Snow Falcon

demonic bank-clerk; Vorontsyev could not be sure now whether it was a notorious dissident or someone in SID.

He shook his head slightly, and said, 'Sir, is the object to get the Englishman, or everyone we can?'

'Everyone — but the Englishman most importantly.'

'What about Praporovich, sir?' He was nervous of reminding the Chairman; yet it seemed encumbent upon him. There was an arid vagueness about the conversation, akin to the atmosphere of an academic exercise.

'Yes. There is one man in Leningrad we can trust absolutely.' Vorontsyev knew that would be the department 'V operative, a man unconnected with the official hierarchy of the Resident and his staff. He would have a job, a family, a normal civilian life. The KGB assassin in Leningrad. 'The man will be briefed to report to you before you take the safe house — after the accident has occurred.'

'Sir.' Vorontsyev thought, then: 'Will that stop it, sir? The invasion, I mean?'

A silence, as if he had gone too far, enquired too nearly into matters beyond him. Then, as if admitting his right to know, a reward of unprecedented confidence for the man who had broken Vassiliev, Andropov said, 'I do not know. Dolohov in Murmansk is a different matter. He cannot be got at so readily. However, the same kind of operation is necessary there. I — will come back to you on that, Vorontsyev. Meanwhile…' Andropov went on as if talking to himself.'… we need time, Vorontsyev, time in which to assure loyalties. We have no time left!'

'No, sir. Sir — don't you think — I mean, it has to be the Moscow Garrison, doesn't it? If they're going to make the coup effective…'

'I agree. What do you suggest?' Again the trace of irony, distinct as the odour of tobacco. 'We arrest the whole Garrison?'

'Sorry.'

'No. Your task is to get a team to Leningrad before tomorrow morning — find the Englishman, and identify Kutuzov. If we have him, and Praporovich and Dolohov are dead — then there will be no order for the invasion, and none for the coup. Do I make myself clear?' Andropov was without pleasantry or obligation now. Simply efficient. 'Kutuzov is the key. We must have him!'

When he had broken the radio link, Vorontsyev sat in the swivel chair before the set for a while. In his mind he could see, quite clearly, a picture of an old man in the park known as the 'Field of Virgins', walking a dog. In only one respect did the picture differ from anything conjured by Vassiliev's information. In the image in Vorontsyev's mind, the old man and the dog were accompanied by a child.

Fourteen: Beyond Discussion

'Just in time to catch the post office before it closes,' Philipson observed to the driver, who was too dulled with the cold to reply. The observation car had been parked opposite the Central Post Office in Station Square for less than fifteen minutes, but already Philipson had to keep wiping the windscreen to clear the mist that was freezing — he rubbed now with his heavy mitten until a scratchy little patch of clear glass allowed him to check that it was Captain Ozeroff entering the glass doors of the post office.

'All units,' Philipson said into the car radio, now that he was certain, 'subject has just entered the post office. No one is to follow him in — I'll go. He hasn't seen me.' He looked at Greaves, the driver. 'Come on, old son. Let's go and see who's been writing to our friend.'

The driver merely grunted. Outside the car, the wind cut instantly through Philipson's sheepskin coat, and the snow struck through his fur-lined boots. He wondered whether a centrally-heated office had made him soft, then thrust his hands into his pockets, and crossed the Mannerheimintie from the railway station, careful with his footing as he dodged the last of the home-going commuter traffic heading north to the suburbs.

He went up the steps, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar gun m the small of his back, tucked into his waistband, as if the temperature of its butt had suddenly dropped. He avoided a woman in a tent-like fur coat, then went through the revolving doors into the delusory warmth of strip-lighting in the high Riling. It was warmer — where was he?

Philipson had only a vague idea of why Aubrey was interested in Captain Ozeroff of the Soviet security team at Lahtilinna. But, as surveillance jobs went, he had done a good one, in his own estimation, especially since Ozeroff had been off-duty and in Helsinki for most of the day, and surveillance of a slow-moving, undistracted subject was more difficult, and wearing. Ozeroff had been to the Ateneum Art Gallery, the Parliament building, the National and Municipal Museums, and down to the harbour in a taxi — plenty of open spaces, and plenty of confined spaces. But the surveillance, it appeared, had remained unsuspected.

Philipson had had to shuffle men, monitor everything; enjoy the organisation and be bored to tears by the passing, monotonous hours.

Ozeroff was over by the mail collection counter, talking to a grey-haired assistant, explaining in affable terms and halting Finnish — by the look of the smiles — what he wanted. Philipson sensed the little tug of excitement in his belly — something? Or nothing; the answer came like a breath of the outside air through the revolving doors. Greaves had taken up a watching position behind him, filling in some interminable form — perhaps for a Finnish driving licence. Ozeroff was fifteen yards away. Philipson, pleased with himself, confident of security, moved towards Ozeroff, and stood as if forming the first of a queue behind him at the counter. He tried to appear bored — recalled the hours and the scrappy sandwich lunch, and had no difficulty in looking uninterested in the conversation.

'Your aunt — naturally. A strange name to come from Karelia,' the old man behind the counter was murmuring, half to himself. 'However, you have the little warrant, there is no difficulty.' He turned to search in the alphabetically-labelled pigeon holes behind him. Philipson caught an impression of the edge of Ozeroff's jaw, tight with muscle, and his hand resting on the counter, hopping like a bird — suspicion, tension? Silly old bugger, Philipson thought as the old man pulled out air mail letters and inspected them carefully through his thick glasses before putting them back.

'You're not from Karelia, are you?' the old man asked conversationally, without turning round.

'From the Russian part — we had to learn Russian at school.' Ozeroff was reluctant to reply. Philipson admired the story, but that small feeling was swept away as the feeling of delight overcame him, Ozeroff was here, pretending to be someone else. He concentrated on not moving, then on allowing all the tension of his frame to flow into a desultory shuffle of his feet, as if he was bored with waiting. Ozeroff did not look round.

The old man turned from the pigeon holes, and held out a letter to Ozeroff — Philipson watched as the hand came out, almost in slow-motion, to take it, then speed up as it was pocketed.

'Thank you,' Ozeroff said. 'She will be pleased to hear from her sister.'

'A pleasure,' the old man replied, staring at the breastpocket into which the letter had gone, as if envious of it or its Russian stamps. Philipson stepped aside as Ozeroff turned away and headed for the door. The old man adjusted his glasses, put his head on one side, and was about to ask Philipson what he could do for him.

Philipson said, 'Who was that letter addressed to?' The old man was taken aback. 'Quickly.' Philipson held out the Helsinki CID card that identified him as an Inspector, so that the old man adjusted his glasses once more, stared at the photograph that matched the face of the man in front of him, nodded a couple of times, and cleared his throat, as if he were about to utter a solemn promise of prayer.

'Ah, Inspector — a letter for the young man's aunt. I think the man is Russian, but he could be from Karelia, eh? The Russian part. Lots of people have crossed the border in the last-'

'He hasn't got an aunt from Karelia. Now — who was the letter for?'

Philipson tried to be neutral, because the old man ought not to remember him too clearly, for any reason — and he was staring attentively at him now, enjoying a sense of conspiracy.

'A strange name — probably a Jew, mm?'

'How would I know — you haven't told me yet.'

'Oh, sorry, Inspector. I hear myself in my head most of the time, living alone. Think I've spoken when I haven't. Fanny Kaplan — that's her name. Strange, isn't it? Fanny Kaplan.'

'Thanks. And keep this to yourself, uh?' There was no hope of it, but it had to be said.

'Of course, of course — '

The old man watched Philipson join the man filling out the form and both men as they went out of the doors,