Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  'Vrubel referred to nothing like that,' Vorontsyev murmured unhelpfully.

  'I didn't suppose he had,' Kapustin observed. 'But what do you think the terms might mean, eh, Major?'

  Vorontsyev wrinkled his brow, looked at the Deputy, and said, 'I can't think what they might mean — I know what they do mean, the date of the Revolution, and the destination of the train from Switzerland…' His mouth dropped open. 'You don't think…?

  'I think nothing. Chairman Andropov's thoughts are what I convey to you.' There was a solemn emphasis in the words. 'Revolution? Seems hard to believe doesn't it?' There was a bright glint of perspiration on Kapustin's forehead, above the heavy creases of age and office. 'I would prefer not to think — but I have to, and so do you.'

  'Very well, Comrade Deputy.' Vorontsyev felt that the situation required formality. 'What happened to the man Fedakhin?'

  'He died. Apparently the disease was more advanced than was diagnosed. We put maximum surveillance on him, but to little or no effect. It appears that somebody was suspicious — no one went near him again.'

  'But — his contacts before. How much do we know about them?'

  Both men seemed to accept the collusion that the situation forced upon them. Both relaxed into the tense informality of their common business. Kapustin said, 'Not very much. Typical party background — kept his nose clean. Ready to change sides and loyalties when Kruschev was swept away, had never identified himself with that regime, except when he had to. A second world war soldier, political indoctrination — then returned to his duties in the Secretariat. Clean record — until this chance telephone intercept.' Kapustin shrugged.

  'Family?'

  'Know nothing.'

  Vorontsyev persisted, as if Tie were interrogating the Deputy. Kapustin, hotter still it seemed in the airless room, aquiesced; as if it were easier for him to be questioned than to volunteer a briefing to a subordinate — and one in a hospital bed, at that.

  'What else is there, Comrade Deputy?' Vorontsyev did not question his own eagerness — whether revenge, or in the burial of private worlds.

  'Not very much. For the expenditure of so much effort, very little indeed. We have a dossier…' He patted the briefcase that rested by the chair, and to which he had not referred since his arrival. 'Of all movements and contacts of officers and bureaucrats under surveillance during the last year. All the teams are going through them, as you did with Ossipov, checking for some new lead, or some connection.'

  'The — suspects? Are they confirmed, or not?'

  'No. They are — everyone who might possess the power or the influence was put under surveillance. Automatically.'

  Tower for what?' Vorontsyev asked after a while.

  'Revolution. That is the broad picture. The assumption that a revolution is being planned…'

  'Ridiculous!' was Vorontsyev's first reaction. Then he stopped short, abashed at his indiscretion.

  Instead of anger, Kapustin said, 'I might agree with you, Major. If I knew as little as you do. But — fantastic as it is, I have to consider the possibility. So do you.'

  'But — why? And how? With the Committee for State Security so effective. It would need cooperation — converts — in the Politburo, the High Command, the Praesidium, the Secretariat, the KGB itself.'

  'I quite agree. As to why, I don't know. As to how — it could take ten years to plan, and execute. And it would need the army — and the navy, too, perhaps. Certainly elements in ah1 the organs of government and control in the state. It would be — huge.'

  'I can't believe it!'

  'Perhaps not. But — something is going on. Generals don't have to have substitutes in order to visit prostitutes, of either sex. And the substitutes don't get killed on the merest suspicion that discovery may be just around the corner! Think of that when you're reading these files…' Again he tapped the briefcase with a hand that was backed with dark, curling hair — dark as the hair that curled from his wide nostrils. 'And think of this, too. If it would take say ten years — and it is happening — where are we in their timetable, at the present moment?'

  Folley watched the guards carefully; it had become a habit so to do, as automatic as glancing in a driving-mirror at precise intervals. There was no possibility of escape connected with it.

  The two young Red Army soldiers, a corporal and a senior private, seemed content with his company. During the hours of the short day, they seemed comfortable, even approachable — as if they had received no orders against fraternisation. Folley realised that it was an illusory state, and it was designed to make him less troublesome to his guards.

