Snow Falcon

There was a silence. As if drunk himself, the young man moved his gaze over the reflected room; over the ornate furniture, most of which belonged to Ossipov, over the thick, patterned carpets — returning, unwillingly, to the back of the General, the square shoulders and the bull neck.

'No,' Ossipov said with difficult restraint, the glass clinking against his dentures a moment before his reply. 'Kutuzov should have asked me whether I was able to suspend the tests, not give me an order when he's thousands of miles away. I will not jeopardise the whole operation because of one man. 'Exercise Mirror' must continue. There are still problems with the chemical attack to precede the armoured assault. These must be solved in the next two days!'

Ossipov regained his seat, studied his drink for a moment, then went on: 'I am working without expert assistance — I have to, since I can't trust the scientists I could otherwise lay my hands on.' The courier stood patiently at attention, staring into the ornate mirror. It was, he presumed, one of his more irksome duties to listen to these old men as they communed with their drink and their past, present and future. 'And if we are to test the chemical devices, then we have to go through the fiction of the whole exercise to fool the American satellites.'

He looked up briefly, but the young man did not meet his eyes and he returned his gaze to the carpet, his head resting on his chest. 'They must continue to think we are once again rehearsing the invasion of China — not the invasion of Norway. Tell Kutuzov when you return to Moscow — ' The General seemed to have created in himself a certainty born of reasonableness, and of reasoned argument, and was prepared to end this tirade on a note of quiet defiance. 'Tell him that for his sake, for all our sakes, I will not stop now.' He paused, then, with confidence, snapped, 'Now, get out!'

Eight: Border Incident

The MIL helicopter followed the single road from Murmansk to the Finnish border, flying at little more than five hundred feet above the narrow white parting between the heavy darkness of the trees and the strip of dull glass that was the river Lotta.

Already, the country below was boring to Ilya. Their flight to Leningrad, then the transport plane, an old Ilyushin, which had taken them to the military airfield at Murmansk, had tired him. He never slept well on aircraft, unlike Maxim, who had dozed in the seat next to him, wrapped in his heavy overcoat, snoring gently. Instead, he had drunk whisky on the prolonged flight and in the uncomfortable, sparse transit lounge at Murmansk, until the MIL was able to take off before first light and in improved weather.

He had little idea of how to conduct the investigation. Major Vorontsyev had told them, repeatedly, to be careful, to convince whoever they met that it was a straightforward missing persons case — except that the missing person was a KGB officer, and that was why the SID had been called in. But he knew that they would find out little that way.

What was there to find out, anyway?

The dark trees, the snow-covered swellings of the landscape, flowed beneath him like waves.

Finland Station. That was all.

He tapped the pilot on the arm. The young man turned to him, lifting one earphone of his headset.

'What is it?'

Maxim stirred lazily in the seat behind him, irritating Ilya.

How could he sleep so soundly, with the rotors beating above them, and the insecurity of being suspended above the wild landscape below.

'Where are the tanks?' he said, grinning foolishly. The pilot smiled.

'Not yet,' he said. 'The divisions are pushed almost up to the border here. I'll show you some when we get there.' He replaced the earphone, and turned away from Ilya. A few minutes later, Ilya again tapped him on the arm. The pilot pointed to a second set of headphones, slung over the dual controls of the MIL. Ilya uncomfortably adjusted them, and the pilot's voice crackled inside his head.

'What is it? You're like a kid!' He was smiling, however.

'Were you on Vrubel's staff- part of his section of the wire?'

'Yes,' the pilot replied. 'But I'm Army, not KGB.'

'How come?'

'Your lot don't seem very keen to fly choppers in this part of the world,' the pilot replied. Ilya scowled, and the pilot added, 'Don't be insulted. It gets pretty rough. I'd thank you for a Moscow posting!' He laughed. For a moment, Ilya had the feeling of some ambassadorial charm being exercised, as if the young man was more aware than he seemed behind his affability.

Then he said, 'We do cover more than Moscow.'

'Sure. But SID?'

'All right — you win. I prefer Moscow, or Leningrad — I don't like flying, and I'm trying to make conversation!' He shrugged.

'Great! Now, what do you want to know?'

'Just tell me about the captain. What sort of officer was he?'

'One of the best,' the pilot answered. 'Even if he was KGB — sorry. No, he was Army, really, like you're really a policeman. Good to his men, firm, clear-headed, even when he'd been drinking… A loss — if he's dead.'

There did not seem to be any depth of regret.

Ilya said, 'You're sorry he's dead, then. If he's dead..'

'Of course I am. Good man.' He added, after a pause: 'He is dead, I suppose?'

'Who knows?

'You've implied it — so did your office in Murmansk when they called for me.'

'I suppose so,' Ilya wondered, then: 'Why should he be dead? Or, why should he disappear?'

Ilya looked out of the window, as if indifferent to the reply, and the flowing landscape appeared even more hostile. He could not be certain why that should be. Was it the landscape making the conversation sinister, or was he picking up something that made his position, five hundred feet above that, more insecure than ever?

He wondered, too, how strongly the Murmansk Local Resident had implied that Vrubel was dead. It was as if the pilot had known about it for some time, and had come out on the other side of shock.

And perhaps, he thought, he didn't like Vrubel and it is politeness towards the dead that gives him a stilted, practised manner. He smiled at his own suspiciousness.

'I don't know,' the pilot said after a while, having screwed his face to the contortions of thought. 'It has to be something in Moscow, not here. There's nothing out here — except us.'

'No jealousies — nothing like that? Nothing in the line of duty?'

'Out here? You didn't know Russians had landed on the moon, did you? That's it, down there!' He pointed below with his thumb. 'All it is is trees, tanks, and men. Men get drunk, play cards, read dirty books, toss themselves off because they're so bored… But it doesn't lead to murder. Oh, Vrubel gave out his fair share of extra duties, as punishments, but that wouldn't explain it.'

'And what if he disappeared?'

'Why would he do that? Boredom?' The pilot was disbelieving. 'With you lot on his tail as soon as he does? Why not disappear from here, anyway? Nip over the border. Nothing easier 1'

'Nothing?'

'Well — almost.' The pilot pushed the stick forward, and the nose of the MIL dipped so that the trees and the river and the whiter ribbon of the road all seemed to assert themselves, reach up at Ilya. He stared at the pilot, who pointed. 'Down there!' he said, pointing ahead. 'You see if you can spot them — three tank regiments on permanent station.'

'Finland Station,' Ilya said, thankful for the opportunity, savouring his assumed indifference as he said the words.

'What was that?'