Snow Falcon

'Your world — ' Davenhill began, staring at the canvas roof of the jeep, his head lolling. 'Your world — '

'Like this most of the time, son,' Waterford said angrily. 'No pissing about with bits of paper, conferences, operational planning. This is the sharp end, and you don't like it, rolling in the shit.' Waterford watched himself with amusement — part of him was always eternally angry with people like Davenhill; part of him wanted to take the younger man's mind off his hurt. 'You ought to hate me, son. I'm the thing that comes up the plughole, breeds under the stones. Your bogeyman — the one you'd like to think was on the other side…'

Davenhill murmured, then began a compulsive nodding of his head, silently punctuating each of Waterford's statements. He was beginning to ignore the self, to attend, listen, absorb.

'Oh, yes — I liked doing it to that young Russian. Make no mistake about it. Plenty of instant-result techniques I could have used — just wanted to do that to him.' Waterford, obedient to another snowblown signpost, turned left again, and the suffused lights of Ivalo, creeping alongside them until that moment, slid away. Ahead now there was a paler, whiter glow. Ivalo airport. He hoped Philipson was already on his way. He slowed the jeep, the chains biting as the snow, less compressed, threatened beneath the wheels.

'Liked it,' he murmured. 'Oh yes. Pull his trousers down, throw a bucket of water over him. Bet you liked that bit, eh, son — bare-arsed boy to look at.'

'Balls — ' Davenhill murmured. The price of concentration was being extracted, and he was drifting into sleep.

'Yes — I noticed he had two,' Waterford replied, and glanced at Davenhill. His eyes were closed, his facial muscles relaxed. Waterford sighed with relief, then tossed his head as if he felt he had wasted valuable time. The piled snow from the plough's passage leaned threateningly over the road on both sides. The lights of the airport were brighter now. Waterford felt tired, but not because of their escape, or because of the driving. He looked across at Davenhill and, as if reasserting some old self, murmured, 'Stupid little queer.'

'There is no time to go through the formalities!'

'I say we must. Kutuzov has to be informed at once.'

'He will be — eventually. General Pnin will inform him of the escape of these agents. Meanwhile, Kutuzov will want to be informed from this office that the agents told nothing, that they have been eliminated.'

'I'm not so sure. We declare our hand by taking precipitate action here in Helsinki. Are you sure you're not just panicking because of what has happened? Consider the repercussions — '

'Repercussions? The whole thing is turning into a night mare, and it's up to us to bring some sense back into things. You know we have to try and stop a report being made. They attacked agents from a MIL! It is something of a give-away, wouldn't you agree.'

'I'm not sure — '

'Then it's a good job I outrank you. Get on to it at once. Either at the airport, or before they reach either of the two likely consulates. And if you can, take out the man Aubrey as well!'

'Is he going to die?' Philipson asked, leaning over Waterford, staring down at Davenhill's pasty features, garishly purpled by the dimmed overhead light of the passenger cabin of the Cessna. Davenhill was stretched out on two seats, and Water-ford was re-dressing the torn arm.

'Don't be bloody soft, Philipson,' Waterford replied without changing the focus of his attention. 'Just a scratch. Alight never be able to play tennis again, but he won't die.'

'Thank God for that.'

'He had very little to do with it, I imagine — don't worry, there won't be a diplomatic stink about a British Civil Servant dying of his wounds in Finnish Lapland. It won't ruin your career.'

'That wasn't my concern,' Philipson said stiffly.

'Be a good boy — make sure the pilot's sent that message ahead, will you? I want to be met by our side at the airport!'

Philipson hesitated, then moved forward towards the cockpit. Waterford tossed his head, then finished binding Davenhill's arm, his nose tickling at the smell of brandy on Davenhill's breath as he began to breathe more stertoriously in drunken, wearied sleep.

Aubrey watched the Cessna seemingly sag out of the lowering sky just after dawn. It touched down as if reluctant, with a waver of the wings, then trundled down the narrow runway towards them. The private airfield at Malmi was almost deserted, but he had come with an armed escort selected from the security staff drafted in by SIS and the CIA for the Treaty visit by Wainwright. At that moment, even as the small plane rolled to a stop, they were searching the airfield and its perimeter, carefully.

There had been a moment, just one, as he first spotted the plane seemingly materialising as it emerged from the cloud, when he had thought in terms of terrorists rather than an enemy security service, and had thought of the RPG-7 antitank grenade launcher — even a Dragunov sniper's rifle might have been sufficient. A couple of shots. So vivid was the impression, he could not rid himself of it, could not help but feel that the enemy had lost its best chance.

The Cessna halted less than a hundred yards from him. He nodded to the driver of the Consulate limousine, and climbed into the back seat. The big Daimler pulled silently level with the aircraft, and Aubrey could see the pilot kicking the door-ladder down so that it thumped into the slush at the end of the runway. Quickly, Aubrey got out of the car, feeling the chill of the light breeze suddenly more keenly, sensing the evaporation of warmth in tension. Only now, standing at the foot of the ladder, did he allow himself to wonder how seriously Davenhill might be wounded.

Waterford appeared in the doorway of the Cessna. His face was tired, strained but alert. His eyes suggested the rapid movements of a dreamer, but with specific purpose.

'It's all clear, for the moment,' Aubrey called up to him.

Waterford nodded, then disappeared back inside. When he reappeared, with Philipson helping him to support a barely conscious Davenhill, Aubrey was shocked at the waxen, hanging face of the younger man. Philipson he hardly noticed. 'Help them get him down!' he snapped at the driver. The driver took Davenhill's waist, and Waterford lowered the upper torso carefully, wearily, down below his own level on the steps. Seeing Waterford using last reserves of energy, Aubrey felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable on the tarmac — defenceless.

'Come on, come on,' Waterford instructed in a tired voice.

'Get him in the car.'

They slid Davenhill into the back of the Daimler. Aubrey saw the bloody bandage on his upper arm smear the trim and the window as they arranged him as comfortably as possible. The breeze, freshening, hastened things.

'You've got it?'

Waterford looked at Aubrey quizzically, then: 'Oh, yes — you won't have any problems convincing anyone.' He pushed the pack containing the cameras and film into the back of the car. 'Now, let's get out of it.'

Aubrey sat next to the driver while Waterford took Davenhill's weight on his shoulder and leaned himself against the cold glass of the rear window. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he heard only distantly Aubrey issuing instructions over the radio to the escort.

'Car One — move to the gates, then give us the signal. Car Two, fall in behind us when we move off.' Waterford could not be bothered to watch the first of the two Volvos move away from in front of the small terminal building, startlingly white under the grey sky.

'They're just leaving the airport gates.'

'What formation?'

'Usual — lead car, then the Daimler, then a second Volvo.'

'Very well. Minimum tail, then hand over.'

'Sir.'

'Anything, Car One?'

The radio sputtered with background, then: 'Not so far.' A Welsh voice — who was that? Aubrey dismissed the question as irrelevant.

'Keep your eyes open. They have to try — and I mean that. It will appear imperative to stop us.'

'Sir.'

'Car Two — close up.'