Snow Falcon

'Yes, use the number you would normally use — I'll take it then.'

It took little more than two minutes for the police radio to be patched into the receiving station on one of the floors of the Euston Tower, and from here Aubrey was connected directly with INTELCORD, the SIS's co-ordination and evaluation section, housed in Queen Anne's Gate itself, unlike many of the service's units.

'There you are, sir.' The Inspector left without pause, handing the mike to Aubrey, shutting the car door on the sleet and the traffic. As the window misted almost immediately, Aubrey felt quiet, and calm, with a little tickle of excitement beginning somewhere in his stomach.

'Who's that?'

'Callender, sir.'

'Good. Callender — send someone out here to collect some pictures, some bodies, and some evidence, would you? One of your customers has some nasty marks on his neck, which one of our foreign counterparts is responsible for. I — shall want a lot of clearance time for this, Callender. I shall want to know who the men are, and whose picture I have in a fake passport.'

'Sir, we're right up to here with co-ord work — '

'No, Callender, you are not. Not as of early tomorrow morning. Hurry things up, would you? Out.'

He sat for a time in the fuggy car, warmth not apparent, but cold less so. A great nuisance that he was booked on a morning flight to Helsinki, to act as Waterford and Davenhill's control, and to oversee security, in conjunction with the CIA man, Buckholz, for the Treaty Conference's final sessions, when Khamovkhin and Wainwright would both be present.

A great pity. Here, on this Oxfordshire roadside, there was a real mystery — and, with an instinct he would never have trusted as a younger man, he knew it was important.

Galakhov knew that his picture had been taken at least twice during the time he spent passing through Passport Control and then Customs at Seutula Airport. It would have been done by the CIA, by Finnish Intelligence, even perhaps by the KGB. It did not matter. To any foreign intelligence service, he was simply a native Finn returning to Helsinki, then travelling north; and to the KGB, he was expected. And they would be expecting Ozeroff to look like him, not like the body in the Heathrow toilet. Records had been changed, the computer doctored, everything required already done. Thus, it was with confidence that he passed through the controls, out into the lounge, and waited to be contacted.

He could not restrain a small pulse of excitement beating in his chest, making his breath flutter. There had been little reaction on the plane to the killing of Ozeroff — he had had a couple of drinks, true, but only for the pleasure; no, but he could not help, as he stepped on to Finnish soil, realising how deep into the operation he already was, and how close to the real simplicity of the thing. Preliminaries were almost over — he and Khamovkhin, soon. All he had to do was to pass the interview with the Head of Security where Khamovkhin was being kept during his visit, then act his part until Khamovkhin was no longer required to be alive.

'Have you a light?' a voice asked him at his side. He turned slowly.

'What?' he asked in Finnish. 'What do you want?'

Nonplussed, the young man said, 'Have you a light?' He spoke in Finnish.

'I am a non-smoker — it is a filthy habit,' Galakhov replied, bored, even amused at the kind of rubbish the KGB still considered viable operational procedure.

'Where is the toilet, please?' the young man asked. Though he spoke in Finnish, this time, instead of the word toaletti, Galakhov heard the Russian pronunciation, twalyet. He almost burst out laughing.

'Wait till you get home,' Galakhov said; then, when the young man's face appeared suitably pained, said, 'I believe the toilet is on the next floor.'

The young man could not quite disguise his satisfaction before he made his face expressionless, and said, 'Follow me, please.' He took Galakhov's suitcase, and walked away towards the glass doors to the car park. Galakhov, seeing his neck still red above the coat collar, even though cautious by nature, and careful of indulging his abiding sense of superiority, could not help but consider how easy the whole thing was going to be.

Vorontsyev had rubbed a small round clearness in the mist of the window, and was staring down into Pyatnitskaya Street. People on their way to work, huddled in heavy clothes, shunted against each other on the pavement six floors below. It was a bitter day, frost bright on the road, the trails of tyres black on its silver.

He had got up at six, washed and shaved, and eaten a good breakfast. The work, and drink, of the previous night had left him and he felt refreshed.

The faces were still on the wall — the diagram of the state on a second, and a huge map of the entire Soviet Union on a third, lapping down over the bureau. He was waiting for the duty officers of his team to arrive. When he briefed them, they would be taken entirely into his confidence. Then he would talk to Kapustin, and seek permission to go to the Finnish border, to discover what Vrubel had been doing.

He posed himself before the faces, and stared up at them. Old men, most of them. Men of distinguished loyalty to the Party, men about whom no questions had been asked, not even during the Kruschev regime. And yet, if they were guilty, it was precisely during that period that they would have been forming this Group 1917, working out its strategy.

He looked at General Ossipov. It was an older photograph than the ones he had studied in his office, and the man was in a light suit, and it was summer in Odessa. He knew the place, had holidayed there with Gorochenko and his wife, just before he began his studies at the Lenin University.

He did not allow himself to idle over the memory, though it was pleasant. Marya Ilyevna Gorochenko retained a special, perhaps sacred, place in his memory.

Vorontsyev smiled at the simplicity of his attitude — like so many other simplifications, or unthinking responses he had made over a lot of years — conforming, accepting, belonging; and yet he could not despise such a sleep of reason. They were good people, both of them. He had wept at her funeral, and many times the prick of tears had come to him when he thought of her. It might have been a luxury, but she had been his mother, childless and grateful for the opportunity; his own mother had died soon after the war, soon after the death of his real father. He remembered her as a faded, untidy, shabby woman. Something that hovered in corners, and did not go out — like a ghost, or something left over that no one wanted.

He skirted the procession of images, and focused again on Ossipov. Why the Far East? And the reference, he suddenly remembered, to Finland Station? Did that mean Finland itself, or Leningrad? Was it a reference to the return of Lenin to Russia, in the sealed train — a symbol of what the coup wished to do ideologically? Was Vrubel's attachment to the Finland border confusing him?

'You cunning old shit,' he said softly to the photograph, 'Where did you go, and who did you meet? And what for?'

He looked above the photograph, to another. Praporovich, commanding Group of Soviet Forces North, a strong man, old-style Communist; he had a blunt, violent language which expressed his hatred of the West, his commitment to the eventual, and military, spread of Communism. Who could be more loyal a servant of the State — on the surface?

Vorontsyev crossed to the chair at the bureau, and pulled out of the old briefcase the file on Praporovich. Then he moved a sheaf of papers from the armchair, and sat down, opening the buff folder on his knees. He had not been seized by a definite idea — merely by the logic of beginning at the top. The Marshal was the most senior man on the wall in front of him. He would require to be investigated first, as was his right, Vorontsyev thought with a smile.

Praporovich was a widower, with two sons, both of them in the army — Vorontsyev checked them immediately, shuffling through the loose papers until he found photostats of their army records. On was a Major in an Airborne Division, the other a Colonel in command of one small section of the northern missile chain — 'Firechain'. Little there. He went back to the old man, looking up once at the hard, square features appearing to regard him with contempt from the wall — a portrait of an old and terrible Tsar. He winked at the photograph, wondering why the Marshal could not smile even at a party following a large-scale military exercise in the DDR. Perhaps he was an habitual stoneface?

The Marshal rarely took holidays — he had a dacha outside Leningrad, and spent a great deal of his off-duty time there, or in his suite of rooms at the expensive Baltiskaya Hotel. He rarely entertained women at either residence, preferring his huge collection of gramophone records and his books — and his persistent hobby of wood-carving. Vorontsyev studied, briefly, pictures of two statuettes in polished wood, and seemed to