Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  It was deep night now, and Folley was having to get up periodically, move about to ease warmth and feeling back into stiff, cold limbs and joints. He had established himself the previous dawn in the shelter of an outcrop just beyond, and overlooking, the village of Rontaluumi, half a mile from the Soviet border. Below him, one narrow road led through the village and away behind him towards Raja-Jooseppi and Ivalo.

  He had watched the village for hours — eerie, he thought it, die way there was no movement, nothing down there. When night had come, no lights; in daylight, not a footprint, no sounds even of animals. He had stopped watching hours ago — now he had turned his attention to the border itself. Check that out, and make sure you're thorough, Waterford had said. And bugger all more revealing or useful than that! Normal normal normal — the Red Army's gone to bed, he thought, and almost laughed aloud because boredom made easy irreverence amusing and he wanted to hear a noise — other than those drifting from across the border.

  In front of him, clear through the Star-tron night-vision glasses, he could see the watch-tower that overlooked the road. There was a fence, high and barbed but seemingly fragile; then, beyond that, the huge electrified fence that marked the Russian side of the border. Across the mere hundreds of yards separating him from the Russian tower he could hear a radio, tuned to some all-night European pop programme. Occasionally, shadows passed across the windows of the hut atop the spindly tower, and the searchlight swept across the snow in a hungry pattern on both sides of the border.

  Quick look back at the village. Silent, deserted. In the morning, or before, he would have to go down there, and check it out — thoroughly. Not a bit like Goldsmith, he thought — comfortable Gothic. It was sinister — better watching the border. Where have all the reindeer gone — and the Lapps? And the chickens and the pigs and dogs?

  He was bored. Now, with the USSR, once again in his night-glasses, the hard starlight gathered and magnified, he had lost the edge of danger. Nothing but the routine of border guards, the innocuousness of buried mines and the still wire. There was no watch-tower to guard the Finnish fence, only the fence itself pretending that Finland was defensible.

  He heard someone cough, and his ears, adjusted to distance, knew that the noise came from the tower. Shadows bulked beyond the swing of light across the snow, but they were un-threatening He yawned. The inevitability of routine had captured him.

  He slid back over the lip of his outcrop, the snow slithering under him, and brewed coffee out of the small wind, out of sight. He sipped, tracing the warmth to his stomach. He began to wonder at the vacuousness of his own thoughts — to smile at the idea that he was being reduced in IQ with every hour he spent in that place. As if his brain were vaporising in the cold air.

  When he finally slid back over the lip to take up his position again, it had already begun.

  He picked up the night-vision glasses, focusing anew for something to do, and saw that the searchlight had ceased to slide across the snow. And the watch-tower was darkened, and silent. It was as if the glasses were not working. He could see nothing. He swept across the space of snow, ghostly now, for some sign of movement, a light.

  Then he saw them. Tanks. He experienced a moment of total disbelief; then a moment of pure terror. Tanks. Even as everything in him rejected the information of the eye, he went through a trained process of identification — T-72 tanks, frontline, latest model. He identified them by the 115 mm cannon, the six road wheels, the turret similarity to the older T-62. '

  Coming through the border wires that were no longer there — across a minefield he knew had to be there. He could not understand it; cold had invaded the brain, clogging it like thick oil.

  Tanks, in single file down the one narrow road, were crossing the border into neutral Finland. He refused to believe it. He began to count them, his mind fumbling over instructions, cold fingers turning the huge, clumsy pages of some manual. He was shivering. The village below had been emptied — in prep aration for this.

  He could not use the transmitter, not now. He had to reduce himself to the role of spectator. The first of the tanks rolled beneath him, and he had somehow got the camera sighted, with its infra-red attachment like the barrel of a weapon. He began to photograph, the film winding on automatically, silently. He held his breath.

  He watched the tanks pass away through Rontaluumi, and he knew the lights would not come on, doors would not open to the sound of engines, and the strange squeaking of the tracks on the iron-hard snow.

  No lights; the tiny hamlet was deserted. It added to the quality of nightmare the scene possessed.

