Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  The guard looked puzzled, and frightened. He glanced at the ID card in the wallet, then swallowed. He said, 'There were a few — all men.'

  'Very well. You will do as I say. You know enough to know what SID is?' The guard nodded. 'Then I need say no more to you, comrade. The people who searched the train are — traitors. Naturally.' He watched the guard glancing over his dishevelled clothes, then at the ID card again. Then the little man nodded.

  'You would like some tea, Major?'

  'Yes. Then fetch this Levin. I have orders for him.'

  His eyes felt heavy. The man bustled to pour tea, cleaning a mug with his woollen slipover, out of politeness, deference. Then he sugared it well, and placed it before Vorontsyev. Vorontsyev nodded his thanks.

  When the little man was at the door, to run his errand, he said, 'When does the Trans-Siberian cover this stretch of track?'

  The guard appeared surprised. He said: 'Two days' time, Major.'

  Behind him, as he closed the door, Vorontsyev was laughing helplessly.

  ' A postal van, drab and windowless, met the train at Vladivostok, usurping the normal mail-collection. It drove I on to the platform, and its open doors masked Vorontsyev's! passage into its rear compartment from the guard's van. Inside was the Resident, Svobodny, and two other armed KGB men — one of them seated next to the driver — and a doctor. Even as I the van drove furiously out of the station, the doctor began to attend to Vorontsyev's frostbitten fingers and toes.

  Vorontsyev felt stretched, worn — he had had a couple of hours of uneasy sleep on the train which had not refreshed him;

  he was unable to consider the fate of his fingers and toes. It didn't seem to matter, especially when the Resident, without expression on his flat, Mongol features, said, 'What the hell is going on, Major Vorontsyev? I have to pick you up from the rear of a train, just after getting a Blue Call from Moscow Centre!'

  'You what?' Vorontsyev was on the point of asking about the secure channel to Moscow, and Aeroflot flights. Now, with a sick wrench that might have been hunger, he sensed that his questions no longer mattered.

  'Yes — Blue Call. That's stand by to destroy all records, and make your own way out. It's never been used inside the Soviet Union before, has it?' Svobodny was frightened, and bemused. He had come to collect Vorontsyev personally in order to fine answers, allay fears. But Vorontsyev's face indicated ignorance? and shock.

  'I know what it means,' Vorontsyev murmured. Then he asked, very slowly, 'When was the message timed?'

  Priority messages from Moscow Centre were always timed according to a code. The almost mythical Blue Call, used in normal circumstances to warn cells, units, or bases outside the Soviet Union, would be timed so that the recipient would understand the deadline of the call — the hour of maximum danger.

  '06:00, on the 24th — tomorrow.'

  Vorontsyev slumped in his seat, so evidently that the doctor looked up from his feet, reached for his pulse. Vorontsyev brushed his hand aside.

  'I'm too late — too bloody late!'

  'What's the matter?' Svobodny was anxious, but almost indifferent since realising that the SID Major could provide no answers to his own fears. 'We might all be too bloody late. Major!'

  'I can't get to Moscow in time — I know what they intend doing!'

  'Who?

  'The bloody army — they're going to invade Finland and Norway — I know it, and it's too bloody late to tell anyone!'

  'What the hell are you talking about, Major?'

  'Wait — what time is it in Moscow, now?'

  Svobodny looked at his watch for an interminable time: Vorontsyev could almost see the wheels and cogs in the gold case moving, and imagine them moving in Svobodny's head. It didn't seem to matter to the man, or was too difficult for him.

  'Four in the afternoon — yesterday.'

  'The 22nd?'

  'Yes.'

  'Eight hours' flight — when is the first plane 'Seven.'

  'You're not going anywhere, Major,' the doctor said, now examining Vorontsyev's left hand.

  'Are you going to amputate anything?' The doctor shook his head.

  'You have to rest.'

  'We can all do that after we're dead — seven, seven — eight hours, going backwards. I'd get to Moscow before I started, wouldn't I?' Svobodny nodded. 'Three in the afternoon here, three in the morning there. I can do it — I can do it!' He moved his bandaged feet, and groaned. The doctor looked at him as if at an idiot.

