The silence of the room was stifling. 'The work of the Khabarov Separatist Movement - they say. They're all dead. Every KGB officer in the town.' And Vorontsyev understood. He would have to go to Khabarovsk himself. Ossipov had had them killed.

Seven: Winter Journeys.

None of the Oriental carpets or embroidered sofas, not even the tall windows overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square from the third floor, nor the high ceiling, could disguise in spacious elegance the functional nature of Andropov's office. The furnishings displayed him as a connoisseur, as someone immensely privileged in his society - and the battery of telephones on his immense desk betrayed his position as Chairman of the KGB. Mahogany wall-panelling, brocaded curtains -he sat looking round the room for a few moments after Kapustin had left, then turned his gaze on the telephones. He shook his head, as if admitting a reality.

The line to the Kremlin, the line to the Politburo and Central Committee members, the lines that connected him with any, or every, KGB office in the Soviet Union. He stared at the bakelite that, through high-frequency circuits, allowed him to control his security machine.

Dial Khabarovsk, and see who answers ...

He did not wish the thought, but now it had presented itself, he felt an anger stirring in him, shaking a frame unprepared for high emotion. He despised emotion - feared it because it had the unfamiliarily and danger of an infection.

Of course he had approved sending Major Vorontsyev to Khabarovsk, with a forensic team. The Major's supposition was not unsound, that Ossipov had had his men killed. There, the centre of the little storm he felt. There. All right, in the Ukraine, before now, KGB men had been stabbed in alleys, even been blown up in their cars; but to take out the whole team?

Something else. It meant it was close. They had nothing to fear.

Khamovkhin had left him in charge. The apparatus of State had moved to Dzerzhinsky Street, to the Centre. Andropov perceived no possible irony in the thought. This was now the State, he thought. Here. Because nothing else mattered but that they find, isolate, and remove the enemy. And only he, and his service, could do that.

Could they?

He stirred in his desk, a sudden cramp in his legs. He looked down at them, as if they had turned against him. He did not blame Khamovkhin - only a stupid man would do that. Everything had to be as normal. Which was the trouble - no one could be told. They were sitting in a restaurant with the rest of the world, but only they knew about the bomb - and most of the staff were sick, or untrustworthy, and only one or two could be sent to search it out, disarm it He put aside the analogy. It was too real, too sensuous. Feodor had left him to mind the house.

The file on his desk was leather-bound. In it was material not dissimilar to that which had been scattered over Vorontsyev's floor, pinned to his walls. Material that tired, and infuriated Andropov. Ridiculous not to have a perfectly dear idea of who might be involved - who had to be involved - and maddening, to be able to do nothing. He could not admit to impotence, not after the years of power. But he was aware that the State had shrunk to the size of this room, and that his hold upon things was as fragile as the connections made when he dialled numbers on the telephones in front of him.

He stood up, walked swiftly, as if possessed with purpose, to the windows, and looked down. The square in front of his office, sparkled below him. The people of Moscow were out in great numbers, as they always were when the snow fell, or the frost glinted. Winter people, the Russians. He felt detached from them, as he always did. He felt no sense of mission, no obligation.

He went back to his desk, and opened the file, flicking through the polythene-covered pages, seeing the faces stare out at him. The prime suspects. Praporovich, Ossipov, the Defence Minister, Marshal Yaroslavich, members of the Politburo, the Central Committee.

Isolate, and destroy.

But, before he could do that, he had to discover the chain of command, the hierarchy of the coup. And twelve months had so far brought nothing. If, if, if - who is behind it, who is the leader, who, precisely, is involved, what are the commands, the plan - when ? His head ached with the unanswered questions, his body ached with the sense of impotence. He was not afraid, but Did it all depend on one young Major in the SID, and his flight to Khabarovsk ? How could it ? And how could it not ? Had the Khabarovsk Office discovered something, so that they had to be silenced ?

The telephone rang, startling him.

'Yes?' The Kremlevka, the direct line to the Kremlin. Pushkin, the Prime Minister. The business of government. He listened, and stared at the room. It was there, the business of government, he thought. In that room.

Vorontsyev was waiting for the specialists with whom he was to fly to Khavarovsk. His plane left in another hour, and he had arrived in order to finalise the briefing of Ilya and Maxim, who were flying to Leningrad, on their way to Vrubel's section of the border wire.

The three of them sat together in the Diplomatic Lounge, in that glassed-off section of it reserved for the KGB. As they sipped at coffee and watched the commercial airliners stack, descend, and touch down outside the double-glazed windows, Vorontsyev warned them, repeatedly, of the parameters of their investigation.

He knew he was being cautious, but caution was required. It was of the essence. He felt old, much older than them, a crabbed and pinched soul in the face of their almost adolescent enthusiasm. The tension was high in each of them, and they were impatient with his sober mood. Yet they had to understand. He saw Maxim's eyes drift to the TWA Boeing as it slid past the windows, and snapped:

'It's not for my health's sake, you know!'

