Snow Falcon kaaph-2

by Craig Thomas

  What would he do? The answer, of course, was simple. Why else was he on his own, the decision to dump Folley at the Consulate and catch the first plane to Moscow already made before he had consciously analysed the matter? He wanted to find Gorochenko by himself. Stupid knight-in-shining-armour idea. No — an idea prompted by the weight of the past on him, which he could not ignore or overcome. If he could find Gorochenko, he could stop the coup — that would be his duty.

  Find Gorochenko. Find, like an order to the dog. Find, but not kill Gorochenko must not be put on trial, and executed, no matter that he had used Natalia against him, ordered Ossipov to kill him; ordered the deaths of Ilya and Maxim. Tried to kill him in the dacha, with the booby-trapped corpse. He must not be caught The telephone, suddenly ringing next to him as he stood indecisively in the study, caused him to jump. His hand came away from the blotter on the desk as if it were electrified. With simple reflex, before his thoughts could interfere, he picked it up.

  'Yes?'

  he asked, caution catching in his throat like phlegm.

  'Is that the Gorochenko house? Who is that speaking?' Masked, official tones.

  He slammed down the telephone. He glanced round the study once, realising that it oppressed him with a weight of obligation. He moved to the door, and noticed for the first time the portrait of his father, dressed in uniform, a photograph taken in the last year of the war, perhaps just after the patriotic army had entered Germany. It was the picture of his father he had liked best as a child — slim, youthful, laughing, a tank and its crew behind him. The picture was surrounded, carefully, by black crepe.

  Which made Vorontsyev run cold for a reason he could not understand. His father — the anniversary of his death had been six months before. He touched the black crepe gingerly, as if he half-expected a seaweed sliminess, then shook his head.

  He ignored the dog in the kitchen, and let himself out of the house. There were a few parked cars, but none of them suspiciously occupied. He closed the gate behind him, and heard the faint barking of the dog from the kitchen. Its tone seemed plaintive. He shuddered as if cold and hurried away from the house where he had once lived.

  Aubrey was, reluctantly, becoming adept at conversation with Khamovkhin. Now that the Soviet First Secretary was no more than a problem in security, he had lost a great deal of his interest in the Snow Falcon operation, as he still termed it — which meant he should have been bored. The fact that he was not was yet another indication that he was getting old.

  They were walking on one of the terraces of the Lahtilinna, overlooking the slaty-grey expanse of the lake. The sky was a pale blue, with little cloud, a spring day without the temperature to sustain the illusion. Buckholz was on one side of the Russian leader, Aubrey on the other. They walked with the slow pace of statesmen or pensioners.

  Khamovkhin was relieved, it was evident — and confident in Andropov's security machine. Aubrey thought it the over-confidence of a man driving a car that has never broken down before. The knocking in the engine — not possibly something wrong, the car never goes wrong. Any fear he had was a personal one, that assailed him at moments, for his own safety. Which was smaller, more agreeable, than the emotions aroused by the potential cataclysm the Soviet Leader now considered impossible.

  'I do think you should spend only the minimum of time out of doors,' Aubrey said stiffly, and disliked the old-maid manner of his solicitation.

  Khamovkhin's eyes sparkled. 'Your concern for me is very touching, Mr Aubrey.' He enjoyed the pursing of Aubrey's lips. 'You have much of the manner of our own security service.' Aubrey's face went suddenly like a chalky mask, and Khamovkhin realised that his joke had touched some secret nerve of loyalty or righteousness in the small old man beside him.

  They came to the end of the terrace walk. Buckholz placed one foot up on the low wall, leaned an elbow on his knee.

  'Tell me about this Gorochenko, Mr First Secretary. Our files seem to be as bare-assed as yours as far as he's concerned.'

  'Perfect for the role of leader of a military take-over,' Khamovkhin observed, rubbing his mittened hands together, and nodding. 'Yes — war hero, immensely loyal throughout the Stalin period — or so it appeared to Beria and Stalin. You had to be loyal to survive the periodic — changes? — in the Politburo in those days. And even more loyal to survive in the Army. But he did it. I suppose that was cleverness.' Khamovkhin was speaking to both, and neither, of them now. He stared out over the lake, but observed an internal landscape. Then anger suffused his face, colouring it despite the cold. 'I should have had him watched more closely!' It was the anger of a man outwitted by a sharper mind. 'He played the semi-senile old goat too well!'

