The bomber had not wired for instantaneous explosion presumably for his own safety when arranging the body on the bed. It was a ridiculous way to have avoided death; he could still feel as a sensation in his fingertips, the delicate cold wire, the strand that had linked him for a moment with death.
As the hours passed, he found his attention returning to the minutes of his occupancy of that cold, small bedroom at the dacha, and the face of the Ossipov-substitute. He had been found, face-down in the slush, by a senior member of the Central Committee Secretariat, who was cohabiting in his dacha with a woman not his wife. Vorontsyev retained a dim impression of a man in pyjamas and Wellingtons and a silk dressing-gown round his shivering form — before he had passed out again from the pain of being turned over.
Why? Why such — extreme measures? What was he so close to that a bomb had to be used to stop him? Vrubel — they would not see him again, unless he re-emerged in the last condition of the Ossipov-substitute. According to his wife's statement, Vrubel had made two telephone calls before leaving her flat. She had overheard neither call. How many men would it have taken to organise the operation that quickly? A lot — trained, expert men. The ruined dacha belonged to an unimpeachable member of the Council of Ministers. It was impossible that he should be involved. He was not even in Moscow at the time, but at a trade conference in Leipzig.
Vorontsyev lit one of the cigarettes at his bedside, coughing on the raw smoke. Then he lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time. Thought became, gradually, suspended; he almost dozed. Cigarette after cigarette disappeared from the packet, and the most conscious thing he seemed to do was to stub each butt in the metal ashtray advertising some awful beer.
It was late in the evening when he received a visitor — Deputy Chairman Kapustin. The bulky man with the broad, expressionless face settled himself on a chair at the bedside without enquiring after Vorontsyev's health. Vorontsyev tried to sit more upright; Kapustin seemed not to notice his efforts.
'I want to discuss your — accident, Major,' he said. Vorontsyev sensed the pressures of other voices, issued orders. Perhaps even from Andropov? He felt a quickening of thought, almost in the blood. 'I have to be completely frank with you,' he added as if he disliked the idea, and wished to disown it.
'Yes, Deputy?'
'From the report you dictated this morning, it is clear that you have stirred up something rather nasty, and far-reaching. Though you can have no idea what it is.' The final phrase was heavy with seniority. Vorontsyev could not like Kapustin, but was too intrigued by what he might learn to resent the man's proximity. Yes, he decided, he was nattered by the promise of revelations, of being fully informed.
'Your investigations,' Kapustin continued, his homburg hat still balanced on his knee, but the fur-collared coat now unbuttoned, 'were intended to add to our knowledge of the movements and contacts of senior army officers. This surveillance was ordered by…' He paused, as if forcing himself to overcome the habits of years, ingrained, then he managed to say: 'By the First Secretary and the Chairman, in joint consultation. Similar surveillance has, as you are aware, been carried out during the past year on a number of generals and military district commanders. What you in your section of SID do not know is that similar surveillance has been applied to senior members of the Politburo, the Praesidium, the Supreme Soviet, and the Central Committee Secretariat…'
Vorontsyev was shaken. He said, 'All with the same — suspicion in mind, Deputy?'
Kapustin nodded. Vorontsyev lit another cigarette, and saw that his hand was trembling with excitement. Whatever was going on, it was huge, out of all proportion to the small sliver of the totality that he had glimpsed, that had embedded itself in his flesh as surely as if it had been a splinter of wood from the ruined dacha. The compartmentalisation of all the security organs of the state extended even to the SID. He had had no idea that perhaps half the force was working on the same operation as himself and his team.
Kapustin said, 'You talked with Vrubel — what impression did you get of him? Did he know who you were?'
Vorontsyev, because his mind raced to the possibilities., ignored his private humiliation, so much so that he said immediately, 'He found me comical as a cuckolded husband…' Kapustin remained silent. 'But he was cocky, and not just with sex…' Vorontsyev concentrated, seeing the man's face, hearing his voice. 'He knew who I was, and that if I wished, I could make trouble just because he was having my wife. But he didn't seem to care. It seemed to make him more confident.'
'What do you conclude from this, Major?'
'I don't know. At the time I suspected something — some secret knowledge or power that made him — immune?' Kapustin's eyes lit up. He said. 'Exactly! that is what I suspected from your report. A great pity that you did not take other men with you…' He waved aside protest, and went on: 'Whoever is behind this, they are suitably ruthless. One must admire them for it, if for nothing else.'
'What do we know, Deputy? So far?
'Mm. I am permitted to tell you — ordered, in fact. The earliest clue was a tapped telephone call from the Bureau of Political Administration of the Army; a senior member of that department of the Secretariat who was about to retire, due to inoperable cancer. Perhaps he made a slip just because he was old, or ill — or confident. He used a phone that he would not know was tapped, but he might well have suspected it. His name was Fedakhin. He talked in what was obviously code, and he mentioned two strange things. He referred to Group 1917, and later in the conversation — that was his call-sign, we think — he referred to Finland Station. He was responsible for that area of the border, and the north-western military district. Apparently, this Finland Station was proceeding well, and he could look forward to retiring a happy man — to await the great day, as he put it.'
'Vrubel referred to nothing like that,' Vorontsyev murmured unhelpfully.
'I didn't suppose he had,' Kapustin observed. 'But what do you think the terms might mean, eh, Major?'
Vorontsyev wrinkled his brow, looked at the Deputy, and said, 'I can't think what they might mean — I know what they do mean, the date of the Revolution, and the destination of the train from Switzerland…' His mouth dropped open. 'You don't think…?
'I think nothing. Chairman Andropov's thoughts are what I convey to you.' There was a solemn emphasis in the words. 'Revolution? Seems hard to believe doesn't it?' There was a bright glint of perspiration on Kapustin's forehead, above the heavy creases of age and office. 'I would prefer not to think — but I have to, and so do you.'
'Very well, Comrade Deputy.' Vorontsyev felt that the situation required formality. 'What happened to the man Fedakhin?'
'He died. Apparently the disease was more advanced than was diagnosed. We put maximum surveillance on him, but to little or no effect. It appears that somebody was suspicious — no one went near him again.'
'But — his contacts before. How much do we know about them?'
Both men seemed to accept the collusion that the situation forced upon them. Both relaxed into the tense informality of their common business. Kapustin said, 'Not very much. Typical party background — kept his nose clean. Ready to change sides and loyalties when Kruschev was swept away, had never identified himself with that regime, except when he had to. A second world war soldier, political indoctrination — then returned to his duties in the Secretariat. Clean record — until this chance telephone intercept.' Kapustin shrugged.