Snow Falcon

had spoken, only a few Russian words after he recognised that it was not his dream speaking. Close.

He rolled on to his stomach. It was that close. As if the next step of the foot would place it on his chest, smother his face… He slid the canvas sleeve from the rifle, and aimed. Into the telescopic sight, gathering the feeble light of stars and snow, walked the Russian soldier. And he was that close, close as the body had recognised, moving instinctively as it had done.

The rifle boomed in his ear, twice, and the Russian collided with the tree-bole he was carefully skirting. Folley even saw the lips distort as the cheek was dragged down the rough bark — body sliding into a silly, ablutive crouch. He rolled away from the tree, then fired again on his back as he saw the second man turning towards him, surprised by the sudden noises. He fired again, and the aim was poor; two more shots, and the man was staggering, his own rifle, a stubby Kalashnikov, discharging into the snow. A bright spittle of flame. Then the dull concussion of the white-clothed body into the snow.

He stood up with no sense of weariness. He slung the skis over his shoulder, and, ducking into a crouched run, scuttled like a crab across the uneven ground, away from the trees. He heard again the cries of foxes behind him, but no shots. He had, he sensed, been caught in the middle of a file, grown ragged as it was sweeping the forest skirts, and now they could see one another as they re-grouped and they dared not fire in case it was one of their own. But they would sense his general direction.

Snow pucked from the tree branches, stinging his face wet. Trees no higher than himself. He felt as if he were wading out of deep water, into shallows that exposed him as a target. Snow — dusted up from dwarf trees by the brushing of his pack, the pumping of his heavy arms — splashed across his white clothing.

Few trees, a lip of bare rock almost without snow, then nothing except a land tumbled under the starlit sky, soft, illusory folds of country fading out of eyesight. Before him, a long, gentle slope. He stopped, out of sight behind the lip of rock, and fitted the skis. Then a single moment in which the body seemed to fail — and he dug in with the sticks, pushing away.

Shots behind him, but distant, not even the insect noises of ballets passing close to him — only the sighing wind, the cold stars, and the hiss of the skis as he wound down into a high valley.

He almost sensed, in some para-normal manner, when they too fitted skis, dug in, and began to pursue him. He did not look behind. Ahead of him in the darkness was the north-south load, like the border of another country.

For a moment, he thought he heard, distantly, the buzz-saw whine of a helicopter.

Three: Pursuits

'Can you be certain — certain of these names at least?'

Khamovkhin waved the list of names in front of him. He was sitting at his desk, away from the fireplace where they had sat the previous night, and Andropov had had to pull a chair to the other side of the desk. He understood the First Secretary's need to establish an aura of self-confidence, and did not resent the subordination forced upon him. He had played the same game with three of his Deputies that morning.

'I think we can — Politburo members who have consistently supported the moves towards greater detente, arms reductions — objected to the increases in defence spending…' Then something seemed to snap in him, letting the tight calm elude him. 'You know most of these men — have known them for years — Feodor. You can vouch for their loyalty!'

Khamovkhin appeared challenged for an instant, then he relaxed into his chair.

'Perhaps you're right. The last thing we need is paranoia. Yes, yes…' He put the list aside. 'These, at least, should give us no cause for concern.'

'Good.'

Khamovkhin seemed suddenly to relax. He got up, went to the cabinet, and brought back the bottle of whisky and two tumblers. He poured two generous measures, and passed a tumbler across the desk to Andropov. Andropov looked at the glass as if at something that vaguely threatened him.

'We must wait and see, then. My performance this morning should have stirred something up — I was right, eh, old friend?'

'On balance — yes. Though we conclude we are certain of those names on that list — there are others whose loyalty might be called suspect — who have links with the High Command, sympathies or records that tie them to the Army. Yes — ' Andropov sipped his drink. 'You have worried them. One of them may make some move, give himself away.'

'Why does there have to be someone in the Politburo in league with those bastards in the High Command?'

Khamovkhin swallowed greedily at the whisky.

'You mean — why not a simple army take-over?' Andropov shook his head. 'No. Too simple. Group 1917 is inside the Party machine — it has to be. If anything like a complete coup is being organised — against the Committee for State Security as well as the Kremlin — then it could not be done, for example, without the assistance of GLAVPUR inside the army The loyalty of the Political Directorate would have to be swayed or circumvented. Not to mention the GRU, and our other checks and balances.'

Khamovkhin nodded.

'I know you're right. It was the only way, smoking them out. But — what a farce. I thought I was going to laugh at some of the things I was saying — and the way they were taking them!'

'Indeed. Your style of leadership helped. They would not expect to be accused of treason by you. I wonder you didn't remove a shoe and bang the edge of the table.'

Light glinted coldly on the Chairman's spectacles. He appeared to be smiling. Khamovkhin, doubt still rankling like creases in his bedclothes, shifted in his chair.

'How much good will it do, Yuri? To say we have details, confessions that point to a huge plot against the Party leadership-'

'If they want to know what we know, then they must come more into the open. Especially if their effort is as close as we suppose it is. They must institute enquiries of their own.' Andropov spread his hands on his knees. 'Panic? No, perhaps not so violent a reaction. But something may emerge — something precipitate?'

'I suppose so. Can we trust the SID?'

'We can trust no one else. They, at least, have brought this sliver of hope — the substitute for General Ossipov. The Special Investigations Department is all we have.'

'Will they find this — substitute? Now that we have let Ossipov return to the safety of his hide-out in Khabarovsk, six thousand miles away!'

'We could not move against him. But he has helped us. We can begin to recheck every piece of documented evidence on senior officers — and their contacts with senior Party officials — during leave-periods in Moscow. It is something.'

'Not enough. Too little, and probably too late.'

'Calm yourself, Feodor. If the apparatus turns on us, we are finished. We have to accept that, before we begin. We also have to accept that the KGB is an investigative organ, not an army. They will move against us with the army — which part of it, or all of it, doesn't matter. We can only defend ourselves if we know who is behind it. How won't matter, if we can get hold of who — those who will give the orders. If they are silenced, then there will be no orders given. If they are not, then — ' Andropov raised his hands. Whisky slopped from the tumbler onto the trousers of his grey suit. He looked irritated, mopped at it with his silk handkerchief.

'As fragile as that,' Khamovkhin observed. 'Your thesis can be spilled just as easily, with a shrug by the army. And lots of other liquid besides. Most of it ours.' The cynical superiority drained from his face as he gazed towards the fireplace. 'We have no more than days, Yuri. What the hell can we do just in days?'

Vorontsyev sat alone in the car they had brought for him. The second car was parked across the street. They had followed Vrubel and Natalia after the performance of some dreary comedy at the Mossoviet Theatre on the