He stood up, brushing the snow from his gloves.
'What were you doing?'
'I wondered about the pin, that's all — they took it away, like good soldiers should.'
He crossed to another tree, then another, working his way in a vague circle back to Davenhill, studying the trunk of each tree before which he paused.
'Well?' Davenhill was impatient now.
'Something has been pinned to these trees all right. Possibly netting — enough to cover half a dozen vehicles.'
'Tanks?'
'Possibly. Troop-carriers, whatever.'
'Thank God.'
'Hardly. Not really evidence.'
'What do you want — a packet of Russian fags, the odd Kalashnikov rifle dropped in a hurry?'
'More than this. Let's find where this unit, if unit it was, pulled off the road, shall we?'
'Aren't you going to take pictures?' Davenhill sounded childishly disappointed.
'Make a real impression on the Pentagon and NATO, eh?' Waterford said with a slight smile. 'Please, gentlemen — conclusive proof that the Red Army invaded Finland — pictures of nail-holes in trees!'
As he walked back to the car, he was laughing, Davenhill trailing in his wake, his shoulders hunched with disappointment. He had perceived only then how ridiculous he must seem to Waterford.
'How could they move through those trees?' he asked as he climbed back in the jeep.
'They couldn't — not far without damage, anyway. No delightful groves to assist movement.'
He started the engine, and they followed the road once more, Davenhill now alert for any break in the trees.
'They wouldn't cause damage, though — would they?'
'Not unnecessarily.'
A few minutes later, Davenhill said excitedly, 'There 1'
'I see it.'
Waterford pulled into the side, and switched off the engine. There was a gap in the trees, probably caused by a felling operation, on a small scale, the previous summer. A wedge of trees had been lifted from the forest, a slice of dark cake.
Waterford got out, and said: Stay here. I don't want your fairy footsteps over that ground just yet.'
'Why not?'
'Because I am looking for something in particular.'
He walked away while Davenhill savoured the new ease in their relationship. Waterford, engaged in action, was easier. Not more human, enlarged in compassion. Merely distracted from bitterness; indifferent to his contempt for others.
Davenhill watched him kneel just off the road, and sweep gently at the powdery snow which crackled as its iced surface was disturbed. The sky was palely blue now, and high and empty. The scene, Davenhill observed, was losing its hostility, becoming photogenic.
'What are you doing?' he called.
Waterford went on brushing, over a wider area, his hand smoothing the snow aside until he exposed the packed ice-snow beneath. Then, eventually, he stood up.
'Bring the camera over here, would you?'
Davenhill joined him. Waterford had exposed, like the tracks of some strange species, the rutted ridges of caterpillar tracks. Tanks, or personnel carriers.
'Well done.' Davenhill observed, capitalising on a new familiarity. 'How many?'
'Just a few. Outriders. Some sort of advance guard, close to the road, ahead of the main column.'
'But they're not here now!' Davenhill burst out with the pure disappointment of a child.
'I should hope not. If they are, then there could be a couple of regiments, even a couple of divisions — in there.' He pointed towards the trees.
'Mm.' Davenhill photographed the exposed tracks, then said, 'What next?'
'Fancy a walk in the woods?
Waterford said, 'That depends. What are we looking for?'
'What we find. Come on — let's get the jeep off the road and under the trees, then we'll scout around a bit.'
For more than an hour they combed the ground beneath the trees, working gradually further into the forest, taking any path that suggested itself as wide enough for the passage of tanks. The search proved fruitless, and when they returned to the jeep, Davenhill was disappointed. He understood that they would find very little — perhaps nothing. But to kneel in drifts of snow, to part the blanket or examine the bark of trees for marks — was an invidious, tiring, frustrating job.
'We need to get further east.' Waterford observed, swallowing from a small flask which he then passed to Davenhill. Davenhill felt the brandy warm his stomach.
He said, 'What happened to Folley, Waterford?'
'Christ knows.' Waterford looked at.him, as if appraising some reaction. 'Probably dead.
'Where was the main body? The heavy stuff?'
'East of here.' He reached over and lifted a folded map from the pouch at the side of the door. He pointed a finger. 'Look, the forest is Y-shaped, stretching north and south of here. In either arm, I should think.'
'Where are they now, then?'
'Gone home?'
'Because of Folley? Perhaps they've called the whole thing off?' It was not a serious suggestion.
Waterford said, 'I doubt it. I think they had a dry-run. Timing would be of the essence to them — getting to Ivalo, then north-east to link up with a main attack.' He traced their route on the map. Davenhill, looking over his shoulder, nodded as he saw the line of advance unfold. Waterford pointed out Kirkenes, in Norway, and the road from the Russian border. 'That's where they'd cross,' he said. 'Down here would be the second thrust, to link up — oh, there.' His finger picked out Lakselv, on the Porsangerfjord. 'But they'd hop along that road with airborne troops, and land men by amphibs in the fjords.' He looked up at Davenhill. 'It would be a shit to stop them,' he added unnecessarily.
'A few pictures of tracks in the snow won't stop them, either.'
'What we want is Folley.' Waterford admitted. 'But he won't be in very good voice, even if we should find him.' He threw the map into the jeep. 'Come on, let's get moving.'
An hour later, they stopped for the fifth time. At each of their previous stops, they had inspected likely gaps in the hedge of the forest that pressed in on either side of the road. They had uncovered nothing. There was something phantas mal to Davenhill in the way a simple snowstorm had obliterated any trace of the forces he now knew had been on Finnish soil. Perhaps as recently as forty-eight hours ago. Folley — he thought of him with a wince of pain, sharing the man's route now — must have found them. And as Waterford had said, they had found Folley.
He climbed reluctantly out of the jeep, and trailed after Waterford towards a star-shaped pattern of forest rides that was obviously used to allow the passage of lumberjacking equipment and the removal of felled trees. It would appear that here they were at the heart of the forestry operations.
'How would they have known about these paths?' he called as a thought struck him.
Over his shoulder, Waterford said, 'Low-level photography — under the radar net, snap, snap, and off home. Easy.'
'I see.' He paused, as Waterford had done. Four trails snaked away through the forest. The trees seemed dense, heavy with snow, silent. 'Here?' he said.
'Here — if anywhere,' Waterford replied. Then he turned to Davenhill, and the younger man saw a flicker in
