by Craig Thomas
Fourteen: Beyond Discussion
'Just in time to catch the post office before it closes,' Philipson observed to the driver, who was too dulled with the cold to reply. The observation car had been parked opposite the Central Post Office in Station Square for less than fifteen minutes, but already Philipson had to keep wiping the windscreen to clear the mist that was freezing — he rubbed now with his heavy mitten until a scratchy little patch of clear glass allowed him to check that it was Captain Ozeroff entering the glass doors of the post office.
'All units,' Philipson said into the car radio, now that he was certain, 'subject has just entered the post office. No one is to follow him in — I'll go. He hasn't seen me.' He looked at Greaves, the driver. 'Come on, old son. Let's go and see who's been writing to our friend.'
The driver merely grunted. Outside the car, the wind cut instantly through Philipson's sheepskin coat, and the snow struck through his fur-lined boots. He wondered whether a centrally-heated office had made him soft, then thrust his hands into his pockets, and crossed the Mannerheimintie from the railway station, careful with his footing as he dodged the last of the home-going commuter traffic heading north to the suburbs.
He went up the steps, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar gun m the small of his back, tucked into his waistband, as if the temperature of its butt had suddenly dropped. He avoided a woman in a tent-like fur coat, then went through the revolving doors into the delusory warmth of strip-lighting in the high Riling. It was warmer — where was he?
Philipson had only a vague idea of why Aubrey was interested in Captain Ozeroff of the Soviet security team at Lahtilinna. But, as surveillance jobs went, he had done a good one, in his own estimation, especially since Ozeroff had been off-duty and in Helsinki for most of the day, and surveillance of a slow-moving, undistracted subject was more difficult, and wearing. Ozeroff had been to the Ateneum Art Gallery, the Parliament building, the National and Municipal Museums, and down to the harbour in a taxi — plenty of open spaces, and plenty of confined spaces. But the surveillance, it appeared, had remained unsuspected.
Philipson had had to shuffle men, monitor everything; enjoy the organisation and be bored to tears by the passing, monotonous hours.
Ozeroff was over by the mail collection counter, talking to a grey-haired assistant, explaining in affable terms and halting Finnish — by the look of the smiles — what he wanted. Philipson sensed the little tug of excitement in his belly — something? Or nothing; the answer came like a breath of the outside air through the revolving doors. Greaves had taken up a watching position behind him, filling in some interminable form — perhaps for a Finnish driving licence. Ozeroff was fifteen yards away. Philipson, pleased with himself, confident of security, moved towards Ozeroff, and stood as if forming the first of a queue behind him at the counter. He tried to appear bored — recalled the hours and the scrappy sandwich lunch, and had no difficulty in looking uninterested in the conversation.
'Your aunt — naturally. A strange name to come from Karelia,' the old man behind the counter was murmuring, half to himself. 'However, you have the little warrant, there is no difficulty.' He turned to search in the alphabetically-labelled pigeon holes behind him. Philipson caught an impression of the edge of Ozeroff's jaw, tight with muscle, and his hand resting on the counter, hopping like a bird — suspicion, tension? Silly old bugger, Philipson thought as the old man pulled out air mail letters and inspected them carefully through his thick glasses before putting them back.
'You're not from Karelia, are you?' the old man asked conversationally, without turning round.
'From the Russian part — we had to learn Russian at school.' Ozeroff was reluctant to reply. Philipson admired the story, but that small feeling was swept away as the feeling of delight overcame him, Ozeroff was here, pretending to be someone else. He concentrated on not moving, then on allowing all the tension of his frame to flow into a desultory shuffle of his feet, as if he was bored with waiting. Ozeroff did not look round.
The old man turned from the pigeon holes, and held out a letter to Ozeroff — Philipson watched as the hand came out, almost in slow-motion, to take it, then speed up as it was pocketed.
'Thank you,' Ozeroff said. 'She will be pleased to hear from her sister.'