  The small tent was cold, but he was still warmly clad in his winter combat clothing, boots and mittens — the Finnish uniform beneath it they had disbelieved, especially when his command of the language had been discovered to be rudimentary by a Senior Lieutenant who interrogated him in Finnish; but they had allowed him to keep it, and his supposed identity. Except for the papers, which had disappeared. They had spoken to him in English after that. His silence was a tacit admission. He had not answered their questions, but they knew his nationality. He had to ask for the toilet, for food and drink, in English, before they would respond. Yet still they had not beaten him.

  The three of them sat round the oil-stove, feeling its warmth on their faces, the fronts of their legs. In the hours that he had been held in the camp, they had done little else. They had allowed him to exercise, of course.

  They had interrogated him, but not physically. He had told them nothing; though he was evidence by his solitariness of the level of suspicion that had despatched him to Finnish Lapland.

  They did not take him seriously. That was his impression of the regimental commanders, colonels both; and the impression given by the small, neat, precise man with the one large silver star of a major-general on his shoulder-boards. He had met the General only once, when he had been taken to be questioned in the wooden hut erected to serve as headquarters for senior officers.

  During the night of his pursuit, another regiment had arrived; this time a Motor Rifle Regiment, comprising a tank battalion of forty older T-62 tanks, a battle recce company, three motor rifle battalions, whose vehicles were mainly BMP and BTR-60 armoured personnel carriers; field artillery and anti-aircraft batteries; the medics and technical support group. And a chemical platoon and its vehicles.

  Folley had been unnerved by this latter more than the assembled firepower and personnel; it was the most real of the sights, the most vivid in imagination. For many hours afterwards, he was not sure that he had seen it. He tried to persuade himself that it was not the case; he had pieced together the skeleton of the major rifle regiment from the vehicles he had seen, and the men; and within that context, he knew he had caught a glimpse of the vivid yellow vehicles of the chemical platoon.

  No one had explained the presence of the Russian armour in the forest south-east of Ivalo. And there was a comfort in ignorance — until what he knew of current war games, the conversation of a friend on the War Studies Team at Cranwell, and his own tactical sense, pressed upon him the conviction that he was amid only one spearhead. There had to be others, concealed on either or both sides of the Soviet border, along its length with Finland.

  And the main armoured strike would be to the north, along the single main road to Kirkenes, into northern Norway. And that strike would be preceded by chemical attack; that much he could be certain of.

  The Finnmark, therefore, was the target.

  Russia was going to war in Scandinavia. It was a simple, brute fact.

  Sitting there, watching the two guards, he sensed that he was still numbed by the fact; he had no urgent desire to return to Tromso, then to MOD, with the knowledge of what he knew. He felt himself strangely identified with what was happening here, in this place. As if the events were those of a nightmare, and he could not quite believe in it; nor escape it. The nightmare was so real, but confined to these acres of forest and camouflaged vehicles and disciplined men, that he
could not see beyond it. It was easier, much, simply to sit, to wait out the hours of daylight, sleep out the night; perform his bodily functions — exercise, urinate, defecate, and adopt the subdued, waiting tension of the camp.

  He had heard how hijacked airline passengers identified with their captors, came to hate those outside who tried to help them. It had happened to him. He was almost one of these soldiers now — who questioned nothing, who simply followed orders, and left the niceties of Armageddon to their superior officers.

  He guessed that this force was intended to take Ivalo, and its airfield, or perhaps to strike across the north of Finnish Lapland into Norway. All that he had ever understood of Soviet tactics was that some land of airborne assault would have to be made on selected targets — to hold them until armoured columns arrived. Perhaps, he wondered, these men were to hold Ivalo as a forward airfield for transports which would lift men into Norway.

  Now, when he spoke to the guards, it was if no distinction of loyalties divided them. They were men in uniform; circumstances had thrown them together. He said. 'Can we walk for ' little?'

  One of the two men spoke reasonable English — the corporal. He nodded, and replied, 'I think so. A little stroll, yes?'

