Snow Falcon

touch the old man's private self. A boy and a girl — the girl on a small pony.

There were sheets of small prints supplementing the written records. They were less talismanic than the cartridges of slides he had watched of Ossipov, but he studied them carefully, noting the faces he did not know, the possible contacts — though he did not compare them with the supplementary sheets which explained their identities. Not at that moment. He was interested in the Marshal.

Praporovich's movements had been exhaustively documented. Military conferences at the highest level in Moscow, Leningrad and various Warsaw Pact capitals — Prague, Berlin, Budapest, Warsaw. Vorontsyev wondered for a moment whether there was sufficient freedom of movement…

But no. He could not be his own courier. He was present at the annual exercises of Group of Soviet Forces Germany — though not at the most recent winter exercises, which were the largest for five years — '1812'.

Vorontsyev felt chilled, as if a door had opened, but no light, only cold, flowed from it. He checked back, his fingers clumsy and gloved with haste. No — Praporovich had not attended every exercise over the past years — seven, eight, ten years; he checked off the references on the grubby photostat compiled by Leningrad SID. He usually attended the summer exercises had been on the 1968 exercise that had led to the intervention against the Dubcek regime — but he had attended. two, four of the last seven winter exercises in the DDR. As part of the necessity for all senior Group Commanders to be aware of overall strategy. In case of illness, resignation, death — transfer was easy.

Why not?

Was his staff there?

Vorontsyev scribbled the query on a fresh page of his notepad. He would have to check. He wondered why Praporovich had not been at '1812'. And did it mean…?

He refused to countenance the idea that acceleration was taking place, that there was any vital reason why the Marshal had stayed at his headquarters in the Soviet Union. Nevertheless, as if in answer to some subterranean explosion, his hands shivered with the groundshock. The solid structure of the investigation appeared on the point of subsidence, sliding into something horridly real.

He began to cross-check. How closely was Praporovich acquainted with the other faces on the wall?

It was a little after nine when the doorbell rang. He looked up from the papers now spread on the floor, stretched as he rose from his kneeling crouch over them, as if trying to spark them into reluctant flame, and his back and bruises protested. He stood up, stepping carefully over the arranged documents. He had taken the decisive step of cutting the original documents to pieces, arranging them anew, with the help of paste and a stapler, into sections which displayed more easily and meaningfully the relationships between the men on the wall.

And it was interesting — if one went back far enough. Almost, he thought, almost like discovering someone who has patiently covered his tracks, but who had been at the scene, or near it, at the time in question — whatever his alibi, however he had burned the bloodstained clothes, tidied the room, removed the fingerprints…

No. His men had arrived. He would let them see, and ask them to decide, before he would commit himself…

His smile of satisfaction died when he saw his wife on the doorstep, her face freezing into haughtiness and a sense of mistaken action as she saw his own face change.

'Well?' he said. He was holding the door foolishly ajar; it was like his stupid mouth, he thought, hanging open.

'I — want to talk,' she said, appearing to damp down her irritation, her embarrassment.

'What about — I'm busy,' he snapped.

'You — you've seen your father?'

'Yes. I said I'd telephone.'

'You might have said no. May I come in?'

He looked at his watch.

'I'm busy,' he said, then: 'Oh, come in!' It was graceless, and sulky. He despised himself for the immaturity of his reaction. He could sense the smile of satisfaction on her face as he led her into the lounge. He waved his hand towards the sofa. Natalia hesitated, then settled herself. She did not offer to remove her fur coat, nor the dark fur hat she wore.

Standing by the empty mantelpiece above the electric fire, he studied her. Her cheeks were touched with pink from the cold outside. Her fur-lined boots, to her knees, were new, and unmarked from the pavements. She had come by taxi.

She said, 'I had to talk to you.' It sounded remarkably artificial. As a singer, she was not renowned for her acting ability, only for the quality of the voice itself. He felt she was acting a part. He could not understand why she needed to.

'About what?'

'Us?'

'Us? There isn't any us, is there, Natalia?' Even the use of her name seemed a concession. He did want her there.

She opened her coat, as if on cue. It was ridiculous. She was too smartly dressed — dark-green wool, with a high collar and excellent fit. It would have cost money — would have been given by a lover, or bought on a Bolshoi tour. They had been in Paris in the autumn. It was as if she declared herself naked by the gesture. He hated her.

'Isn't there?' she said. 'About the other night — I'm sorry it had to happen. I — was ashamed…' She dropped her gaze.

He could not believe her. He wanted to re-establish some sense of superiority, and his voice was loud as he said, 'Sorry? Ashamed? Your bloody lover tried to kill me — or didn't Mihail Pyotravich tell you that?'

She looked at him, and there seemed to be something real happening in the theatrically wide eyes. She was speaking to him, as well as to some imagined audience of her performance.

'I — he didn't say that..'

'Didn't he? He left you before you could climb all over him, and led me right into a neat little trap. For some reason, Vrubel wanted me dead! You wouldn't know why, I suppose?'

'You don't think — ?' she began, and there was genuine fear in her voice. As if she sensed herself alone in the room with him for the first time.

'How the hell do I know! You're capable of it.' She shook her head. He admitted: 'I suppose not.'

There was a silence. He turned his back on her, and lit a cigarette from a fresh packet. He heard her say: 'What about us, Alexei?' It was the first time she had used his name. And the tone was old, magical. He knew it was calculated.

He turned round.

'You're here, aren't you?' He wanted to go on being bitter, recriminatory. But, though he despised his feeling, he could not ignore it. Too often he had imagined the scene, and he was now helpless before the reality. He had to concede; that had been decided when he opened the door to her. 'What the hell do you want with me, Natalie? You've buggered up my life once already! Do you want the satisfaction of doing it again? Is that it?'

She shook her head. He was glad she did not offer to move from the grubby sofa and its dun-coloured covering. He did not want to be any closer to her. Her body, even at that distance, was tangible against his frame. The sensation was dirty, like a wet dream. He hated that — she the cinema, he the audience; her body unreeled like the frames of some titillating film. He tried to dissolve the feeling in anger.

'The hell it is? Who sent you, eh? Mihail Pyotravich?

She looked startled, as if he had seen deep into her self, but she said, 'He only helped me to make up my mind.'

'Fuck you, you bitch! I don't want to be handed to you like some sticky sweet! Or a bandage because I'm coming to pieces!.If you don't want to come back, then get out — get out!'

He turned away from her again, willing her to move, wanting her not to come closer to him. He heard the sofa creak slightly as she stood up.

The doorbell rang again, releasing him. He turned round, and saw her hand a little extended. He smiled in