  Aubrey smiled. 'So it would seem. However, you appear very confident, sir, that his arrest is imminent.'

  'Yes — he won't get away.'

  'And we have nothing to worry about — ?'

  Khamovkhin looked at him sharply, as if the Englishman had unsuspected knowledge that Moscow Garrison was off the air and primed to begin the coup. He could not know that.

  'No, we have not. Chairman Andropov will order the Chief of the General Staff and the Defence Minister to begin the stand-down of border units this afternoon. You will have confirmation as soon as it has been done.'

  'As soon as our satellites can see it happening,' Buckholz commented drily.

  'As you say,' Khamovkhin observed frostily, aware that the honours were now firmly with the two foreigners.

  'Unless you are killed,' Aubrey said. 'If that happens, then everything could escalate again — ' He raised his hands, as if to imitate some explosion. 'I think, for that reason alone, we should not prolong our exercise further. Shall we go inside?'

  'Very well'

  Galakhov lay on the narrow bunk, smoking a cigarette. On the bedside table was a plate with a few crumbs and a smear of grease. It had been easy to collect a late breakfast from the kitchens and bring it to one of the unoccupied security team bedrooms in the east wing of the Lahtiliana. He had not quite possessed the bravado to occupy the room he had been given as Ozeroff, but it was on the same floor and corridor. The Finns doing the cooking had taken little notice of him, nor had the few off-duty Englishmen and Americans still eating. It was unlikely that anyone would disturb him before nightfall, when he could act as if on-duty again.

  It was ridiculous, and ridiculously simple. Everyone assumed he should be there. As with Ozeroff, drafting in a security team whose members were strangers to each other had a fatal flaw — who could tell who should not be there? He had dyed his hair so that it was lighter in colour, combed it another way — he had been wearing the hood of his parka all his duty-spell anyway — slipped in contact lenses that changed his eye colour, padded his cheeks slightly, and made sure that he walked with much more of a shuffle. He was certain that, in anything but the best light, he could walk past someone holding his picture — that passport picture they had issued, the one from his Heathrow disguise — and not be recognised.

  He blew a contemptuous funnel of smoke towards the high, cream-painted ceiling. If they searched, he would be asleep, or reading. He was one of them, and they opened the door of the bedside cabinet. He took out a sketch plan made from his own observations of the castle, and a large-scale map of the surroundings of the Lahtilinna. The problem of making his escape had begun to concern him in an immediate, pressing way, so that when he thought of it, as he seemed to do with increasing frequency, his palms seemed to grow damp, his whole body just that infinitesimal amount of his control.

  He began to recite to himself, using the sketch-plan, the litany of moves that would end with the assassination of Khamovkhin.

  The mere presence of Defence Minister Druzhinin and Chief of the General Staff Pavoletskii in his spacious office gave Yuri Andropov a renewed sense of authority, command. He perceived that his worst moments during the past days had come while he was alone — without the challenge of possible enemies or the satisfying obedience of subordinates. The two me
n before him now, both elderly and in uniform, might be enemies — though he did not think so — but since they were tangible and present, they could give no more sense of threat than their bulk, or medals or features.

  And they looked old, and rather ordinary, with turkey-necks of loose skin just above the collars of their green uniforms, just above the V-shapes of their rows of medals, and framed by the heavy square shoulder-boards. Gold rank, green cloth, and the bronze and gold of medals. There they were, he thought — his reaction was tinged with contempt — the old stories — both of them wearing the medal commemorating the thirtieth anniversary of the Soviet Army, both of them the medal for Heroic Work during the Great War of the Motherland; both with the medal for the Liberation of Berlin. Pavoletskii with the Medal for Valour, and the Medal for the Defence of Leningrad — Druzhinin with the Medal for Battle Merit, and the Defence of the Caucasus.

  Parade uniforms, parade minds, parade behaviour. Old soldiers. He weighed his words carefully.

