Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  Khamovkhin sat at the Ambassador's desk in a spacious third-floor room of the Embassy on Tehtaankatu. With him was the Soviet Ambassador to Finland, Foreign Minister Gromyko, and the head of the duty security team, Captain Ozeroff. Ozeroff stood away from the desk, and its red telephone drawn nearer the First Secretary than the battery of black telephones, as if in deference to the call about to be received, while Gromyko and the Ambassador sat within hearing distance of the amplifier rigged to the 'hot line'.

  Khamovkhin looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. In Washington, four-thirty in the afternoon. President Joseph Wainwright would call him at any moment. Khamovkhin was nervous. Wainwright wanted answers, assurances that he could not give. There was no way he could bluff convincingly.

  The four men in the room heard, distinctly, the connection being made by the Embassy exchange, the slight crackle of the static, then Wainwright's voice as he was instructed to begin his call. The slight delay in the signal, transmitted by satellite, then the illusion that the President of the United States was in the next room, or the next town.

  'Mr First Secretary — good evening.'

  Khamovkhin gagged on his reply for a moment.

  'Mr President — good afternoon.'

  And silence, for a long time. Khamovkhin felt, already, a bead of perspiration, standing out on his heavy brow, and his palms damp as he closed his hands into fists in his lap. A child, waiting for the rebuke of an adult.

  'Mr First Secretary — ' There was a freezing hauteur about the voice now, a righteousness, even. Wainwright spoke from strength. But what followed surprised Khamovkhin in its cunning, its obliqueness. 'I have a suggestion to make to you which I am sure would be in the interests of both of us, and of the world.' Khamovkhin shuddered at the grandiloquence which he found rolled so easily from the tongues of American Presidents. He could see Wainwright, dapper, handsome, middle-aged, leaning slightly forward across his desk in the Oval Office, as if to make distinct, unmistakable, each of his words.

  'Yes, Mr President?'

  'I propose, as a preliminary to the signing of our Treaty in three days, and as a gesture of faith the world cannot mistake — ' A pause for emphasis, for clarity of meaning, for weight of impression, Khamovkhin thought. Angry with himself for being concerned to weigh such things, like a theatre critic with an actor's performance. 'That we institute, immediately, large and evident troop withdrawals from frontier areas.' The clarity with which his situation seemed understood in Washington chilled Khamovkhin, then instantly seemed to raise his temperature or that of the room. But Wainwright gave him no time for thought or reply. 'I will order US troops in the Federal Republic to withdraw from forward positions. I will immediately institute the stand-down of strike squadrons in the United Kingdom, and order the US 6th Fleet to a condition of secondary readiness — all of which your satellites and tracking ships can verify in a matter of hours.'

  Silence — heavy, into which the breathing of the Ambassador and Gromyko dropped like stones, and the static from the amplifier scratched at his attention. He looked at Gromyko, whose face was impassive, without suggestion or support.

  'Mr President, this is a gesture which pleases me, but which I need time to consider.' Lame, lame — 'What's to consider, Mr First Secretary? I have satellite pictures here — ' A pause, as if an aide had gestured warningly. 'I have evidence to suggest that units of the Red Banner Fleet have been recalled to Murmansk. A gesture already on your part, surely? Continue the good work. Stand down forward units in the DDR, or maybe on the Norwegian border, or the Finnish border — yes, maybe best of all. Before I join you in Helsinki.'

  Satellite pictures — stand down units — Red Banner Fleet — Khamovkhin was appalled, at a loss. He was learning, from the President of the United States, what the Red Army intended. The invasion of Scandinavia? Impossible. Finland Station. Not impossible.

  'I — have to consult with the High Command of the Soviet Army, Mr President. I have no room for such a unilateral decision.'

  'You're reluctant, Mr First Secretary — at this late hour?'

  It was a direct challenge. He could almost begin to frame the rest of the conversation.

  'No, no, of course not. But, you expect instant action, Mr President — '

  'My orders have already gone to the Pentagon, and to Brussels, Mr First Secretary. They need only be confirmed. Now — can you do less than that?'