  He counted a regiment of tanks, and after the first few he did not bother to reload the camera. A regiment. Then what was obviously a motor rifle battalion, a support for the armoured column. In Finland.

  His thoughts circled the inadmissible. Invasion. And then perhaps, after an hour, two hours — he had not looked at his watch once, and did not do so now — the road was empty again. He saw the lights go on again in the tower, and the searchlight take up its pacing gleam. The wire on the Soviet side was closing, a great hinged section of gate which crossed the road — the Finnish fence was magically already reconstituted.

  It was a massive effort to stand up, to move strange limbs as if under water, to strike camp. He went through the routine with leaden hands in thick gloves, fumbling over the tasks.

  He had to follow. He had to find the destination. The column had passed out of sight and sound into the fir forest beyond the hamlet, still following the single narrow road. He had to follow.

  He kept returning to one idea — it wasn't like an invasion. It was orderly, swift, silent — but it was… transport. Yes, that was it. He had been watching troop movements, and only he knew they were Red Army, and the terrain they crossed was that of Finland.

  Otherwise it was normal. One hundred and twenty tanks, BMP combat vehicles, mortars — and the silent troops in winter combat clothing, riding the tanks and the transports. It was no attack formation, no indication of a front along which the column was advancing, deploying. A movement between two circled points on a map, along the single possible road. No one would attack Finland with a single regiment of tanks and one support battalion.

  He pulled the pack to comfort on his back, felt the balance of the long skis strapped to his body, and then moved off cautiously. He picked out his trail with great care, down the slope of the outcrop. He had to follow the road, to overtake the armoured column; to discover its purpose.

  Two: Evidence of Circumstances

  It was a cold, bitter morning in Moscow, the Moskva like a sheet of opaque, slaty glass under a sky threatening more snow. Only the previous day had the Frunze Quay been cleared of the last snowfall. Vorontsyev had again taken up what threatened to become an habitual position at the window of his office. His back was to the two other men in the room as he listened to a tape-recording from the hotel suite of Colonel-General Ossipov, obtained by a bug and recorded in an adjoining room. The two SID officers with him were responsible for the recording. Ossipov had demanded, as was his right as commandant of a Military District, a suite free from bugs; only the SID was permitted to override such a demand.

  There was something actively unpleasant, depressing, in listening to Ossipov's old-fashioned seduction of a high-class call-girl. It was out of place, and clashed with the vigour, and vulgarity, of his engagement in the physical act, Vorontsyev did not turn round as the girl, well coached, achieved her climax in a way most calculated to flatter the ageing General; he did not want to meet the eyes of the two young men, to know what they thought of the animal noises from the tape.

  Glasses clinked, after a long silence which seemed still impregnated with sexual release — Vorontsyev could almost smell the semen; the girl had miscalculated, the General had suffered a premature ejaculation… Vorontsyev formed the pseudo-medical description of the old man's failure with a feline pleasure. The girl had been apologetic, the General gentlemanly in his reply. The
scene, it appeared, had drawn to a satisfactory conclusion.

  'That was two nights ago,' Vorontsyev said. 'Is there any more of it?'

  'You don't think the General…' The words cut off.

  One man had nudged the other, more sensitive to Vorontsyev's mood. 'No — he is alone for the rest of the night, and sleeps quite well.'

  'OK.' Vorontsyev turned as he heard the tape switched off. 'Let's have a look at the pictures.'

  Maxim, the younger of the two junior officers, switched off the light and drew down the blind. Pyotr, his partner, operated the small projector on Vorontsyev's desk, and a monochrome image of the Colonel-General appeared on the screen against one wall of the office, walking down the corridor of an hotel with a girl. Vorontsyev stared hard at the girl, then the slide-cartridge clicked. Entering the General's suite, then later, the girl coming out again.

  'We took film through the two-way,' Pyotr offered. Vorontsyev shook his head.

