Snow Falcon

Vorontsyev knew the look. The wound would keep him out of the game. He stepped over the still form, into the cell.

Even though the door of the cell had been open for more than a minute, the stench of urine and body dirt assailed Vorontsyev almost tangibly. In a corner, perhaps ten feet from the door, something was crouched on a narrow cot, a blanket wrapped around it. Vorontsyev could hear the chatter of teeth. Cold or terror — or both.

He felt a lurch of what might have been pity, or disappointment. The man on the cot had evidently been broken. The body suggested it — abject, displayed almost as if it had been physically broken, and poorly reassembled. He had seen men, and women, crouching like this in the Lubyanka — before he went to SID. Since then, he had never visited the prison complex behind the Centre in Dzerzhinsky Street.

'Who is it — who is it?' A querulous voice, speaking English. Yes, he had been broken. No cover now, nothing but a pleading not to be hurt or questioned any more. Vorontsyev crossed to the cot.

The Englishman's shirt was filthy. He had urinated in his trousers more than once. Vorontsyev, in appalled fascination, lifted the thin blanket. The man's feet were bare and white — where they weren't filthy. A white globe of a face looked up at him with an idiot's stare. The fair hair was matted. A hand was held out to him; perhaps in supplication, or to ward off some unknown terror. Vorontsyev swallowed, gagging on the stench.

'I've told you everything!' the voice said, querulous, old, ashamed. The head was already hanging, admitting the failure, prepared to answer more questions.

'I've come to help you,' Vorontsyev said softly.

The head stayed still, but he heard the Englishman mutter, 'He said that.'

Vorontsyev understood. His interrogator; perhaps the man outside the door. He said, 'I shot him. Do you hear me — I shot him. I've come to help you.' Vorontsyev spoke in English, with a heavy accent, which he cursed silently as if it was the only barrier now between them. Folley looked up. His eyes tried to focus.

'Not English,' he said.

'No — I'm a Russian.' Folley cringed. 'But I have come to help!' His voice was earnest. He moved a step nearer, and the Englishman backed against the wall behind the cot, the blanket held under his chin in both hands, as if to protect nakedness; or to comfort, child-like.

Vorontsyev knew he was using the methods of a policeman. He could not be simply human, or humane, towards this man, because he needed information from him. Closing his mouth, breathing shallowly through his nostrils — the stench was vile — he sat on the edge of the cot, and put away the Stechkin. Then he touched the man's leg; the flesh seemed to crawl under the touch.

The Englishman tried to make himself as small on the cot as possible, shrinking from contact. Vorontsyev calculated that the moment was right, then said, 'I have come to take you to safety. It will have to be the United States Consulate, I am afraid, because your government maintains no official presence here — nor is there an SIS unit here, as far as I know.' He spoke conversationally, lightly. All the time his hand patted the Englishman's leg, stroking gently much as he would have done to a dog or a cat, to still its fear.

The Englishman was little better than an animal — worse, if the capacity to keep oneself clean was taken into account. Vorontsyev could see that he hadn't been beaten — if he had, then the beating was a time ago. This man had been broken by isolation — by the utter loneliness he had suffered.

Vorontsyev had seen it work before. The collapse of the will, crumbling like stale cake in the pressure of fingers. Because the fingers that held him were omnipotent, omnipresent — and no help would come. That was how it was done.

Just to find out what the West knew about Finland Station. Vorontsyev shrugged. The Englishman was having difficulty with what he had heard. Vorontsyev, easing as much gentleness as possible into his voice, repeated himself.

'The United States Consulate — I will take you there, as soon as you are ready to go.'

And then he wondered, as the man moved, seeming to release a more gagging odour from his armpits or crotch. Perhaps he had been unable to control his bowels, realising that he might be safe. Beyond hope, safe. Wondered.

What would he do with this Englishman?

