Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  Khamovkhin nodded.

  'I know you're right. It was the only way, smoking them out. But — what a farce. I thought I was going to laugh at some of the things I was saying — and the way they were taking them!'

  'Indeed. Your style of leadership helped. They would not expect to be accused of treason by you. I wonder you didn't remove a shoe and bang the edge of the table.'

  Light glinted coldly on the Chairman's spectacles. He appeared to be smiling. Khamovkhin, doubt still rankling like creases in his bedclothes, shifted in his chair.

  'How much good will it do, Yuri? To say we have details, confessions that point to a huge plot against the Party leadership-'

  'If they want to know what we know, then they must come more into the open. Especially if their effort is as close as we suppose it is. They must institute enquiries of their own.' Andropov spread his hands on his knees. 'Panic? No, perhaps not so violent a reaction. But something may emerge — something precipitate?'

  'I suppose so. Can we trust the SID?'

  'We can trust no one else. They, at least, have brought this sliver of hope — the substitute for General Ossipov. The Special Investigations Department is all we have.'

  'Will they find this — substitute? Now that we have let Ossipov return to the safety of his hide-out in Khabarovsk, six thousand miles away!'

  'We could not move against him. But he has helped us. We can begin to recheck every piece of documented evidence on senior officers — and their contacts with senior Party officials — during leave-periods in Moscow. It is something.'

  'Not enough. Too little, and probably too late.'

  'Calm yourself, Feodor. If the apparatus turns on us, we are finished. We have to accept that, before we begin. We also have to accept that the KGB is an investigative organ, not an army. They will move against us with the army — which part of it, or all of it, doesn't matter. We can only defend ourselves if we know who is behind it. How won't matter, if we can get hold of who — those who will give the orders. If they are silenced, then there will be no orders given. If they are not, then — ' Andropov raised his hands. Whisky slopped from the tumbler onto the trousers of his grey suit. He looked irritated, mopped at it with his silk handkerchief.

  'As fragile as that,' Khamovkhin observed. 'Your thesis can be spilled just as easily, with a shrug by the army. And lots of other liquid besides. Most of it ours.' The cynical superiority drained from his face as he gazed towards the fireplace. 'We have no more than days, Yuri. What the hell can we do just in days?'

  Vorontsyev sat alone in the car they had brought for him. The second car was parked across the street. They had followed Vrubel and Natalia after the performance of some dreary comedy at the Mossoviet Theatre on the Bolshaya Sadovaya — the sort of play an officer would want to see on leave from the Finnish border, a weak satire on provincial life in the Soviet Union that everyone seemed to want to see, so that the tickets were at some kind of premium.

  Now, the cars were parked in the Arbat, a short distance from the apartment in the Kalenin Street. Vrubel and Natalia were enjoying a late supper and drinks in the Praga Cafe. There were still people about to distract his thoughts as he watched their faces, lit like those of fish in a tank as they patrolled the narrow pavements, stared into darkened shops.

  But his attention kept returning to the curtains across the windows of the Praga on the other side of the street, dimly lit from within. The sight possessed him because he and Natalia had often eaten or drunk there, in the early days, when he had waited for her to finish a performance in the chorus of the Bolshoi. A time before many things.

  It was evident that Vrubel had chosen the Arbat because of its proximity to Natalia's apartment. He was to be forced to witness, from his car, the laughing, meaningful exit from the cafe, the summoning of a taxi, perhaps the heads leaning together through the rear window, even the grotesque cliche of merging shadows thrown on to the drawn curtains of a bedroom.

  He had forgotten the surveillance purpose of what he was doing; so much so that he was on the point of ordering the other tail-car to go off-duty. He could not bear the thought that other men would sit outside the apartment-block on Kalenin Street, watching the same shadow-dance on the curtains. The thought left a vile taste in his mouth, and a creeping sensation in his genitals, as if they were threatened with pain or damage. He picked up the handset.

  'Maxim,' he said.

  'Yes, Major.'

  'Forget it — go home.'

  'Home, Major?'