'A pleasure,' the old man replied, staring at the breastpocket into which the letter had gone, as if envious of it or its Russian stamps. Philipson stepped aside as Ozeroff turned away and headed for the door. The old man adjusted his glasses, put his head on one side, and was about to ask Philipson what he could do for him.
Philipson said, 'Who was that letter addressed to?' The old man was taken aback. 'Quickly.' Philipson held out the Helsinki CID card that identified him as an Inspector, so that the old man adjusted his glasses once more, stared at the photograph that matched the face of the man in front of him, nodded a couple of times, and cleared his throat, as if he were about to utter a solemn promise of prayer.
'Ah, Inspector — a letter for the young man's aunt. I think the man is Russian, but he could be from Karelia, eh? The Russian part. Lots of people have crossed the border in the last-'
'He hasn't got an aunt from Karelia. Now — who was the letter for?'
Philipson tried to be neutral, because the old man ought not to remember him too clearly, for any reason — and he was staring attentively at him now, enjoying a sense of conspiracy.
'A strange name — probably a Jew, mm?'
'How would I know — you haven't told me yet.'
'Oh, sorry, Inspector. I hear myself in my head most of the time, living alone. Think I've spoken when I haven't. Fanny Kaplan — that's her name. Strange, isn't it? Fanny Kaplan.'
'Thanks. And keep this to yourself, uh?' There was no hope of it, but it had to be said.
'Of course, of course — '
The old man watched Philipson join the man filling out the form and both men as they went out of the doors, shaking his head with puzzlement, and excitement, all the time.
Outside, Greaves pointed out Ozeroff's retreating back.
'He's probably heading somewhere he can read that,' Philipson remarked. 'Unless he already knows what's in it. Let's go.'
As he went gingerly down the frozen steps, he considered the addressee of the letter with the Russian stamps. There was something familiar about the name, but he could not remember what it was. And it had nothing to do with espionage — he had a ridiculous idea that it had something to do with sixth-form history lessons. Ridiculous, of course.
'Fanny Kaplan — '
'What?' Greaves said, stepping carefully alongside him, a hundred yards behind Ozeroff.
'Look, I'll report this over the radio. Aubrey might as well know at once. You follow our chum, and I'll pick you up in the car.'
'Don't be long, then,' was all Greaves said by way of reply.
As he crossed the Mannerheimintie, Philipson tried to remember where he had heard the name before — but all he could think of was getting drunk after the school fifteen had beaten the old boy's strongest side in his last year. The history master had played at wing-forward, being an old boy. Fanny Kaplan — he could almost hear him saying it now.
Praporovich stared down from the gallery at the huge map table. He had come out of the glass booth where the computer-operators were feeding in movement reports and dispositions, because the atmosphere seemed unreal in there. The glass had become that of a soundless fish tank, and the events registering down there on the board of no more interest that gawping faces staring into the tank. Out on the gallery, there was still little noise. Each of the staff-officers round the table wore headphones and throat-mikes, and their murmurs were indistinct and desultory. But it was more real — the lights glowed I more brightly, and he could see through them to the tanks and I guns and ships they represented.
Pnin was across the border, taking up concealed position I prior to the attack on Ivalo and the capture of the airfield. He I thought of Pnin because of the trouble his rehearsals had
I almost caused — the other Finland Stations were also in pos ition. Attack Force One was massed on the Kirkenes road, right up against the border with Norway. Dolohov's Red Banner Fleet units were putting to sea from ice-free Murmansk — troop-carriers and their submarine and destroyer escorts. And the submarines — the big ones, were in position at the mouths of the principal fjords all the way to Tromso. Further to the east on the map, well inside the Soviet Union, GSFN airborne troops were being moved up to forward positions; they were less than an hour behind schedule, well within the tolerances they had set.
