Kyril rolled over very slowly and lay on his side. He could hear footsteps approaching over the stony soil of the roadside waste. Suddenly they stopped, and Kyril raised his head to see a very young man, scarcely more than a boy. He was flushed and breathing heavily: more from nerves than exertion, Kyril guessed. The machine-pistol looked awkward in his hands, and Kyril noted that his captor was unused to firearms.
‘You’re English,’ he said.
The boy jumped at being addressed in his own language. He was standing about four feet away, as if not sure what to do next. His lips were dry and he continually flicked a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. His patent nervousness alarmed Kyril.
‘And you’re Colonel Bucharensky,’ the boy replied. ‘Get up. Keep your hands where I can see them, nice and easy.’
If he meant to sound confident he failed. This boy puzzled Kyril greatly. He was hardly twenty and his inexperience showed in everything he did. His obvious lack of control over the situation made the Russian feel faintly ridiculous. He stood up slowly and dusted off his clothes.
‘But I was looking for you. The KGB ran me out of Athens…’
‘Yes, yes, we know all about that.’
By now it was fully light. If the boy dithered much longer a bus full of schoolchildren would come along, with everyone ooh-ing and aah-ing. The image brought a smile to Kyril’s lips.
‘Here… put these on.’
Kyril’s smile faded. The boy had produced a pair of handcuffs.
‘Look. I’m on your side, see? I’m looking for SIS. Don’t you understand? I’ll come quietly, because I want to.’
‘Shut-up. Now listen. Put on the right bracelet and snap it shut.’
Kyril stared at him. This was going wrong.
‘Do it!’
Kyril hesitated no longer. The gap between them was too great for heroics and he didn’t like the way the boy’s finger kept tightening and loosening on the trigger. His throat was dry. With every second that passed his options narrowed.
He snapped the bracelet shut.
‘Now… get in the other side. Move!’
Keeping a healthy distance between them, the boy covered Kyril while he walked round the front of the van and sat sideways on the passenger seat, leaving the door ajar.
‘Put the other cuff through the handle.’
On the inside of the door was a metal grip attached to the frame by two screws. As he fitted the cuff through the narrow gap Kyril cautiously tested the handle’s strength. The screws were firm.
‘Now put on the other bracelet and close it.’
Kyril tried to swallow and failed. His throat had a dry, wooden feel to it. This couldn’t be happening. He had evaded the might of the KGB and now this boy…
‘Get in!’
This hysterical boy. Kyril swung his legs off the road, ignoring the fiery pain which radiated through his injured knee, and sat in the passenger seat.
‘Close the door.’
Kyril obeyed numbly, hearing another chance disappear with the click of the closing lock. Now he was squeezed up against the door, his hands incapacitated. The boy went round to the driver’s side, got in, and tucked the machine pistol away between him and the door.
Kyril began to calculate. They could not be more than ten kilometres from the centre of Athens. At this time of day the roads were still quiet: during the time it took for the boy to pick him up and immobilise him not a single car had passed in either direction. Assuming no breakdowns or hold-ups, they should make good speed. He had a quarter of an hour in which to act. Maybe less.
Think.
The boy started the van, reversed in a three-point turn, and started off towards the south. The engine sounded rough but was obviously still a long way from total collapse.
Make friends. No… Rattle him.
‘I don’t have to tell you that I could kill you now,’ he said quietly. The boy’s hands tightened on the wheel and he shifted angrily in his seat. The van swerved.
‘Shut up.’
Kyril let the silence develop. The gear-lever was a stalk on the steering-column. The floor of the van between him and the driver was flat.
‘I don’t want to hurt you. You’re just a kid. Forget what they told you at Gosport. We don’t murder kids.’
The front seat was a single bench. The boy had to sit close to his prisoner. Kyril began to gauge distances, rearranging his body slightly so that he was facing more to the front.
The boy took his left hand off the wheel and let it stray to the gun by his side.
‘And if I want you to be silent, I can make you be silent.’
It sounded childish. It wasn’t. Kyril knew he had pushed the boy to the limit. He turned still further and stared at the youthful profile. The driver’s skin was greasy and pocked with acne; he had nicked himself while shaving and cut off the head of a spot, which still oozed. And suddenly it clicked, the solution to the mystery which had eluded him since he first heard the boy speak. An adventure. Fresh from England, he had read the telex and decided to come out alone, on the off chance. The great game. Kudos, promotion, the love of pretty women… Kyril saw it all, and cursed himself for not realising before. It was so many years since he had had to deal with this phenomenon, he thought it was extinct. The amateur in a world long ago grown professional. The maverick attempting the impossible feat, unaided, when only iron discipline and subjugation of self enabled a man to stay alive at all. And with this poignant recognition there came for Kyril a second of unspeakable sadness.
He was still looking at the boy. By lowering his eyes a fraction he was able to see a long jack-handle thrust under the driver’s seat! It was the one thing he had been seeking, the one thing he still lacked: a lever.
