has been too much expenditure of planning, time, and lives involved. You must want to be certain, surely? The Russians will want to be, and we may already be behind them in a race we didn't even know we'd entered!'
Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I - ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.
'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know - and they may know it already - they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.
Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.
'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.
Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz - we have to follow this thing through.'
Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'
Pyott nodded. 'We will.'
'We must get our political masters to
order
us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.
'OK.'
'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'
Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene - let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'
The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.
'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.
Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal conjunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.
'There!' he said with intense triumph.
'You're convinced it's in one piece?'
'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles - besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it - from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone
under
the ice, so to speak.'
Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours - Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'
'Can we- ?'
Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance - a direct
order
to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'
Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching
Buckholz's face was puzzled atid a little fearful as he looked up at Aubrey, bent intently over him like a bully. 'I - ' he began, but Aubrey seized upon his hesitation.
'Once they've seen the pictures they took of the crash site, they'll find the Firefox's remains are missing. We know the plane isn't there. Once they know - and they may know it already - they'll be looking for it. And, if it is intact…' He left the threat unelaborated.
Pyott stroked his moustache. 'I think Kenneth has a point, Charles,' he murmured.
'Maybe,' Buckholz replied reluctantly.
Curtin was nodding. 'I think we have to, Mr. Buckholz - we have to follow this thing through.'
Buckholz shrugged heavily. 'Very well. For the moment, I'll lie my head off to Washington. And you'll do the same for London, uh?'
Pyott nodded. 'We will.'
'We must get our political masters to
order
us to go ahead,' Aubrey instructed in a dark, Machiavellian voice, his face at first sombre but breaking into a mischievous smile as he finished speaking.
'OK.'
'Let's not waste time. There are secure telephones in the Briefing Room. You can call Grosvenor Square at once, Charles. We'll wait until you've finished your call before we make ours.'
Buckholz felt himself dismissed, but not slighted. He motioned to Curtin. 'Come on. Gene - let's agree our story before anyone makes a call.'
The two Americans disappeared into the Briefing Room, the door of which led off the main Ops. Room. Giles Pyott and Aubrey watched it close behind them.
'Can we do it?' Aubrey asked quickly.
Instead of answering, Pyott stood up and moved to the huge plot-table in the centre of the underground room. He brooded over the models and tapes and markings on its surface. 'Damn bad show,' he murmured, turning to Aubrey, who now stood alongside him. The crash site was represented on the plot-table by a model of a MiG-25 and the black, futuristic model of the MiG-31. In deadly, fatal conjunction. Deliberately, Aubrey picked up one of the cuelike rods the plotters used to alter the position of symbols on the table. Awkwardly, he reached out with it and shunted the model of the Firefox southwards, letting it come to rest on the blue spot of a lake. For a moment. Aubrey's movements reminded Pyott of a short, bald croupier.
'There!' he said with intense triumph.
'You're convinced it's in one piece?'
'I'm not convinced it's in a million pieces, Giles - besides, we could still learn a great deal from whatever is left of it - from Gant, were he alive. To know, we must have someone
under
the ice, so to speak.'
Pyott rubbed his moustache with a quicker, stronger rhythm. When he faced Aubrey again, he said, 'I know what you want of me, Kenneth. There are some people who would suit, up in the Varahgerfjord at the moment. Some of our Special Boat Service marines… practising landing on an enemy coast from a hunter-killer submarine, that sort of training. Routine stuff. Under the supervision of an old friend of yours - Major Alan Waterford of 22 SAS. Perhaps that seems like the workings of an auspicious fate to you, mm?'
'Can we- ?'
Pyott shook his head. 'Not until we have clearance - a direct
order
to do something. Washington and Number Ten must give that order. You know that, Kenneth.'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'The Finns gave us permission for the covert overflight of their country, and certain reluctant back-up facilities. They are unlikely, without pressure from our masters, to involve themselves any further in this affair. I must argue, from StratAn's point of view, you from that of SIS. JIC and the Chiefs of Staff will, in all likelihood, have to persuade Number Ten to continue with the affair. It really depends on Washington's attitude.'
Pyott's attention moved from Aubrey to an approaching
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