The Source, Page 2

  It is now one hour since the American interceptors scrambled. Flying at close to Mach II, they have crossed the Hudson Bay from the Belcher Islands to a point about two hundred miles north of Churchill. In so doing they’ve just overtaken the AWACS and left it a few minutes behind. The AWACS has told them that their target is dead ahead, and that he’s come down to 10,000 feet. And now, finally, just like the Migs before them, they spot the intruder.

  That had been the narrative, the scenario that the CIA and MI6 had set for Simonov before showing him the AWACS film; and as the Briefing Officer had spoken those last three words, “spot the intruder,” so the film had started to roll. All very dramatic, and deservedly so …

  “Spot the intruder,” thought Simonov now, the words bitter on his tongue so that he almost spat them out loud. By God, yes! For that was the name of the game, wasn’t it? In security, intelligence, spying: Spot the Intruder. And all sides playing it expertly, some a little better than others. Right here and now he was the intruder: Michael J. Simmons, alias Mikhail Simonov. Except he hadn’t been spotted yet.

  Then, as he re-directed all of his concentration back down onto the scene in the ravine, he sensed or heard something that didn’t belong. From somewhere behind and below him had come the chink of a dislodged pebble, then lesser clatterings as the tumbling stone picked up smaller cousins on its way down the side of the mountain. The last leg of the climb had been along a steep, terraced ridge of rock, more a scramble than a real climb, and there had been plenty of loose scree and stony debris littered about. It could be that in his passing he’d left a pebble precariously balanced on some ledge, and that a strong gust had dislodged it. Simonov fancied that was all there was to it, but—

  What if it was something else? He’d had this feeling recently—a sort of uneasy, half-formed suspicion—that someone, somehow, was aware of him. Someone he’d rather was not aware of him. He supposed this was a feeling spies learned to live with. Maybe it was just that everything had seemed to be going so smoothly, so that now he’d started to invent difficulties. He hoped that was all it was. But just to be sure …

  Without looking back or changing his position, he unzipped his anorak, reached inside and came out with a blocky, wicked-looking short-barrelled automatic, its stubby silencer already attached. He checked the magazine, and silently eased it up again into the grip. And all of this done one-handed, with practiced ease, without pausing in the filming of the trucks in the ravine. Maybe the last couple of frames would be a bit off-centre. No big deal. Simonov was satisfied with what he’d got.

  The tiny camera attached to Simonov’s nite-lite clicked one last time and gave a warning whir, signalling that the sequence was complete. He unclipped the camera and put it away. Then he wedged his binoculars securely in the base of a boulder, carefully cocked his pistol, squirmed about face and got to his knees. Still concealed, he peered cautiously through the V formed where the tops of two rounded boulders leaned together. Nothing back there. Nothing he could see, anyway. Steep cliffs falling away for a thousand feet, with spurs extending here and there, and thinly drifted snow lying white and gleaming on all flat surfaces. And way down there, obscured by the night, the tree-line and gentling lower slopes. Everything motionless and monochrome in dim starshine and occasional moonlight, where only the thin wind scattered little flurries of snow from the spurs and high ledges. There were plenty of places where men could hide themselves, of course—no one knew that better than Simonov, himself an expert in concealment—but on the other hand, if he’d been followed, why would they want to come up here? Easier to wait for him below, surely? Yet still the feeling persisted that he was not alone, that feeling which had grown in him increasingly over his last two or three visits to this place.

  This place, this spawning ground for utterly alien monsters …

  He got back down into his original position, recovered the nite-lites and brought them to his eyes. In the ravine, where the steep road hugged the face of the defile down to the towering twin walls of the dam and the curved lead surface between them, a cavernous opening in the cliff blazed with light. The last truck turned left off the road onto a level staging area, then passed in through huge, wheeled, steel-framed lead doors. A gang of yellow-clad traffic controllers flagged the truck rumbingly inside and out of sight, then followed it into the blaze of illumination under the cliff. Other men came hurrying down the road, gathering up flashing beacons. The great doors had clanged shut by the time they reached them, but a wicket-gate thick as the door of a vault had been left open, issuing a square beam of yellow light. It swallowed up the men with the traffic beacons, then was closed. The floodlights over the pass snapped out and left stark blackness in their wake. Only the dammed watercourse and the great lead shield were left to reflect the starshine.