'You — you… Why?' Folley found it difficult to speak, as if his voice had gone rusty; or he had not wanted to use it because of the things it had said, confessed, revealed. He tried to look at the Russian, read what was in his mind in the white mirror of the face. He couldn't tell — did not trust…

Vorontsyev saw the distrust, riddled deep in the man. Yet, thankfully, he saw the mounting hope; a quiver to the lips that was not cold. He could not help hoping — beyond shame, un-worthiness, despair. He would be feeling all those things, or felt them already. But he could not help hoping.

His interrogators had never offered him hope. They had used despair. Therefore, the weapon of hope was his.

'Yes, my friend. Frankly, you are an embarrassment to my government. You were captured on neutral territory — your government knows you are alive.' Disbelief was swept away by gratitude. Vorontsyev breathed a sigh of relief. The Englishman could not accept him as an ally — but now he could believe in him because he spoke of others knowing, his own government, the people who had sent him. He had not been abandoned, after all.

Vorontsyev had no idea whether the British knew this man was alive; it did not matter. It served. He said, 'I am to take you directly to the United States Consulate. I have a car outside. You will make yourself ready to go, just as soon as you have helped me a little.'

The flash of fear again, returning like a stain ineffectively erased; and cunning, a re-adoption of an earlier self, the early days of his interrogation. Vorontsyev guessed at the dazed, damaged mind of the Englishman. He was busily erasing his abject defeat, his failure. Now, he knew his friends were working for his release, he only had to hold out. He had told them nothing. He would tell them nothing.

Vorontsyev said, 'I know you told them nothing, my friend. What I want to know is who they were. That is all. Nothing about you. Only about who came here. They were traitors, you understand — understand? Traitors. That is why they hurt you.'

He stroked at the man's leg still, comforting, lulling him. Then, on an impulse, he lifted the hand, and held it out to Folley. There was a long moment, and then the Englishman grabbed at the hand, pressing it to his face, bending the head to do so. Vorontsyev felt the stubble, and the filthy hair on the back of his hand. He prevented himself from shuddering.

Then Folley looked up. 'Traitors?' he said suspiciously, as if he had been accused.

'Of course! Why else were they in Finland? My government does not wish a war at this time. A — conspiracy in the Army. That is why you were questioned by Army men — uh?' Folley nodded. Vorontsyev had guessed luckily — no, not so luckily. It was likely that GRU would handle Folley. 'What is your name — don't tell me if you don't want to!'

'Alan,' Folley said after a while. The hand was still against his cheek. No one had touched him, not since he was beaten. Perhaps even the guards had avoided any physical contact. Touch-deprivation. It was an accustomed technique, one of the devices of alienation. Perhaps this man, Alan, had begun to doubt he had a physical shape any more. Had begun pathetically touching his body in the dark, to be certain. And revolted by his own filthiness, become even more desperate.

'Alan. Mine is Alexei.' He gripped Folley's weak hand more tightly. He felt wetness on the back of his hand. Folley was crying silently. Stifling impatience, and distaste, he reached out with his other hand and stroked the matted, greasy hair. Folley moaned like a lover, and leant against Vorontsyev.

The driver came through the door, and stopped, mouth open, as he saw in the gathering light from the tiny high grille in the wall, Vorontsyev and the prisoner in each other's arms. Vorontsyev waved him out with a flip of his hand, and the driver, winking knowingly and irreverently, mouthed his satisfactory status report. Then he went out. Folley did not appear to have heard his approach.

'Tell me, Alan,' Vorontsyev said, rocking to and fro slightly, as if cradling a child. 'Tell me about the men who questioned you — all about them. Then we can catch them. Begin with the one I shot, outside the door…'

It was as if he had turned on some tap in the Englishman. At first a trickle of rusty water; then an increasing flow. Patiently, he listened, attending to only one thing, which did not come. Desperate not to hear it, yet knowing he had to ask.

Folley was still in his arms, and he was brushing the matted hair and patting the shaking shoulder, when he