  'It is necessary, at this time, to stand down certain of the border units — especially those that have undertaken unauthorised movements and dispositions during the past week.' He watched their faces, just as Kapustin, standing a little way behind the two soldiers, watched him. Andropov was already assessing future loyalties. His remarks had challenged the two visitors to take sides, declare themselves.

  It was Pavoletskii who spoke first. He cleared his throat as if the words stuck there.

  1 speak personally, Chairman Andropov,' he began, glancing at his companion, 'When I say that I learn with surprise, even horror, of the charges you have levelled against certain senior officers in the Soviet Army — '

  'And I — ' Druzhinin interrupted, but as if on cue, 'I am saddened to hear of the — accidents — that have befallen those same officers who have fallen under suspicion from the security Then there was a silence. Andropov felt an unexpected anger welling in him, and pressed his palms on his thighs, as if to restrain the emotion. But he was unable to prevent his outburst. The anger forced his body forward, made his face thin with rage.

  'He is one of you! Gorochenko is one of you — an army man! Don't pretend you didn't know — ' He saw Kapustin's face darken with warning.

  'You have no proof that the Deputy Foreign Minister is involved in a conspiracy against the state involving sections of the armed forces,' Druzhinin remarked levelly, his stare seeming to read Andropov's thoughts.

  'Proof?' Andropov asked mockingly. 'We have all the proof we require to arrest him for questioning — ' Each of the two soldiers flinched in contempt. 'Now I ask you again — will you issue the necessary orders to units in GSFN and the Red Banner Northern Fleet?'

  After an interminable silence, Druzhinin said, 'I will request Marshal Pavoletskii to draw up new dispositions for the units who may have adopted provocative frontier positions.'

  'And the Moscow Garrison? Something must be done.'

  Pavoletskii's eyes gleamed, and Andropov realised that the dialogue had been rehearsed, that he had been led, rather than been leader, thus far.

  'When you have taken Deputy Foreign Minister Gorochenko into custody, then I will order the stand-down of the Garrison and the arrest of Valenkov.'

  Suddenly, the furniture of the room, gloomily heavy to eye and hand, seemed unsubstantial to Andropov.

  'You refuse?'

  'No. There is nothing to accept or refuse. I will comply with your request when I am presented with proof that the Moscow Garrison is involved with Comrade Gorochenko in a conspiracy against the state.'

  'Where is Major Vorontsyev, who you say has such proof?' Pavoletskii asked silkily, unsurprised even when Andropov stood up, leaning his weight on white-knuckled hands on the edge of his desk.

  'Get out! Get out!' was all he managed to say. The two soldiers, as if the years had lightened, stood up together, put on their caps and saluted like junior officers. Then, as one, they turned to the door, and went out.

  Kapustin watched Andropov for a moment. 'You handled that very badly,' he observed.

  'Don't tell me that — what are you, a bloody theatre critic?' Andropov screamed, Kapustin took one step towards the desk, then halted as Andropov succumbed completely to his fury. 'They're all in league! Those two, they're just standing back to see who will be the winner! They will watch as you and I are swept away like dirt, or flushed down the lavatory. Don't you understand — they know what's going on! And they will do nothing about it!'

  'They will order the invasion troops to stand down from frontier positions. What else did you expect?'

  'Valenkov is all that's required for the whole thing to succeed!'

  'And I know that. We have to find Gorochenko before tomorrow. And Vorontsyev.'

  'Find them, then — find them!' Andropov raged, the sweat bright on his forehead, the light from the window catching his spectacles so that he had no eyes for a moment and looked hollow and incomplete. 'Find them — find them!'

  Vorontsyev dialled the unlisted number of the telephone on his own desk in the Frunze Quay office. The glass of the public telephone on Gogol Boulevard fogged swiftly, so that he could no longer see the people waiting at the bus stop, staring up at the public TV screen at the head of the bus queue. The opaque glass of the booth became a mirror of the tension which had built with every step from Gorochenko's house. So far, he had not been followed.

  He listened to the ringing of the telephone, his other hand tugging compulsively at the cord as he waited. Then, thankfully, Alevtina answered.

  'Office of Major Vorontsyev.'

