Snow Falcon

'The 22nd?'

'Yes.'

'Eight hours' flight — when is the first plane 'Seven.'

'You're not going anywhere, Major,' the doctor said, now examining Vorontsyev's left hand.

'Are you going to amputate anything?' The doctor shook his head.

'You have to rest.'

'We can all do that after we're dead — seven, seven — eight hours, going backwards. I'd get to Moscow before I started, wouldn't I?' Svobodny nodded. 'Three in the afternoon here, three in the morning there. I can do it — I can do it!' He moved his bandaged feet, and groaned. The doctor looked at him as if at an idiot.

'It gives a little over twenty-four hours before the deadline. What will you do with it?'

'The Blue Call concerns an attempted coup — '

'What-?'

'Listen! By the Army — but I know who's behind it. It's obvious — the same men who are behind the invasion they're planning — Group of Forces North. Praporovich, Marshal Praporovich. We can get him!'

'Oh, yes,' Svobodny observed. 'Just like that — hands up, the Red Army.'

Vorontsyev missed the evident irony. He was flexing his fingers, trying to move his toes, as if in preparation for some extreme physical effort, One thought now possessed him — that he had an answer, some answer which was better than ignorance, and he had to communicate it to Andropov personally.

'Use the transmitter and stay here,' Svobodny said. 'It's not Moscow, but there are Things to do.'

'In the time that's left, you mean? No — your transmitter will be intercepted, I'm sure of that. Tell them — you speak to them, only what you can tell them without giving the game away. Don't attract attention. Use a low-grade code — warn them I'm coming, but don't give details.' Svobodny nodded.

The engine of the car was switched off.

'We're here, Chief,' the driver called back.

'Any tail?

'No.'

'Good.' Svobodny looked at Vorontsyev. 'So, the world's falling round our ears — I'll get you a ticket, and get on the radio.'

As he limped out of the back of the van across the courtyard behind the KGB building, Vorontsyev thought — they must think I'm dead of the cold by now. They must think I'm dead.

By six-thirty he was at Vladivostok Airport, looking out over the windy tarmac to the Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-154 which would take him to Moscow. He was dressed in a dark woollen suit borrowed from one of the KGB staff, and a heavy overcoat. He carried a briefcase, and some luggage had been sent on to the plane ahead of him to further enhance the cover he possessed as a civil servant in the Bureau for Industry and Construction. His new name was Tallinn. He would be met at Cheremtievo by an armed escort, and taken straight to Andropov's office.

If Kapustin understood the simple code.

He had become more and more confident that by now Ossipov and his staff would consider him dead. No one outside the KGB knew otherwise. Levin and the guard had been removed from the train before it left Vladivostok — no one could ask them questions. Before the mistake could be discovered, he would be in Moscow.

He knew he should not call his wife.

He walked slowly, getting used to the unaccustomed stick, his feet aching and his gloved hands sore and prickly, towards the telephone booths. Eight hours, and he could call her from Moscow. Eight hours, and Svobodny could tell her.

He barely understood the compulsion, or why the compulsion made the risk seem minimal. It had to do with almost dying as he waited for the train, and the narrow mental life, almost obsessional, of those hours. And it had to do with the burden of knowledge he carried, the sense of isolation that it gave him. He had to talk to her. Whatever — she had to be told now that he was safe.

Or perhaps he required her comfort now, because it had been unavailable earlier. He dialled the operator, using a pen in his gloved hand, and asked for the hotel in Khabarovsk. She would be there; eagerness to hear her voice overrode any remaining reserve, as the line hummed and crackled with static, then buzzed with the connection.

'Madame Vorontsyevna,' he said. 'Room 246.'

He waited. The operator came back.

'I'm afraid that Madame Vorontsyevna is not in her room, m have her paged, if you'll wait.'

'Very well.'

It was only after the operator had gone away again, and he could distantly hear the tiny noises of the switchboard, a mumbled voice, then the tannoy call for Natalia, that he realised I bow long it was taking. A minute to make the connection with the room — now how long to find her?

He should ring off — just in case. Then he heard her.

'Alexei! Alexei! Thank God you're safe! Where are you?1 She seemed breathless, but he could not be sure. Then his mind stopped investigating her.

'Never mind. I'm all right. I called to tell you I'm all right.'

'I was so worried — !' she said, her voice thick with emotion. I It warmed him, yet he looked at his watch. Six forty-seven. In I a few moments, they would be calling his flight. She could probably hear the sounds of an airport coming down the connection — stop it, stop it! he pleaded with himself.

'It's all right, darling. It's all right. Look, I'll be in touch. Don't worry — it's all right now.'

'Alexei — where are you, darling? Where are you?' And there was no mistaking the imperative in the voice. Someone behind her had shaken his head. The trace was not completed, despite the fact that they would be working back through the Vladivostok exchange. She was being encouraged by a waved hand and an imploring face to keep the conversation going. He knew that. He did not know or care how he knew it — but he did. Just as certainly as he knew that she was helping whoever it was voluntarily. She was not being coerced.

As a last chance, he said, 'Can you talk freely?' And he prayed that she would give the right answer.

She said, 'Of course, darling. What's the matter with you? Where are you, Alexei? I'll come right away!'

He prayed for control over his voice.

'Sorry, darling — must go now. I'll be in touch soon!'

He slammed down the receiver. When he took his hand away from it, it was quivering. There was perspiration on his forehead, and he wiped it angrily, miserably away.

They knew he was speaking from Vladivostok, but they hadn't completed the trace. He looked at his watch. Six fifty. They were calling the flight, he realised. He settled the briefcase under his arm, adjusted the stick, began to walk.

He tried very hard not to understand that his wife was working for Ossipov, and the people who had tried to kill him. And behind that fact, there was another terrible possibility, which he could more easily bury — because he simply had no desire to entertain it.

But — boarding a plane? he thought as he crossed the chilly tarmac slowly. To give the service twenty-four hours to round up the Army? His wife's final infidelity dragged at his purpose, tried to diminish and ridicule it; told him to turn round, give himself up, or get away with Svobodny and his team. Stupid, stupid — The steward at the door of the Tupolev noticed how white and upset Mr Tallinn looked as he boarded the plane for Moscow. His eyes were unduly wet, too, for someone who had merely walked across the tarmac in the wind.

Thirteen: The Couriers

The passengers boarding the Moscow flight travelled from the terminal building across the windy stretch of tarmac to the Tupolev accompanied by a military truck. There were four soldiers with Kalashnikovs thrust upright from between their knees, and three officers in fur hats and great-coats. In the distance, Vorontsyev could see the