After Galakhov had left him, the old man took his dog for a walk in the small triangular park which had once been known as the 'Field of Virgins'. He passed on the east side of the park a bust of Frunze, hero of the civil war, one of the founders of the Red Army, and almost raised his hat to the stern face as he passed. An unhabitually comic notion; perhaps his decision regarding Vrubel had lightened his mood, he thought. He paused for a moment, while the big old hound capered like a pup on the frost-sparkling grass, and looked back at the Frunze Military Academy. He could even see the low-relief hammer-and-sickles decorating the stern concrete facade; not given to admitting, or indulging, moments of nostalgia, he allowed himself to remember his own training there, soon after it was built in 1936 — an over-age cadet who had temporarily rejected the political life. The war, too — that time came back in brief, flickering images.
Then the dog rubbed against his trousers, and his mood was disturbed. The lines in the face hardened again, became stern with anticipated business. He kept to the glinting path, his footsteps loud and clear, his stick tapping almost in a marching rhythm; the noises of the dog on the stiff grass were the only other sounds, as if all traffic had stopped outside the park. The park itself was empty of other people.
The eccentricities he had cultivated for years, the apparent harmlessness and geniality that age seemed to have lent him, now served him well; he had not been tailed from his house, as he was sure other, less apparently loyal, members of the Politburo had been that night, and on other nights.
There was a twist of contempt in the smile on his lips. A smile which vanished again as he stood before Merkurov's giant bronze statue of Tolstoy. Immediately, he felt the size of the statue as an expression of power — his own, or that of Tolstoy, he was uncertain, even indifferent. He shivered slightly, with anticipation rather than cold. The dog continued to scamper, and his thoughts were suddenly stronger, imitative of a younger man, not the respectable, waned figure he had chosen to become.
Party man. Peel away the layers. Party man. Yes, he was that; except that now the Party was in the hands of the sweepings of the Revolution. Non-Party men. Compromisers. Schoolmasters, economic experts, balance-sheet men — men interested only in personal power. Khamovkhin and his crew. The anger coursed through him, mesmerising his attention; his litany.
Khamovkhin the clown had tried to panic his unknown enemy by his vague denunciations in the meeting of the full Politburo. Khamovkhin and his hyena, Andropov, had caught some whiff of Group 1917 — nothing more. They were the ones dose to panic. And he was safe — on the safe list, no doubt; unsuspected.
When he had been silent, as if in homage, before the statue for perhaps ten minutes, he said, softly but dearly, 'Well, my friend. What have you to tell me?'
From the shadows beneath the statue, a voice full of disgruntled respect, and cold, said, 'Pnin's tanks have been seen, sir.'
'What?' He felt cold, at once recriminatory. 'How?'
'An agent, the General thinks. Probably not Finnish.'
'He's dead?'
'Not yet — they are in pursuit. I was told it was only a matter of hours.'
'Who sent him?'
'The Americans — the British?'
'Damn!'
'General Pnin considers that you were ill-advised to order a full-scale rehearsal of the border crossing.'
'Damn Pnin! His security is — non-existent. How did the man get close enough — what did he see?'
'Certainly the village — probably the crossing itself.'
'They must get him, then.'
'General Pnin sends his assurances as to—'
'Pnin is a fool.'
'Sir.'
The younger voice retreated into silence. Kutuzov stared up into the giant bronze face, aware of the frost that sparkled like eyes above the beard. He tried to draw strength from the statue, and calm rationality.
'The British sent a man before — the one who was killed before he could talk. Pnin should have been more alert. Vrubel is dead,' he added to the courier. 'He will have to be replaced by his second-in-command for next week. Tell Praporovich that.'
'Sir,' the courier replied.
'Are there arrangements for taking this agent alive?
'The General is aware of the importance—'
'He'd better be. Are there arrangements to keep me informed, as soon as a result is achieved?'
'Sir. By tomorrow night, there will be word.'
'Then that will have to do. Tell Praporovich that SID knows nothing — though Vrubel did his best to give them a lead. And give the order for Pnin to withdraw — at once. As soon as he has captured the agent.
'Yes, sir.'
'What of Attack Force One?'
'Ready to move up to the Norwegian border on D minus One, sir.'
'Good. Dolohov and the Navy?'
'All the ships required for Rabbit Punch are at sea, or refitting at Murmansk, ready to take troops aboard on D minus One.'
'All — at last?'
'All, sir.'
'Better news — better news. Very well. When is your flight?'
'Another two hours.'
'Very well. Tell Praporovich that the agent, when captured, must be transferred at once to the Leningrad house, and interrogated thoroughly. We must know what the British know — if anything. It must not upset the timetable.'
'Marshal Praporovich asked that the timetable be confirmed, as of now.'
'Assuming word comes from Ossipov not later than five days' time?' As if sensing the grandiloquence of the moment, the old man stood erect before the bronze statue, staring up into Tolstoy's blind face. 'Yes. One week from now. D-Day is the 24th.'
As he swung down into a great fold of the Maanselka, the central mountain range, he could see, to the north-west, the peak of Kaunispaa; he was only a mile, perhaps, from the main north-south road and the village of Lannila. If he could make the road, he might again have a choice — north towards Ivalo, south towards Vuotso — west along the road to Kuttura. Places that offered rest, and help, however illusory.
His side ached intolerably, his body pleaded for him to stop, ached with effort and hunger — even so, it was spurred by the proximity of the road, the destination he had travelled towards all night and into the first daylight.
The MIL helicopter, a squat, droning beetle, had hugged the slope of the land, then descended on him suddenly even as he first picked up the noise of its rotors. It was barely light; but the helicopter was black against the grey sky. It rushed upon him, flurrying snow in its downdraught as it hovered, then moved ahead of him, skimming the ground. He watched as white-clad soldiers dropped from its belly, laid like mines across his path. He tried to stop, jumping so that the snow surfed up. The nearest man was less than a hundred yards away, and the noise of the MIL, and its skirt of snow, were deadening, oppressive.
He looked round, and the pursuers, dog-weary as he was himself, topped the last slope, and fitted skis again or rested for a moment. One of them waved, and Folley could hear a thin cheering.
The helicopter lifted away again, swinging above him so that he could see the grinning face of the pilot. His wave was an insult, perhaps even a recognition. Then the shadow was gone, a paralysis deserting his limbs. He unslung the rifle.
The men in front of him had fitted snowshoes, and walked clumsily, inexorably, towards him, in slow-motion. Each of them carried a Kalashnikov. And behind him the first of the tired skiers was thrusting down the long slope, only hundreds of yards away.
He could have angled his flight, thrust off towards the left or right and outdistanced the men on snowshoes. It appeared that they wished to take him alive rather than kill him. But his body revolted at the idea, and his legs were finally and suddenly without strength so that he knew he was not going to move any more. Then a second MIL lifted above the slope that had masked it and its noise.