  'Offer it to Tretchikhin downstairs. He collects that sort of thing since his wife left him.' He winced, as if his tongue had returned to an abscessed tooth. He attempted to smile, and added, 'Send in the duty-team from yesterday — let's see if they have anything slightly more out of the ordinary.'

  'I would have thought this was pretty…' Maxim began, but Pyotr dug him in the ribs with his elbow. They took with them the cartridge of slides and the recorder.

  Vorontsyev knew the girl. She was often used for the amusement of high-ranking officials or officers like Ossipov. Strict medical and security checks — one of a small, exclusive coterie of professional tarts, unlike the enthusiastic amateurs such as Natalia Grasnetskaya.

  The second duty-team was also young — Ilya and Alevtina; he called all his juniors by their first names. He had begun to suspect that his tone had changed, become slightly ingratiating, not preserving the distinction in rank.

  'Well?' he snapped, at the young man and die girl, recent transfers and still much in awe of their new power. 'What have you two to report?'

  Ilya, ostentatiously consulted a black notebook. 'Do you want the lot, Major — or just the edited highlights?'

  'Thoroughly, whatever you do.' He turned again to the window.

  'The general passed the morning at the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts,' Ilya summarised. 'As you know, Major, he has a personal collection of ivory and jade statuettes — he spent a lot of time inspecting the Egyptian collection this time…' Vorontsyev nodded. 'He visited the Hermitage collection in Leningrad many times, before he was transferred to Far East District…'

  'Yes. Go on.'

  'He was alone throughout this time. Before lunch, he took a taxi to the Alexandrovski Gardens — he walked there, in the sunshine, until he lunched at the Metropole in Sverdlov Square. We..'. have an expenses claim…' he finished lamely.

  'For both of you? Was that necessary?'

  'Just for — one…'

  Vorontsyev knew they were lying, but it did not matter. They would learn that expenses were come by the hard way, or not at all.

  'And the afternoon? he asked.

  'The Tretyakov Gallery — all afternoon.' The young man sounded bored.

  'You must learn, Ilya, that not everyone is as much a Philistine as you are. I'm sure the tour of the gallery was good for you.'

  'Yes, Major.'

  Alevtina said, 'Sir — is all this getting us anywhere?'

  Vorontsyev thought for a moment. He was not on the point of describing his conversation with the Deputy Chairman late the previous night. He said simply:

  'It all may be of the utmost importance. Always understand that, both of you. We don't get called in unless it's already a serious matter.' He looked at them both in turn, until they signalled their understanding. 'Very well. Let's see the films.'

  He twitched down the blind, shutting out the leaden view from the window. His interview with the Deputy had been urgent and short. He had to find something — apparently, there was something very nasty to find, and he had to find it — no, he could not be told what it was he was looking for — and he knew then that they did not know; but it did exist, and Ossipov was a possible suspect. So were the other officers they had been watching on their periodic leaves in the city. Men from every military district, none of them below the rank of regimental Colonel.

  The light dimmed, and the cartridge case clicked. Pictures of Ossipov in swift succession passed across the screen. Bending to look at an oriental statue, the collector's greed dear on his smooth, heavy features. In the gallery, face lit by the glow from illumination above a huge canvas by Repin — then bending to an ikon, almost in worship.

  Then the Gardens, the features pinched by the cold, bathed in the pale sunshine; his back to the camera as he paused to speak to a woman, to raise his dark hat…

  Vorontsyev looked at Ilya, who shook his head. He waved his hand, and the monochrome procession continued. Even entering the male toilets at the Metropole, after lunch.

  'You checked?'

  'He left nothing but his urine,' Ilya replied softly. 'Do you want to see the rest, sir?'

  'Not if they're all like this.'

  The beam of light died, and Vorontsyev tugged up the bund. Ilya turned to face him.

  'What official functions has he attended in the last four days?'

  'None, sir. He's on leave.'

  'What about the officers' dubs, that sort of thing?

  'We could only get in their officially — you didn't want that.'

  'No, not yet.'

  'Sir?'

  'Yes?'

  'This operation, sir?'

  'Yes, Ilya?'

