Snow Falcon

grabbing of fur hats, the sudden discomfort, of those waiting for him on the tarmac of Seutula Airport. Two security men went down the steps in front of him, and took up their positions — and he felt himself reluctant to follow. The flight had been a respite, almost a reprieve. The sense of crossing the border from a foreign country to somewhere safer. Now, nothing of that — just the wind buffeting him, shrinking his sense of safety until he was aware of every inch of his old flesh.

Behind him, Gromyko murmured something to an aide, and Khamovkhin stepped forward, one gloved hand holding the rail of the passenger gantry. Immediately, the Finnish army band began the Soviet anthem. Its strains sounded tinny and unsubstantial in the wind, and the little figures of the President and Prime Minister of Finland, and the official party, too far away from him and quite unimportant. It was as if the bulk of the Soviet Union pressed at his back like a palpable thing, and he had the sense of Andropov's last mocking glance and the idea that he had run away.

He shook hands — more old men, he thought. The President welcomed him, they embraced in the Russian style. He felt old, leathery skin against his cheek. Then stepping forward again, down the two rows of the guard of honour, the cold eating into him, the faces of the Finnish soldiers white and stiff like those of dolls, the slim rifles bisecting their chilly features. He wanted it to be over.

A strip of red carpet, its edges ruffled by the searching wind, leading towards the podium, and the microphones. The flash of cameras; he remembered to smile at them, facing the battery. The press of the West, of course, all of them booked into comfortable hotels in Helsinki and waiting for the 24th. He climbed the three steps to the podium in front of the Finnish President, and composed his features to listen to the speech of welcome. He looked at the airport buildings, and saw only a few watchers, and some security men, all unnaturally still. And the television cameras — pictures to Finland, America by satellite, and of course, Russia. Persistent flashes from the photographers below the podium, and the sense of others crowding behind him. Ridiculously squashing on to something much too small to accommodate them. He almost wanted to laugh.

The President remarked the historic nature of the visit, the fittingness of the time and place, the wished-for completion of the treaty in a week's time. Until that time, he was their honoured and welcome guest in Finland. His own reply was brief, memorised even though he held the notes in his hand — the extra-large type of the IBM machine, specially manufactured with the Cyrillic alphabet, required because of his weakening sight. He promised a successful signing of the Treaty, and looked forward to his visit. Two metaphors of a long journey occupied the central part of the text, which had already been distributed to the press.

Thankfully, he stepped down from the podium, where the wind seemed worse, and climbed into the official Presidential limousine which had drawn up alongside. More flashes of cameras in the strengthening morning light, and then they were lights and faces behind him, sliding past the windows. He was alone in the car with the President of Finland, and they both smelt of the cold, and of heavy overcoats. He sat back in his leather seat, and closed his eyes. The President stared straight ahead, as if he had been warned not to look in his basilisk direction. Khamovkhin was thankful for that. The chill, in this sense of every inch of himself began to dissipate. He began to feel comfortable.

Galakhov went directly through the nothing-to-declare corridor for UK citizens at Heathrow. An uneventful flight in company with a motley group of British tourists — half an hour's boring conversation with a Trade Unionist and his wife about the cosy picture of Russia they had seen, venturing as far as Novosibirsk on their round trip. And the restorations to Leningrad, and the hospitality they had been shown.

'At last we can begin to learn in Britain,' he remembered the man saying. 'When this Treaty's signed, nobody can go on pretending Russia's still something to be afraid of — eh?' He had smiled, and nodded, and agreed, and had himself, in his English persona as a bank clerk, been most impressed with everything he had seen, including the women. The presence of the Trade Unionist's wife had restrained her husband's replies, he felt.

Two men were waiting for him when he had passed through the customs barrier. He nodded to them, and then went into the coffee shop hi the passenger lounge. He queued for coffee, then sat at a vacant table, and waited. He watched the business of Heathrow through the windows, idly sipping at the coffee. He looked often at his English shoes, and marvelled at the insipidity of the security both at Cheremtievo and Heathrow, and the fact that people believed what was written on pieces of paper pressed between cardboard covers.

When he looked up from staring at his feet, the two men had joined him. Both of them, to his eyes, appeared far more English than he did himself, expensive suits displayed beneath open top-coats.

Without looking at either of them, he said quietly, 'We are running to schedule, I take it?' His tone implied that it would be their fault if they were not.

'We are.' The taller of the two men, and the one appearing more distinguished, more moneyed, seemed undisturbed by the tone of command in Galakhov's voice. His voice implied that Galakhov was in their hands now, and that they knew their part — did he?

'Where is he now?'

'On his way here — the flight leaves in two hours. He left the Embassy a short while ago, driving himself here. There's a radio car downstairs, and he's being tailed.' Only in the exhaustive detail of the operation was the distinguished man betraying his subordinate role.

Galakhov nodded. 'Good. Where is the gun?'

'Concealed in the toilet — third cubicle along from the door. I still consider a gun the wrong method — '

'You consider? Just do as you're told.'

The tall man was silenced. Then his companion, who seemed to have observed the exchange with truculent boredom, said, 'The blood on the floor, Comrade.' And Galakhov realised that the squat, dark-haired, badly-shaven man was effectively in charge of this part of the operation. He bridled at the insulting tone, but held his tongue. 'We do not want to have to explain, or to clean up after you. You will be up and away, Comrade, but we will still be here.'

'What do you suggest?' Galakhov said quietly, restraining all feeling. 'And where?'

'That's better.' Galakhov winced inwardly at the reversal of roles now so evident, and enjoyed by the dark man. Another of those occasions when he was nothing but an executive, a tool to be used by little men with hair coming from their ears and nostrils, and the cunning of foxes. All of them taking a tem porary royalty borrowed from Kutuzov. 'Stick to the original plan, Galakhov. You have an important message — trick him into the toilet, and kill him there — you've got two useful hands, if your file isn't out of date.'

Galakhov looked down at his hands, and looked up again, grinning.

'You're a pair of shits, you know that?' he remarked, still grinning. The tall man bridled, but he saw an element of new respect in the way in which the dark man looked at him. Then he nodded.

'Very well. But do it our way — mm?'

'Naturally. Where is the briefcase?'

The tall man handed it over. Galakhov looked inside. A couple of slim files, and a sealed envelope bearing the stamp of the Trade Mission at the Soviet Embassy in London. It would lure the man they wanted to somewhere quiet so he could open it.

'You tell him there's an answer required.'

'Yes. What's his cover — what we expect?'

'As far as we know, yes. You'll recognise him, anyway?' Galakhov nodded, placing the briefcase by his seat. 'He's still travelling as a Finn, returning to Helsinki, and his business. Export saunas, that's the line.'

'Good.' Galakhov looked at his watch, then said to the tall man, 'Get my change of clothes, and find out where he is as of this precise moment.'

There was no more than the hesitation of a moment before the tall man got up, and left them, heading out of the coffee shop with an admirably military bearing.

'Good front man,' Galakhov's companion murmured. 'Spent years in England. You should hear him in a pub.'

'Really?' Galakhov remarked. 'I wondered what it was he did to any useful purpose.' He looked at his hands, then picked up his coffee cup, cradling it. The dark man, too, looked at Galakhov's hands.

Vorontsyev had not shaved. He was uncertain as to whether he had shaved the previous day or when he had left the hospital and returned to his cold flat. It might originally have been lassitude, or boredom. Now, he prowled the bare room that he called his study, the walls of which seemed to have enclosed him further, pressing on him with a brightness of maps, diagrams and his scrawled handwriting. He had not had time to wash, or clean his teeth. He was unsure as to how much sleep he had had, or the time at that moment.