  But all of that lead down there. And these poisoned heights, a little more than mildly radioactive. And that Thing filmed by the AWACS as it did battle with the USAF jet fighters. Simonov couldn’t suppress a small shudder, which this time wasn’t due to the intense cold. He folded his nite-lites into a flat, leather-cased shape which he slipped inside his anorak with the strap still round his neck. Then for a moment longer he just lay there, his eyes staring into the enigmatic gulf below, his mind superimposing on the darkness the sequence of events he’d witnessed in London, recorded on that flickering AWACS film …

  But even remembering it, he cringed away from it. Bad enough that he still occasionally saw it in his dreams! But could that … that … whatever it had been, could it really have come from here? A monstrous mutation? A gigantic, hideous warrior clone conjured in some crazed geneticist’s incredible experiment? A “biological” weapon outside all of man’s previous experience and understanding? That was what he was here to find out. Or rather, it was what he was here to prove conclusively: that indeed this was where that Thing had been born—or made. That seething, pulsing, writhing—

  Snow crunched softly, compacted by a stealthy footfall!

  Simonov thrust himself to his feet, turning as he rose, and saw a head and staring eyes outlined briefly above the low jumble of rocks. His automatic was in his hand as he launched himself into a dive to the left of the boulders, his right arm outstretched, ready to target his weapon. A man in a pure white parka was crouched behind the boulders, with a gun in his hand which he even now lifted to point at Simonov. In the instant before Simonov came down on his side in the snow he snapped off two shots; the first one struck the man in the shoulder, snatching him upright, and the second slammed into his chest, flinging him backwards and down onto the patchy snow.

  The dull phut, phut, of Simonov’s silenced weapon had caused no echoes, but he’d scarcely caught his breath when there came a hoarse, gasping grunt from close at hand and silver glinted in a sudden flood of moonlight. The snow on Simonov’s left-hand side, not eighteen inches away, erupted in a spray of frantic activity. “Bastard!” a voice snarled in Russian as a massive hand reached out to grasp Simonov’s hair and an ice-axe came arcing down, its spike impaling his gun-hand through the wrist and almost nailing it to the stony ground.

  The Russian had been lying in a snow-filled depression, waiting. Now he sprawled forward, trying to hurl his bulk on top of Simonov. The agent saw a dark face, a white bar of snarling teeth framed in a beard and a ruff of white fur, and drove his left elbow into it with as much force as he could muster. Teeth and bone crunched and the Russian gave a gurgling shriek, but he didn’t release his grip on Simonov’s hair. Then, cursing through blood and snot, the massive Soviet drew back his ice-axe for a second swipe.

  Simonov tried to bring his gun to bear. Useless—there was no feeling in his hand, which flopped like a speared fish. The Russian hunched over him, dripped blood on him, changed his grip to Simonov’s throat and drew back his axe menacingly.

  “Karl!” came a voice from the shadows of other boulders. “We want him alive!”

  “How much alive?” Karl choked the words out, spitting blood. But in
the next moment he dropped the axe and instead drove a fist hard as iron to Simonov’s forehead. The spy went out like a light, almost gladly.

  A third Russian figure came out of the night, went to his knees beside Simonov’s prone form. He felt the unconscious man’s pulse, said: “Are you all right, Karl? If so, please see to Boris. I think this one put a couple of bullets into him!”

  “Think? Well, I was closer than you, and I can assure you he did!” Karl growled. Gingerly touching his broken face with trembling fingertips, he went to where Boris lay spreadeagled.

  “Dead?” the man on his knees beside Simonov inquired, his voice low.

  “As a side of beef,” Karl grunted. “Dead as that one should be,” he pointed an accusing finger at Simonov. “He’s killed Boris, messed up my face—you should let me twist his fucking head off!”

  “Hardly original, Karl,” the other tut-tutted. He stood up.

