Mazurka (57 page)

They walked together towards a bar, which was dosed. The man peered through the windows and said, “Your story's fascinating.”

“I'm happy you think so,” Pagan said.

“Goddam fascinating.” The man turned and clapped one firm hand on Pagan's shoulder. “And unfortunately vague. A plane flies out of Norway. What kind of plane? And who authorised it to fly? Or was the plane stolen? You got any idea how difficult it is to steal a military aircraft? It's all pretty damn thin, but it gets worse, doesn't it? You don't know the specific target, you don't know the nature of the alleged strike. Boil it down, Frank – mind if I call you that? – and you're not left with much, are you? Just a few guesses, basically. And to be perfectly candid, if you hadn't been affiliated with Scotland Yard – I checked you out, by the way – your story would be in the slush pile already. NFA – no further action.”

Pagan wondered if he was supposed to have documentary evidence of his story, if it had to be suitably notarised. He said, “It shouldn't be beyond your resources to find out if a plane has been stolen from the base at Mossheim.”

The man shrugged. “There are always NATO exercises around the Baltic, and they involve scores of aircraft. It's not as simple as you might imagine to locate one particular craft, especially since we don't know exactly what we're looking for.”

Pagan was disappointed by the man's lack of enthusiasm. He struggled to be patient and calm. “I understand it might be difficult, but in the circumstances don't you think you should be making some kind of bloody effort? Don't you have a computer tracking system?”

The man's smile seemed an immutable thing, living a separate life from his face. “Don't get me wrong, Frank. I'm not going to dismiss your story. I'll look into it. I promise you that. But it's going to take a little time.”

“Look, I have a feeling we don't have time. This character Andres Kiss is already on the base at Mossheim. He might even have flown by this time –”

“Frank, Frank, Frank. We checked Andres Kiss out and he used to be a USAF Major, just as you said. But why do you make the assumption he's gone to Mossheim to steal a plane, for heaven's sake? Some of his old squadron members are based there right now, the guy could be paying a visit, a vacation. It doesn't have to be anything nefarious. Like I said, Frank, if you had just a little documentary evidence, well, it would make a hell of a difference.”

Pagan said, “I'm beginning to get the impression that my narrative isn't quite setting you on fire. If I were a suspicious man, I'd say you weren't exactly interested in it.”

“Of course I'm interested in it,” the man said.

“Then why aren't you doing something about it?”

The man laid his hand on Pagan's shoulder again. “Here's what I suggest, Frank. You trot on back to your hotel and leave it all to me. Don't worry about a thing. It's in good hands.”

“I'm not about to trot anywhere,” Pagan said. Especially not at the suggestion of someone as patronising as you, Blue Eyes, he thought. There was an insincere quality to this nameless man, and Pagan didn't like it, didn't trust it. He didn't like the way he was being stalled either.

“Jesus, you're a hard man to convince, Frank. You imagine I'm going to
ignore
the whole goddam thing? You imagine I don't believe you? I'll take the appropriate steps, I promise you that.”

“When?”

“Frank, let me give you the simple ABCs of it. This is a military matter. We're all goddam grateful you brought it to our attention, believe me. But it's out of your hands now.”

“I don't think so,” Pagan said, and he stared at a row of phonebooths a hundred yards away. What was the time in London? he wondered. Martin Burr would be at his desk and if Pagan couldn't get this supercilious bozo to do something quickly, he'd cheerfully call the Commissioner, who would most certainly contact the NATO command in Europe. But why in the name of Christ was there such reluctance here?

He said, “If you don't want to follow up on my story – and I mean
now
, sunshine – I'll make a phonecall to somebody who will. That way, if I'm completely off the wall, if I'm suffering from a brainstorm, then at least I'll have the benefit of relief.”

The man followed Pagan's line of vision in the direction of the phones. “I wouldn't,” he said, and the smile finally was gone.

“Give me a damn good reason not to,” Pagan said.

“We've got a communications problem here, Frank, and it bothers me. What I'm trying to say is that as far as you're concerned, those phones are off limits.”

“Off limits?”

“Precisely.”

“If I want to make a call, you stop me, is that it?”

The man said nothing.

