Snow Falcon

simple code, and been broken down for him by an operator drafted in from Copenhagen earlier in the day as part of the replacement security team. The message scribbled in a bold, quick hand on the message form was from Philipson, and it was originally timed some hours earlier. By the time he had it, it had been too late to arrest the substitute Ozeroff. He had disappeared — probably triggered by the letter with the Russian stamps.

'Fanny Kaplan,' he murmured.

'Begging your pardon, sir?' Anders murmured deferentially.

'You know your immediate post-Revolutionary history, Anders?'

'Some.'

'Remember Fanny Kaplan?' He wished Anders would not remember, as if that might make his own conclusion less real. Ozeroff had reported back to Lahtilinna from his day off, had spent less than an hour in his room before the official handover of security duties had led to his being required to report to Buckholz — and had calmly disappeared. So completely that repeated searches of the castle and the grounds had not unearthed him.

Anders was silent for a long time, so long that Aubrey thought he was bemused by the question.

'Yes,' he said eventually.

'I ask you again — you are certain about Galakhov's role in Latin America, and his real function while acting as adviser to Cuban Intelligence?'

'Yes.'

'Then the letter was a trigger — it probably contained blank paper. Perhaps even a black spot, mm?' Anders seemed not to understand. 'It meant simply — go underground, carry out your mission. Isn't that the final signal in a Department 'V' operation?'

'Often it is, sir.'

'Fanny Kaplan! She killed Lenin — shot him up so badly he never recovered. My God, but these people in Group 1917 love their recent history!' Now he turned to Anders. 'I must see Khamovkhin — and cut through the bluff and the bull. He has to be made to realise that he is the target for Fanny Kaplan — ' His words died suddenly as a thought struck him. 'I think we may have been extremely stupid to have taken over security here, Anders.'

'How's that, sir?'

'Because, if Khamovkhin now comes to harm, it will be our fault. And a perfect excuse for our friends in Group 1917 to make war on the murderers of the Soviet First Secretary 1'

'Mr First Secretary,' Buckholz spluttered, losing patience at last, 'we're way beyond any performance here I You could be on the verge of rounding up the so-called ringleaders back home — though I doubt it — but we're talking about your life!'

'Very well. Air Buckholz!' Aubrey could see that Khamovkhin was shaken by the outburst as he was by the threat, which he had seemed capable of absorbing in some way, as if digesting it. 'Very well. However, your men have now completed the take-over. One of them will be on guard outside the door of any room I occupy, until you give orders otherwise. What more can 1 say or do to please you?' The square features were defiant, the thick eyebrows seeming to bristle, the jaw to jut like a prow.

'You're a prisoner here, sir — I have to make that clear to you, and you must make it clear to your people, and to the world, that you are unwell. That's why you have had to cancel your speech to the conference tomorrow.'

'And what about President Wainwright? Is he ill, too?'

'Weather delay. Washington's snowbound.'

'Fortunate.'

'He'd have found another reason.'

'Very well — I will have a communique drafted, for the conference and for the President of Finland.'

'I have it here,' Aubrey said quietly, holding it out. Khamovkhin took the sheets of paper and studied them. Then he removed his glasses, nodded at them, and walked out of the room.

'Sweet Jesus Christ,' Buckholz breathed, slumping into the chair opposite Aubrey. 'What is it with that guy? World War Three is about to happen, his life's in danger — and he spends his time offering us drinks and making small-talk!'

'He's beyond consideration of his predicament, Charles. He can't bear to think about it. A condition that is going to get worse.'

'Hell. Is he kidding when he tells us the ringleaders are on the point of being arrested — Andropov says so?'

'I should think so. Killed, perhaps, but not arrested. If the Chairman's men can get at them in time.'

'In time for what? They could start the whole thing!'

'I realise that, Charles. I was trying not to think about it. Just like the First Secretary, I consider that the scenario doesn't bear thinking about!'

Buckholz looked at his watch, then into the fire.

'The first units of the AMF should be landing at Bardufoss about now, Kenneth.'

'Please don't remind me.'

Ilarion Vikentich Galakhov looked up at the window of the first floor study. A thin strip of light where the curtain had not been dosed properly. Probably the security men, Aubrey and Buckholz, were still discussing his disappearance.

He cursed Kutuzov for the romanticism of the letter from Moscow. All the way, since the beginning of the operation, he had argued against any final signal to Helsinki. But the old man had been adamant. There had to be a back-up, a contingency. Withdraw — abort — go ahead. A range of signals indicated by the arrangement of the stamps and their dominations on letters addressed to 'Ozeroff' care of the post office — or the final signal, the 'kill' alert, indicated by the addressee — Fanny Kaplan. Nothing had come for the man he was pretending to be, but that afternoon there had been a letter for Ms Kaplan. Stupid game-playing — he was going to kill Khamovkhin anyway.

He adjusted the rifle over his shoulder, and clapped his hands to his sides as he felt the cold of the night. He heard footsteps behind him, smelt cigar smoke on the freezing air.

'Anything?' the American asked him.

'Not a thing,' he replied hi English. He might have been Norwegian with his accent. 'Quiet as the grave.'

'As long as it's not your grave — or his,' the American commented, tossing his head to indicate the lighted window above them.

'He's safe now,' Galakhov said lightly.

'Let's hope so. If anything happens to — him, old man Buckholz will put my ass in a sling!' Galakhov laughed, the American puffed a wreath of smoke up against the hard stars, and walked on, his footsteps crunching like the sounds of a child eating a hard biscuit as he move; on the snow-covered gravel. 'Keep your eyes peeled!' he called back.

'Sure,' Galakhov replied.

When the American had gone, he grinned to himself. Easy Simple and easy. Become Norwegian, join the hunters. A for in a pink coat, riding a horse, he thought. The image amused him.

Fanny Kaplan, the envelope had said. Fanny Kaplar. Khamovkhin was a dead man. The only problem would be getting away alive, afterwards.

The nose of the huge USAF Galaxy transport plane opened even as the dying roar of the reverse thrust from its engine still hovered at the edge of audibility. The ramp of the cargo-hold thudded against the cleared runway of Bardufoss, northern Norway, and almost immediately a camouflaged truck rolled on to the ramp, then another and another, out into the landscape which glinted a ghostly silver in the moonlight. Exhaust: rolled in white clouds behind them as they moved away from the hard-lit, ribbed interior of the transport plane towards their assembly point.

Two RAF Harriers roared over the airfield, a deafening wave of sound succeeding them, only to be followed by a lesser wave which lapped against the low surrounding hills as a flight of Wessex helicopters circled the perimeter of the field. Then another Galaxy, which disgorged field artillery, then a Luftwaffe Transall carrying tanks,