  'Yes.'

  It was the end of the short afternoon; the weather was grey now, threatening snow. All around them, the scene had a smoky and indistinct quality. Men's breath smoked around their heads, like white scarves. Vehicles, dusted with snow, under camouflage netting, were still, unthreatening. Folley was pleased with the peace of the scene — its painted stillness. It accommodated him and it did not threaten his mood. Men Bill looked at him, between and slightly ahead of his guards; their stares disturbed him, but only a little. Already, it seemed, they were used to him.

  He crunched through the deep snow, rutted with tracks and prints. There was little to explain, it seemed. He was merely there. A random thought of their initial anger at the deaths he had caused disturbed him now, as if he had been accused of some unkindness — or a different colour of skin pointed out.

  He watched the Senior Sergeant approach almost with indifference. The man halted in front of him, his square face framed by the hood of the winter combat outfit, star just visible on the fur cap, and spoke in Russian to the two guards. Folley was able to distinguish only the military ranks referred to, and assumed that he was to be taken before the General again. The sergeant preceded them, his boots crunching heavily in the rutted snow over which heavy vehicles had crossed and recrossed.

  They passed perhaps only fifteen or twenty of the hundred and sixty tanks, and a handful of the armoured personnel carriers before they mounted the steps to the wooden command hut, a low, single-storey barrack of a building erected by the crew of one of the workshop vehicles. There were command trailers, of course, just as in his own army — but this general had chosen something closer to a house. He struggled with the idea that this had a meaning, something to do with a lack of urgency. But he dismissed the idea as they passed into the outer office.

  The guards snapped to attention in front of the lieutenant. Folley did so too; erect, face front, eyes above the officer's head, staring at the fugged window behind him, its rime of frost on the outside thickened by the closing circles of mist inside. There was an efficient stove in the room.

  The lieutenant waved the guards away. After they had gone out, he stood up and offered Folley a cigarette.

  'Lieutenant?' he asked, holding out the cigarette-case. Folley shook his head, and the young man added: 'They are not as bad as your propaganda makes out, you know.' Folley was forced to smile, hardly on his guard, hardly sensing that he was being deliberately put at his ease.

  He stood there for some time, while the lieutenant walked round him, as if inspecting his kit. Folley had the sense of basic training again, or returning to that when he joined SAS. It was uncomfortable because it reminded him that they were on opposing sides. The atmosphere began to menace him in its silence.

  'How much do they know, Lieutenant?' the Russian asked, his English accented but assured. There was something in the tone that made Folley take note. Looking at the man properly for the first time Folley saw that he was not wearing the motor rifle or armoured flashes on his shoulder boards or collar tabs. This was something new. The truth was slow in revealing itself, so retreated had his brain become from the realities of his situation.

  'I — my name is…' He began it automatically, the eyes expressionless and the voice mechanical. The Russian officer hit him in the stomach, and as he fell against the wall of the office, it appeared that this was the signal to two other men, two NCOs, who came in from the inner office. Folley, surprised, looked up at them. The two men were looking at their officer, who was perched on the desk, smoking. As the truth seeped into the front of his mind, as from behind an almost watertight door, Folley began to laugh at the melodramatic posture of the officer. Like something out of an old film.

  The taller of the two NCOs kicked him in the thigh as he sat there, and he rolled away, into the flying boot of the other man who had got on to his other side. The blow caught him in the side of the head, and the pain screamed in his temple and his neck.

  The Lieutenant, who was from the GRU, Military Intelligence, like his two NCOs, watched dispassionately as the beating began.