Pagan briefly closed his eyes, hearing the sound of something he should have caught minutes ago, something that echoed in his head and throbbed. Realisation, a cold dawning, the noise of a frozen penny dropping inside his brain. He looked into the man's face, which had all the animation of a stiff mask.

“You
want
it to fly,” Pagan said quietly. “You
want
the fucking plane to make it!”

The man continued to be silent.

Pagan could still hear the coin tumbling down the chutes of his mind, gathering momentum as it moved, and he was reminded of a game he used to play at carnivals as a kid, when you stuck a penny in a slot and watched it roll towards a variety of possible destinations – some of which returned your coin, most of which kept it. Christ, what had he stumbled into? Where was the rolling coin destined to go? You call the Pentagon, you report the possibility of a stolen plane, an impending disaster, and the duty officer turns you over to Blue Eyes, who's seemingly in no great hurry to prevent destruction. What the hell was going on here?

“Let me see if I can guess it,” Pagan said. “Are you and Andres Kiss working together? Is that it? With a little help from some friends inside the Pentagon? Am I right? Is it some kind of elaborate military conspiracy?”

The man shook his head. “That's too simple, Frank. There's no military conspiracy. There's no vast involvement at the Pentagon.”

“What is it then? Just a chosen few? A helping hand here, a little support there? Why don't you spell it out for me, friend?”

“I want you to meet somebody, Frank. Somebody who can give you a better perspective on this whole matter. He's waiting outside. He doesn't like public places.”

Pagan hesitantly followed as the man began to walk across the concourse in the direction of the exit. Outside the station a long black limousine was parked in defiance of No Parking signs. Pagan understood he was to move towards it. The back door was opened from inside. Pagan hesitated.

Blue Eyes said, “You'll be fine, Frank. Go ahead.”

Pagan looked inside the car. A fat man, his face in shade, occupied most of the back seat. There were two televisions, a couple of phones, decanters of scotch and sherry.

“Go ahead,” Blue Eyes said again.

Pagan concentrated on the fat man's face, the eyes that were hardly more than two very narrow gashes, the cheeks that appeared to be stuffed with food – as if the man were a hibernating animal preparing himself for the long sleep of winter.

“Frank Pagan,” the fat man said, and patted the space on the seat alongside him. “I've been looking forward to meeting you. But we can hardly talk like reasonable men if you insist on standing in the street, while I sit in the comfort of this car. What's it to be?”

“You step out,” Pagan said.

“Humbug. It's more comfortable in here.”

Pagan shook his head. The fat man sighed and emerged from the limousine, looking just a little testy but forcing a smile anyhow. Blue Eyes moved some distance away, browsing through newspapers at a news-stand.

“Stubborn, Pagan,” the fat man said.

“So I've been told.”

They walked a few paces. The fat man asked, “How is Scotland Yard?”

“Is this going to be small talk? I already told your man out there that I had a situation I thought should be checked out. He appeared completely reluctant.”

“He's a good man. Don't be hard on him. He takes orders well.”

“From you?”

The fat man nodded. “I understand you want to stop a certain plane flying to the Soviet Union, Frank.”

“I had a notion,” Pagan said. He was suddenly very impatient.

“Question, Frank. How much do you know? How much have you glued together?”

Pagan studied the man's face. He had a small mouth and rather tiny teeth. Pagan thought for a moment before he said, “Why should I tell you what I know? I don't even know who you are, for Christ's sake.”

“My dear fellow, I'm a great fan of Scotland Yard. You and I, old man, we're on the same team. Nobody's going to hurt you, Frank. We're friends here. My affiliation is a wee bit difficult to explain.”

“I bet it is.”

“National security.”

“Whose national security?”

“The whole Western world, Frank. I'm not speaking only of our own backyard, my friend.”

Pagan started to move away. He was tired of obfuscation, weary of allusion, sick to his heart with mystification. All he wanted to do was to go back inside the station and call the Commissioner. The fat man caught the sleeve of his jacket and held it.

“Don't rush away, Frank. Tell me what you know. Besides, you've got nothing to worry about, have you? You're armed. I'm not. I've read your dossier and I know you carry a Bernardelli in a rear holster. And I wouldn't be seen dead near a gun. All I'm interested in is your version of the situation.”