  'Is it — look, sir, are we looking for evidence to get rid of aim, or is there really some specific thing we have to discover?'

  Vorontsyev glowered, then smiled and nodded.

  'Very well. As far as I can see, it isn't just for the sake of it. Not one of those operations. He hasn't offended. No, it's for real. Something is going on, and it's probable centre is the army, and high up. We're supposed to find something — a clue might be enough, a few names. At the moment, we don't know who or what. Clear?'

  Both seemed relieved, as if they preserved some vestige of private conscience which had to be appeased.

  Ilya said, 'Thanks, sir.' Alevtina merely nodded her agreement.

  'Good. But it would be useful to find out who he met, talked to, in the clubs. You got a list?'

  Alevtina handed him a sheet of paper on which was scribbled in the hand of the KGB man who doubled as a waiter at the principal Moscow officers' club, the names of the men to whom Ossipov had spoken. For SID — even when the officer was an attractive young woman rather than a bully-boy — for the blue ID card, he would have watched, and noted, without question. Vorontsyev glanced down the list. One or two generals, old acquaintances being watched by other units of the SID, one or two junior now or previously under his command.

  'Vrubel? KGB Border Guard — Finland border. Is that odd, or not?'

  'Vrubel. We wondered that, sir. We checked. His father was an officer with General Ossipov during the war — killed near Berlin, in the last days.' The girl was concentrating on the conscientiousness of her tone. Vorontsyev thought she might not yet have lost her sense of herself as a woman in a male-dominated elite. To him, she was one of his junior officers.

  'I see. Does Vrubel frequent army clubs very much?'

  'Don't know, sir. I think he came by invitation this time — the General's invitation.'

  'Mm. Leave it for the time being. What other contacts, of any kind?'

  'A cousin, sir. Vladimir Ossipov, an official in the Foreign Ministry. Not very important. He called on him and his family, just before we came off duty yesterday. He's a fanatical Party member, is Vladimir.'

  'Very well. Let us go back to the day before — and go through this process again. Just for a change, show me the pictures first.'

  Once more the blind was dropped, and the slides flicked on the screen. He felt no irritation at the lack of su
bstance emerging from the surveillance, and little responsibility other than that of the automation, checking and double-checking. The routine soothed, refreshed. Even in the SID there was the humming of obedient, unthinking machinery.

  'Who's that?' he asked. The background was the Museum of the Revolution on Gorki Street. Ossipov was engaged in conversation with a man in a dark overcoat and hat.

  The slides fucked on, the projector humming slightly with warmth. More pictures of the two old men, still in conversation.

  'No one special. Ilya was able to listen. It was about politics.'

  'Politics?'

  'Nothing controversial. In praise of Soviet achievements — especially the Revolution itself, and the war.' The girl, too, seemed bored, answering for Ilya.

  'Is that it?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Very well — go on.'

  More slides — out of doors. Snow, caught on the shoulders of the General's dark overcoat, and curtaining the clarity of the picture. Vorontsyev squinted.

  'What is this?'

  'After he left the museum — it's Pushkin Square. I took one here because he waited a bit, as if to meet someone…'

  'And?1

  'Nothing. Caught a taxi — and we took another, to follow him.'

  'Where?'

  'Hotel — a couple of drinks.'

  The scenes flicked, as if accompanying the narrative. Back of the man, then the taxi, back of the man outside the Moskva Hotel, entering the foyer… 'You followed him in?'

  'Yes. He stayed in the bar, then went to the toilet, then caught another taxi…' Both of them were bored, it was evident now. Brushing aside a minor irritation, Vorontsyev watched the screen. Back of the man, entering a taxi. 'Where next?'

  'The cinema. On the Marx Prospekt. Some epic extolling the usual virtues, school of Eisenstein. Wartime stuff, I think. I almost went to sleep.'

  'But you watched him throughout?'

  'Yes. He went to the toilet again — must have a bladder problem, or it was the cold — then took his seat, sat alone for two hours, came out, oh — went to the toilet again, then caught a taxi back to the Moskva for a light meal…'