'Sorry, sir,' Maxim said, just able to resist glancing at his companion.

'You have to be undertaking an ordinary investigation -understand ? You have to convince everyone that you're doing a police job because Captain Vrubel has been murdered. His mistress reported his disappearance . . .' He lowered his eyes for a moment. The name filed on the official notification to Missing Persons was that of his wife - her maiden and professional name. But it had to be good - because he did not know who might engage himself in checking the checkers.

His own excitement had long since drained away as he set up the two-pronged investigation - Maxim and Ilya to Finland, himself to the Far East. Kapustin had agreed that the action of the Separatist Movement in Khabarovsk was unexpected, even suspicious. And had consented to his personal investigation of the bombings, together with a team from the SID who would study the forensic realities. Vorontsyev's target was Ossipov, and military truth.

Because he had been able to convince Kapustin, and presumably Andropov himself, that Ossipov had to be perhaps the most important single link in a chain that they could not see. Not only had he bobbed up, a cork of suspicion, but the death of the whole KGB team was too fortuitous to be accidental.

He had slept little, his mind turning like his stomach with rising nerves. He said, for perhaps the third time since they had arrived at Cheremetievo, 'We dare not trigger the thing we're trying to prevent.' He knew they regarded his sombre face as that of a rather boring uncle, intent on restraint, on dampening youthful spirits. He felt the necessity to communicate to them, and the difficulty of doing so. They were being entrusted with an investigation he would have handled himself; and they understood the gravity, the weight. But they did not feel it as he did.

'We'll be careful, Major,' Ilya said. 'We know what's at stake.'

'Good. Just Vrubel, then. Arouse as little suspicion as possible. But act normally, please! You are in SID, and that should frighten people. Don't be too low-key.'

'No, Major.'

He gave it up. It was like rehearsing children in a lesson. Parrot-fashion they repeated what he taught them, but they did not understand. He was filled with sudden foreboding.

They sat in silence for the few remaining minutes, then their Leningrad flight was called, and he stood up with them, and they shook hands. He was despondent as he watched them move away down the tunnel towards the plane. He was afraid that they would miss something, something important. He should have gone himself.

He got himself another coffee from the machine, winced at its acrid taste, and lit a cigarette. He picked Pravda from the plastic bench, and scanned the inside pages. The official story of the explosions in Khabarovsk was to lay the blame where it had been claimed by telephone - the Separatists.

He folded the paper, and tossed it aside.

Kapustin had not been willing to be rushed into a premature judgement. He had not shared Vorontsyev's moment of inspiration when Ilya had repeated the telephone message. Kapustin, and Andropov saw the wider picture - which was largely grey, unformed. Kapustin wanted to know why Ossipov was involved, and he could not tell him. He could not even imagine a plausible explanation. Instead he clung to the fact that Ossipov had needed a double, to avoid surveillance. To meet someone, receive orders.

Another unit of the SID had begun to investigate the Moscow Military District hierarchy. The excuse was a trumped-up bribery charge against senior officers - or was it misappropriation of military equipment ? He could not remember. But he was certain they would discover nothing that related to Group 1917. Again, he felt an urgency envelope him, choking yet electric, spasms to his muscles and brain, urging activity.

He looked up, and Natalie was standing beside him. So unexpected was her appearance, he Was disorientated for a moment. It was from the past, the scene, especially the careful smile, and her arrival was apposite.

Then he said, 'What in hell's name are you doing here ?'

Once more he was conscious of the way in which her smile flickered like something working from an interrupted current, then re-established itself. She was determined not to be angered, or put off. He wondered whether that was what penitence was like.

'I came to see you,' she said. 'You didn't ring.'

He was suddenly suspicious.

'How did you know I was here ?'

'Mihail Pyotravich told me.'

'Told you -when?'

'Don't interrogate me!' she flashed, and the revelation of her known temper convinced him there was no need for suspicion.

'He doesn't know I'm here,' he said, as if relenting, but falling into that sullen, pouting mood and expression she so detested.

She smoothed her features before he could react to her look, and said, 'He was with - oh, Kapustin, I think, early this morning. He told him.'

'Oh. Well?'

'I'm coming with you - I have a few days before we begin rehearsals for Cosi - Mihail told me, I think, so that I could think of it... If I hadn't, I'm sure he'd have suggested it!' She laughed. It was false, winsome in a play-acting way. But her laughter was one of the things most unnatural about her.

'I'm working!' he snapped, but he sensed his own powerlessness; like the beginnings of a head-cold. She confused his thinking, somehow - overshadowed him. It wasn't sinister -rather he had drawn comfort from it, at one time. Something to do with his childhood, he assumed. Need to be dominated -mother-fixation . . .