  'Yes, dammit! Go home. I'll take care of things here!'

  There was a pause, then, with a tone in which he could sense the pity: 'Yes, sir.' Then, formally: 'Moscow Unit Seven-Oh-Four-Seven going off-duty in the Arbat. Returning to central garage. Good-night, Major.'

  'Good-night.' He jammed the handset into its dip under the dash, rubbed his chin hard, a rasping sound in the car; it was as if he were rubbing something clean. Then he looked at his hand, to see if it trembled. It was steady, and he was thankful.

  They came out of the Praga, laughing as he had anticipated — he could almost tell from the slant of her body, the way her fur coat was wrapped against her, the pressure of the sum form against Vrubel's uniform… she was inviting him without words. It was as if he had seen her fornicating in the harshly-lit street, so naked were her intentions. When the taxi moved away, he switched on the engine, and followed at a distance. There was no necessity to keep close. He knew their destination.

  He parked quietly, with a view of her bedroom window, as the taxi drew away. Vrubel's tip, in anticipation, had no doubt been generous. Then they had gone inside — a part of his mind shared the lift with them. Then he picked up the handset, and called the Centre, requesting to be put through to the SID offices on Frunze Quay. All communications from mobile units were relayed through the central control room in Dzerzhinsky Street. Eventually, Ilya replied. His voice sounded more bored than before. Vorontsyev, as he waited, his mind on the Ossipov-substitute, had been unable to distract his eyes from the bedroom window. The light had gone on, the curtains tugged across. It was as if she knew he was down there…

  'Vorontsyev,' he said, and his voice sounded thick and strange.

  'Yes, Major.' There was some effort to attend, to sound interested.

  He saw the figures moving in an old dance, against the lighted curtains. He could feel her body…

  'Anything on that bastard yet?'

  'Er — no, sir. Not yet.'

  'Why not, for shit's sake? You must have something!' The bodies swayed — he could see the imperceptible movement towards the bed. 'Get your fucking finger out, Ilya! You're wasting time!' He wanted to go on shouting into the handset, shouting obscenities, berating his subordinate, purging him self. Orgasm of jealousy, hot in his dry throat.

  'Yes, sir.' Ilya was abashed, shocked.

  'Get — on with it, then. I want something by the morning. Something definite!' 'Sir.'

  He pushed the handset down into the passenger-seat, leaning his weight on it unconsciously. He was shuddering, as Vrubel would be, soon. The heave of the final thrust…

  He got out of the car. He could no longer watch the darkened window. He drew in the air, gratefully, and made himself walk. He walked up and down, a sentry to Natalia's infidelity, his hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, his face a set, grim mask.

  Vrubel, as he left, almost bumped into him, paid no attention except to mumble an apology. Vorontsyev, looking up, saw the officer's back walking away from him — uniform purpled beneath the street lamp for a moment, then the form shadowed again. He watched, hating.

  He had been surprised when Vrubel and Natalia had taken a taxi from the apartment to the theatre, and wondered why Vrubel had no hire car. He saw him now fishing for a key, opening the door of a Zil, looking back up at the window, then sorting the engine — a sudden loud cough that seemed to waken Vorontsyev. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes — Vrubel had been with his wife only twenty minutes.

/>   Even as the laughter began to bubble acidly in his throat — the image of temporary impotence sketched in his mind like a cartoon on a lavatory wall — he sensed that Vrubel was leaving with a purpose. He wasn't running away, but to...

  He ran to his own car, seeing the Zil turn out of the service road, heading north up the wide thoroughfare. Towards Arbat Square, and perhaps the Sadovaya motorway ring. His own engine fired at the third hasty attempt, he flicked on the headlights, and screeched away. There was satisfaction now in action, for the first time that night. He roared across the Kalenin Street, in front of a taxi which sounded its horn at him — Vorontsyev recognised with a smile that the man was probably KGB; he would otherwise have shown caution in remonstrating with a car so obviously in pursuit of something or someone.

