Snow Falcon

fifty-six hours. It seemed to settle his stomach, tidy and soothe his thoughts.

Khamovkhin sat at the Ambassador's desk in a spacious third-floor room of the Embassy on Tehtaankatu. With him was the Soviet Ambassador to Finland, Foreign Minister Gromyko, and the head of the duty security team, Captain Ozeroff. Ozeroff stood away from the desk, and its red telephone drawn nearer the First Secretary than the battery of black telephones, as if in deference to the call about to be received, while Gromyko and the Ambassador sat within hearing distance of the amplifier rigged to the 'hot line'.

Khamovkhin looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. In Washington, four-thirty in the afternoon. President Joseph Wainwright would call him at any moment. Khamovkhin was nervous. Wainwright wanted answers, assurances that he could not give. There was no way he could bluff convincingly.

The four men in the room heard, distinctly, the connection being made by the Embassy exchange, the slight crackle of the static, then Wainwright's voice as he was instructed to begin his call. The slight delay in the signal, transmitted by satellite, then the illusion that the President of the United States was in the next room, or the next town.

'Mr First Secretary — good evening.'

Khamovkhin gagged on his reply for a moment.

'Mr President — good afternoon.'

And silence, for a long time. Khamovkhin felt, already, a bead of perspiration, standing out on his heavy brow, and his palms damp as he closed his hands into fists in his lap. A child, waiting for the rebuke of an adult.

'Mr First Secretary — ' There was a freezing hauteur about the voice now, a righteousness, even. Wainwright spoke from strength. But what followed surprised Khamovkhin in its cunning, its obliqueness. 'I have a suggestion to make to you which I am sure would be in the interests of both of us, and of the world.' Khamovkhin shuddered at the grandiloquence which he found rolled so easily from the tongues of American Presidents. He could see Wainwright, dapper, handsome, middle-aged, leaning slightly forward across his desk in the Oval Office, as if to make distinct, unmistakable, each of his words.

'Yes, Mr President?'

'I propose, as a preliminary to the signing of our Treaty in three days, and as a gesture of faith the world cannot mistake — ' A pause for emphasis, for clarity of meaning, for weight of impression, Khamovkhin thought. Angry with himself for being concerned to weigh such things, like a theatre critic with an actor's performance. 'That we institute, immediately, large and evident troop withdrawals from frontier areas.' The clarity with which his situation seemed understood in Washington chilled Khamovkhin, then instantly seemed to raise his temperature or that of the room. But Wainwright gave him no time for thought or reply. 'I will order US troops in the Federal Republic to withdraw from forward positions. I will immediately institute the stand-down of strike squadrons in the United Kingdom, and order the US 6th Fleet to a condition of secondary readiness — all of which your satellites and tracking ships can verify in a matter of hours.'

Silence — heavy, into which the breathing of the Ambassador and Gromyko dropped like stones, and the static from the amplifier scratched at his attention. He looked at Gromyko, whose face was impassive, without suggestion or support.

'Mr President, this is a gesture which pleases me, but which I need time to consider.' Lame, lame — 'What's to consider, Mr First Secretary? I have satellite pictures here — ' A pause, as if an aide had gestured warningly. 'I have evidence to suggest that units of the Red Banner Fleet have been recalled to Murmansk. A gesture already on your part, surely? Continue the good work. Stand down forward units in the DDR, or maybe on the Norwegian border, or the Finnish border — yes, maybe best of all. Before I join you in Helsinki.'

Satellite pictures — stand down units — Red Banner Fleet — Khamovkhin was appalled, at a loss. He was learning, from the President of the United States, what the Red Army intended. The invasion of Scandinavia? Impossible. Finland Station. Not impossible.

'I — have to consult with the High Command of the Soviet Army, Mr President. I have no room for such a unilateral decision.'

'You're reluctant, Mr First Secretary — at this late hour?'

It was a direct challenge. He could almost begin to frame the rest of the conversation.

'No, no, of course not. But, you expect instant action, Mr President — '

'My orders have already gone to the Pentagon, and to Brussels, Mr First Secretary. They need only be confirmed. Now — can you do less than that?'

He was in a trap — he could not even speak to Gromyko. The red telephone, and the amplifier, sat on his desk, a squat toad listening to his thoughts.

'I–I must consult. It will take time to arrange — it is, of course, most desirable — '

'I think that way, too.' There was irony now! 'Forward units in your northern theatre, to compound your gesture of withdrawing units of the Northern Fleet to port. Can we agree on that?'

'I — in principle, yes, of course — '

'By tomorrow?'

'But — I am not sure it can be done — '

'Mr First Secretary — unless those units are withdrawn a token fifty miles from the border with Norway and Finland — and by dawn of the 24th, then I will order units of the AMF to go ahead with the cancelled NATO exercise, 'Snowfront Express'. Do I make myself clear, Mr First Secretary? I will also, in consultation with America's allies in NATO, place our forces on a twenty-four-hour readiness alert, unless I hear from you that withdrawals are beginning. This will happen at midnight, seven a.m. on the 23rd, your time.' Another pause, then: 'That's all, Mr First Secretary. Good evening to you.'

Static, for a long time, until his hand darted out to cut off the connection, kill the amplifier. Then, only then, did he look up at the other men in the room.

'We seem to have been given an ultimatum, gentlemen.'

'A sensible suggestion — ' The Ambassador began, then dropped his eyes, lost his voice, and he saw the look in Khamovkhin's eyes. Gromyko remained silent.

'It must be done — he said nothing about coming to Helsinki, you notice. Nothing!' Anger, anger of confidence, he thought. Show them. 'Sensible, Mr Ambassador — of course, sensible. But — demanded, as of right, at this late hour! What kind of thing is that to do, eh? Why must it be done now, at this minute? He talks like a schoolmaster, a dreamer!'

He looked across at Ozeroff, standing stiffly to attention by the door, as if not wishing to draw attention to himself. Inwardly, Khamovkhin quailed. Andropov was right — the 24th. The Americans knew something, something that told them the timetable of Group 1917. And they had tested him, and now they knew he was powerless, impotent. And had issued their challenge — put your house in order, or the next war begins in three days' time!

He turned his back on them, looked at the portrait of Lenin above the chair in which he had been sitting. Ozeroff, at attention, had been directing his line of sight there. With little more than a hundred men, Lenin had done it, wrested power from Kerensky and the ditherers. And Group 1917 had the whole Army as a means of doing it!

What was his code? To those faceless men against whom he could make no move — what was his code? Comrade Romanov? The idea was laughable, the title apposite.

Get them out, get them out, he told himself. He had to get back to Lahti, talk to Andropov in Moscow. Had to. Everything was crumbling in his big, clumsy hands — he had dreamed, hadn't he, a couple of nights ago, of huge hands picking up delicate china cups and saucers, and smashing them with sheer clumsiness. Looking down, he had seen his own body in the dream, and these great shovels of hands sticking out of the sleeves of his coat.

Woken in a sweat — almost crying out, then realising.

He had to talk to Andropov. There had to be something, some lead, some identification of the leader, his enemy. Had to be.

'Captain Ozeroff, order the helicopter to stand by. We are returning to Lahtilinna at once!'

'Sir.'

Galakhov was smiling as he closed the door of the Ambassador's office behind him. In the morning, he could