Snow Falcon

appeared to have finished his self-purgation, self-justification.

Then, in the sudden and unfamiliar quiet, Vorontsyev said, 'Wasn't there someone else, Alan? Perhaps he only came once, so you forgot him. I don't know when it was — but I know he came to see you. An — older man.. ?' Folley was quiet, like a child thinking in the arms of a parent. Then, after a long while, he said, 'But he didn't — interrogate me.'

'No, he wouldn't,' Vorontsyev said. Or not seem to, he added to himself. 'Tell me what he looked like.'

'Is he a traitor too?' It was direct and unfeeling as the question of a child. Piercing.

'Yes — he is,' Vorontsyev said quietly.

And then he listened. He did not, he was sure, draw breath once until the Englishman had finished. His hands plucked nervously at the stuff of Folley's shirt, and he perceived a despair more real than he had ever felt before.'

He could envisage the features that were being described; the clothes, too, betrayed the picture. It was as if an outline that he had deliberately blurred were redrawn, etched then coloured and shaded.

Mihail Pyotravich Gorochenko, Deputy Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union, and his own adoptive father — was Kutuzov. What he had suspected when Natalia had tried to betray him in Khabarovsk — the man had sent her with him to the Far East — and what he had seen in his mind as Vassiliev had talked, was now confirmed. There could be no mistake about the face these two words confirmed. Gorochenko was Kutuzov. The despair of acknowledgement welled up in him; he could not prevent the tears, though the tears now were slow in coming, an emotional condition already abandoned by the rushing brain.

He sensed Folley moving a little apart from him, but took no heed of it. His thought at that precise moment — of a moment before it had been to kill Folley, silence him — was that no one else must hear what he had just heard. For whatever reason he had come to the cellar room, whatever confirmation he had sought — now he must act. He must bury the truth, and find Mihail Pyotravich.

He would not kill Folley. He would do as he had promised, take him to the US Consulate on the Grodnensky. They would take him in, and he would be safe there; as Gorochenko might be.

He snapped at Folley: 'Are you ready to leave now?' The Englishman appeared confused, sullen even. He stared dumbly at Vorontsyev. 'Get up! Where are your shoes?'

Folley doubled over, peering under the cot. It would have been stupidly comical, had not Vorontsyev felt the insistent urgency of the passing moments.

'Quickly!' he snapped. Folley shrugged. There were no shoes. 'Come with me!'

He caught hold of Folley's arm, and hurried him out of the cell. Someone had dragged the man in the dressing-gown away from the doorway. He pushed Folley up the cellar stairs in front of him.

The small group of exhausted men were gathered hi the kitchen. There were three men, in various states of undress, against the wall. Standing. Only the man in the dressing-gown appeared to be wounded. His face was grey with weakness and pain, and he slumped against the wall. Around the table were the driver, one of the men who had entered from the rear, and the two who had searched the first floor. One of them was wounded. He nodded to them. Only one dead.

'What do we do now, sir?' the driver asked, staring at Folley, who hovered behind Vorontsyev.

'Mm? Now?' Vorontsyev was ready to leave; this was a delay. He snapped, 'Use the radio — then take these men to the safe house. Keep them there until arrangements can be made.'

'What about him, sir? Shall I report him?' The driver was nodding in Folley's direction.

'What? Yes. Now, have you brought the cars round?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. I shall be going. Don't waste time getting this little gang under cover!'

They all wished to question him, it was evident. He felt guilty, caught out. He hoped they would not ask. The driver said, 'Aren't you — ?'

'Don't question me!' he snapped. 'Report in when you get to safety!'

They sat stiffly in their chairs as he turned his back on them. He had not congratulated them, thanked them. They had done well — it did not matter; was irrelevant. He had to get rid of the Englishman now, and get the first flight to Moscow.

How long did he have?

He had no idea. It might be only hours.

The thought pressed in his back, almost expunging breath. He opened the front door, and pushed Folley on to the steps. One of the Volgas was parked by the steps.

'Get in!' he snapped. Folley stared at him dumbly, as if retreated into some catatonic escape from his situation. 'Get in!'

Vorontsyev slammed the door, fitted the key in the ignition, and then looked at his watch. Six fifty-nine. Nineteen minutes. Was that all?

He stared at the dashboard in a blank moment, then switched on. The tyres squealed on the frosty gravel as he pulled out from the drive into the still empty street. Again, he looked at his watch. Seven.

Twenty minutes to get to the Consulate, bang on the door until a marine opened it, or perhaps the doorman in pyjamas — then allow another forty minutes to get to the airport and through the controls. What time was the early-morning flight to Moscow? Eight? Nine?

Eight-thirty.

He would be in Moscow by ten.

And by that time Andropov would be looking for him, just as he would be looking for Gorochenko.

'Gone — what do you mean, gone?'

Andropov's face darkened, and he held the telephone a little from his freshly-shaven cheek as if suspicious of it. He had felt comfortable, pleased with the initial report from Leningrad, having shaved and washed to rub away some of the sleepless night's grime, and the residue of his panic. Then this. Vorontsyev was not available. 'Where is the Englishman — not dead, I hope?'

'Comrade Chairman,' replied the voice with punctilious respect, 'we assumed he had orders from you. Major Vorontsyev left before us, with the Englishman.'

'Had he questioned him?'

A slight delay, then: 'He was alone with him for at least ten 'minutes, Comrade Chairman.'

'And he left hurriedly?'

'Very — sir.'

Andropov was silent in his bemusement for a moment, then remembering there were certain courtesies required, he said abruptly: 'Very well. Well done. I shall despatch a team to take over from you. You will all be commended for your work, and the commendations noted on your files. That is all.'

'Thank you, Comrade — ' He put the receiver down quickly. His first action was to look at his watch. Nine twenty-five. The early flight from Leningrad would already have landed.

Why had that occurred to him?

The more proper enquiry was — why had Vorontsyev disappeared and where was he now?

A stupid return to logic — he already knew the answer. He had disappeared because he had discovered the identity of the ringleader. Kutuzov. Vorontsyev had found out who Kutuzov really was Andropov watched his hand on the desk slowly opening and dosing, like a small, independent, grabbing animal. And he felt the excitement of knowledge.

Vorontsyev would do that because For only one member of the Politburo. One hitherto trusted, unsuspected, almost senile member of the Politburo Andropov savoured not pronouncing the word in his thoughts, even the way in which he refused to countenance an image of the old man. Instead, he picked up one of his battery of telephones and dialled the duty-room on the ground floor of the Centre.

'Andropov. Alert the security team at Cheremetievo. If Major Alexei Vorontsyev lands, he is to be detained and brought to me here.' He broke the connection and pushed his glasses more firmly on to the bridge of his nose. Then he dialled a second extension. 'Records? Bring me Major Alexei Vorontsyev's personal file, at once. And the file on Mihail Pyotravich Gorochenko — yes, the Deputy Foreign Minister.'

He put down the phone and looked at his watch. Vorontsyev might have passed through visa control already. If he had done, where would he go?