  Vrubel's black car was well ahead of him, crossing the Arbat — he caught a glimpse of it as he weaved out of the stream of traffic for a moment, into the path of an oncoming lorry. He ducked back in, then surged out, overtaking three cars before having to squeeze back into the heavy flow across the square. The night-life of Moscow, flowing back out to the new suburbs.

  He did not catch sight of Vrubel again until they had both turned left on to Tchaikovsky Street, part of the inner motorway ring; then right through the Smolenskaia, and suddenly out across the Borodino Bridge, the water sluggish, dark ice perhaps at its edges — he could not be sure; certainly it was much colder.

  As he crossed the bridge, it was as if he left the apartment behind him. Now thought, accelerating with the car, focused ahead and he began to sense that he had inadvertently panicked Vrubel. Something about his visit to the apartment had made him suspicious; perhaps the man could not believe that it was entirely fortuitous. But where was he going? Out of the city altogether? Had he arranged, perhaps, some meeting because he sensed that the SID suspected him?

  Vrubel's Zil swung west on to Kutuzov Prospekt, and Vorontsyev found himself only two cars behind. Flanking the wide avenue, the pink-bricked blocks of apartment were grubbily washed by the sodium flares. There was a frost in the air; Vorontsyev turned up the heater of the car. The railway bridge, then the glass and aluminium cylinder of the Kutuzovskaya metro station. Vorontsyev wondered whether, since they were in a quarter where many diplomats of foreign countries resided, Vrubel had a call to make along the Kutuzov Prospekt. He stayed two cars behind him, hidden from the rear-view mirror.

  There appeared to be no deviation as they drove through the quieter suburbs. Cars dropped away from the file, a stream running dry; the street lighting less insistent. Vorontsyev, who rarely had cause or inclination to visit the outer suburbs of the city, felt himself in a strange country. Only one car separated him from Vrubel now. He did not think that Vrubel suspected his presence — the way he had left the apartment on Kalenin Street indicated that he had no suspicion that he was under surveillance — but he suspected that the KGB officer had indeed set up a meeting. Either he wished to pass on something he had received from Ossipov at the officer's club — or he wanted some kind of reassurance about Vorontsyev's apparent interest.

  As the lights died behind them, Vorontsyev switched off his lights. He felt a sudden chill as the road disappeared, and the flat countryside winked out. The road was becoming icy, and the night was hard with stars. Gradually, he became accustomed to the pale gleam of light reflected from the snow still covering the fields. And he followed the lights of the car ahead of him, which still masked his presence from Vrubel.

  As far as Vorontsyev could tell, they were heading for the excursion spot, Arkhangelskoe; they had taken the Minsk road, the continuation of the Kutuzov Prospekt, then turned right on to the Rublevo road. When they turned left again, it was towards Uspenskoe. And the car between the Zil and Vorontsyev turned right at the crossroads. Vorontsyev waited, then pulled out, lights still off. Moving away from him, he saw the red rear lamps of the Zil. Unsuspicious acceleration.

  Gradually, they slid together into a country of sum trees fining the road, and shimmering, snowbound fields. There was something sufficiently beautiful about it to affect Vorontsyev. They crossed the Moskva, heading south-west, and then the Zil turned off the main road, into the trees. Vorontsyev stopped die car, saw the small sideroad, unmarked and unsurfaced, md slowly turned into it. Ahead of him, winking suddenly through the trees then lost again, were the rear lights of the Zil. He wondered for a moment whether he was being led into a trap — then he sensed that the meeting-place was to be one of the many wooden dachas built in the Arkhangelskoe district — summer and week-end homes for prominent members of the Party and the bureaucracy. He smiled. SID had investigated, in its time, a number of peculiar reports concerning social and personal behaviour in dachas like the ones dotted through the woods.

  The dacha was appropriate to conspiracy, as well as to sexual perversion, he considered with satisfaction. Then he saw the brake-lights go on ahead of him, and he stopped the car immediately. He wound down the window, and listened. In the clear frosty air, he heard the door of the Zil slam shut like a rifle shot. Carefully, he got out of the car, taking the Makarov pistol from the glove compartment before he did so.

