Snow Falcon

death. It was evident that no one else had yet searched the place, and he became anxious, having frequently to shrug off the slow-motion that memory imposed, to complete the task before he was surprised.

He found that the gun was missing from the drawer of the escritoire. And that it was nowhere else in the house. It was a realisation that filled him with foreboding. He was sustained by a certainty that he would find Gorochenko, sometime that day or night, and to know the old man had a gun depressed, worried him. Apart from the gun, there was little missing. The dog had been given only one meal, and he had already guzzled half of it.

It was certain, then. Twenty-four hours. No more than that. The old man had perhaps one fresh shirt, his shaving tackle, his heavy overcoat, galoshes. All in the small bag he had had since the war. The bag had belonged to Kyril Vorontsyev. He had been told that the first time he had asked Gorochenko why such an important man used such a shabby old bag. A soldier's luggage, had been the unsmiling reply.

Talismans to ward him off — the old bag, the old dog — ?

He had not asked himself what he would do when he and Gorochenko came face to face — had not asked on the plane, that sleepless hour, nor as he showed his papers at Cheremetievo, his palms tacky and his forehead beating as he waited for them to arrest him. But he had been too quick, just a little too quick, and the word to bring him in had not then been issued, he realised.

What would he do? The answer, of course, was simple. Why else was he on his own, the decision to dump Folley at the Consulate and catch the first plane to Moscow already made before he had consciously analysed the matter? He wanted to find Gorochenko by himself. Stupid knight-in-shining-armour idea. No — an idea prompted by the weight of the past on him, which he could not ignore or overcome. If he could find Gorochenko, he could stop the coup — that would be his duty.

Find Gorochenko. Find, like an order to the dog. Find, but not kill Gorochenko must not be put on trial, and executed, no matter that he had used Natalia against him, ordered Ossipov to kill him; ordered the deaths of Ilya and Maxim. Tried to kill him in the dacha, with the booby-trapped corpse. He must not be caught The telephone, suddenly ringing next to him as he stood indecisively in the study, caused him to jump. His hand came away from the blotter on the desk as if it were electrified. With simple reflex, before his thoughts could interfere, he picked it up.

'Yes?'

he asked, caution catching in his throat like phlegm.

'Is that the Gorochenko house? Who is that speaking?' Masked, official tones.

He slammed down the telephone. He glanced round the study once, realising that it oppressed him with a weight of obligation. He moved to the door, and noticed for the first time the portrait of his father, dressed in uniform, a photograph taken in the last year of the war, perhaps just after the patriotic army had entered Germany. It was the picture of his father he had liked best as a child — slim, youthful, laughing, a tank and its crew behind him. The picture was surrounded, carefully, by black crepe.

Which made Vorontsyev run cold for a reason he could not understand. His father — the anniversary of his death had been six months before. He touched the black crepe gingerly, as if he half-expected a seaweed sliminess, then shook his head.

He ignored the dog in the kitchen, and let himself out of the house. There were a few parked cars, but none of them suspiciously occupied. He closed the gate behind him, and heard the faint barking of the dog from the kitchen. Its tone seemed plaintive. He shuddered as if cold and hurried away from the house where he had once lived.

Aubrey was, reluctantly, becoming adept at conversation with Khamovkhin. Now that the Soviet First Secretary was no more than a problem in security, he had lost a great deal of his interest in the Snow Falcon operation, as he still termed it — which meant he should have been bored. The fact that he was not was yet another indication that he was getting old.

They were walking on one of the terraces of the Lahtilinna, overlooking the slaty-grey expanse of the lake. The sky was a pale blue, with little cloud, a spring day without the temperature to sustain the illusion. Buckholz was on one side of the Russian leader, Aubrey on the other. They walked with the slow pace of statesmen or pensioners.

Khamovkhin was relieved, it was evident — and confident in Andropov's security machine. Aubrey thought it the over-confidence of a man driving a car that has never broken down before. The knocking in the engine — not possibly something wrong, the car never goes wrong. Any fear he had was a personal one, that assailed him at moments, for his own safety. Which was smaller, more agreeable, than the emotions aroused by the potential cataclysm the Soviet Leader now considered impossible.

'I do think you should spend only the minimum of time out of doors,' Aubrey said stiffly, and disliked the old-maid manner of his solicitation.

Khamovkhin's eyes sparkled. 'Your concern for me is very touching, Mr Aubrey.' He enjoyed the pursing of Aubrey's lips. 'You have much of the manner of our own security service.' Aubrey's face went suddenly like a chalky mask, and Khamovkhin realised that his joke had touched some secret nerve of loyalty or righteousness in the small old man beside him.

They came to the end of the terrace walk. Buckholz placed one foot up on the low wall, leaned an elbow on his knee.

'Tell me about this Gorochenko, Mr First Secretary. Our files seem to be as bare-assed as yours as far as he's concerned.'

'Perfect for the role of leader of a military take-over,' Khamovkhin observed, rubbing his mittened hands together, and nodding. 'Yes — war hero, immensely loyal throughout the Stalin period — or so it appeared to Beria and Stalin. You had to be loyal to survive the periodic — changes? — in the Politburo in those days. And even more loyal to survive in the Army. But he did it. I suppose that was cleverness.' Khamovkhin was speaking to both, and neither, of them now. He stared out over the lake, but observed an internal landscape. Then anger suffused his face, colouring it despite the cold. 'I should have had him watched more closely!' It was the anger of a man outwitted by a sharper mind. 'He played the semi-senile old goat too well!'

Aubrey smiled. 'So it would seem. However, you appear very confident, sir, that his arrest is imminent.'

'Yes — he won't get away.'

'And we have nothing to worry about — ?'

Khamovkhin looked at him sharply, as if the Englishman had unsuspected knowledge that Moscow Garrison was off the air and primed to begin the coup. He could not know that.

'No, we have not. Chairman Andropov will order the Chief of the General Staff and the Defence Minister to begin the stand-down of border units this afternoon. You will have confirmation as soon as it has been done.'

'As soon as our satellites can see it happening,' Buckholz commented drily.

'As you say,' Khamovkhin observed frostily, aware that the honours were now firmly with the two foreigners.

'Unless you are killed,' Aubrey said. 'If that happens, then everything could escalate again — ' He raised his hands, as if to imitate some explosion. 'I think, for that reason alone, we should not prolong our exercise further. Shall we go inside?'

'Very well'

Galakhov lay on the narrow bunk, smoking a cigarette. On the bedside table was a plate with a few crumbs and a smear of grease. It had been easy to collect a late breakfast from the kitchens and bring it to one of the unoccupied security team bedrooms in the east wing of the Lahtiliana. He had not quite possessed the bravado to occupy the room he had been given as Ozeroff, but it was on the same floor and corridor. The Finns doing the cooking had taken little notice of him, nor had the few off-duty Englishmen and Americans still eating. It was unlikely that anyone would disturb him before nightfall, when he could act as if on-duty again.

It was ridiculous, and ridiculously simple. Everyone assumed he should be there. As with Ozeroff, drafting in a security team whose members were strangers to each other had a fatal flaw — who could tell who should not be there? He had dyed his hair so that it was lighter in colour, combed it another way — he had been wearing the hood of his parka all his duty-spell anyway — slipped in contact lenses that changed his eye colour, padded his cheeks slightly, and made sure that he walked with much more of a shuffle. He was certain that, in anything but the best light, he could walk past someone holding his picture — that passport picture they had issued, the one from his Heathrow disguise — and not be recognised.

He blew a contemptuous funnel of smoke towards the high, cream-painted ceiling. If they searched, he