Firefox by Craig Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

had bluffed his way through, that his feet had automatically stepped onto the ascending flight of stairs, and he was being moved up and out of sight of the two KGB officers. His stomach felt watery, and he belched. He wanted to be sick with relief. He forced himself not to turn round to look for Pavel and the other man, to stifle the growing panic of the thought that they might have been picked up, and he was now alone…
    He stepped off the staircase, and moved over to study a large map of the Moscow metro system. He did not dare to turn his attention from the map, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the topcoat, his shoulders slightly bowed, as he fought against the tide of nausea. He told himself, over and over, that this tension was the same as flying, the sudden, violent twists of time which moved from calm and boredom, to terror, were things that he had experienced many times before.
    But it did not seem to work, the sedative of familiarity.
    Perhaps, in the huge. ornate foyer of the metro station, with its gigantic statuary, marbles and bronzes, and the mosaic floor and frescoed walls - perhaps he was unable to transpose himself to the cockpit, and calm his growing panic. All he knew that moment was that he was alone, stranded - they would have picked up Pavel, and the other man. What could he do?
    A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped away as if stung by some electric charge within him. He turned round, and Pavel saw the damp, frightened face, and doubt nickered in his eyes.
    ‘Thank God,’ Gant breathed.
    ‘You look terrible,’ Pavel said, without humour. ‘Mr. Grant - I watched your performance … it was not very convincing.’
    ‘Jesus! I was shit-scared, man!’ Gant burst out.
    Pavel looked at him, towering over him. Gant seemed smaller, slighter, less impressive than even his disguise would normally have made him. Pavel, remembering what Edgecliffe, the SIS Head of Station in Moscow, had said of the American, agreed. This man was a risk, Edgecliffe had said - if he causes serious trouble on the journey, get rid of him - don’t risk the whole network, just for him. And Gant looked as if he might be big trouble.
    ‘Go and make yourself sick,’ Pavel said, with distaste in his voice. ‘Go, and hide yourself in the toilets. There will be more KGB men on the way. We shall leave the station after they feel they are sufficiently reinforced when they are confident that, if we reach the main entrance, then we must have been searched at least three or four times. Go!’ He spat out the last word and Gant, after staring at him for a long moment, turned his back and walked away. Pavel watched him go, shook his head, and then set himself to watch, from the cover of his newspaper, the arrivals at the Komsomolskaia Metro Station.
    David Edgecliffe, ostensibly Trade AttachŽ to the British Embassy, was in the bar of the Moskva Hotel.
    From his position near the door, he could look out into the foyer of the hotel. He saw the KGB men arrive, together with at least two people from the Political Security Service. If his diagnosis was correct, then Fenton, poor lad, had not died in vain. He shook his head, sadly, over his Scotch, and swallowed the last of it. The appearance of those particular KGB officers would mean that the bluff of Orton’s murder at the hands of his supposed Moscow pushers because of the failure of supplies to reach them, would have been swallowed. Orton was dead - long live Gant.
    He smiled sadly to himself and a waiter, at his signal, came over with another Scotch on a tray together with a small jug of water. He paid for his drink, and appeared to return to his book. Covertly, he watched the KGB men as they carried away Gant’s luggage.
    They would have searched the room, he knew, and would have removed everything. Orton, the mysterious Englishman who looked so harmless, but who had infected the youth of Moscow with the terrible affliction of heroin, would be thoroughly