The size of it — the reality — ran through him with the effect of an electric shock. He could not help his features assuming a fierce smile, as if he had been confronted with some massive present in childhood, or some anticipated sexual joy as a young man. There, there Ships, tanks, APCs — the chemical platoons, because Ossipov had got it right in time and the computer programme for the use of the VX gas on each of the target areas had been transmitted to GSFN HQ. Ships, tanks, guns, men; regiments, battalions, divisions, armies; concepts, words, little pictures from old army exercises rolled through his mind in the humbled image of a dreamer. Tomorrow 'Very well — Kapustin, order the eliminations to be carried out! You have the list.'
Andropov watched Kapustin's back until the Deputy Chairman had closed the door behind him. Then, just as clearly, he seemed to watch his own features, though there was no mirror before him and no reflection from the polished surface of his desk. Something was happening to his face, and he could see it clearly, as if each muscular twitch and movement was a brush-stroke on the wall in front of him. His face was collapsing into a mirror of fear.
It was like a nightmare — he put up his hand to remove his glasses, because he was sweating around the eyes, then put his hand hastily away because that nakedness would have further reduced his face to a frightened blob. He remembered his trick of making the light catch his spectacles, so that his eyes disappeared into two moons of light — but there was no one to see the trick, so it would not work. His hand, then Trembling. He put it away, silting on it with his thigh; and he could feel the quiver in his thigh.
Yuri Andropov, Chairman of the KGB, sat on his hands, his body hunched forward in his chair, as if he had been caned at school and was trying to still the throbbing. Yuri Andropov's face was out of control, sliding into an expression of terror at what he ordered, and its now undoubted consequences. He had just ordered the deaths of a dozen men, Yuri Andropov hated himself.
When the man died, the invasion would be stopped. It would begin. He had used the only weapon he had, murder, and it was insufficient. Just as his face was insufficiently endowed with muscular control to present another look than the one of terror he knew it was assuming.
The coup would go ahead — they knew nothing, nothing.
Vorontsyev — Major Vorontsyev. A few men, raiding a house in Leningrad. How could that stop anything? He, as Chairman, could stop nothing by ordering the deaths of Praporovich and Dolohov and a dozen generals It could not come to good. They had left it too late. Too late. He realised, as his body calmed, and the persistent image of his collapsing features went away, that he was a fatalist. They had played and they had lost. Temerity, poor investigative technique, over-confidence — it did not matter what the reason was. They had lost.
In accepting that fact, he told himself, there is a kind of strength. Certainly, he felt calmer, stronger 'Sir — a message from your daughter.'
'What — now?'
'Yes, Admiral.'
'Very well. What is it?' Dolohov could not resist being amused, even on the point of leaving for Praporovich's headquarters. His own work was done — the units of the Fleet were at sea — and, yes, there was time for his only child to ask him what he would like for his birthday, or to tell him that she would be staying for supper so what did he want her to cook for him — ?
He would be sorry to tell her that he would not be home for the next forty-eight hours.
'It's your wife, sir. Apparently, she's been taken to hospital.'
'What? When?'
'Your daughter found her, in the kitchen, sir. She had collapsed — '
'How is she, man?'
'Your daughter says she's all right, that you're not to worry, sir-'
'Worry? How can I not worry? Dammit — which hospital?'
'Sir — she's feeling much better, just a dizzy spell — '
'Which hospital? I must go and see her.'
Aubrey stood at the tall window of the study in which Khamovkhin had first received him and Buckholz. There was no warmth from the huge fire behind him, and he was aware of the cold striking through the frosty glass. He wondered why he had come away from the fire at all, except that, he had wanted to see the light of a cigarette from down on the snowbound paths and lawns, the dicker of torchlight from the security team on duty. Silly. But, the news was deeply disturbing. He turning again to Anders, Buckholz's chief aide.
'You're certain of this ident, Anders?'
The tall American was little more than a bulky shadow on the far side of the fireplace.
'Yes, sir. We're sure.' The voice seemed to come out of the firelit shadow, and Aubrey had to force himself to attend to the mere words, not their dramatic delivery.
'And Captain Ozeroff is nowhere to be found, you say 7' 'Sir, Mr Buckholz checked every one of the Russians himself. Our man wasn't one of them — he's gone AWOL, Mr Aubrey.'