  He was tall, this leader, but slender as a rod even in his bulky parka. His face was pale and thin-lipped, sardonic in the moonlight, but his sunken eyes were bright as dark jewels. His name was Chingiz Khuv and he was a Major—but in his specialized branch of the KGB the wearing of uniforms and the use of titles and rank were to be avoided. Anonymity increased productivity, ensured longevity. Khuv forgot who’d said that, but he agreed wholeheartedly: anonymity did both of those things. But at the same time one must make sure it did not detract from authority.

  “He’s an enemy, isn’t he?” Karl growled.

  “Oh, yes, he’s that all right—but he’s only one and our enemies are many. I agree it would be very satisfying to squeeze his throat, and who knows but that you’ll get your chance—but not until I’ve squeezed his brain.”

  “I need attention.” Karl held snow tenderly to his face.

  “So does he,” Khuv nodded at Simonov. “And so does poor Boris.” He went back to his hiding place in the rocks and brought out a pocket radio. Extending its aerial, he spoke into the mouthpiece, saying: “Zero, this is Khuv. Get the rescue chopper up here at once. We’re a kilometer up river from the Projekt, on top of the eastern ridge. The pilot will see my torch … Over.”

  “Zero: at once, Comrade—out,” came back the answer, tinny and with a touch of static. Khuv took out a heavy-duty torch and switched it on, stood it upright on the ground and packed snow around its base. Then he unzipped Simonov’s anorak and began to turn out his pockets. There wasn’t much: the nite-lites, spare clips for the automatic, Russian cigarettes, the slightly crumpled photograph of a slim peasant girl sitting in a field of daisies, a pencil and tiny pad of paper, half a dozen loose matches, an “official” Soviet Citizen’s ID, and a curved strip of rubber half an inch thick by two inches long. Khuv stared at the block of black rubber for long moments. It had indentations that looked like—

  “Teeth marks!” Khuv nodded.

  “Eh?” Karl mumbled. He had come to see what Khuv was doing. He spoke through a handful of bloody snow with which he staunched the wounds to his nose and lips. “What? Did you say teeth marks?”

  Khuv showed him the rubber. “It’s a makeshift gumshield,” he informed. “I’d guess he puts it in at night—to keep from grinding his teeth!”

  They got down on their knees beside Simonov where Karl could work on his jaws. The unconscious man groaned and twitched a little but finally succumbed to the pressure of the Russian’s huge hands. Karl forced his mouth wide open, said: “There’s a pencil torch in my top pocket.” Khuv fumbled the torch out of the other’s pocket, shone it into Simonov’s mouth. Lower left, at the back, second forward from the wisdom tooth—there it was. A capped tooth at first glance, but on closer inspection a hollow tooth containing a tiny cylinder: Part of the enamel had worn away, showing bright metal underneath.

  “Cyanide?” Karl wondered.

  “No, they’ve got a lot better stuff than that these days,” Khuv answered. “Instantaneous, totally painless. We’d better get it out before he wakes up. You never know, he might just want to be a hero!”

  “Turn his face left-side down on the ground,” Karl grunted. He had put both Simonov’s and Boris’s guns in a huge pocket; now he took them out and used the butt of Simonov’s weapon as a wedge between his jaws. His dead comrade’s gun had a barrel that was long and slender. “This is not going to hurt me more than it hurts him!” Karl grunted. “I think Boris would like it that I’m using his gun.”

  “What?” Khuv almost shouted. “You’d shoot it out? You’ll ruin his face and the shock might kill him!”

  “I would love to shoot it out,” Karl answered, “but that isn’t my intention.” He poised the heel of his free hand over the weapon’s butt.

  Khuv looked away. This part of it was for such as Karl. Khuv liked to think he stood a little above sheer animal brutality. He looked out over the rim of the ridge, gritted his own teeth in a sort of morbid empathy as he heard Karl’s hammer hand come down with a smack on the butt of the gun. And:

  “There!” said Karl with some satisfaction. “Done!” In fact he’d got two teeth, whole, the one with the cylinder and its neighbour. Now he used a grimy finger to hook them out of Simonov’s bloody mouth. “All done,” Karl said again, “and I didn’t break the cylinder. See, the cap’s still secure on the top. He was just about to wake up, I think, but that bit of additional pain should keep him under.”

