‘Dead?’ the man on his knees beside Simonov enquired, 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 gum-shield,’ 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.’