Snow Falcon

and lies. Then: 'I have been relieved of my job as a courier. It must be close.'

'How are they communicating now?'

'Secure telephones.'

'Kutuzov is in Moscow?'

'I suppose so.'

'What of the coup?' It was difficult to keep the excitement from his voice.

'To co-incide with the invasion of Norway and Finland. Exactly.'

'Who is involved? When does it take place?'

The cold silence of the baggage-compartment seemed interminable, seemed to press upon them. Then Vassiliev said, 'I do not know. It is the truth. I carried messages concerning Finland Station, but not the coup. I do not know how, or when.'

There was hesitation in the voice, but Vorontsyev did not think he was lying. With a nauseous certainty, he knew that Andropov knew as much already as he was able to tell him — the 24th. It had to be. He forced himself to consider only the interrogation. In an attempt to enlarge the innocence of the atmosphere, so that Vassiliev might volunteer any remaining information, Vorontsyev said, 'We should be at normal cruising height and speed by now — unless we are already descending to Novosibirsk.'

It was the observation of a seasoned passenger, nothing more, but it affected Vassiliev. He felt an inexplicable rush of gratitude to his interrogator. He said eagerly, 'There is an Englishman, in Leningrad. At the safe house. He was captured in Finland.'

It was not what Vorontsyev had expected; nothing like. He drew on his cigarette, then asked, 'What use would he be?'

'He spoke to Kutuzov, I was told.'

Vorontsyev stubbed out his cigarette on the metal of the floor, and stood up. He looked at Vassiliev, then said to Tikhon, 'When he has given you the names — every name he knows, take him back to first class.' Tikhon nodded. Vassiliev looked grateful, and dog-like. But the eyes were staring, and tired. He would be little more use. Tikhon had already taken out a notebook, and pen, offering them to Vassiliev. The numb hands hung from the swollen wrists, apparently useless.

'He will write for you,' Vorontsyev said kindly, and went out, closing the door behind him.

When he entered the flight-deck again, the captain turned his head, and scowled. Yet there was a gleam in his eyes. He evidently did not care what had happened to Vassiliev, but his dislike for Vorontsyev was unmistakable.

He said, 'It's snowing in Moscow. We refuel at Novosibirsk, then fly on to Sverdlovsk. We'll hold there until it clears.' He knew the information would anger Vorontsyev.

'You'll hold at Novosibirsk until I've talked to Moscow!' he snapped. 'Radio ahead. I want to talk to the KGB man in the Tower. I want to arrange a secure channel to Moscow Centre.'

The snow was thickening outside the window of the restaurant. Kutuzov had watched it throughout his meal. When he had finished his coffee and a glass of Ghorilka spertsem, Ukrainian vodka with peppers in it, he went to the telephone booth — it had been checked for security that afternoon by someone posing as a KGB telephone engineer — and dialled Valenkov. When the man came on the line, Kutuzov said, 'What if it is snowing on the morning of the 24th, Dmitri?'

Valenkov seemed surprised, even insulted, by the question. His voice was testy as he said: 'We have contingency plans for that eventuality, sir. A special airborne detachment will travel by APC to the Kremlin. A plan I personally prefer — except that you seemed always to favour the Blitzkrieg of airborne assault.'

It was a just rebuke. Kutuzov laughed, and again: 'Forgive me, Dmitri. I am in your hands. Goodbye.'

When he came out of the booth, he was shaking with anger at himself. A stupid, nerveless old man! That was all he was becoming. All through his meal the falling snow had nagged at his stomach like indigestion.

He went back to his table. One of the GRU men in the restaurant, as his special guard, settled back in his seat as Kutuzov ordered another Ukrainian vodka. He felt cold. There was no word from Novosibirsk concerning Vorontsyev, who should be dead by now. He would have to make a call from secure line four later if there was no message.

He swallowed gaggingly at the peppered vodka.

Vorontsyev stared up at a street map of Novosibirsk as Kapustin, at the other end of the radio-link, digested his first bout of information. He was in the KGB duty-room at the airport. He had never been to Novosibirsk before, the third largest town in the Soviet Union, a vast industrial complex spurred to enlarge its industrial capacity ten times after the evacuation of industry from European Russia to Siberia during the war against the Fascists.

There were more than a million people in Novosibirsk. Vorontsyev cared about none of them. The map of the city' that lay to the south of the airport, divided by the River Ob, was simply a distraction. It bore no relation even to the sprawling mass of lights he had seen beneath the wing as they made their descent.

The temperature outside the plane had been minus five degrees centigrade. Mild for the time of year, milder than Moscow at that moment. Already he had been told that the weather was closing in outside the windows of Kapustin's office, where he and Andropov listened to the tinny, strange voice with its apocalyptic messages. Vorontsyev knew he would be unlikely to get into Cheremetievo or any other Moscow airport that day, or night.

He felt impotent and frustrated.

'How were these men recruited, Vorontsyev?' It was Kapustin again.

Vorontsyev felt unreasonably angry, as if his superior was simply tinkering with unimportant parts of the machine instead of ripping out its wiring, stopping it.

'My assistant was told by Vassiliev that he was an army reject — though there was no reason given at the time he applied for a commission. Then, after a time, an approach was made to him. He believes all of them were recruited in the same way — high-grade officer material rejected, then picked up for this special work…'

He was interrupted by Andropov's dry tones. He was surprised that he could catch the full acid superiority of the voice, even at this distance on a satellite radio-link.

Andropov said, 'Read me the full list of names again.' Vorontsyev did so, slowly, spelling out many of them. There were seventeen in all. When he had finished, he said, 'What will you do now, sir?'

'Aeroflot will be informed. KGB men inflight will make immediate arrests — the others will be collected on arrival at destination. From them we will build up the complete picture.'

Vorontsyev said urgently, 'Sir, you don't seem to understand the urgency…'

'I understand, Vorontsyev. What would you have me do — order the KGB Resident in Vladivostok to go and arrest Ossipov?'

'No, sir — I simply…'

'What else have you for us, Vorontsyev?'

'There is an Englishman at the Leningrad safe house they've been using. He can identify Kutuzov — at least, he is supposed to have seen him!'

'An Englishman?'

'A soldier — sent to Finland to verify some infra-red photographs. He is, apparently, still alive.'

'Then we shall have him.' There was a silence, as if Andropov had turned and looked out of the window. Then: 'Can we trust anyone in the Leningrad KGB? The address of the safe house is an address used by the KGB. What is your opinion?'

'I don't know, sir. It seems to be mainly GRU — Vassiliev is vague. He doesn't know very much of the whole picture.'

Another silence, then: 'We can't fly in a team from outside. At least, not from here. You will do it from there. Understand? I will speak to the Resident at Novosibirsk, and place you in charge. Can we trust them, do you think?'

'Again, sir — I don't know. But it's a risk we have to take…'

'I agree. Select a team, and brief it to take the safe house. Then catch the first available flight to Leningrad. The weather is fine there, I believe.' Vorontsyev sensed the irony, even thousands of miles from the grey face, the thin lips that would have been slightly curled as the words were spoken. Someone had once called Andropov a