  'It gives a little over twenty-four hours before the deadline. What will you do with it?'

  'The Blue Call concerns an attempted coup — '

  'What-?'

  'Listen! By the Army — but I know who's behind it. It's obvious — the same men who are behind the invasion they're planning — Group of Forces North. Praporovich, Marshal Praporovich. We can get him!'

  'Oh, yes,' Svobodny observed. 'Just like that — hands up, the Red Army.'

  Vorontsyev missed the evident irony. He was flexing his fingers, trying to move his toes, as if in preparation for some extreme physical effort, One thought now possessed him — that he had an answer, some answer which was better than ignorance, and he had to communicate it to Andropov personally.

  'Use the transmitter and stay here,' Svobodny said. 'It's not Moscow, but there are Things to do.'

  'In the time that's left, you mean? No — your transmitter will be intercepted, I'm sure of that. Tell them — you speak to them, only what you can tell them without giving the game away. Don't attract attention. Use a low-grade code — warn them I'm coming, but don't give details.' Svobodny nodded.

  The engine of the car was switched off.

  'We're here, Chief,' the driver called back.

  'Any tail?

  'No.'

  'Good.' Svobodny looked at Vorontsyev. 'So, the world's falling round our ears — I'll get you a ticket, and get on the radio.'

  As he limped out of the back of the van across the courtyard behind the KGB building, Vorontsyev thought — they must think I'm dead of the cold by now. They must think I'm dead.

  By six-thirty he was at Vladivostok Airport, looking out over the windy tarmac to the Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-154 which would take him to Moscow. He was dressed in a dark woollen suit borrowed from one of the KGB staff, and a heavy overcoat. He carried a briefcase, and some luggage had been sent on to the plane ahead of him to further enhance the cover he possessed as a civil servant in the Bureau for Industry and Construction. His new name was Tallinn. He would be met at Cheremtievo by an armed escort, and taken straight to Andropov's office.

  If Kapustin understood the simple code.

  He had become more and more confident that by now Ossipov and his staff would consider him dead. No one outside the KGB knew otherwise. Levin and the guard had been removed from the train before it left Vladivostok — no one could ask them questions. Before the mistake could be discovered, he would be in Moscow.

  He knew he should not call his wife.

  He walked slowly, getting used to the unaccustomed stick, his feet aching and his gloved hands sore and prickly, towards the telephone booths. Eight hours, and he could call her from Moscow. Eight hours, and Svobodny could tell her.

  He barely understood the compulsion, or why the compulsion made the risk seem minimal. It had to do with almost dying as he waited for the train, and the narrow mental life, almost obsessional, of those hours. And it had to do with the burden of knowledge he carried, the sense of isolation that it gave him. He had to talk to her. Whatever — she had to be told now that he was safe.

  Or perhaps he required her comfort now, because it had been unavailable earlier. He dialled the operator, using a pen in his gloved hand, and asked for the hotel in Khabarovsk. She would be there; eagerness to hear her voice overrode any remaining reserve, as the line hummed and crackled with static, then buzzed with the connection.

  'Madame Vorontsyevna,' he said. 'Room 246.'

  He waited. The operator came back.

/>   'I'm afraid that Madame Vorontsyevna is not in her room, m have her paged, if you'll wait.'

  'Very well.'

  It was only after the operator had gone away again, and he could distantly hear the tiny noises of the switchboard, a mumbled voice, then the tannoy call for Natalia, that he realised I bow long it was taking. A minute to make the connection with the room — now how long to find her?

  He should ring off — just in case. Then he heard her.

  'Alexei! Alexei! Thank God you're safe! Where are you?1 She seemed breathless, but he could not be sure. Then his mind stopped investigating her.

  'Never mind. I'm all right. I called to tell you I'm all right.'

  'I was so worried — !' she said, her voice thick with emotion. I It warmed him, yet he looked at his watch. Six forty-seven. In I a few moments, they would be calling his flight. She could probably hear the sounds of an airport coming down the connection — stop it, stop it! he pleaded with himself.

  'It's all right, darling. It's all right. Look, I'll be in touch. Don't worry — it's all right now.'

