Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  And then the bomb that had been so carefully wired to the body, and which he had triggered when he moved the arm — exploded. Something shoved him in the back, through the frail wooden fence in front of the porch — he felt the rail bite into his thighs, and then he was tumbling over it, bringing it down after him. Snow — just the merest sensation of wetness as his face ground into it, and the horrific noises that deafened him, and the after-shock wrenching through his body. Then black silence, even as the pain began.

  The restored house was on Kropotkin Street, and suitably spacious for a long-serving and respected member of the Politburo. Ilarion Vikentich Galakhov sat opposite the man he knew as Kutuzov, and from whom he took his orders. Galakhov, at thirty-three, was a Senior Lieutenant in the GRU, Military Intelligence. As such, there were many superior officers to whom he was, apparently, responsible. For two years now, however, he had covertly obeyed only this man, the leader of Group 1917. He and those deputed by him to issue orders. One of those, Yevgeni Vrubel, he had obeyed earlier that night, only to find that the order had come not from Kutuzov, but was a panic-measure by Vrubel himself.

  Kutuzov was angry, the rage of flouted authority barely concealed; and also beneath the striven-for calm there was hatred of a man who had jeopardised a strategy the extent of which could only be guessed by Galakhov. He watched the old man carefully, studied the strong face with its deep lines of concentration and authority, and silently cursed Vrubel for tricking him into the killing of the Ossipov-substitute and rigging the bomb that had almost killed the SID Major. How Kutuzov had heard, how he knew Vorontsyev was still alive, he could not guess; but he had.

  'Where is Vrubel now?'

  'A safe house.'

  'You know which one?' Galakhov nodded. 'Good. Ilarion Vikentich — we must cut our losses. Get rid of Vrubel tonight, before you leave Moscow.' It was said without emotion, as if the projected action had cleansed the old man of his feelings. Except for one final mutter, almost an aside: 'He tried to kill the SID man — to save his own skin. When there was no need. That is unforgiveable.'

  'Yes, sir,' Galakhov acknowledged, and found himself the immediate subject of a keen stare from the old man. The heavily furnished lounge, lit only by the soft glow of one standard lamp in a corner, seemed to menace him.

  'Very well. You were deceived, Ilarion Vikentich. I accept that.' Galakhov could not restrain the sense of relief he knew must show on his face. The old man smiled in satisfaction. 'As for your task — the arrangements are made. Your flight to London is booked, under your new cover-name. You know what you are to do at Heathrow — I need not reiterate it. However, understand me clearly. You must kill the traitor Khamovkhin in Helsinki. There can be no failure, no excuses. The present First Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party must not — must not — be allowed to survive our operation. On the 24th, kill him.'

  Galakhov nodded.

  'Yes, sir. It will be done.'

  'Good. Now find Vrubel, and dispose of him.'

  The MIL helicopter beat overhead, low enough to shower him with snow disturbed from the pine-tops. They had used a helicopter after all- and in the bright moonlight followed his ski-tracks as easily as following motorway signs. There was nothing he could do, he realised, except wait for the helicopter to go away — and it would not do that because it knew his general location, and was acting as a spotter for a pursuit.

  Folley was deadly weary; only as the helicopter moved away a few hundred yards to the west did he realise how ragged his breathing had become, and sense more clearly that the shivering of his body had nothing to do with the throb of the rotors over his head.

  He was not going to get away. Not going to — no chance.

  'Christ!' he muttered, his face lifted to the branches above him, dark now that the snow had been blown from them. There was nothing he could do, nothing.

  Except go on, run until they ran him down, cornered him. He was in a forest of pines now, in a deep valley, and the helicopter was bund. His ski-tracks had entered the trees, then disappeared. It could only wait until he re-emerged. Soon it would begin to skirt the edges of the forest, anxious not to miss him, anxious to prevent his having a head-start on the pursuers.

  The helicopter was useless now, he told himself. Useless, useless. It did not matter about the veracity of the idea, only its efficacy, a nostrum of power for the nagging body, the eroded will. Useless. He had the rest of the long night in which to run.