‘Stop looking at me like that.’
Kyril stole a glance at the road. It was flat and a sturdy-looking hard shoulder gave directly on to unfenced fields. Say 40 kph. A bend coming up…
‘It’s your day off, today,’ said Kyril gently. ‘Isn’t it?’
As the boy turned to snap at him he swung his legs up, clenched the ankles together and, catapaulting backwards against the door to give himself every last available ounce of force, he pounded his feet into the boy’s trunk above the spleen.
The breath went out of the driver’s body in a long groan and he slumped over the wheel, his face hidden from view.
The van slowed as the boy’s foot came off the accelerator. Kyril shut his eyes and prayed for a soft landing. The van lurched off the road, bumped over stony ground for what seemed a long time and finally stalled. The horn was sounding continuously.
Kyril opened his eyes. He was in one piece. His shoulders ached where they had thudded against the door but that was nothing. His first thought was for the boy. His arms were hanging down on either side of the wheel; Kyril was glad he couldn’t see the face. He kicked again at the body, managing to dislodge the head from the horn-button, and it fell to one side.
Kyril raised himself up and cautiously peered out. They had come to rest about 20 metres from the road on rocky, untilled ground. Anybody seeing the van from the road would assume an accident had occurred and come to investigate. He must work fast.
He sat upright and wrenched the door handle. No result. He tried again, throwing the whole weight of his body away from the door, towards the boy. Still no good. Kyril took a deep breath and exhaled it while counting to ten. Steady pressure, maybe that would do it.
After a couple of minutes he gave up. The muscles of his forearms ached beyond endurance and the metal cuffs were starting to chaffe his skin. A tag of skin had already flaked away from his right wrist, leaving a rough square of red flesh in contact with the metal.
The jack.
Kyril twisted his body round so that he was half lying on the front seat, his feet on the floor beneath the steering-wheel. By scrabbling with his heels he was able to shift the handle a little. Another kick and the handle was out from under the seat.
Kyril paused to get his breath. He must stay calm. Don’t look out of the window to see who’s coming. Don’t waste energy. Concentrate on that handle, nothing else.
Kyril squeezed his feet together, the handle between them, and lifted his legs. At once the handle clashed with the steering wheel and fell. He tried again, straining to see what he was doing. This time he managed to negotiate the handle round the wheel. The sweat was running down his face. His injured leg throbbed with pain and his body had begun to tremble with muscular effort.
Kyril twisted until he was lying on the seat, his knees pulled up to his chest, the jack handle dangling between his clenched heels. To his horror he saw that the handle was slipping. He squeezed his feet more tightly together and commenced the most difficult phase of the whole operation.
The chain connecting the handcuffs was about three inches long, allowing him some play but not much. Somehow, using only his feet and, in the last second, his manacled hands, he had to lodge the shaft of the jack handle between the metal grip and the door to which it was fastened.
Kyril pulled his knees up even further into his chest and spread them slowly while keeping his feet clenched together. The van’s roof was low but by twisting his body he could just manoeuvre the handle until it was above his head. A loud gasp was forced from him as the crippling effort began to tell. Let him not get cramp, for the love of Lenin. He stretched up his hands to the very limit of the chain. It was now or never. He would have to flick the handle with his feet and pray that it dropped close enough to his hands for him to catch it as it fell. There would be only one chance. If he fluffed it the handle would drop to the floor, permanently out of reach.
Kyril relaxed his legs slightly, took a deep breath, and jerked violently backwards, separating his heels as he did so. The handle grazed his shoulder, fell to one side, out of reach of his left hand and came to rest in his right.
Kyril closed his eyes and did nothing for a while. Relief had drained him of oxygen, he had trouble breathing. When his body was more or less back to normal he entered on the final stage.
With short, jerky movements he was able to insert his newly acquired lever between the door and the metal grip. By sliding his right hand up the shaft as far as it would go he gained the necessary purchase. The second heave wrenched the handle from its screws, and he was free.
Kyril sat up and looked around. There was some traffic on the road but so far no one had stopped. Kyril turned his attention to the boy. The key to the handcuffs must be somewhere. He searched rapidly and found it in the top pocket of the driver’s shirt. Now he had no option but to examine the face.
As he pushed the body aside the boy groaned. He was still alive!
Kyril sat back in amazement. The kick had been meant to kill. Maybe the awkward angle had robbed his effort of some of its efficacy…? He shook his head. Perhaps he had spoken the literal truth. There were more important things to do than murder children.
Kyril shouldered his rucksack and struck out for the road. Someone would rescue the boy before too long. Now the important thing was to hitch a lift.
He had lost valuable time when every second was precious. Somehow he would have to catch up on schedule, only now SIS would have a score to settle and he could no longer hope for an easy ride to England.
He needed time in which to rest and heal, and that in turn meant he needed a secure base. He would somehow have to get to London… and Vera…
For the second time that day Kyril stood on the road to Aharne and lifted his thumb.