  Galakhov disliked botched or hurried work. The death of Vrubel, whom he had been forced to execute immediately upon Kutuzov's orders, had been such a performance. No difficulty — but too much haste. Just as in the case of the mirror above the washbasin into which he now stared; almost coming away from the wall because someone had not bothered to do the job of mounting it properly. The screws were pulling out of the plaster. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in disapproval. He studied himself critically. Fur hat, sheepskin coat, English shoes, leather briefcase, battered suitcase behind him on the chequered floor. Yes, it would do. He signified acceptance as if to a tailor, nodding at his reflection. He glazed his stare — better. Something about his eyes — Vrubel had seen it, hadn't wanted to come with him, had had to be cajoled into not suspecting. The killing itself had been easy; and the dumping in the Moskva of Vrubel and his car — well, perhaps that was bravado, or irritation with Kutuzov for the way in which the old man presumed his services were acquired only by a nod, or a command, like turning on a tap. Let the KGB find the body, and start searching for the killer.

  He turned, picked up his suitcase, and left the washroom in the principal Departure Lounge of Cheremetievo Airport. As he passed out into the fuggier warmth of the lounge, he heard his flight being called, as he had known he would. A charter flight to London, with the last of the winter season tourists to Moscow. On it, he would be unremarked. His English was excellent, his papers good.

  He clicked his fingers — the duty-free shop. He should have a polythene bag, and some cartons of cigarettes or a bottle of spirits. Tourists' last roubles, which they could not export, disappeared satisfactorily in the duty-free shop.

  As he passed the main stairs to the restaurants and the Diplomatic Lounge, he glanced up at the two heavy KGB men at the top of the flight. He smiled, not at them, but at the knowledge that First Secretary Khamovkhin was leaving from Cheremetievo later that evening in his Tupolev Tu- I44, for Helsinki.

  Galakhov intended to arrive in Helsinki later the next day, as part of the drafted security staff surrounding the Soviet leader. Without pausing in his stride, he continued towards the duty-free shop.

  Feodor Khamovkhin sat in a corner of the Diplomatic Lounge, and tried to arrange his limbs in a relaxed position. He felt nervous, and his arms and legs seemed to have some kind of cramp, so that it was difficult to sit still, not to be restless. He saw Andropov watching him as he chatted to some of the party that had assembled either to fly with Khamovkhin to Helsinki, or to be present at his departure. Most of the Politburo were there — one of them at least not sorry to see him go.

  He tried to press down on the thoughts, as if replacing t
he lid on a foul-smelling dustbin. But there seemed to be no pressure in his mind, which could contain the suspicions. There they were, rings and lumps of dark coats, eddies of laughter or talk. All little men — no, some better than others — all part of the system, the same system as himself, all knowing the facts, none of them blind..

  He stirred in his seat again, the restlessness of impotent fury irresistible. Andropov, as if recognising a danger signal, excused himself from his conversation with Gorochenko, the Deputy Foreign Minister, and crossed to him. He waved the two security men to further seats as he sat down.

  'Relax, Feodor,' he murmured. 'You look far too nervous to be leaving for a State Visit which will culminate in your greatest political triumph.'

  Khamovkhin looked at him suspiciously. 'Your humour is rather acid tonight, Yuri.'

  'Perhaps my own nervous reaction to the situation?'

  'Nothing will happen here…?' The thought had occupied the vocal chords almost before he was aware of it. He hadn't thought it before! 'Sorry.'

  'Nothing, Feodor. I picked up these men, just as I have selected the security staff who will accompany you. I give you my word — as far as I can be sure, and I have been thorough — that the men who will guard you can be trusted. Wherever I have had to draft them in from.'

  Khamovkhin patted Andropov's thigh, a gesture the Chairman seemed to dislike.

  'Thank you, Yuri.' Then he looked up into Andropov's ascetic, emotionless face.' You are in effective charge now. It's your job — to find these people.'

  'It always was, Feodor,' Andropov replied sharply. 'I know what is at stake here. But I can't move until I know!' Some in

  reserve broke in Andropov suddenly. For so many years he had been unconcerned with power; his power had been evident, and unchallenged. Now, he was impotent, and looking into a mirror of impotence in the face of Khamovkhin. It was a precise, but visionary, moment, which he loathed. 'I have to know,' he added more calmly. 'So, I have to keep my nerve, eh, Feodor. Perhaps it's a good thing that you won't be here — mm?'