  He was in a trap — he could not even speak to Gromyko. The red telephone, and the amplifier, sat on his desk, a squat toad listening to his thoughts.

  'I–I must consult. It will take time to arrange — it is, of course, most desirable — '

  'I think that way, too.' There was irony now! 'Forward units in your northern theatre, to compound your gesture of withdrawing units of the Northern Fleet to port. Can we agree on that?'

  'I — in principle, yes, of course — '

  'By tomorrow?'

  'But — I am not sure it can be done — '

  'Mr First Secretary — unless those units are withdrawn a token fifty miles from the border with Norway and Finland — and by dawn of the 24th, then I will order units of the AMF to go ahead with the cancelled NATO exercise, "Snowfront Express". Do I make myself clear, Mr First Secretary? I will also, in consultation with America's allies in NATO, place our forces on a twenty-four-hour readiness alert, unless I hear from you that withdrawals are beginning. This will happen at midnight, seven a.m. on the 23rd, your time.' Another pause, then: 'That's all, Mr First Secretary. Good evening to you.'

  Static, for a long time, until his hand darted out to cut off the connection, kill the amplifier. Then, only then, did he look up at the other men in the room.

  'We seem to have been given an ultimatum, gentlemen.'

  'A sensible suggestion — ' The Ambassador began, then dropped his eyes, lost his voice, and he saw the look in Khamovkhin's eyes. Gromyko remained silent.

  'It must be done — he said nothing about coming to Helsinki, you notice. Nothing!' Anger, anger of confidence, he thought. Show them. 'Sensible, Mr Ambassador — of course, sensible. But — demanded, as of right, at this late hour! What kind of thing is that to do, eh? Why must it be done now, at this minute? He talks like a schoolmaster, a dreamer!'

  He looked across at Ozeroff, standing stiffly to attention by the door, as if not wishing to draw attention to himself. Inwardly, Khamovkhin quailed. Andropov was right — the 24th. The Americans knew something, something that told them the timetable of Group 1917. And they had tested him, and now they knew he was powerless, impotent. And had issued their challenge — put your house in order, or the next war begins in three days' time!

  He turned his back on them, looked at the portrait of Lenin above the chair in which he had been sitting. Ozeroff, at attention, had been directing his line of sight there. With little more than a hundred men, Lenin had done it, wrested power from Kerensky and the ditherers. And Group 1917 had the whole Army as a means of doing it!

  What was his code? To those faceless men against whom he could make no move — what was his code? Comrade Romanov? The idea was laughable, the title apposite.

  Get them out, get them out, he told himself. He had to get back to Lahti, talk to Andropov in Moscow. Had to. Everything was crumbling in his big, clumsy hands — he had dreamed, hadn't he, a couple of nights ago, of huge hands picking up delicate china cups and saucers, and smashing them with sheer clumsiness. Looking down, he had seen his own body in the dream, and these great shovels of hands sticking out of the sleeves of his coat.

  Woken in a sweat — almost crying out, then realising.

  He had to talk to Andropov. There had to be something, some lead, some identification of the leader, his enemy. Had to be.

  'Captain Ozeroff, order the helicopter to stand by. We are returning to Lahtilinna at once!'

  'Sir.'

  Galakhov was smiling as he closed the door of the Ambassador's office behind him. In the morning, he could contact a courier and relay a message to
Kutuzov. The Americans were suspicious, forewarned. But Khamovkhin knew nothing, feared everything. He would even, as duty officer, hear what was said between Andropov and the First Secretary. The American suspicions would change nothing. Wainwright was bluffing — all the High Command knew he would not go to war for Norway and Finland — it was an axiom of strategy.

  He enjoyed Khamovkhin's fear as he went down the stairs to the duty-room to prepare the car and the helicopter.

  'So that's it, Kenneth — Khamovkhin isn't behind anything. Right this minute, he's got about as much clout as my Aunt Fanny!'

  Buckholz appeared suitably grim, but Aubrey saw the gleam in his eyes, the set of his jaw, and admired, and was amused by, the easy way in which the man had been impressed by the manner of his President's conversation with Khamovkhin.