  The ground was covered lightly with snow, masking sound but masking also any sticks that might betrayingly snap. He trod carefully, keeping to the deeper shadow of tree trunks, heading for the spot where the Zil had stopped.

  His feet were cold through his thin shoes by the time he reached it. Its lights were off- and it was empty. He wondered for a moment whether it was indeed a trap as he looked around him swiftly, gun held in front of him — then he saw the dim light, from behind curtains, a little way ahead. As his night-vision improved, he saw that he was at the edge of a small, man-made clearing, on the other side of which was a low wooden dacha — a large one, he noted with a creeping excitement he could not altogether restrain or disapprove. He enjoyed the sensation of crouching against the Zil, watching the destination of his journey just fifty yards away. He did not notice the cold now, except as a sharp sensation in his nostrils.

  He circled the clearing, watching for signs of movement at the lighted window or the almost invisible door set back beneath an over-hanging porch. Nothing.

  The young trees grew close to the side of the dacha. He paused in their shelter for a moment, checked the Makarov, and slid a round into place. Then he moved swiftly across the strip of moonlit ground, his feet crunching on snow that had begun to freeze hard. He slipped over the rail, on to the wood of the porch. He steadied the rocking-chair that remained there from the summer, felt its material damp beneath his hand, then moved quietly towards the door, ducking beneath the curtained window.

  He drew what seemed his first breath as he paused outside the door — and experienced a moment of doubt, the sense of traps laid and about to be sprung; how many were there inside the dacha? The door was open. He pushed it gently wider. A narrow wooden hall, a strip of dull carpet, the feel of rough wood under the hand he used to guide himself in the darkness. Ahead of him, and to the left, a glow of light from beneath a door. He listened for voices, but there was a deep silence about the house. Nothing, not even his own breathing.

  He stepped back from the door, raised his foot, and kicked at it. The thin door swung open, the lock tearing, and then he held it open as it swung back towards him. Through the door, gun ready. There was no one behind it.

  No one in the room. The dim light, he saw suddenly, had to be a decoy, and he turned swiftly, as if sensing someone behind him. Again, no one.

  He moved cautiously out of the room, closing the door so that the light would not outline him, and began a search of the remaining room.

  The body was in one of the bedrooms, at the rear of the dacha; it was still dressed in the formal black overcoat, and he almost expected to see the homburg hat resting on the bedside cabinet. Someone had folded the arms decently across his chest, and there was, he saw, a dark hole in the white forehead, near the hairline. White hair. The face, staring up at the ceiling, was reposed, sti
ll with lack of expression. Chiselled. He moved closer.

  There was no one living hi the house. Not now. He looked out of the window, saw nothing; listened for the noise of the Zil's engine starting up. Silence. He looked down at the body.

  It was the Ossipov-substitute. He felt disappointed — even cheated in some obscure way. He leaned over the face, as if demanding an explanation. The dead face stared sightlessly up at him, seeming now irritated that he had come between the open eyes and their concentration on the ceiling.

  The body was small, like that of Ossipov. The tight, drawn skin appeared unreal in the moonlight — the face of an actor. He looked nothing like Ossipov; if only the surveillance team had seen the face, they would have raised the alarm. But only the back — the black overcoat, the hat. They had made only one mistake — to be seen together at all; no, not even that — only the mistake of the substitute having his features recorded in the museum.

  And that error had been corrected. Vorontsyev, with distaste, touched the hole of the wound. Dry blood, what there was of it. And cold skin. The man had been dead for some time. How long?

  He raised an arm. Stiff. Dead perhaps more than twenty-four hours. A careful anticipation, the discarding of something soiled by wear or faded with exposure. A liability.

  But, why was it here?

  Because the sense of the trap returned at that precise moment, as he felt the delicate cold wire running from the hand up the sleeve of the black overcoat — he understood what it meant.

  He turned and ran, out of the bedroom, crashing against the wooden wall so that it shook, cannoning off, seeing the patch of starlight from the open door at the end of the corridor…