  The helicopter's noise died away, and its threat diminished. It was searching — needle in haystack, spy in forest, it couldn't find him Silence. He strained to catch a sound, any sound. Nothing. He could move again. He unzipped his combat suit, and pulled out a folded map protected by a polythene jacket. Then he flicked on a small torch, focusing its pencil of light on the map, nodding to himself as he understood the contours of the land lying ahead of him. He checked the compass on his wrist, then flicked off the light, stowing the torch and map quickly as if they had already betrayed his whereabouts.

  All night to run.

  He moved two paces from the tree, and the rifle rang out from away to his left. He felt a searing pain across his ribs, and groaned aloud, stifling the noise almost as it began, blundering head-down towards the nearest trees as two other shots bellowed after him. Night-sight, he thought, unslinging his own rifle, tugging at the canvas sleeve as he jolted his arm against the safety of a trunk, breathing shallowly with fear and the pain in his flesh-wound. Then he whipped round the trunk, and fired three shots in the general direction of the Russian who had found him.

  How many? Care, care. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, and traversed the area, squinting into his own infra-red sight. Hollow dark spaces, lit as if by a dull fire. Nothing moving — and the growing, creeping sensation that someone was watching him, searching for him, through an identical night-sight. His finger curled on the trigger and he had to consciously stop himself loosing off any more betraying shots; whistling in the dark.

  Then the voice. Finnish first, which he barely understood. Then, after a pause in which admission was decided, English.

  'You can't go any further. Give up. It's impossible for you.' Distortion of a loud-hailer, metallic voice wearing him down with its magnified confidence. He had to stop himself firing. 'Give yourself up. We'll make sure your wound is treated.'

  He winced at the reminder, dare not look at his side now. They had him. Traverse, traverse he told himself. This is a bluff, they're moving in Shadow of a winter uniform, red-lit by the sight. He squeezed off two shots, pulled back behind the tree as fire was returned from at least half a dozen Kalashnikovs.

  All from the same general direction. Perhaps a half-circle, only a crescent yet; move! He pushed away from the tree, crouching as if under the weight of the skis and pack, rifle banging against his thigh, left hand pressing for the first time against the burning side. Shots, ragged as they searched for a target. He began to weave and dodge, still hunched, breath labouring almost at once as he galloped awkwardly in the snow, great heaving steps like a wild, but tiring, horse.

  He turned, shielded by a tree, and raised the rifle. He waited for the first ghost to shimmer in the red circle, until the crosshairs settled on the middle of the carefully moving bundle of winter uniform — then fired once, and immediately struck off to the left as fire was returned.

  Breath ragged, side hurting like hell — noise of the helicopter returning from the north — strength running out, and the day still ahead of him. He itemised his hopelessness as he kept running, knowing that he would never tell anyone what he had seen, that he had failed already.

  After Galakhov had left him, the old man took his dog for a walk in the small triangular park which had once been known as the 'Field of Virgins'. He passed on the east side of the park a bust of Frunze, hero of the civil war, one of the founders of the Red Army, and almost raised his hat to the stern face as he passed. An unhabitually comic notion; perhaps his decision regarding Vrubel had lightened his mood, he
thought. He paused for a moment, while the big old hound capered like a pup on the frost-sparkling grass, and looked back at the Frunze Military Academy. He could even see the low-relief hammer and-sickles decorating the stern concrete facade; not given to admitting, or indulging, moments of nostalgia, he allowed himself to remember his own training there, soon after it was built in 1936 — an over-age cadet who had temporarily rejected the political life. The war, too — that time came back in brief, flickering images.

  Then the dog rubbed against his trousers, and his mood was disturbed. The lines in the face hardened again, became stern with anticipated business. He kept to the glinting path, his footsteps loud and clear, his stick tapping almost in a marching rhythm; the noises of the dog on the stiff grass were the only other sounds, as if all traffic had stopped outside the park. The park itself was empty of other people.

  The eccentricities he had cultivated for years, the apparent harmlessness and geniality that age seemed to have lent him, now served him well; he had not been tailed from his house, as he was sure other, less apparently loyal, members of the Politburo had been that night, and on other nights.

