He studied himself in the long mirror in the bedroom, touched his fur hat with his gloves in mocking salute, glanced at the sleeping girl in the round bed under the mirror in the ceiling — that, too, an innovation he had submitted to, enjoyed — then turned on his heel, went out through the lounge where the empty glasses stood next to the champagne bottle, half-empty. He let himself out of the apartment. He acknowledged with a nod the evident interest in the eyes of the two young aides on duty outside the door. They followed him with undisguised smiles to the lift.
The house was on the island of Krestovski Ostrov, between the Bolchaia and Malaia Nevkas (The Great and Middle Nevas). It was in a tree-shrouded suburb off the Morskoy Prospekt, amid old and spacious houses. The nearby Maritime Park of Victory and the Kirov Stadium were both masked by the trees — gaunt though they were in the cold pre-dawn as Vorontsyev paced the pavement near the Volga saloon in which he had sat for most of the night.
The house was at least a century old, pre-Revolutionary, lavish, perhaps the retreat of a wealthy businessman or landowner. It had been taken over as a subordinate office and interrogation centre by the Leningrad KGB; just as many of the big houses in those quiet streets had become offices, clinics, kindergardens.
Vorontsyev ground out the cigarette with his foot, and looked at his watch. Five minutes before six. The sky was dark, but the stars were fading. He was cold with the hours of waiting. The pavements and the road were bright with rime, silver in the light of the few street lamps. Two other cars were parked in this quiet street — containing the team he had selected and briefed from the resources of the Novosibirsk office. The men were bored, yet eager. They had come through visa control at Leningrad airport at midnight, as a part but unconnected with Vorontsyev, ahead of them in the short queue. They were noisy, but apparently drunk. The local KGB man wished them a successful and drunken leave in the city.
The cars had come from Intourist — a waspish woman woken from sleep in her flat above the office who was immediately, ingratiatingly humbled by the ID card he showed her. If there was a connection between Leningrad KGB and the group of traitors — he thought about them consistently in that way now — then the Intourist woman would be unlikely to possess sufficient suspicion of SID to pass on the information that an alien KGB
He had a reasonable, though undetailed, impression of the interior of the house. If this one — three storied, double-fronted, deep with rooms — worked to the general pattern, then the Englishman would be in the cellar. The cellar would have been converted to interrogation rooms and cells.
He was still dog-tired, he admitted, yawning. He had slept deeply on the five-hour shuttle Aeroflot Tupolev from Novosibirsk, via Sverdlovsk, Perm, Kirov and Vologda — but a sleep interrupted when he was jerked out of unconsciousness each time the plane landed.
He would have felt more comfortable with his own men — he remembered that Ilya and Maxim were dead — but he had no special fear of these strangers. They would not fail. He had chosen young men, men who reminded him of his own team. Most of them were graduates of a university as well as one or other of the KGB training schools, and all of them were ambitious. He had chosen them partly because of their ambition. To work with SID was a privilege, something which would assist their careers. It mitigated the sense they must have of working against comrades. At least, he hoped it did.
He returned to the car, held out his hand, and the driver, trying to look wide-awake with bleary eyes and bleached cheeks, handed him the radio microphone. They had set up a HQ for radio or telephone traffic to be relayed to them from Moscow at another KGB safe house — one due for redecoration in a few weeks and therefore empty. One of their team had been left there with a radio and telephone link.
' 'Father' to 'Son' — are you receiving me, over?'
The voice was faint, tired and bored. 'Receiving you, 'Father' — over.'
'Any more Moscow traffic?'
'Three reports for you, 'Father', from Centre. Priority One.'
'Very well. Make them brief- over.' The young driver was looking at Vorontsyev with wide eyes. The highest priority for KGB radio traffic, for a young Major in the SID. He was impressed.
' 'Sailor' is dead.' Admiral Dolohov. ' 'Soldier Beta' also dead.' Sadunov, he thought, the Army General commanding Red Army units in the Kola sector of GSFN — part of any invasion; the most important part.' 'Apostle Four' also dead.' Four — four, who was that in Andropov's little code? Pnin — yes, one of the Finland Stations. Vorontsyev squashed a half-formed image of an enraged and wounded animal lashing out blindly, murderously. It had to be done, had to, he told himself. No other way.
'Anything else?'
'Request for message concerning 'Soldier Alpha' as soon as available. And good luck and instructions to take all alive, if possible.'
'Soldier Alpha' was Praporovich himself. The Department 'V executioner would report to Vorontsyev, and his message relayed to the Centre.
'Very well. Over and out.'
He handed back the microphone. The driver clipped it beneath the dash, then said: 'Are we waiting for the mortician to show up, chief, or are we going in now?'
Five past six. Vorontsyev considered, rubbing his chin. He wanted sleepy, unresisting people. There would be fewer than a dozen people, perhaps only three or four, on the premises. But they had to be taken alive; and they all had immediate access to guns. And he knew Andropov would be waiting for the message concerning Praporovich.
He was a little man. It was almost six-forty when he arrived. The sky was perceptibly lighter now. There was no traffic and few lights in the quiet street, since there were few houses still occupied by tenants or owners. It was a daytime street. He came on foot, in overalls as if coming from a night-shift somewhere, wispy hair jammed under a fur cap, scarf hiding most of his face, dirty overcoat open in front. A totally anonymous man.
His face was pinched, mean-looking. Grubby with whatever mechanical job he did. He smiled at Vorontsyev, and his teeth were sparse in his mouth. Vorontsyev wondered how old he was. All he said was, 'I've taken care of your embarrassing little problem, Comrade Major. I'll be off home now. The wife will have breakfast for me.' He began to walk away, perhaps towards the metro, which must have been how he came there.
'How.. ?' was all Vorontsyev could find to say in the face of such undemonstrative behaviour.
'How?' The little man rubbed his chin. 'A car accident. The Marshal was leaving the apartment of a young lady. A rather silly affair, I would have thought. He's practically impotent. A car mounted the pavement, skidding on the ice, I expect, and he was knocked down. He only had a hundred yards to walk to his staff car which was waiting for him. Two of his junior staff officers were injured too. One of them must be dead. I would have thought.'
'I — see.'
'Well, Major, I'll be off now.' He raised his hand in salute, turned, and walked off down the street. Vorontsyev watched him go, then bent to look in at the driver.
'Did you get that?'
'Sir.' The driver's eyes bulged comically.
'Send it, then. 'Alpha' has met with an accident. Then we go in.'
The driver spoke into the mike, then listened while Vorontsyev, picking up a torch from the rear seat, flashed it in the direction of two cars parked well down the street. Doors opened, and overcoated figures got out, moved down the street towards him. The driver said, 'Sir — another message. 'Apostles One, Two and Seven all eliminated.''
'Hell — is it really only the dream of a few old men — is that all we have to worry about?' He banged his hand absently on the window-ledge of the car. It seemed impossible. It could not be easy, not as easy as that. Kill some old men, and stop a war?
He thought about
One old man, with a dream of passion. If he wasn't found, then he would succeed. Again, he punched the side of the car with his fist.
'Let's go.' he said.
The other four men were opposite them now, crossing the frost-rimed road. Four heavy dark shapes. The driver shut his door quietly. Vorontsyev looked at them. The tiredness of being awake, or only fitfully dozing, all night was now only slight smudging beneath their eyes. Their faces were tight with tension.
