'Well?' he said. He was holding the door foolishly ajar; it was like his stupid mouth, he thought, hanging open.

'I - want to talk,' she said, appearing to damp down her irritation, her embarrassment.

'What about - I'm busy,' he snapped.

'You - you've seen your father ?'

'Yes. I said I'd telephone.'

'You might have said no. May I come in ?'

He looked at his watch.

'I'm busy,' he said, then: 'Oh, come in!' It was graceless, and sulky. He despised himself for the immaturity of his reaction. He could sense the smile of satisfaction on her face as he led her into the lounge. He waved his hand towards the sofa. Natalia hesitated, then settled herself. She did not offer to remove her fur coat, nor the dark fur hat she wore.

Standing by the empty mantelpiece above the electric fire, he studied her. Her cheeks were touched with pink from the cold outside. Her fur-lined boots, to her knees, were new, and unmarked from the pavements. She had come by taxi.

She said, 'I had to talk to you.' It sounded remarkably artificial. As a singer, she was not renowned for her acting ability, only for the quality of the voice itself. He felt she was acting a part. He could not understand why she needed to.

'About what?'

'Us?'

'Us? There isn't any us, is there, Natalia?' Even the use of her name seemed a concession. He did want her there.

She opened her coat, as if on cue. It was ridiculous. She was too smartly dressed - dark-green wool, with a high collar and excellent fit. It would have cost money - would have been given by a lover, or bought on a Bolshoi tour. They had been in Paris in the autumn. It was as if she declared herself naked by the gesture. He hated her.

'Isn't there ?' she said. 'About the other night - I'm sorry it had to happen. I - was ashamed ...' She dropped her gaze.

He could not believe her. He wanted to re-establish some sense of superiority, and his voice was loud as he said, 'Sorry ? Ashamed? Your bloody lover tried to kill me - or didn't Mihail Pyotravich tell you that ?'

She looked at him, and there seemed to be something real happening in the theatrically wide eyes. She was speaking to him, as well as to some imagined audience of her performance.

'I - he didn't say that. ..'

'Didn't he? He left you before you could climb all over him, and led me right into a neat little trap. For some reason, Vrubel wanted me dead! You wouldn't know why, I suppose ?'

'You don't think - ?' she began, and there was genuine fear in her voice. As if she sensed herself alone in the room with him for the first time.

'How the hell do I know! You're capable of it.' She shook her head. He admitted: 'I suppose not.'

There was a silence. He turned his back on her, and lit a cigarette from a fresh packet. He heard her say: 'What about us, Alexei ?' It was the first time she had used his name. And the tone was old, magical. He knew it was calculated.

He turned round.

'You're here, aren't you ?' He wanted to go on being bitter, recriminatory. But, though he despised his feeling, he could not ignore it. Too often he had imagined the scene, and he was now helpless before the reality. He had to concede; that had been decided when he opened the door to her. 'What the hell do you want with me, Natalie ? You've buggered up my life once already! Do you want the satisfaction of doing it again? Is that it ?'

She shook her head. He was glad she did not offer to move from the grubby sofa and its dun-coloured covering. He did not want to be any closer to her. Her body, even at that distance, was tangible against his frame. The sensation was dirty, like a wet dream. He hated that - she the cinema, he the audience; her body unreeled like the frames of some titillating film. He tried to dissolve the feeling in anger.

'The hell it is ? Who sent you, eh ? Mihail Pyotravich ?

She looked startled, as if he had seen deep into her self, but she said, 'He only helped me to make up my mind.'

'Fuck you, you bitch! I don't want to be handed to you like some sticky sweet! Or a bandage because I'm coming to pieces! .If you don't want to come back, then get out - get out!'

He turned away from her again, willing her to move, wanting her not to come closer to him. He heard the sofa creak slightly as she stood up.

The doorbell rang again, releasing him. He turned round, and saw her hand a little extended. He smiled in satisfaction.

'Work,' he said.

'I'll go, then.' She hesitated, then: 'Shall I come back -later?'

He wanted to hit her, at least banish her. He nodded.

'Yes, if you want to -' He would not offer to go to the flat on Kalenin Street - he had to preserve that much. She nodded, reached out as if to touch him, and then dropped her hand.

'Later, we can talk properly,' she said.

The doorbell rang again. He acquiesced with a nod.

To the manager of the Matkailumaja-Turiststation, the only real hotel in Ivalo, they were from the Central Electricity Generating Board, studying the hydro-electric schemes in the Inari region. Philipson, the man the Helsinki Consulate had loaned them, spoke Finnish and established their cover. The staff of the nearby Kirakkakoski power station lived in their own compound, and only came into Ivalo at the week-ends. By the time that happened, Waterford and Davenhill would have left, probably be back in London.

Philipson had a jeep for them, and had stocked it with supplies, had driven north-east out of the town with them, and then watched them as they turned south-east, towards Raja-Jooseppi. Then he turned up his fur collar and headed back to Ivalo. He had little idea of their intention, and small wish to know. It was his role to fend off any awkward enquiries con cerning the presence in the area of two British electricity experts.

They camped the first night off the single road just south of the village of Ruohokangas. Waterford, it seemed to Davenhill, paid little heed to the bitter cold, to the discomforts of travel and pitching camp, to the inadequacy of the food, or to him; while he resented, ever more bitterly, the decision that had placed him there. He had been shunted by Aubrey in the most high-handed way, and made to appear nothing but an errand-boy.

He was cold in his sleeping bag, his teeth chattering, his feet numb. He could hear the steady breathing of the other man, and hated him. He had always found it difficult to resent himself for very long, or indulge in recrimination; but he could, he knew, be satisfyingly viperous towards others. Now, that feeling towards Waterford warmed him, and eventually he drifted into sleep.

In the morning, he awoke aching with cold and senilely stiff. When he moved, his whole body protested. He reached out of the sleeping bag, and his hair was stiff with rime. He sat up, groaning. Light, grey and unwelcoming, was coming from the open tent flap, and he saw Waterford's face grinning at him without humour.

'Your turn to cook breakfast.'

'Push off!' Davenhill snapped, rolling the unzipped flap of the bag away from him, and climbing wearily to his feet. 'You like this, don't you ?' he asked, as Waterford allowed him out of the tent. 'This Hollywood stuff- very manly.' His voice was acid; but there was a bile of memory, as if they had shared an unsatisfactory physical act.

Waterford said, 'I thought you were the man's man.'

Davenhill's unlined face narrowed with spite. Then he seemed to control himself, and said softly, 'Is that how you get your kicks ? Despising people ? It's a sign of weakness, you know.'

Waterford walked away. He had set up the primus, and Davenhill crossed to the jeep and fished out the provisions box. Then, not looking at Waterford again, he began to prepare the breakfast. His mind came free of ice and acid at the smell of the coffee.

They shared the breakfast in silence, then Waterford stowed the tent, and they pulled back on to the road. It had snowed heavily in the last forty-eight hours, and the narrow road was clean of vehicle tracks. The chains on the wheels bit and stuttered at first, then they made better going of it as they entered thicker forest; the snow was light covering over compressed snow-ice. Waterford drove in silent concentration, and Davenhill became enervated by the passage of silent, snow-heavy firs which crowded against the road, a flowing, dark tunnel on either side of them.

'Bloody silly,' he said after perhaps a couple of hours.

Waterford appeared to digest the remark as a piece of vital information, then he replied, 'Any suggestions ?'

Davenhill's surprise at the alkaline tone was increased when Waterford halted the jeep. Then he found Waterford looking at him. 'Well?' the older man said. 'Anything to suggest?' There was the edge of contempt again, but controlled.