Free Firefox by Craig Thomas Page B

body of his agent, Fenton, as the mortal remains of Alexander Thomas Orton. He stood with Inspector Tortyev of the Moscow Police in the mortuary, a cold and depressing room, and gazed down at the battered, barely recognisable face and nodded after a suitable pause and catch in the throat. The wounds did not take him by surprise. Fenton looked now as Gant might have looked, in his personae as Orton.
    There was not sufficient left of the features for anyone to be able to distinguish between the American and the Englishman - especially since Gant had gone through two further transformations since he left the Moskva the previous night.
    ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Insofar as I can judge, that is the body of Mr. Orton.’ He looked up at Tortyev, who dropped the cloth back over Fenton’s ruined features.
    ‘You could not be mistaken, Mr. Edgecliffe?’ he asked.
    ‘I - don’t think so. Inspector,’ Edgecliffe said levelly, with a tiny shrug. ‘There was a - lot of damage, of course.’
    ‘Yes, indeed. Almost as if his former associates did not want him to be recognised?’
    ‘Quite. Why, though?’
    Edgecliffe’s eyes appeared a little baffled, but he was watching Tortyev keenly. He did not know the man, but he was aware that, though he posed as an ordinary civil policeman, Tortyev was KGB.
    ‘I don’t know, Mr. Edgecliffe - nor do you know, I suppose?’ Tortyev was smiling. He was young, ruthless, charming, and tough. His grey eyes were piercing and intelligent. He was one of the university graduates increasingly appearing in the front-line of the KGB, Edgecliffe reflected. A man to be watched.
    ‘Mm. Wish I could help you. Inspector - devil of a fuss, this’ll cause at home.’
    ‘It will cause a devil of a fuss, Mr. Edgecliffe, here in Moscow,’ Tortyev snapped, ‘until we find the men who killed him!’ Then he relaxed, and he said: ‘But come. Mr. Edgecliffe, I am sure you could do with a drink. This is not a pleasant task. Shall we go?’
    He ushered Edgecliffe from the room with a winning smile.
    ‘Then who is this man?’ Kontarsky was saying, holding the photograph of Gant standing by the truck at the checkpoint under the noses of Borkh and Priabin. ‘Have either of you any idea?’
    The light was on in his office as the day outside the window darkened. It had been a fine April day. Kontarsky had walked in the Alexandrovski Gardens after lunch and the air had been mild. Now, with something of a satisfied mood about him still, he looked at his two subordinates. He was hardly worried, merely concerned that the driver’s mate with Upenskoy had not yet been identified. He was unknown to the ‘M’ Department.
    The truck, naturally, was being tailed, always in sight of the tail-car. Lanyev had returned alone to Bilyarsk, with new orders for Tsemik, and advance information concerning the movements of Upenskoy and the truck.
    ‘We do not know. Colonel,’ Priabin said.
    Kontarsky, despite his confidence, was adroit at displaying anger with his subordinates. He said: ‘Do not know - we have had this photograph for hours!’
    ‘We are checking. Colonel. The Computer and Records Directorate is giving it priority, sir,’ Borkh felt called upon to say.
    ‘Is it? Is it, indeed? And why them?’
    ‘We are assuming that this man is a foreign agent, sir,’ Priabin said. ‘British, perhaps?’
    ‘Mm. Is that likely?’
    ‘Why don’t we stop the truck and ask him. Colonel?’ Borkh blurted out.
    Kontarsky turned his angry stare upon him. ‘Idiot!’ was all he said.
    Priabin understood. Kontarsky was looking for a spectacular triumph. He sensed that the man in the truck with Upenskoy was important, but he reacted by assuming that Bilyarsk was impregnable - which it was, Priabin had to admit - and that he therefore had leisure to play this man on a line, hoping that he would lead him to others, tie in with some big SIS or CIA operation. Priabin was irritated - but he, too, could not consider the threat of