Northlight

Zhigalin.

That was his name? I'd only heard his voice.

Advise me.

New position: 17-G on the east grid. You have a kill.

Keep me advised.

Did we make a hit? Did we make a hit?

Confirm. You made a hit. I repeat: you made a hit.

Lieutenant Kirill Zhigalin.

A third man running.

Fane watched me.

I said: 'That's your problem.'

'Hardly a problem. It gives us a splendid chance of forcing concessions from the Soviets in Vienna. Karasov is dead, but if we could take Zhigalin across, London would be terribly pleased.'

'Fuck London.'

He dropped his cigarette butt with care and put his foot on it. 'I understand your feelings, of course. But you should try to see our point of view. If we can-'

'No.'

He shrugged slightly. 'There would be a definite advantage for you if you agreed to-'

'No.'

He inclined his head. 'Mr Croder would appreciate it if you'd at least signal him and hear what he's got to-'

'No.'

I turned and walked out of the place. And then, because my mind had started to work out all the possibilities, the alternatives, the opportunities, and perhaps because the ancient mother's voice had calmed me with its tales of circuses and clowns while the smoky tang of the chestnuts had reminded me of life renewed, my mood had changed, and I had looked for a small hotel where I could telephone.

'The fact that things are urgent,' I told Croder, 'doesn't concern me.'

'Then why did you signal?'

'To make a deal, if there's one available.'

The cubicle stank of cabbage and the dank vestiges of tobacco, and I inched the folding door open, watching the concierge. If he woke up he'd catch the sound of a foreign tongue, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to tip off the militia that a foreigner had come to the hotel to make a telephone call I'd be miles from here before they could take any kind of action: they'd have to get here on foot.

'What sort of deal?' Croder asked cautiously.

'I'll take Zhigalin across for you, if you'll set it up. But not with Fane directing me.'

The slush came in again, and faint voices, one of them speaking in Estonian.

'Why not?'

'I want someone I can trust.'

'He was simply following my instructions.'

'I know. I want someone who'll refuse your instructions if it becomes expedient again to kill me.'

Just the slush again. He hadn't liked that. Croder is a great lover of euphemism: eliminated, despatched, so forth. He likes his truths sanitized.

'That won't occur.'

'Things can change. Look, if I'm wasting your time, let me know.'

'On the contrary. But you can't hope to bring Zhigalin across without local control, or even get across without him for that matter.'

'I know. But I don't want Fane.'

'There's no one else I could send there, even if there were enough time. And Fane knows the area. He's extremely-' 1 'I want Ferris.'

The line was pretty bad, and he might not have heard properly. 'Say again?'

'I want Ferris.'

Quite a long pause. 'He's in Tokyo.'

'Then fly him out.'

'There isn't time.' He waited for me to answer that, but I didn't. I'd told him what I wanted and there was nothing I needed to add. 'It would be very helpful,' Croder went on at last, 'if you would consider the enormous gravity of the world situation. It is, after all, the reason for, your mission.'

'I haven't had time to read the papers.'

'Negotiations,' he said slowly, 'have now broken down between Moscow and Washington. The United Kingdom is the last link between the super-powers, and yesterday Lord Cranley flew to Moscow in an aircraft of the Queen's Flight to attempt a last-ditch agreement with the Soviets to freeze the present status of affairs and keep diplomatic relations open until a solution can be found to this crisis. He may not succeed. When I sent you out there, your mission was urgent. Its success, in my informed opinion, is now the only remaining chance of saving the Vienna conference and preventing a cataclysmic severance of East-West relations. Zhigalin is the ace in our hand, and only you can get him for us.'

I'd been listening to his tone, and even over the longdistance line it was unmistakable. It had the despair of a hushed voice in a graveyard. I didn't know how bad things had got. But it didn't change anything: there was still only one way out.

'I understand what you're saying, Croder. And I'll get Zhigalin for you — if you'll get me Ferris.'

'But can't you see-'

'It's the only way. Are you listening? The only way.'

'But the logistics-'

'I'll spell them out for you. There's been heavy snow here but Fane said they've managed to keep a couple of runways open at the airport. It's the only way in from Leningrad: the overland routes are blocked. If it starts snowing again they'll even have to shut down air traffic. Do you understand?'

In a moment: 'Yes. But-'

'If you work fast enough you can get Ferris here within twenty-four hours. If you get him here I'll do what I can to bring Zhigalin across. But not unless.'

'You don't realize-'

'Not unless. Ferris or nothing.'

I hung up the receiver.

The next day it was still dark at noon. The sun wouldn't show on the east horizon for another month, and today there were black snow clouds hanging across the city.

I'd given the concierge a fifty-ruble note.

'There's more,' I said, 'but you won't get it if you do anything stupid.' His faded eyes had gazed at me, seeing visions of stolen sable, chamois bags of diamonds, a crate or two of American cigarettes if it was a thin week. This was a major seaport.

'You'll find me reliable, comrade.'

This morning I'd got him to light the brass geyser in the only bathroom and fill the bath with hot water so that I could soak my bruises, but the smell of gas got me out before the water had cooled.

At noon Fane came.

'How long did it take you to get here?'

'Most of the morning? He kicked the snow off his boots.

'I've talked to Croder.'

He looked up sharply. 'Have you?'

'All I want to know at this stage is where to find Zhigalin.'

He lit a cigarette. 'Are you going to take him across?'

'It depends.'

'Depends on what?'

'If they can get Ferris out here.'

'To direct you?'

'Yes.'

He looked down. 'He's very good.'

'I know.'

'Did Mr Croder agree?'

'No. I just left him with the choice.'

Fane went over to the small cracked window but all he could see was his reflection; it was like night outside. 'Ferris is somewhere in the Far East, I believe.'

'That's right.'

'We have to assume he's directing someone there.'

'Yes.'

He turned back to face me. 'It's a pretty thin chance.'

'That's Croder's problem. I don't mind whether it comes down heads or tails.'

It was a lie and he probably knew that.

The bulb in the ceiling flickered, and we waited. Power cables were breaking all over the city as the permafrost shifted under the weight of the snow and brought poles down. 'There has not been a winter like it,' the concierge had told me. 'Not in my lifetime.' He'd stared through the glass doors as if at his first Christmas morning.

'I think you should assume,' Fane said in a moment, 'that they won't be able to get Ferris here in time to do any good.'

'That's up to them. If they can't, I'm resigning the mission. That means they'll have to fly someone else out here to replace me, and that could take just as long as to send Ferris.'