Snow Falcon

'It all may be of the utmost importance. Always understand that, both of you. We don't get called in unless it's already a serious matter.' He looked at them both in turn, until they signalled their understanding. 'Very well. Let's see the films.'

He twitched down the blind, shutting out the leaden view from the window. His interview with the Deputy had been urgent and short. He had to find something — apparently, there was something very nasty to find, and he had to find it — no, he could not be told what it was he was looking for — and he knew then that they did not know; but it did exist, and Ossipov was a possible suspect. So were the other officers they had been watching on their periodic leaves in the city. Men from every military district, none of them below the rank of regimental Colonel.

The light dimmed, and the cartridge case clicked. Pictures of Ossipov in swift succession passed across the screen. Bending to look at an oriental statue, the collector's greed dear on his smooth, heavy features. In the gallery, face lit by the glow from illumination above a huge canvas by Repin — then bending to an ikon, almost in worship.

Then the Gardens, the features pinched by the cold, bathed in the pale sunshine; his back to the camera as he paused to speak to a woman, to raise his dark hat…

Vorontsyev looked at Ilya, who shook his head. He waved his hand, and the monochrome procession continued. Even entering the male toilets at the Metropole, after lunch.

'You checked?'

'He left nothing but his urine,' Ilya replied softly. 'Do you want to see the rest, sir?'

'Not if they're all like this.'

The beam of light died, and Vorontsyev tugged up the bund. Ilya turned to face him.

'What official functions has he attended in the last four days?'

'None, sir. He's on leave.'

'What about the officers' dubs, that sort of thing?

'We could only get in their officially — you didn't want that.'

'No, not yet.'

'Sir?'

'Yes?'

'This operation, sir?'

'Yes, Ilya?'

'Is it — look, sir, are we looking for evidence to get rid of aim, or is there really some specific thing we have to discover?'

Vorontsyev glowered, then smiled and nodded.

'Very well. As far as I can see, it isn't just for the sake of it. Not one of those operations. He hasn't offended. No, it's for real. Something is going on, and it's probable centre is the army, and high up. We're supposed to find something — a clue might be enough, a few names. At the moment, we don't know who or what. Clear?'

Both seemed relieved, as if they preserved some vestige of private conscience which had to be appeased.

Ilya said, 'Thanks, sir.' Alevtina merely nodded her agreement.

'Good. But it would be useful to find out who he met, talked to, in the clubs. You got a list?'

Alevtina handed him a sheet of paper on which was scribbled in the hand of the KGB man who doubled as a waiter at the principal Moscow officers' club, the names of the men to whom Ossipov had spoken. For SID — even when the officer was an attractive young woman rather than a bully-boy — for the blue ID card, he would have watched, and noted, without question. Vorontsyev glanced down the list. One or two generals, old acquaintances being watched by other units of the SID, one or two junior now or previously under his command.

'Vrubel? KGB Border Guard — Finland border. Is that odd, or not?'

'Vrubel. We wondered that, sir. We checked. His father was an officer with General Ossipov during the war — killed near Berlin, in the last days.' The girl was concentrating on the conscientiousness of her tone. Vorontsyev thought she might not yet have lost her sense of herself as a woman in a male-dominated elite. To him, she was one of his junior officers.

'I see. Does Vrubel frequent army clubs very much?'

'Don't know, sir. I think he came by invitation this time — the General's invitation.'

'Mm. Leave it for the time being. What other contacts, of any kind?'

'A cousin, sir. Vladimir Ossipov, an official in the Foreign Ministry. Not very important. He called on him and his family, just before we came off duty yesterday. He's a fanatical Party member, is Vladimir.'

'Very well. Let us go back to the day before — and go through this process again. Just for a change, show me the pictures first.'

Once more the blind was dropped, and the slides flicked on the screen. He felt no irritation at the lack of substance emerging from the surveillance, and little responsibility other than that of the automation, checking and double-checking. The routine soothed, refreshed. Even in the SID there was the humming of obedient, unthinking machinery.

'Who's that?' he asked. The background was the Museum of the Revolution on Gorki Street. Ossipov was engaged in conversation with a man in a dark overcoat and hat.

The slides flicked on, the projector humming slightly with warmth. More pictures of the two old men, still in conversation.

'No one special. Ilya was able to listen. It was about politics.'

'Politics?'

'Nothing controversial. In praise of Soviet achievements — especially the Revolution itself, and the war.' The girl, too, seemed bored, answering for Ilya.

'Is that it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well — go on.'

More slides — out of doors. Snow, caught on the shoulders of the General's dark overcoat, and curtaining the clarity of the picture. Vorontsyev squinted.

'What is this?'

'After he left the museum — it's Pushkin Square. I took one here because he waited a bit, as if to meet someone…'

'And?'

'Nothing. Caught a taxi — and we took another, to follow him.'

'Where?'

'Hotel — a couple of drinks.'

The scenes flicked, as if accompanying the narrative. Back of the man, then the taxi, back of the man outside the Moskva Hotel, entering the foyer… 'You followed him in?'

'Yes. He stayed in the bar, then went to the toilet, then caught another taxi…' Both of them were bored, it was evident now. Brushing aside a minor irritation, Vorontsyev watched the screen. Back of the man, entering a taxi. 'Where next?'

'The cinema. On the Marx Prospekt. Some epic extolling the usual virtues, school of Eisenstein. Wartime stuff, I think. I almost went to sleep.'

'But you watched him throughout?'

'Yes. He went to the toilet again — must have a bladder problem, or it was the cold — then took his seat, sat alone for two hours, came out, oh — went to the toilet again, then caught a taxi back to the Moskva for a light meal…'

Slides. Back of the man entering the cinema, grainy with snow, head bowed, hat held on head. Back of the man coming out of the cinema. Other people. 'Back!'

'What?'

'Back! The shot of him going in — then this shot again.'

'Sir.'

Vorontsyev watched, felt the tension close on his bowels, then ungrip again as he sensed an error. The two young officers had hardly risen from their langour, except that the girl whispered the time to Ilya. 'No—' Vorontsyev whispered. 'No.'

'Shall I go on, sir?'

'Yes. How close were you when he went into the cinema?'

'A bit back. Not many customers at that time.'

'And he went into the toilet?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're sure? On the way in?'

Alevtina consulted her notes. 'On the way out…'

'You said on the way in!'

'I — no, only on the way out.'

'Quickly, go back to the Moskva — to the shot of him leaving the hotel, getting in the taxi. Quickly!'

Ilya fumbled with the cartridge; stuttering clicks, then the smoother sound as images flashed on the screen in quick succession.

Back of the man entering the taxi. It was inconclusive, Vorontsyev recognised, as if he had hoped for something clearer. Yet he sensed how it might have been done.