  'I accept your reasoning, and see you are pleased with the President's enactment of your scenario — ' Buckholz turned on Aubrey, grimaced, then smiled swiftly, raising his hands in an admission. 'However, I am not certain — '

  'Not certain of what?'

  'How effective it will be. It places us in a position of impotence not unlike that of Khamovkhin himself. We can do nothing more, except sit and wait.'

  'Tomorrow, we go see Khamovkhin, for openers — '

  'Charles, what good will that do? The man knows nothing! Otherwise, this Group 1917 would have disappeared from sight long ago, into Gulag or the ground or the mental home, Khamovkhin doesn't know who they are, dammit! It hasn't worked out. We can't expect him to move against the High Command, even though we helped put him on the knife-edge.'

  'Don't come cold water with me, Kenneth. Right now, Khamovkhin is on board his chopper, heading hell-for-leather for his castle on the hill to talk to the Chairman of the KGB!'

  Buckholz walked round his desk to confront Aubrey. The round face of an ancient, cunning child looked up into his. Buckholz shook his head, walked over to the dumb-waiter.

  'It isn't that I don't want to be optimistic,' Aubrey said in a more conciliatory tone. 'It's simply a matter of looking at facts head-on, without the squint imparted by the status of representing a super-power. I can do that, having been born into the aftermath of the British Empire, on which the sun has firmly set — ' Aubrey smiled as Buckholz handed him the tumbler of whisky. 'Your health. No, it is simply that we now have to rely on the efforts of the KGB for our survival — as simple as that.'

  'It won't come to war — they'll back down.'

  'Khamovkhin would turn somersaults, I agree. But — the Red Army. Will they feel threatened, or simply challenged to a fight — and respond by picking up the gage?'

  'It won't come to it, Kenneth.'

  'In the time that may be left to us, I shall do my best to solve the mystery surrounding Captain Ozeroff — after all, he may know something useful. My surveillance of him begins with the dawn. And I have a way of placing him in our hands — do you wish to hear it?'

  Buckholz nodded.

  'Very well, but bring the bottle first. And I shall tell you what we shall request of Khamovkhin tomorrow.' Then, struck by a sobering realisation, he added, 'I wonder who the KGB have investigating this matter. I hope it's someone first-class — I really do!'

  Vorontsyev stirred in the big bed, reached out, and found Natalia near him. She was still, apparently, asleep, and he touched her only lightly on the arm, not wishing to wake her.

  As he came awake himself, there was the groundswell of urgency, and fear, in the pit of his stomach, making the bed colder, his wife distanced. He had been in Khabarovsk for thirty-six hours, and nothing. Except that they followed him everywhere, and probably laughed as he got nowhere, learned nothing.

  Yet he could not move. It was just a case of getting out of bed, stepping on cold tiles in the bathroom — but, literally and metaphorically, he did not want to leave this bed.

  He looked at his wife again. They had dined together early the previous evening, and drunk perhaps more than was good for them. Later, they had made love for the first time in months; it had been a natural conclusion to the evening — and perhaps he had wanted to bury his waking, wakeful mind in the temporary dream of sex. It had been as if they were on holiday together, and their behaviour imitated domestic life but with the added piquancy of a new place, a strange bed.

  Thus, his reluctance to consider himself a policeman, on an investigation.

  A beginning?

  He refused to think about that, by an effort of will. Nevertheless, now he had recaptured the mood, there was a deep contentment in him for those few minutes after waking. He had enjoyed eating with her again, and enjoyed the clever, familiar humour they both brought, at one time, to conversation. And their first love-making, hurried and urgent though it was. He had been close to her then, for a few moments — lost in her.

  When he had woken her later in the night, then perhaps that had been — more erotic, yes, but not as he would have wished. There was a small wince of shame, of impurity, that ran through his frame; it sprang, he knew, from the kind of puritanism he had inherited from his father, and had imbibed in Gorochenko's house.

  In the ecstasy, he had asked her to reassure him, and she had done, telling him over and over that he was better than her other lovers, there was no one like him.