'Damn!' He turned to Anders, then as if he felt his back suddenly exposed to the window, turned back again. 'Ilarion Vikentich Galakhov, Lieutenant, GRU. One-time Intelligence Adviser to Cuba — you're sure about that suspicion of attachment to Cuban Intelligence, are you?'
'One of our senior Latin American analysts was on the wrong end of that attachment, sir,' Anders replied without expression. 'Mission curtailed — and his successor in the field.'
Aubrey looked down at the message in his hand. It had been delivered to Lahtilinna over the radio, in a simple code, and been broken down for him by an operator drafted in from Copenhagen earlier in the day as part of the replacement security team. The message scribbled in a bold, quick hand on the message form was from Philipson, and it was originally timed some hours earlier. By the time he had it, it had been too late to arrest the substitute Ozeroff. He had disappeared — probably triggered by the letter with the Russian stamps.
'Fanny Kaplan,' he murmured.
'Begging your pardon, sir?' Anders murmured deferentially.
'You know your immediate post-Revolutionary history, Anders?'
'Some.'
'Remember Fanny Kaplan?' He wished Anders would not remember, as if that might make his own conclusion less real. Ozeroff had reported back to Lahtilinna from his day off, had spent less than an hour in his room before the official handover of security duties had led to his being required to report to Buckholz — and had calmly disappeared. So completely that repeated searches of the castle and the grounds had not unearthed him.
Anders was silent for a long time, so long that Aubrey thought he was bemused by the question.
'Yes,' he said eventually.
'I ask you again — you are certain about Galakhov's role in Latin America, and his real function while acting as adviser to Cuban Intelligence?'
'Yes.'
'Then the letter was a trigger — it probably contained blank paper. Perhaps even a black spot, mm?' Anders seemed not to understand. 'It meant simply — go underground, carry out your mission. Isn't that the final signal in a Department "V" operation?'
'Often it is, sir.'
'Fanny Kaplan! She killed Lenin — shot him up so badly he never recovered. My God, but these people in Group 1917 love their recent history!' Now he turned to Anders. 'I must see Khamovkhin — and cut through the bluff and the bull. He has to be made to realise that he is the target for Fanny Kaplan — ' His words died suddenly as a thought struck him. 'I think we may have been extremely stupid to have taken over security here, Anders.'
&nb
sp; 'How's that, sir?'
'Because, if Khamovkhin now comes to harm, it will be our fault. And a perfect excuse for our friends in Group 1917 to make war on the murderers of the Soviet First Secretary 1'
'Mr First Secretary,' Buckholz spluttered, losing patience at last, 'we're way beyond any performance here I You could be on the verge of rounding up the so-called ringleaders back home — though I doubt it — but we're talking about your life!'
'Very well. Air Buckholz!' Aubrey could see that Khamovkhin was shaken by the outburst as he was by the threat, which he had seemed capable of absorbing in some way, as if digesting it. 'Very well. However, your men have now completed the take-over. One of them will be on guard outside the door of any room I occupy, until you give orders otherwise. What more can 1 say or do to please you?' The square features were defiant, the thick eyebrows seeming to bristle, the jaw to jut like a prow.
'You're a prisoner here, sir — I have to make that clear to you, and you must make it clear to your people, and to the world, that you are unwell. That's why you have had to cancel your speech to the conference tomorrow.'
'And what about President Wainwright? Is he ill, too?'
'Weather delay. Washington's snowbound.'
'Fortunate.'
'He'd have found another reason.'
'Very well — I will have a communique drafted, for the conference and for the President of Finland.'
'I have it here,' Aubrey said quietly, holding it out. Khamovkhin took the sheets of paper and studied them. Then he removed his glasses, nodded at them, and walked out of the room.
'Sweet Jesus Christ,' Buckholz breathed, slumping into the chair opposite Aubrey. 'What is it with that guy? World War Three is about to happen, his life's in danger — and he spends his time offering us drinks and making small-talk!'