  There was a twist of contempt in the smile on his lips. A smile which vanished again as he stood before Merkurov's giant bronze statue of Tolstoy. Immediately, he felt the size of the statue as an expression of power — his own, or that of Tolstoy, he was uncertain, even indifferent. He shivered slightly, with anticipation rather than cold. The dog continued to scamper, and his thoughts were suddenly stronger, imitative of a younger man, not the respectable, waned figure he had chosen to become.

  Party man. Peel away the layers. Party man. Yes, he was that; except that now the Party was in the hands of the sweepings of the Revolution. Non-Party men. Compromisers. Schoolmasters, economic experts, balance-sheet men — men interested only in personal power. Khamovkhin and his crew. The anger coursed through him, mesmerising his attention; his litany.

  Khamovkhin the clown had tried to panic his unknown enemy by his vague denunciations in the meeting of the full Politburo. Khamovkhin and his hyena, Andropov, had caught some whiff of Group 1917 — nothing more. They were the ones dose to panic. And he was safe — on the safe list, no doubt; unsuspected.

  When he had been silent, as if in homage, before the statue for perhaps ten minutes, he said, softly but dearly, 'Well, my friend. What have you to tell me?'

  From the shadows beneath the statue, a voice full of disgruntled respect, and cold, said, 'Pnin's tanks have been seen, sir.'

  'What?' He felt cold, at once recriminatory. 'How?'

  'An agent, the General thinks. Probably not Finnish.'

  'He's dead?'

  'Not yet — they are in pursuit. I was told it was only a matter of hours.'

  'Who sent him?'

  'The Americans — the British?'

  'Damn!'

  'General Pnin considers that you were ill-advised to order a full-scale rehearsal of the border crossing.'

  'Damn Pnin! His security is — non-existent. How did the man get close enough — what did he see?'

  'Certainly the village — probably the crossing itself.'

  'They must get him, then.'

  'General Pnin sends his assurances as to — '

  'Pnin is a fool.'

  'Sir.'

  The younger voice retreated into silence. Kutuzov stared up into the giant bronze face, aware of the frost that sparkled like eyes above the beard. He tried to draw strength from the statue, and calm rationality.

  'The British sent a man before — the one who was killed before he could talk. Pnin should have been more alert. Vrubel is dead,' he added to the courier. 'He will have to be replaced by his second-in-command for next week. Tell Praporovich that.'

  'Sir,' the courier replied.

  'Are there arrangements for taking this agent alive?

  'The General is aware of the importance — '

  'He'd better be. Are there arrangements to keep me informed, as soon as a — result is achieved?'

  'Sir. By tomorrow night, there will be word.'

  'Then that will have to do. Tell Praporovich that SID knows nothing — though Vrubel did his best to give them a lead. And give the order for Pnin to withdraw — at once. As soon as he has captured the agent.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'What of Attack Force One.'

  'Ready to move up to the Norwegian border on D minus One, sir.'

  'Good. Dolohov and the Navy?'

  'All the ships required for Rabbit Punch are at sea, or refitting at Murmansk, ready to take troops aboard on D minus One.'

  'All- at last?'

  'All, sir.'

  'Better news — better news. Very well. When is your flight?'

  'Another two hours.'

  'Very well. Tell Praporovich that the agent, when captured, must be transferred at once to the Leningrad house, and interrogated thoroughly. We must know what the British know — if anything. It must not upset the timetable.'

  'Marshal Praporovich asked that the timetable be confirmed, as of now.'

  'Assuming word comes from Ossipov not later than five days' time?' As if sensing the grandiloquence of the moment, the old man stood erect before the bronze statue, staring up into Tolstoy's blind face. 'Yes. One week from now. D-Day is the 24th.'

  As he swung down into a great fold of the Maanselka, the central mountain range, he could see, to the north-west, the peak of Kaunispaa; he was only a mile, perhaps, from the main north-south road and the village of Lannila. If he could make the road, he might again have a choice — north towards Ivalo, south towards Vuotso — west along the road to Kuttura. Places that offered rest, and help, however illusory.

