Snow Falcon

forgotten all the dirty tricks we used to play in those days.' He shook his head — Aubrey thought it only an imitation of the wisdom of resignation; a hawk's deception.

'I, too, have my detractors, Charles,' Aubrey remarked quietly. 'But, arthritis may get me before they do.'

Buckholz laughed, a bull-like roaring that sounded as if it lacked genuine amusement, but which Aubrey knew was sincere.

'OK. We both got troubles. I'm here to oversee security for the Treaty signing. Maybe this comes under that head, maybe not.'

'I have lost — '

'Two men, yes. Two good men?'

'Yes.'

'Your government — they in on any of this?' Aubrey shook his head, and Buckholz shrugged, as if about to say something, then relapsed into silence again.

'I have to have proof. But, do you support the hypothesis ? 'It's possible — but unlikely, especially in the present circumstances.'

'Exactly my original thoughts.'

'Look, Kenneth — this is the Man's ticket to another term, this Treaty. Checks and balances that work, real reductions — his social programme can go ahead just as soon as the ink is drying on the paper. Closer cooperation between the Soviet Union and the West. Man, it's the reallest thing in Washington at the moment! And you want to know if I want to tell him that it may all go down the tubes? Hell, I don't want to tell him — I want my pension.' He stared at Aubrey, eyes glinting. 'But I'll tell him, if there's anything to tell.'

Aubrey sighed audibly. 'Thank you, Charles.'

'What'll you do if your guys come back with something — but not enough?'

'Order an overflight — one Harrier, under the net.'

'You could do that?'

'I'm sure it can be done.'

Buckholz nodded. Then he stretched his chair.

'I'll have to be good, to convince the White House. Mrs Wainwright just bought two new fur coats, ready for the visit to Finland in winter.' He laughed. 'Why is Khamovkhin here on a State Visit, if he's planning to ride all the way in a tank?'

'No simple answer — except that he may not know.'

'Mm. Hell!' Buckholz slapped his palm thunderously against the desk. 'All Joe Wainwright wants to do is rebuild the urban deserts, get the Blacks and the Puerto Ricans educated and in useful work, and solve the energy crisis, and I have to tell him-'

'Perhaps First Secretary Khamovkhin just wants to improve Soviet agriculture, and open up Siberia a little more. One thing is certain — at least to me — someone doesn't want the world ticking like that.' Aubrey rubbed his cheeks. 'Will you help with this mysterious substitute V 'Captain Ozeroff?'

'Remember that Ozeroff is dead, Charles. It's the new Captain Ozeroff who interests me.'

'Do what I can. You're right — he had to come from somewhere, and he must be known to someone. It'll be checked out.'

'Thank you — when we know who, we will know why.'

Buckholz stood up. 'Drink?'

Aubrey looked at his watch. 'Just a small Scotch — no ice.'

As he was about to move the dumb-waiter, Buckholz stopped, and looked down at the still seated Aubrey.

'Hell, don't you long to be legitimate, Kenneth? Just once, to close your eyes to what might be happening, uh?'

'My illegitimacy has weighed heavily upon me of late,' Aubrey remarked with a smile. 'One knows, or suspects that one knows, so many nasty things!'

'For Christ's sake, Alex — swallow!'

Davenhill felt the flask tipped against his lips. As soon as he unclenched his teeth, they began to chatter uncontrollably, and the brandy spilled on his chin and over his chest. Looking up into Waterford's face, he was afraid to question the man. He gagged on the little liquor he swallowed, and then sank back against the seat of the jeep. Waterford's face disappeared from above and beside him — a moment of colder air, if that was possible, and then distant slamming of the door as he sank back into a pain-lit dream where a great dark bird — bird or dragon he could not be sure but it breathed flames and burned his arm — hovered over him as he lay helpless on a smooth white sheet of paper.

Waterford dialled the number of the hotel in Ivalo. He had pulled up on the main road, just outside the settlement — the first time he had halted the jeep since he had stopped under the trees to bind Davenhill's arm, sliced open from elbow to shoulder by a fragment from one of the missiles, just as he had careered off the road and under cover. As he waited for his call to be answered, he drummed savagely on the coin box, though the rest of him — as if all energy had flowed suddenly into his square fingers — slumped against the glass of the call-box. He stared at the ceiling, watched his breath cloud the glass, felt the cold of the night for perhaps the first time; felt the chill of reaction possess him.

'Philipson?'

'Yes?' The voice sounded very distant. He shook his head, and the receiver. 'Who is that?' The voice was no louder.

'Where are you, in the bloody bar or the restaurant?'

'Call-sign, please.' He realised what it was — Philipson was whispering confidentially down the line. He laughed. 'What — '

'Bugger the codes, sonny. We're blown — and we have the evidence to put the Soviet Union behind bars for a long time.'

'Where are you?'

'Never mind. Davenhill's wounded. Get the pilot out of his — or anyone else's — bed, pronto. We'll meet you at the airport.'

'If he's wounded, then he'll — '

'Forget it! I've got the bloody Indians right behind me. No time to stop. Get there!'

'It'll take more than an hour for clearance — '

'It better be quicker than that. Get moving!'

He slammed down the receiver, and left the call-box. As an instinct, he glanced back down the road the way they had come.

Nothing. The emptiness chilled, isolated him. Diminished him in an unfamiliar and frightening way. He winced, as if a helicopter had appeared overhead, or he shared Davenhill's dreams for a moment. He hurried to the jeep.

Davenhill roused himself as they pulled away, opening one vague eye, staring at him as he tried to focus.

'Bad, is it?' Waterford asked, seeing the lights of Ivalo as a pale splash low on the sky ahead. They passed a wooden house on his side, silent, a glow of subdued light from behind shutters. The airport was south-west of the settlement — he needed to start looking for a left-hand fork.

'Oh, Jesus-fuck-off — ' Davenhill muttered between clenched teeth. Waterford wasn't certain whether the remark was addressed to him, to the pain in the limp arm, or to something else.

'Hold on, son, won't be long now. Philipson's meeting us at the airport.'

In the headlights, the road forked. A silhouetted aircraft on a signpost. The jeep slid into the corner, and Davenhill lurched against Waterford. Even as Waterford glanced at him, he saw the spite, even the hatred, on Davenhill's face, and the almost desperate attempt to pull himself upright, away from physical contact. Waterford stared bleakly ahead.

'You — bastard — ' he heard Davenhill mutter.

'Save it. You'll get cold, talking and hating. Fold into yourself.'