Pagan assembled his thoughts, which raced here and there like doomed summer butterflies eluding a net. He said, “The KGB found some use for a group of Baltic freedom fighters. At least certain factions in the KGB and their friends did. The Baits don't seem to have a clue they're being used by the very people they despise most. I assume the KGB motive is related to a power-struggle inside the Soviet Union – old against new. That's my best guess. I can't see any other reason for the support of the Baits. But now I get the distinct impression from your friend over there that there's more to this than I imagined. Now it appears that the Baits aren't only getting help from the Soviets, they're also getting assistance from certain Americans as well, some of whom have military connections.”

The fat man shrugged. His small eyes were very bright and hard like two polished brown stones. He appeared to be just a little amused now.

Pagan said, “American and Soviet collusion. It explains some things. Such as how Epishev knew I'd come to the United States. The Americans told him. How Andres Kiss could steal a NATO plane and fly it inside Soviet territory. The Americans could provide the aircraft, the Soviets the means of entry.”

“Ingenious,” said the fat man. He pressed his chubby fingers to his mouth.

“What I don't entirely understand is American involvement,” Pagan remarked.

“Think about it, Frank,” the fat man said. “I'm sure it's on the tip of your tongue.”

Pagan was quiet a moment. Traffic chugged past the entrance to the station, taxicabs honking at the black limousine that impeded their movement. Pagan observed that the limo wasn't equipped with the usual licence plates. Instead, it had the kind of temporary plates used by car dealers.

He said, “My best bet would be that some Americans would like to see the new Soviet regime replaced. I'm naive enough to wonder why.”

“Replaced is understatement. Try removed and forgotten, Frank. Buried with all its manifestos of good intentions. Interred with all its spurious nonsense about democracy and freedom. That's closer to the mark. It's a matter of protecting our civilisation, for want of a better word.”

“So Andres Kiss flies an aeroplane inside the Soviet Union and
that
act of terrorism protects our civilisation?” Pagan asked.

The fat man grinned and his eyes vanished off the planet of his face. “You know, Frank, some of us long for the old days when we knew who the Russians were. We had a set of rules, and we could get along with the Soviets because they were predictable. We understood how they operated. We knew their level of incompetence. Government by geriatrics. What do old men love more than anything else, Frank? I'll tell you. They adore the status fucking quo, that's what. But all these goddam changes have upset things more than a little. When the old farts started dying off, we always assumed other old farts would take their places. We thought the Soviets had an endless supply of old farts. We didn't see a new breed rising, did we? We didn't think ahead. Now we don't know where they stand these days. And worse than that, we don't know where
we
stand either.”

Pagan said nothing. He felt restless. Was the fat man trying to stall him? Detecting Pagan's restlessness, the fat man raised his voice.

“When they talk about reforms, and how they're going to change the Soviet Union from top to bottom, that really troubles me. Ye gods! who knows what they're going to release? Vast reservoirs of untapped talent lying around, skills that have gone unused because nobody gave a fiddler's fuck about a system that disregarded basic human rights. But give people a sense of dignity, give them some comforts, make them think they're really important, and we might see a goddam Russian renaissance in technology, science, energy.
And then what?”

The fat man took a handkerchief out now and blew his nose in short, trumpeting sounds. “The big question is, can this fragile globe stand a
really
powerful Russia? Will the old power pendulum swing over to the red zone? What kind of world would it be if the Russians dominated it? I get chills up and down my spine. You see, I liked things the way they were, Frank. I think what we're doing can help us keep the upper hand. We're not discussing some lunatic right-wing bullshit here, Frank. Let's just say a few people, with different motives but a common goal, put their resources together. Certain Americans don't like this new Russia. More importantly, a good number of Russians don't like it either. Change, they say. Screw change. We want things the way they were. Let's have it back the way it used to be. What a nice coincidence, don't you think? Here's something the Americans and the Soviets can get together on finally. A joint Soviet-American venture to destroy all this unwanted
newness
in Soviet society. A collaboration, Frank, between ourselves and some sympathetic Russians. Fraternity and cooperation.”