  “Well done,” said Khuv with a small shudder. “Pack some snow in his mouth—but not too much!” He inclined his head, added, “Here they come.”

  Dim, artificial light washed up from the gorge like the pulse of a far false dawn. It brightened rapidly. With it came the slicing whup, whup, whup, of a helicopter’s rotors …

  Jazz Simmons was falling, falling, falling. He’d been on top of a mountain and had somehow fallen off. It was a very high mountain and it was taking him a long time to hit the bottom. Indeed, he’d been falling for so long that the motion now seemed like floating. Floating in air, frog-shaped, free-falling like an expert parachutist waiting for the right moment to open his chute. Except Jazz had no chute. Also, he must have hit his face on something as he fell, for his mouth was full of blood.

  Nausea and vomiting woke him up from nightmare to nightmarish reality. He was falling! In the next moment, remembering everything, the thought flashed through his mind:

  God! They’ve tossed me into the ravine!

  But he wasn’t falling, only floating. At least that part of his dream was real. And now as his brain got in gear and shock receded a little, so he felt the tight grip of his harness and the down-draft of the helicopter’s great fan overhead. He craned his neck and twisted his body, and somehow managed to look up. Way up there a chopper, its spotlights probing the depths of the ravine, but directly overhead …

  Directly overhead a dead man twirled slowly on a second line, a hook through his belt, his arms and legs loosely dangling. His dead eyes were open and each time he came round they stared into Jazz’s eyes. From the splashes of crimson on his white parka Jazz supposed it was the man he’d shot.

  Then—

  Shock returned with a vengeance, weightlessness and vertigo and cold, blasting air and noise combining to put him down a second time. The last thing he remembered as he fell into another ravine, the night black pit of merciful oblivion, was to wonder why his mouth was full of blood and what had happened to his teeth.

  Mere moments after he’d passed out the helicopter lowered him to the flat top of the upper dam wall and yellow-jacketted men removed him and his harness complete from his hook. They took Boris Dudko down, too, a heroic son of Mother Russia. After that … their handling of Jazz Simmons wasn’t too gentle, but he neither knew nor cared.

  Nor did he know that he was about to experience the dream of every intelligence boss in the western world: he was about to be taken inside the Perchorsk Projekt.

  Getting out again would be a different thing entirely …

  Chapter Two

  Debrief

  THOUGH LENGTHY, THE DEBRI
EFING WAS THE VERY GENTLEST affair, nothing nearly so cold and clinical as Simmons had imagined this sort of interrogation would be. Of course, in his case it had to be gentle, for he’d been close to death when his friends had smuggled him out of the USSR. That had been several weeks ago—or so they told him—and it seemed he was a bit of a mess even now.

  Gentle, yes, but on occasion irritating, too. Especially the way his Debriefing Officer had insisted on calling him “Mike,” when he must surely have known that Simmons had only ever answered to Michael or Jazz—and in Russia, of course, to Mikhail. But that was a very small grievance compared to his freedom and the fact that he was still alive.

  Of his time as a prisoner he’d remembered very little, virtually nothing. Security suspected he’d been brainwashed, told to forget, but in any case they hadn’t wasted too much time on that side of it; the important thing had been his work, what he’d achieved. Perhaps at one time the Reds had intended to keep him, maybe even try to reprogramme him as a double agent. But then they’d changed their minds, ditched him, tossed his drugged, battered body into the outlet basin under the dam. He’d been picked up five miles down-river from Perchorsk, floating on his back in calm waters but gradually drifting toward falls which must surely have killed him. If that had happened … nothing remarkable about it: a logger and spare-time prospector, one Mikhail Simonov, falls in a river, is exhausted by the cold and drowns. An accident which could happen to anyone; he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. The West could make up its own mind about the truth of it, if they ever found out about it at all.

  But Simmons hadn’t drowned; “sympathetic” people had been out looking for him ever since his failure to return to the logging camp; they’d found him, cared for him, given him into the hands of agents who’d got him out through an escape route tried and true. And Jazz himself remembering only the scantiest details of it, brief, blurry snatches from the few occasions when he’d been conscious. A lucky man. Indeed a very lucky man …