  'Alexei — where are you, darling? Where are you?' And there was no mistaking the imperative in the voice. Someone behind her had shaken his head. The trace was not completed, despite the fact that they would be working back through the Vladivostok exchange. She was being encouraged by a waved hand and an imploring face to keep the conversation going. He knew that. He did not know or care how he knew it — but he did. Just as certainly as he knew that she was helping whoever it was voluntarily. She was not being coerced.

  As a last chance, he said, 'Can you talk freely?' And he prayed that she would give the right answer.

  She said, 'Of course, darling. What's the matter with you? Where are you, Alexei? I'll come right away!'

  He prayed for control over his voice.

  'Sorry, darling — must go now. I'll be in touch soon!'

  He slammed down the receiver. When he took his hand away from it, it was quivering. There was perspiration on his forehead, and he wiped it angrily, miserably away.

  They knew he was speaking from Vladivostok, but they hadn't completed the trace. He looked at his watch. Six fifty. They were calling the flight, he realised. He settled the briefcase under his arm, adjusted the stick, began to walk.

  He tried very hard not to understand that his wife was working for Ossipov, and the people who had tried to kill him. And behind that fact, there was another terrible possibility, which he could more easily bury — because he simply had no desire to entertain it.

  But — boarding a plane? he thought as he crossed the chilly tarmac slowly. To give the service twenty-four hours to round up the Army? His wife's final infidelity dragged at his purpose, tried to diminish and ridicule it; told him to turn round, give himself up, or get away with Svobodny and his team. Stupid, stupid — The steward at the door of the Tupolev noticed how white and upset Mr Tallinn looked as he boarded the plane for Moscow. His eyes were unduly wet, too, for someone who had merely walked across the tarmac in the wind.

  Thirteen: The Couriers

  The passengers boarding the Moscow flight travelled from the terminal building across the windy stretch of tarmac to the Tupolev accompanied by a military truck. There were four soldiers with Kalashnikovs thrust upright from between their knees, and three officers in fur hats and great-coats. In the distance, Vorontsyev could see the olive-green and drab brown vehicles and knots of men that signified the military presence at Khabarovsk Airport. The Moscow flight from Vladivostok had landed at Khabarovsk, a scheduled stop of twenty minutes, less than an hour after taking off. It was a return to the hub of the search for him that Vorontsyev could not avoid.

  With the tension mounting within him, he involuntarily fingered the papers in his pocket that declared him to be Tallinn, and a member of the Secretariat. They were good papers, since they were KGB, but the passport photograph on his identity visa — which he had to use for internal air travel — was a hasty affair. And it looked too hastily affixed to the ID card. The other papers would pass inspection.

  He wondered who amidst the cold little huddle of passengers climbing the gangway had been detailed by Ossipov to travel on this travel — or had Ossipov decided that a search would be sufficient? He hoped so.

  Vorontsyev was travelling first class, as befitted a civil servant visiting the Soviet Far East on state business. There were only a handful of fellow-passengers, including one KGB officer from Vladivostok — a tough, capable looking individual with a broad stomach and a bandy-legged walk — loaned to him for his protection by Svobodny. The man had boarded the plane separately, and gave no sign that he was in any way connected with Vorontsyev.

  Vorontsyev turned. The man was looking out of his window, studying the ascending passengers. His only real concern would be with anyone who was to travel first class.

  Then the great-coated officer, a colonel, pushed aside the curtain from second class, nodded as the passengers, with one accord, looked up into his face, and said, 'My apologies for any delay and inconvenience, comrades. An inspection of documents is necessary. If you please.'

  He was a tall man, his thin face reddened with the wind, then the abrupt change of temperature inside the Tupolev. His eyes were grey, and keen. He waited to be obeyed.

  Slowly he moved down the narrow aisle, checking each passenger's papers. He was methodical, and scrutinised photographs carefully comparing them with faces. Once or twice, he held papers up to the light, as if looking for some watermark of authenticity. Vorontsyev, watching him as unobtrusively as he could, did not see him make any comparisons with a photograph he might have possessed. Perhaps Natalia — he remembered her perfidy with a sick lurch of the stomach — had no picture of him. Perhaps there was only a spoken description.

