did not seek to understand what might occur in the future hours and days. He had learned to live like that in Mavrino, and before that in the labour camps. He had known what he was doing when he had accepted the order to work at Bilyarsk, to develop the purely theoretical work that had already been done on a thought-controlled weaponssystem, by a man now dead. The KGB had been aware of what they were doing when they released him to take up the appointment. Baranovich had lived on borrowed time for many years, almost since the end of the war - no, before that, he corrected himself, since a soldier lives, on borrowed time, especially on the Russian front in winter. Because he had done so for the greater part of his life, it came as no special occasion now to understand that he was living on borrowed time.
‘How well have you been briefed?’ he asked, settling himself to throw off the useless speculations about himself and the character of the American.
They were seated in Kreshm’s living-room, small, warm and comfortable. The younger man had left them alone - Baranovich suspected that he and the woman were making love in the next room, perhaps with the desperation of the young to whom time, borrowed or otherwise, is precious. Kreshin would, perhaps, be trying to forget the hours ahead in the illusion of passion. Baranovich had told Gant that he could speak without being overheard. The house was indeed bugged - but for that evening the electronics expert had rigged pre-recorded tapes to supply innocuous talk and the noise of the television a background mutter, for the KGB listeners.
‘I told you - I flew some of the Mig-25 copies we built in the States for a couple of years, then I spent months on the simulator flying the Mig-31,’ Gant replied. In his turn, he was impressed by Baranovich.
The man’s patriarchal appearance, white hair and goatee beard, clear blue eyes, and unlined brow, demanded respect.
‘No doubt your training, then, was thorough,’ Baranovich said, smiling, puffing at his pipe, seemingly relaxed as if he and Gant were happily theorising in a university common-room. It had been a very long time, perhaps forty years, since Baranovich had been in such a room.
‘It was,’ Gant agreed. He paused, then said: ‘The weaponssystem … you need to
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