  His side ached intolerably, his body pleaded for him to stop, ached with effort and hunger — even so, it was spurred by the proximity of the road, the destination he had travelled towards all night and into the first daylight.

  The MIL helicopter, a squat, droning beetle, had hugged the slope of the land, then descended on him suddenly even as he first picked up the noise of its rotors. It was barely light; but the helicopter was black against the grey sky. It rushed upon him, flurrying snow in its downdraught as it hovered, then moved ahead of him, skimming the ground. He watched as white-clad soldiers dropped from its belly, laid like mines across his path. He tried to stop, jumping so that the snow surfed up. The nearest man was less than a hundred yards away, and the noise of the MIL, and its skirt of snow, were deadening, oppressive.

  He looked round, and the pursuers, dog-weary as he was himself, topped the last slope, and fitted skis again or rested for a moment. One of them waved, and Folley could hear a thin cheering.

  The helicopter lifted away again, swinging above him so that he could see the grinning face of the pilot. His wave was an insult, perhaps even a recognition. Then the shadow was gone, a paralysis deserting his limbs. He unslung the rifle.

  The men in front of him had fitted snowshoes, and walked clumsily, inexorably, towards him, in slow-motion. Each of them carried a Kalashnikov. And behind him the first of the tired skiers was thrusting down the long slope, only hundreds of yards away.

  He could have angled his flight, thrust off towards the left or right and outdistanced the men on snowshoes. It appeared that they wished to take him alive rather than kill him. But his body revolted at the idea, and his legs were finally and suddenly without strength so that he knew he was not going to move any more Then a second MIL lifted above the slope that had masked it and its noise.

  He pointed the gun uselessly at the ground. He swayed, felt he couldn't stand long enough for them to reach him. He kept turning his head as they closed on him. Kept turning it until they stood around him in a wary ring. Someone took away the rifle, examining it.

  He kept looking not at their faces, but at the red stars on the far caps they wore beneath their camouflage hoods.

  Four: Beach Head

  Kenneth de Vere Aubrey settled into the somnolent, contemplative mood that he usually enjoyed in the
Public Gallery of the House of Commons. And he grew older, he was aware that the sounds that rose from the floor of the House, especially those made, as now, by a poorly attended Question Time, threw his awareness back upon himself. He had almost entirely lost an earlier, youthful sense of the business of the world being done there. The Chamber had become a club.

  He had reported to the Foreign Secretary, after lunch, on the security procedures to be put into effect, by the SIS in cooperation with the CIA and the Finnish Intelligence Bureau, for the culminatory stages of the Helsinki Conference on Mutual Balanced Arms Reductions, one week hence. The Foreign Secretary himself would head the team of British observers at the treaty signing; the United States' partners in NATO would be signatories only to the second, and supplementary stage, of the conference, to be held in Belgrade in the autumn.

  An Opposition speaker was on his feet, requiring a junior minister at the Foreign Office to explain what assurance the government, and the President of the United States, had been given as to the sincerity of the Soviet Union with regard to arms reductions — a late, and rather naive, attempt to stir doubt; or perhaps to draw attention to the speaker. There were a few half-hearted murmurs of derision from the government back benches. The Front Benches on both sides of the House were conspicuously bare.

  Aubrey came to the House more often in these last days of his employment with the SIS than he had done in earlier years. It irked him that he could not precisely explain his motives; but it was tolerably warm. An obscure sense of desire for legitimacy nagged him, as it often did. Perhaps he was disillusioned after sitting below the salt for so long — enter Third Murderer, he thought. Here, at least, it was tolerably above board — at least, it gave that illusion. Perhaps that was also the reason he spent less and less time with the operational side of the service, and preferred administration and oversight of intelligence gathering.

  Perhaps he was growing senile, and ought to begin attending the Upper House. He shifted in his seat, and cursed the ailing circulation that so swiftly made him cold and cramped when still. And, aware of the physical, he thought of other men of stronger sensual passions than himself; their horror at the growing inoperancy of limbs, their sense of desire unabated, but more futile and humiliating with the onset of age.