  'Alevtina, can you talk freely? It's me.' The anonymous admission sounded coy and unreal from an SID officer. The girl gasped audibly.

  'Major — they've been here,' she stammered. 'Kapustin himself is looking for you. We're supposed to report if — '

  'Alevtina, will you help me?' It was a plea. His isolation, his dependence on this single telephone call, assailed him. He was naked before what threatened him, and he could not assume the strength to order or impress. Alevtina was silent for a long time.

  'What can I do, Major?' It was not a bluff, or a delay while they put on a trace. Vorontsyev knew it was something more than obedience — and for the first time he was grateful for the girl's romantic feelings towards him, which he had studiously ignored. He was greedy for affection, suddenly.

  'I have to have the file — on my father.'

  'Your — the Deputy Foreign Minister? I heard there was a panic on, and he was part of it — '

  'He is it,' Vorontsyev said slowly. 'Didn't they tell you? He's the ringleader of Group 1917.' 'Oh-my-God,' the girl breathed softly. Vorontsyev envied her the simplicity of the shock.

  'Yes. And I have to find him — me, no one else. You understand, Alevtina? I need that file. Is it still there?'

  'What — oh, yes. A copy taken by the Deputy Chairman, but there's still our office copy — ' She had retreated into a secretarial neutrality.

  'Bring it to me. Can you do that?'

  'Er — yes. My lunch-hour is due in a few minutes. Where?'

  Cautiously, Vorontsyev said, 'The cafe — where we used to meet my wife after rehearsals. Yes?'

  A pause then: 'Yes. Give me half an hour.'

  Vorontsyev put down the clammy bakelite of the receiver. The air outside the opaque of the booth seemed colder, a sudden shock of water flung in his face. He had to have that file. The fact that the girl would help him, at least sufficiently to bring him the file, was a small warm place in his chest.

  The TV screen at the head of the bus queue was showing a repeat of Khamovkhin's address to the Finnish Parliament. Vorontsyev ignored it.

  The cafe was in a small street off Sverdlov Square, which contained the Bolshoi Theatre, and it specialised fairly cheaply, in Georgian cooking. Vorontsyev had not been there for some time, and most of the waiters were unfamiliar. He sat in a dim corner towards the back of the cafe, knowing that one avenue of escape via the urinal at the back was quickly available. It was r
isky, moving as openly as he must round the centre of the city — he was the KGB's best means of finding Gorochenko.

  He combated his tiredness with dark coffee, and stilled hunger by devouring heavily spiced chicken satsivi with brine-pickled cabbage and red peppers. The overpowering flavour of the food refreshed him, gave him a sense of normality; it did not evoke memories of any personal life.

  While he was drinking more coffee after the meal, he saw the girl framed in the square of light at the doorway. He raised his hand, and she joined him.

  'Were you followed?'

  'I don't think so. I tried to be clever — ' There was a pleasure in conspiracy about Alevtina, and a deeper concern for him in her green eyes. She was concerned for him, wanted to help him — and something was pleased with his isolation and helplessness. 'At least no one saw me removing this, sir.'

  Vorontsyev nodded, and pushed his coffee cup aside. Then he took the file from its envelope and opened it. He leafed through the entries, uncertain now that he had it what use it would be. Then he looked up, putting it back in the envelope.

  'Now I have to go.' He placed a ten-rouble note on the table.

  'Sir — can I help?' Vorontsyev saw the eager, brave look in the girl's eyes, and shook his head. He was refreshed by her concern, but wanted no more of it at that moment.

  'No, Alevtina. You may be in trouble already. I have to find my father. If anyone questions you, say I tricked you into this — ' The girl shook her head.

  'Don't worry about me, sir.'

  Vorontsyev took his overcoat from a chair, put it on. Then scarf and gloves.

  'Leave first, will you? Just in case.'

  'Sir. And good luck, whatever that means.'

  'Thanks, Alevtina. Don't worry about me — ' He motioned the girl towards the door. She stared at him, as if to remember, then went out, turned to the left, and was out of sight. Vorontsyev gave her a few moments, then turned up his collar because the cafe was more crowded now with office workers and shoppers, and he could not be certain of the faces that bent over food or were masked behind newspapers and clouds of cigarette smoke.