  Alexei, Alexei — yes, yes.. He felt the stirrings of an erection even at the memory, and the little shame — deeper than the embarrassment at recollected intimacy.

  He had wanted her to master him, riding above him, her breasts like fruit just out of reach of his mouth — yes, he had wanted that, and it had seemed real for her as well.

  It was himself he disliked a little.

  But she had come back to him. And now, while she was still asleep and there could be no contradiction of perfection by anything she did or said, or they did or said, he was content again. He felt his eyes pucker at the sense of her nearness, and the weight of memory pressing on tear-ducts.

  He got softly out of bed, and went over to the window. He lifted aside the heavy drape; it was a clear day, windy, high-clouded. It would serve for his purpose.

  He looked back at his sleeping wife, the bare arm over the coverlet, the black hair massed on the pillow, hiding the small face. Because the moment offered a complete contentment, he had abandoned it. It would be preserved in memory, ready to be returned to. If he had let it go on any longer, it might have passed ripeness. He was afraid, he admitted — as afraid of happiness as he had been of isolation, disappointment.

  So, he returned to his job. He looked out of the window again.

  The police had rounded up a few suspected Separatists, and he had tried to show a polite interest, but he had known those frightened little people could never have planned to take out the whole KGB Office in Khabarovsk. They amounted to little more than slogan-daubers, booers at public meetings from the safety of crowds.

  Which left the Ivanov Charter Company, which rented hangar-space at Khabarovsk Airport, nine kilometres outside the town. Ivanov, or whoever was in charge of the operation, owned two old Antonov high-wing monoplanes, and a helicopter. A small MIL. Which was paid for by, and reserved for, the KGB in Khabarovsk. An economy measure — the lawman's twentieth-century horse in the Soviet Far East.

  Ivanov was obviously a local entrepreneur; the charter company was not state owned, like many of the small companies and businesses in this part of the Soviet Union; it was more efficient to allow enterprising capitalists to set up, and fund and operate, such ventures. Ivanov delivered mail to outlying villages, flew missions for the doctors and hospitals, delivered groceries to state-owned outlets throughout the region. And he assisted the KGB in the matter of a helicopter.

  Vorontsyev had stumbled across the information by chance. A policeman had referred to the fact that 'Old Ivanov was lucky he didn't get blown up too, and his precious helicopter.' When Vorontsyev had elicited the source of the reference, he had trembled with excitement. A non-military aircraft; the only successful means of sniffing around the
Military District HQ — from the air.

  'Have you got any cigarettes, Alexei?' he heard Natalia ask. She was sitting up in bed, her breasts free of the sheets, her arms stretched as he pushed the thick dark hair away from her forehead. He breasts were taut, inviting. He was almost certain it was an unconscious gesture. Something like the feelings of the previous evening, an ameliorated sense of the erotic mingled with something like longing, came over him. She smiled. He was able to imagine invitation, and a curious innocence and warmth, in the movement of her lips.

  He took the packet of American cigarettes from the dressing-table, and threw them to her. Then the lighter. She seemed to weigh it in her hand, and then said:

  'We do have the good life, eh, Alexei?' She was still smiling. 'You and I.'

  He nodded. 'We ought to be able to live reasonably convenient and happy lives.' His tone was neutral, carefully so; yet he was inviting her to commit herself. She puffed at the cigarette, leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind her head, and studied him. He was acutely conscious that he was naked, and that the act of her merely looking stirred him.

  'We ought — yes,' she admitted. Then she stubbed out the cigarette, and murmured, 'Come back to bed.'

  He almost looked at his watch on the dressing-table, to check the time. He smiled at himself, yet there was a tiny sense of disappointment in him, as if her invitation was a substitute; as if he had been reading a great book, and then been told it was superficial, unreal; or involved in a complex puzzle only to be told that the answer was easy, and not worth the finding.

  Which was why he stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, just looking at her. She held out her arms to him, her breasts still free of the sheets, and he saw something crude, soiled about the open eroticism of it. He wanted her to be otherwise, even as he wanted her. She smiled as she saw his erection, which for an instant became a visible, hated helplessness as far as she was concerned.