Snow Falcon

'Boris Vassiliev — a steward, as you see.' Something had happened to the steward; the deference that was part of his function seemed to have been removed by the surprise with which he had been assaulted, discovered. But nothing else had gone, in the face of the gun and the threats. Now he tried to reassume the mask of ordinariness it fitted incompletely, letting the strong personality they had already seen glance out.

'Who gave you the order to dope my drink? It was lethal, I take it?' Vorontsyev was fascinated now. There was no reaction to the attempt on his life — shock or hate or anger. Just the aroused, challenged curiosity. 'Who gave you the order? Is that why no one boarded the plane, because you were here already?'

'Answer the Major!' The gun pressed beneath the jaw. The face distorted, but only because of the pressure. Still was there no real, shaken fear.

Ideas tumbled through Vorontsyev's head. He needed a shape to contain them, a process to undergo.

'Watch him,' he said. 'Don't hurt him — yet.' Then he walked forward, towards the galley and the door to the flight-deck.

As he opened the door, the flight-engineer, sitting side-on to him and to the rear of the two pilots, glanced up, and said, 'Please return to your seat at once.'

Vorontsyev showed him the ID card. The flight-engineer studied it suspiciously, then spoke into his microphone.

'Captain — Major Vorontsyev, SID, would like to speak to you…?' Vorontsyev nodded. 'Now, I think.'

'Take control, Pavel,' the captain said to his second officer, and then released the control column. He took off his headset, and squeezed past the second officer, to confront Vorontsyev. He seemed surprised at the man's youth, being probably fifty, Vorontsyev estimated. A bulky, solid individual, still in command on his own flight- deck.

Vorontsyev said as they confronted one another, 'Captain, what do you know about your steward, Vassiliev?'

Immediately, the captain appeared puzzled. His mouth opened, and even the flight-engineer, looking up at them like a wondering child, smiled at the question.

'Know about him?' the captain said. 'The little — he's one of yours, KGB!' He seemed unwilling, even defiant, about concealing his dislike of Vorontsyev.

'He's not,' Vorontsyev said. 'I would have known that. The officer from Vladivostok travelling with me would certainly have known it. Why do you believe it?'

'He has the proper authority, Major,' the captain said stiffly, as if his dignity had been affronted. 'I have flown with Vassiliev on board a number of times. He has always presented himself to me as KGB Airline Security.'

Vorontsyev nodded. 'Thank you, captain. You may leave the matter in my hands. How soon before we can talk direct to Moscow?'

The pilot appeared puzzled.

'A matter of hours yet, I'm afraid. However, anything you wish can be relayed ahead of us…'

'Thank you for your cooperation. Tell me, you say that Vassiliev has travelled with you many times. He is your regular steward, then?'

'Not really. It doesn't work like that. We draw from a pool of available stewards and stewardesses, for internal flights. They're always changing flights and journeys with one another — proper little capitalist enterprise, Major!' There was a smile hi the blue eyes, and round the mouth. 'They very much suit themselves — especially the ones who are hi your organisation. They fly where they want, and when they want.'

'I see. But Vassiliev flies this route regularly?'

'Quite often. When I come aboard, I don't expect to see the same faces. But his — yes, quite often.'

'You always thought him — one of us?'

'Yes — his arrogance.' The pilot was cool, even amused. Vorontsyev smiled, and saw in his mind the face of the young steward. Yes, he could be KGB. Certainly not a steward.

Working for Ossipov — travelling all over the Soviet Union. Nor frightened by the KGB, even masquerading as a KGB man. Pleasing himself which destination — changing his travelling arrangements at the last moment, perhaps.

Vorontsyev was quivering with excitement. He knew what he had caught.

'Leave — this matter in my hands, captain.' He had to make him talk — had to! 'Captain, I must ask you to descend to a level where the pressurised cabin is not needed!'

'Must you hell!'

'That is an order! Disobedience to that order may be construed as treason!' Vorontsyev was in no mood to trifle, to bargain or persuade. His face was grim with determination. He would not need to touch the gun in his holster. He knew the power of SID, even on people like this experienced pilot.

It was a moment only. Then the pilot, with ill grace in his voice and impotent, angry contempt in his eyes, said, 'Very well. What are you going to do, throw the little sod out?'

'Threaten to. You understand, captain. This aircraft is effectively under the control of an officer in the SID. I shall not interfere, more than is necessary, with your flight-plan or your authority. But I must have your complete cooperation!'

'Very well,' he replied surlily. 'Very well, Major Vorontsyev.' He leaned to speak into the flight-engineer's microphone. 'Pavel, descend slowly to flight level seven-zero. And tell no one.' Then he straightened up. 'Will that do you? Seven thousand feet. It will be bloody cold, so don't leave the door open too long, will you?' There was an acid humour in the voice, the truculence of forced assistance.

'Thank you, captain. And keep her steady, would you? I have no wish to fall out somewhere over Siberia!'

He dosed the door behind him, the jubiliation of the humour of his last words bubbling in him. He had the answer, a mouthpiece now, if only he could force it to speak.

A courier.

The missing piece of the puzzle; the communications network. Using the resources of Aeroflot, the network of the internal airline services, to transmit their messages — from Moscow to the Far East and who knew where else — by jet airliner; by stewards who rendered themselves virtually secure from inter ference by posing as members of the KGB. It would work, too.

He stood looking into the first class for a moment, as 'he thoughts resolved themselves. He could feel the airliner descending, not rapidly enough to arouse the passengers — but descending.

The couriers would know to whom they spoke — they would even know the man or men behind Group 1917 and Finland Station. He had an almost physical longing to shake the information from the steward, now seated upright, the KGB man alongside him, the gun evident between them. The other passengers were consciously inattentive.

Messages transmitted by word of mouth, within hours. Simple, and effective. If there was a KGB man on the flight, Vassiliev — and the others, for there had to be others; twenty, thirty, how many? — would simply not reveal his assumed authority. If not, and always as far as the flight crew were concerned, he was KGB. Who would think to check?

'Bring him!' he snapped.

The KGB man hauled Vassiliev out of his seat, and prodded him along the aisle until all three of them were jammed into the tiny galley. Vorontsyev could smell rank sweat. It was the KGB man, not Vassiliev. He glared into the confident young face — no, there was an ashen tinge to the cheeks now that they were so close to him, or now he was alone with them.

'Listen to me, Boris Vassiliev. I know what you are.' The steward still appeared confident. He straightened his tie. 'I know about Group 1917 and Finland Station. Which is why you had to kill me. But I know what you are, and I'm going to know what you know. You are a courier from the top men…' The eyes bolted, as if seeking escape. The KGB man, as if on cue from Vorontsyev, thrust the gun into Vassiliev's back. The steward gasped.

'You see? I know, and I want to know what you know. Everything. As no doubt you will have noticed, the aircraft is descending. When it has done so, I will open the passenger-hatch opposite us…' He watched the steward's eyes stray towards the locked hatch; it was a movement the man could not control. 'And if you don't then tell me everything I wish to know — I shall throw you out!'

The barely furnished room was icy cold, even in the middle of the afternoon. He had removed only one glove