  His hair was tinged with silver at the temples, and he had acquired some padding in his cheeks so he appeared fatter-featured. It was a hurried and partial job — Svobodny had clicked tongue against teeth in disparagement at the effect — but it might just defeat a spoken description of an apparently younger man.

  The Colonel stood at his side, his hand extended. Vorontsyev passed him the small bundle of documents with an assumed confidence. From the second class compartment, masked by the curtain, came the sound of stifled argument. An irregularity For some reason, it steadied Vorontsyev. The Colonel looked over his shoulder, momentarily distracted.

  It seemed an age until the papers were handed back. The Colonel tipped his fur hat with his gloves, and clicked his heels.

  'Thank you, Comrade Tallinn. A pleasant flight.'

  Vorontsyev was the last passenger in first class to have his papers scrutinised. The soldier turned on his heel, and clicked back through the curtain. Vorontsyev breathed deeply, and returned his attention to the window. After a few minutes, he saw the detachment of soldiers climb back aboard the truck, which pulled away from the aircraft, followed by the passenger gangway and the bus.

  No one had entered the first class compartment. Vorontsyev could hardly believe his luck. The 'No Smoking' notice flicked on at the end of the compartment, and the voice of the steward instructed him to fasten his seat belt. He did so, amused at the quiver in his hands; a record of a past tremor. It was over now. He settled back in his seat as the Tupolev turned out of the taxiway on to the long runway.

  The steward entered the first class only minutes after the Tupolev had reached its cruising height and speed, taking orders for drinks and breakfast. Vorontsyev decided at first against a drink, then relented and ordered whisky rather than vodka, but no food. He could not feel hungry, even though the steward had hovered at his elbow until he ordered at least a drink. He had again succumbed to the sapping imagery of Natalia's betrayal.

  The steward went away. Vorontsyev, as if for distraction, glanced behind him at the KGB man. He was apparently sleeping, head lolling on the shoulder of a good-looking girl, who appeared reluctant to enjoy the experience, reluctant to move the greasy-haired head. As if she knew the m
an's occupation. Probably she had seen the ID card.

  Natalia. The betrayal went to his loins, to his head; touches of hands and lips, but now cold, revolting. He felt sick, and cursed the feverish imagination she had always encouraged whenever he thought about her. It was not time now to fall to pieces, to dissolve like a snowman into the comfortable seat. He had to be strong, he told himself, tears pricking behind his eyes, and his nose seeming to run. He sniffed like a child, loudly.

  He could not believe they had forced her to do it. That was the trouble. He knew she had agreed, that she had only come with him to watch him, to — distract him. He could see her, vividly naked, even when he opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on the dazzle of sunlight off the cloudbase below the wing. Her arms out to him.

  He hated, too, the thought that someone else, other than her, knew him well enough to exploit his weakness, his stupid, pleading, childish desire for her. That, perhaps, since all things seemed to return to himself, more than anything; that he was known, and his weaknesses were sufficiently understood to make him a tool, a pawn, on someone's operations.

  He coughed, the bile of anguish in the back of his throat, choking him. More than anything, the impotence — the lack of secrecy about his deep self.

  The steward proffered the whisky on his tray — soda in a tiny bottle. He looked up in surprise, then seemed to come to himself, and nodded. He wanted the drink now. The steward smiled, the tray with its ringed white cloth waiting for his money. He pulled out his wallet, then, clumsily, fitted the glass into the socket attached to his seat. Then he juggled the bottle from hand to hand, trying at the same time to open his wallet on his lap. He fumbled for money, as if he had just been awoken from sleep, and saw his SID identity card staring up at him. He looked up at the steward, hastily closing the wallet, a ten-rouble note gripped in his free hand.

  The steward had noticed nothing. The suspicious quality in his behaviour was that there was no flicker of increased deference hi his manner. Simply the bland, smiling features of a young man who saw nothing. Vorontsyev passed him the money, and raised the glass to his lips. Then things happened confusingly, and his only impression was of the steward being elbowed aside and his lap getting wet as the whisky was spilled. He leaned out in his seat. The steward was on the floor, and a heavy body was astride his, a gun — a big Stechkin — was at the steward's temple.