Snow Falcon

'Sir, we have a suspicion — no more than that — that you may be in personal danger while in Finland. The thought must also have occurred to you. Considering the possible ramifications of the plot against your government, it is not inconceivable that a move might be made against you—'

'I am to be your prisoner?'

'Our charge, sir. Only our charge.'

Silence. Khamovkhin fidgeting, uncertain whether to sit or stand. The fire crackling loudly, and visible restraint against the tiny shock from each of the three men.

'We'd like to move the team in tonight, sir.' Buckholz, at last enjoying a small victory. 'But naturally, you can have time to think it over. We have the men selected. You will be safe with them — with us.' The bribe was evident.

'I will consider this — unprecedented step,' Khamovkhin said slowly. 'In consultation, naturally.' A sweep of the arm. 'Now, you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have much to do.'

'Of course, sir.' Aubrey stood up and said, bowing slightly, 'Thank you for seeing us.'

'Yes — thank you,' Buckholz added, as if reminded of his manners.

When they had gone, Khamovkhin stared into the fireplace for a long time, and felt he was looking into a tunnel — he hardly saw the flames, only the blackened back of the fireplace; he was running down that tunnel, and a great train, the monolith of the Soviet Union itself, so it seemed, was thundering and roaring behind him drawing closer and closer.

* * *

As they went down the steps of the castle, and their feet began crunching on the icy gravel as they walked to their car, Aubrey said, 'Well played, Charles — we should have worked more often as a team.'

Buckholz grinned. 'Why do you British assume, by divine right, I guess, that you have all the diplomacy, and us colonials only get to be the stooges? Next time, I want to play the smartass — you be the dummy!'

'Very well, Charles. Not that it would seem to matter much. Khamovkhin is relying on a miracle — and therefore, so are we.'

'Dammit, yes! I know that. What the hell is the KGB playing at? When they got a real job on, they foul up!'

'Never mind, Charles. I think, for the moment, we will interest ourselves in the smaller matter of one man's safety. And the identity of the mysterious Captain Ozeroff. That should be enough for two old night-soil men like ourselves.' He paused, then added bleakly, 'It should do to fill in time until the twenty-fourth,'

* * *

The Englishman was near to breaking — perhaps within himself he had already broken. The fierce attention he seemed to be paying to Kutuzov indicated a distraction from self, rather than a real awareness, a calculated assessment of his situation. Novetlyn stood beside Kutuzov, deferential and silent. The narrow cell with its poor light from one high, barred slit of window, smelt foul. Folley's smell, as if something was rotting beneath the soiled clothes, rotting inside the man.

'Well, Colonel?'

'Sir?

'Are we going to learn something of value, or not?'

Folley blinded, leaned forward on the filthy cot as if straining to comprehend — or simply to keep himself awake. The body's posture flinched, even while he did it. Kutuzov was obscurely moved by the sight, but to no specific feeling.

'Possibly, sir. What he knows, how much he knows — it's open to question.' Novetlyn sounded as if he had already done with the Englishman, discarded that particular card. The attitude irritated Kutuzov. 'Then I came to Leningrad for nothing?'

'If you came to see him, sir — perhaps.'

Novetlyn obviously knew about the border incident, and the escape of one of the agents in Helsinki. Perhaps that explained his indifference. And an indifferent interrogator would obtain nothing of value.

'What do they know?'

'Less when he was sent than they know now.'

Kutuzov was suddenly tired of the smell, the confinement. Perhaps disturbed, too, though he ignored the feeling.

'Very well, let's go. The Marshal should have arrived by now.'

'And him, sir?'

Folley's body looking as if it was pleading; but the eyes, as if overworked, were blank with an idiot's stare; the body might only be an actor's imitation of supplication, or a haphazard arrangement of weary, beaten muscles.

'Keep him here for the moment. We might be able to use him later — in some sort of show-trial.' Kutuzov seemed pleased with the idea, as if it explained the vague reluctance he perceived with regard to Folley. 'Perhaps so. Agent of the Western imperialists — a courier to Khamovkhin's gang. Yes. Keep him alive!'

Upstairs, Praporovich waited in civilian clothes in the main drawing-room of the old house. When Kutuzov entered, they embraced, kissed cheeks. Kutuzov held the Marshal at arms' length for a moment, smiling, assessing.

'You look tired, Grigory Ilyich.'

Praporovich dismissed the observation. 'Nothing the twenty-fourth won't put right!' They laughed together. 'I was not followed,' Praporovich added.

'Nevertheless, this is the last time you must come out of headquarters, until things are under way.'

'Perhaps. I will be careful, you know.'

'I know it.'

'Ossipov, then—?'

'He has been told to radio you the full instructions, timings, everything.'

'We need twenty-four hours minimum to deploy and transport.'

'Ossipov knows that.'

'A pity it's so late in the day — being so important.'

Kutuzov settled himself in his chair, studying Praporovich, suddenly wearied by the prospect of argument.

'We could take no chances — chemical warfare training is an annual event. Last year, we failed to get it right, and we had to wait. Soldiers talk, Grigory Ilyich — and that is something not to talk about. Ossipov's men think they are only carrying out normal training—' Praporovich raised his hand.

'Very well, old friend. I agree. Let us not quarrel. As long as the cleaning-up is timed to the minute, I don't worry about it.'

'It will be. Radio-traffic for everything, using the hourly changes of code, from now on. Tell Dolohov.'

Praporovich nodded. 'Your part of it?'

'Valenkov's gone underground. The KGB know it, but they can't do anything about it. Valenkov will be ready at 06:00, when I give the order, to move his tanks into the centre of Moscow. They will take up positions around and inside the Kremlin, and in Dzerzhinsky Street — a display of strength. Andropov will be— collected at home by a special squad. The Politburo members will be similarly rounded up. As for Feodor the traitor — he will be taken care of.'

'He must come back for trial—'

'What else? It is taken care of.'

Praporovich nodded reluctantly. 'GFSG are still bellyaching about not being in on the action,' he observed.

'They won't move?'

'No. Marshal Bezenkov will do nothing. "1812" will come to a complete stop at 06:00, as you ordered.'

'Good.'

Kutuzov stood up, crossed to the drinks cabinet in one corner, and poured vodka for them both. He raised his glass, aware of, pleased at, the theatricality.

'Your health, old friend.'

'Yours, also.' They touched glasses, drank off the liquor. Kutuzov stayed the Marshal's hand for a moment.

'I have to stay alive, because without me, Valenkov will never order his garrison regiments into the streets of Moscow. You have to stay alive, because without you the Army has no leader in the north. Remember that when you're tempted to walk the streets today or tomorrow — eh, old friend?'