Snow Falcon

smell, as if something was rotting beneath the soiled clothes, rotting inside the man.

'Well, Colonel?'

'Sir?

'Are we going to learn something of value, or not?'

Folley blinded, leaned forward on the filthy cot as if straining to comprehend — or simply to keep himself awake. The body's posture flinched, even while he did it. Kutuzov was obscurely moved by the sight, but to no specific feeling.

'Possibly, sir. What he knows, how much he knows — it's open to question.' Novetlyn sounded as if he had already done with the Englishman, discarded that particular card. The attitude irritated Kutuzov. 'Then I came to Leningrad for nothing?'

'If you came to see him, sir — perhaps.'

Novetlyn obviously knew about the border incident, and the escape of one of the agents in Helsinki. Perhaps that explained his indifference. And an indifferent interrogator would obtain nothing of value.

'What do they know?'

'Less when he was sent than they know now.'

Kutuzov was suddenly tired of the smell, the confinement. Perhaps disturbed, too, though he ignored the feeling.

'Very well, let's go. The Marshal should have arrived by now.'

'And him, sir?'

Folley's body looking as if it was pleading; but the eyes, as if overworked, were blank with an idiot's stare; the body might only be an actor's imitation of supplication, or a haphazard arrangement of weary, beaten muscles.

'Keep him here for the moment. We might be able to use him later — in some sort of show-trial.' Kutuzov seemed pleased with the idea, as if it explained the vague reluctance he perceived with regard to Folley. 'Perhaps so. Agent of the Western imperialists — a courier to Khamovkhin's gang. Yes. Keep him alive!'

Upstairs, Praporovich waited in civilian clothes in the main drawing-room of the old house. When Kutuzov entered, they embraced, kissed cheeks. Kutuzov held the Marshal at arms' length for a moment, smiling, assessing.

'You look tired, Grigory Ilyich.'

Praporovich dismissed the observation. 'Nothing the twenty-fourth won't put right!' They laughed together. 'I was not followed,' Praporovich added.

'Nevertheless, this is the last time you must come out of headquarters, until things are under way.'

'Perhaps. I will be careful, you know.'

'I know it.'

'Ossipov, then — ?'

'He has been told to radio you the full instructions, timings, everything.'

'We need twenty-four hours minimum to deploy and transport.'

'Ossipov knows that.'

'A pity it's so late in the day — being so important.'

Kutuzov settled himself in his chair, studying Praporovich, suddenly wearied by the prospect of argument.

'We could take no chances — chemical warfare training is an annual event. Last year, we failed to get it right, and we had to wait. Soldiers talk, Grigory Ilyich — and that is something not to talk about. Ossipov's men think they are only carrying out normal training — ' Praporovich raised his hand.

'Very well, old friend. I agree. Let us not quarrel. As long as the cleaning-up is timed to the minute, I don't worry about it.'

'It will be. Radio-traffic for everything, using the hourly changes of code, from now on. Tell Dolohov.'

Praporovich nodded. 'Your part of it?'

'Valenkov's gone underground. The KGB know it, but they can't do anything about it. Valenkov will be ready at 06:00, when I give the order, to move his tanks into the centre of Moscow. They will take up positions around and inside the Kremlin, and in Dzerzhinsky Street — a display of strength. Andropov will be — collected at home by a special squad. The Politburo members will be similarly rounded up. As for Feodor the traitor — he will be taken care of.'

'He must come back for trial — '

'What else? It is taken care of.'

Praporovich nodded reluctantly. 'GFSG are still bellyaching about not being in on the action,' he observed.

'They won't move?'

'No. Marshal Bezenkov will do nothing. '1812' will come to a complete stop at 06:00, as you ordered.'

'Good.'

Kutuzov stood up, crossed to the drinks cabinet in one corner, and poured vodka for them both. He raised his glass, aware of, pleased at, the theatricality.

'Your health, old friend.'

'Yours, also.' They touched glasses, drank off the liquor. Kutuzov stayed the Marshal's hand for a moment.

'I have to stay alive, because without me, Valenkov will never order his garrison regiments into the streets of Moscow. You have to stay alive, because without you the Army has no leader in the north. Remember that when you're tempted to walk the streets today or tomorrow — eh, old friend?'

Praporovich nodded. Then, together, they threw their empty glasses into the fireplace. Praporovich roared with laughter, the laughter of a young man. After a moment, Kutuzov, too began to laugh.

The senior Helsinki detective had been deferential, almost silent, certainly careful to avoid recognition of Davenhill and the wounded arm he nursed in a sling. He had his orders, evidently, and satisfied his frustrations by enjoying the discomfort that the cold of the city morgue brought to the pale-looking Englishman. Diplomacy, intelligence services, twist justice the way you want — the thoughts rumbled away in the back of his head.

'I'll leave you, if you wish, Mr Davenhill?' he said, sliding out the drawer of the great metal cabinet that might have contained gigantic files. The expected white sheet with its contours like those of hidden furniture nevertheless shocked Davenhill, made him gag as if the thing under the sheet had rotted.

'Don't you want my identification?' Davenhill snapped.

'Naturally. I meant afterwards — '

'I-'

The detective pulled back the sheet like a conjurer. Water ford's face stared up at them. Davenhill could imagine the eyes beneath the closed lids, glowering, discontented with the ordinariness, the boredom of death. Davenhill nodded. Then he remembered his lines.

'Yes — that is Mr Alan Waterford, of the British Diplomatic Service.' It was incredible, even insulting. The detective accepted the blatant untruth, the agreed version of identity.

'Thank you, Mr Davenhill.'

Davenhill was staring into the cabinet drawer. Waterford was neat, tidy. He did not hear the detective walk away, to wait outside for him.

Civil servant — dear God! he thought. At last they had put Waterford in a category, and one he could not threaten or burst from. Waterford the killer, the operator, the desperate man — a clerk. Davenhill could feel nothing more than the irony of his words, his identification. He could not feel that Waterford had saved his life, more than once; he could not apprehend the person that Waterford had been. But he was assailed by a sense of loneliness that had nothing to do with the white room, the ranked drawers, the table with its sluice in the middle of the tiled floor, the gowns hanging up on the door. It was a loneliness that belonged not to himself, but to Waterford. Waterford in life rather than dead.