Snow Falcon

position. He felt nervous, and his arms and legs seemed to have some kind of cramp, so that it was difficult to sit still, not to be restless. He saw Andropov watching him as he chatted to some of the party that had assembled either to fly with Khamovkhin to Helsinki, or to be present at his departure. Most of the Politburo were there — one of them at least not sorry to see him go.

He tried to press down on the thoughts, as if replacing the lid on a foul-smelling dustbin. But there seemed to be no pressure in his mind, which could contain the suspicions. There they were, rings and lumps of dark coats, eddies of laughter or talk. All little men — no, some better than others — all part of the system, the same system as himself, all knowing the facts, none of them blind..

He stirred in his seat again, the restlessness of impotent fury irresistible. Andropov, as if recognising a danger signal, excused himself from his conversation with Gorochenko, the Deputy Foreign Minister, and crossed to him. He waved the two security men to further seats as he sat down.

'Relax, Feodor,' he murmured. 'You look far too nervous to be leaving for a State Visit which will culminate in your greatest political triumph.'

Khamovkhin looked at him suspiciously. 'Your humour is rather acid tonight, Yuri.'

'Perhaps my own nervous reaction to the situation?'

'Nothing will happen here…?' The thought had occupied the vocal chords almost before he was aware of it. He hadn't thought it before! 'Sorry.'

'Nothing, Feodor. I picked up these men, just as I have selected the security staff who will accompany you. I give you my word — as far as I can be sure, and I have been thorough — that the men who will guard you can be trusted. Wherever I have had to draft them in from.'

Khamovkhin patted Andropov's thigh, a gesture the Chairman seemed to dislike.

'Thank you, Yuri.' Then he looked up into Andropov's ascetic, emotionless face.' You are in effective charge now. It's your job — to find these people.'

'It always was, Feodor,' Andropov replied sharply. 'I know what is at stake here. But I can't move until I know!' Some in

reserve broke in Andropov suddenly. For so many years he had been unconcerned with power; his power had been evident, and unchallenged. Now, he was impotent, and looking into a mirror of impotence in the face of Khamovkhin. It was a precise, but visionary, moment, which he loathed. 'I have to know,' he added more calmly. 'So, I have to keep my nerve, eh, Feodor. Perhaps it's a good thing that you won't be here — mm?'

Khamovkhin's face darkened, as if bruised by the stinging remark. Then, strangely, he nodded. 'Perhaps, perhaps. You play a better game of knife-edges than I do, Yuri. I admit that.'

Andropov bowed his head mockingly. 'I shall need to.'

'Let me know — anything, let me know.'

'Of course. My men will rig the transmitter for you. I will be available — either myself or Kapustin, at any time. Regular reports will be made to you. If it happens, you'll hear it on the news. If not, you'll hear it from me.'

Khamovkhin nodded. Restlessness again — yet some other movement than a cramped stirring seemed appropriate, even necessary. He stood up, and straightened his body. Like someone going out to execution, he thought, then smiled. No, someone bluffing his way across a border. Leaving his friend, but subordinate, to face the firing-squad. As everyone there knew, he had always played a good bluff.

He looked at the little groups of dark coats, and the white or bald heads — very few dark ones, a game of old men — and wondered which one of them it was.

'Which of those bastards is it?' he whispered, and Andropov touched his elbow in a warning gesture. Old men, he thought with contempt that did not entirely disguise self-disgust. Thinking aloud, dribbling while we sleep, creaking when we bend, snapping like old sticks when we break. A stupid, desperate game of old men — ancient, toothless figures who have to wear long underwear all year, and waistcoats and woollens — Politburo, High Command, Central Committee, Secretariat. Full of old men.

'Which of those bastards is it?' he asked again, bending slightly towards Andropov. 'Find him, and kill him — then kill the others.'

Andropov touched his forehead in a mocking salute.

Five: Schemes of Things

The underground OPCO-ORD (Operations Co-ordination) Room of Group of Soviet Forces North was surprisingly understaffed, or so it seemed to Admiral of the Red Banner Northern Fleet Dolohov, as Praporovich ushered him through the door, so that the two elderly men stood looking down from a gallery over the huge electronic map-table below. Only a few staff officers fussed around its perimeter, like billiard players assessing some future shot. He looked towards Praporovich as if for some explanation. Praporovich smiled.

'Bare, isn't it?' he said gruffly. 'With a purpose. And not just to demonstrate what things might be like if-' Marshal Grigory Ilyich Praporovich, commander, GSFN, cut off the sentence by an effort of will. A moment of silence in which calm reasserted itself in his features, then: 'We have moved normal strategic exercises and war-games to OPCO-ORD TWO at Murmansk. There have been various computer malfunctions here in the past weeks which made such a move imperative.'

Dolohov, the smaller, neater of the two men, smiled at the Marshal.

'And those officers down there — your Rabbit Punch team, I presume?'

Praporovich nodded. 'They are all entirely trustworthy, Admiral.'

'I don't doubt it.'

'Come,' Praporovich instructed, the arm he placed about Dolohov's shoulder oddly at variance with the inflexibility of command in the voice. 'Come and see what you came to see.'

He walked the Admiral along the gallery, their shoes ringing on the metal walkway, then ushered him into a control-booth, glass-fronted and empty except for two junior officers, which looked down over the huge map, its surface like opaque, slaty glass, devoid of features, reflecting only, and in a diffused manner, the lights in the ceiling of the high room.

The two junior officers sprang to attention from their chairs in front of a massive command console, and then Praporovich motioned them to sit. He guided Dolohov to the window, and then said:

'Very well — begin. Placements for dawn on the 24th. Set it up.'

Dolohov could see the lights winking on and off on the control board behind him, and noticed, too, that the staff officers below had donned headphones, picked up cues so that they were more like billiards players than ever. More lights reflected in the glass in front of him, and he heard the rapid clicking of instructions being typed into the computer. Winking lights.

'You have recalled Pnin, then?' he said, as if to make conversation with Praporovich, staring grimly down at the unlit table below.

'Yes. It is done. Tonight.'

'Tell me — you consider that Kutuzov made a mistake — ?' He tailed off as Praporovich glared at him.

'No, I do not. It must be right. Kutuzov wished to ensure that nothing can go wrong. Pnin's timings had to be got right. Unknown territory for us — virtually. We don't rehearse the invasion of Scandinavia very much, even in GSFN!' Praporovich laughed deep in his chest, almost a threatening sound, and without humour. 'The timetable is vital — the North Cape installations have to be taken out, and the Allied Mobile Force has a timetable we must be certain we can beat. Kutuzov understands this — ' There was an implied slight, but Dolohov ignored it. 'Now, the timings are right.'

Dolohov nodded. Below him, the table sprang to life — a huge map of the north of Russia and northern Scandinavia appeared, melting into sharp focus, having, through the thick glass of the table, the appearance of three dimensions — brown mountains, green forests, blue sea. It delighted him, and he did not despise the almost child-like pleasure, though he thought Praporovich would have disapproved. Praporovich considered him, he knew, a weak link, a prevaricator. Perhaps he was; but it was his head, once the Northern Fleet put to sea on its own