Snow Falcon

long boots climbing aboard the tram. 'When it pulls out, watch the cars, watch the pedestrians.'

'Surely you — '

'Air Aubrey, when were you last in the field?'

'What do you — ?'

'They're into an end-play now — have to be. You might think of driving down to the Soviet Embassy, if you aren't going to expect trouble.'

The tram pulled away, and the driver turned the Daimler out into the stream of traffic down the esplanade. The wide street graceful buildings, trees down the middle of the thoroughfare — Aubrey felt himself resisting Waterford's words, as if they were subversive, or corrupting. Mere hundreds of yards, people everywhere.

'They can blame terrorists — the Proves, Red Army Fraction, it won't matter, really. We'll be dead, and they'll have stopped up the leak — there!' The Volvo Daf was innocuous, so was the windowless van which purported to belong to a firm of central heating engineers. Together, they drove, like a closing neck, from different sides into the Daimler. The driver accelerated after a second's hesitation, but he was already too late. The Volvo Daf bounced off the crumpled nearside fender, but the van drove the nose of the limousine round, back into the Volvo. The engine raced, then died. The driver fired it, it clattered, almost caught 'Out! Out!' Waterford yelled.

'It's what they want!'

'No, shock-delay — move, move!'

They hadn't moved from the van and the car yet. Waterford had minimised the delay by conscious effort, and was out of the Daimler, the Parabellum levelling up at the windscreen of the Volvo Daf- it starred, and the face behind it fell away — ducking or dead, he did not care.

'Get Davenhill out of the back — cross the street!'

He swung to the van as he shouted — the noises of people, acceleration of cars away from the sudden chaos, rising distant whine of a siren — but all distant as he squeezed again. Distant even to the impact of the first bullet, as if his thick clothing was sufficient to stay the passage of the 9 mm slug. All he did was to lean back against the Daimler, as if tired. But he steadied his stiff-arm grip again, and shot both men as they climbed out of the van to finish him.

Screams — eradicate all unnecessaries — siren — eradicate — look round, see where they are — driver and Aubrey scuttling across the road, Davenhill between them, body limp — the rest of the scene indistinct, slowed-down like a film A man moving faster, crossing the road — focus, check, aim, fire — the man was only yards from Aubrey when he seemed to trip and fall on his face. No one else moving, not towards them — yes, one more, just as they passed out from beneath the lacy, whitened trees — man in overalls, back of the van, probable — difficult, focus, focus — aim, steady, re-align, fire. The man toppled, as if from a wire or ledge, and slid against one of the trees.

Eradicate unnecessaries — impact? Something wet, running down his leg — pissed myself? he laughed. He saw his stomach, and heard a scream that was not his own, but which was on his behalf, and thought he heard pity in it, which for once he did not reject.

How far now?

He had to hold the door of the Daimler — heard the siren, close now, and saw the Volvo Daf pull away quickly. Another car, further away, moving too in a scene that seemed to have frozen.

How far?

He could see the slab of grey that was the corner of the Consulate — thought he saw three figures — focus, focus, he screamed at intolerable ineptitude — a lump, three figures, reaching the door, door opening — ?

He wanted to say that he wasn't deaf, that everyone should stop, screaming, as he let his head drop. The siren, unrecognised, whined down the scale as the police car pulled up only yards away. He saw something in white — might have been overalls — move near the door of the van, and he shot into the puddle of white which might have been snow but he was too old a hand to be tricked like that — puddle that might have been a white-out Waterford slumped over the open door of the Daimler, the gun still hanging from his fierce grip, as the police approached his body.

The main doors of the Consulate closed behind Aubrey, Davenhill and the driver before the policeman could remove the Parabellum from Waterford's dead hand.

'Get these developed, would you,' Aubrey remarked in a tired voice, indicating the rolls of film and the cameras on the desk of the duty-room. Henderson, the SIS Senior at the Consulate, hesitated as Aubrey returned his attention to the cup around which he cradled his mottled hands.

After a silence, Aubrey looked up into his face with vague blue eyes.'Well?1 'The Consul would like to see you at once, Mr Aubrey. He has two senior police officers downstairs, and they're getting a little impatient.'

The blue eyes sharpened their focus, and the face seemed to collect itself, tidying the sagging folds of skin, etching the lines at forehead and mouth.

'Henderson, I'm sorry that parking regulations on the esplanade have been infringed, and that a certain amount of litter has been chucked about — but I am in no mood, nor have I the time, to talk to the Consul or the police. Now, run along and get those films developed, there's a good fellow.'

Terrorists, he thought, and nodded his head decisively. And, as if decision brought other thoughts, he grimaced at the tea, got up, and poured himself a large whisky from the bottle on the trolley. Gratefully, he gulped it down, coughed, and then developed his idea. Waterford was a government agent, naturally. But engaged in nothing on Finnish soil. He was obviously a marked man That would do, until HMG had spoken in confidence with the Finnish Cabinet, and until he spoke to Buckholz, and he to Washington. The films hardly needed developing — someone had been sufficiently desperate to try to eliminate agents in the middle of Helsinki. Aubrey sighed.

Waterford was dead — he would have to debrief Davenhill, now resting in the tiny consular pharmacy in the basement of the building. An event he wished to postpone, for reasons obscure even to himself. Very well He dialled the US Consulate, identified himself by Dickens Code, who else but Pecksniff, he thought once more, and Buckholz was on the line in a moment, identified by Cooper Code at Natty Bumpo. Buckholz had inherited the code for Deputy Director of the CIA along with the job; Aubrey had retained Pecksniff from the early sixties. 'Secure?'

'Secure, Kenneth. What gives? I'm getting reports of-'

'A vulgar brawl, yes. Us, I'm afraid. One of my people is dead, the other under sedation and wounded. But — the attack is sufficient evidence, I think — ?'

'Moscow Centre?'

'A local chapter, but affiliated, I believe.'

'Jesus-'

'Helicopter activity, marksmen, and my two car-teams taken out. Two of your men, I'm afraid.'

'Hell — OK, Kenneth. Not your fault. It's proof. Look, let me get on to Langley direct with this. I'll get back to you.'

Aubrey stared at the telephone for a long time before replacing it. When he did, he thought of Waterford. Then, struck by something else, he thought of Khamovkhin, at that moment touring a pulp-milling complex before doing the rounds of the harbours that afternoon. And he thought of the Ozeroff-substitute.

'Kenneth?'

'Secure. Go ahead, Charles.' Aubrey was desperately tired. Davenhill had rambled, and the films had been developed. A little disappointing, but they clarified Davenhill's broken account. As hard evidence, just sufficient to convince of past events. The events of that day would have to suffice to arouse suspicion of present, and future. 'There's been code-traffic all morning — I've been in conference with Langley and the Pentagon, and the President patched it when we went to satellite com — '

Aubrey felt too tired for a recital of American technological achievement; unreasonably irritated.

'The outcome, Charles?'

Buckholz continued unabashed. 'There's a SAMOS reprogramming under way, and a launch slot later today. The sat can have a look-see. We don't usually have the coverage up here, and the President and the Pentagon won't make any premature moves just on my say-so.'

'What will the President do, Charles?'

'I told him to stay home.' Buckholz chuckled. 'He's fixing a dialogue over the red telephone for this evening,