'Where are the tanks ?' he said, grinning foolishly. The pilot smiled.

'Not yet,' he said. 'The divisions are pushed almost up to the border here. I'll show you some when we get there.' He replaced the earphone, and turned away from Ilya. A few minutes later, Ilya again tapped him on the arm. The pilot pointed to a second set of headphones, slung over the dual controls of the MIL. Ilya uncomfortably adjusted them, and the pilot's voice crackled inside his head.

'What is it ? You're like a kid!' He was smiling, however.

'Were you on Vrubel's staff- part of his section of the wire ?'

'Yes,' the pilot replied. 'But I'm Army, not KGB.'

'How come ?'

'Your lot don't seem very keen to fly choppers in this part of the world,' the pilot replied. Ilya scowled, and the pilot added, 'Don't be insulted. It gets pretty rough. I'd thank you for a Moscow posting!' He laughed. For a moment, Ilya had the feeling of some ambassadorial charm being exercised, as if the young man was more aware than he seemed behind his affability.

Then he said, 'We do cover more than Moscow.'

'Sure. But SID ?'

'All right - you win. I prefer Moscow, or Leningrad - I don't like flying, and I'm trying to make conversation!' He shrugged.

'Great! Now, what do you want to know?'

'Just tell me about the captain. What sort of officer was he ?'

'One of the best,' the pilot answered. 'Even if he was KGB -sorry. No, he was Army, really, like you're really a policeman. Good to his men, firm, clear-headed, even when he'd been drinking ... A loss - if he's dead.'

There did not seem to be any depth of regret.

Ilya said, 'You're sorry he's dead, then. If he's dead . ..'

'Of course I am. Good man.' He added, after a pause: 'He is dead, I suppose ?'

'Who knows ?

'You've implied it - so did your office in Murmansk when they called for me.'

'I suppose so,' Ilya wondered, then: 'Why should he be dead ? Or, why should he disappear ?'

Ilya looked out of the window, as if indifferent to the reply, and the flowing landscape appeared even more hostile. He could not be certain why that should be. Was it the landscape making the conversation sinister, or was he picking up something that made his position, five hundred feet above that, more insecure than ever ?

He wondered, too, how strongly the Murmansk Local Resident had implied that Vrubel was dead. It was as if the pilot had known about it for some time, and had come out on the other side of shock.

And perhaps, he thought, he didn't like Vrubel and it is politeness towards the dead that gives him a stilted, practised manner. He smiled at his own suspiciousness.

'I don't know,' the pilot said after a while, having screwed his face to the contortions of thought. 'It has to be something in Moscow, not here. There's nothing out here - except us.'

'No jealousies - nothing like that ? Nothing in the line of duty?'

'Out here? You didn't know Russians had landed on the moon, did you ? That's it, down there!' He pointed below with his thumb. 'All it is is trees, tanks, and men. Men get drunk, play cards, read dirty books, toss themselves off because they're so bored . . . But it doesn't lead to murder. Oh, Vrubel gave out his fair share of extra duties, as punishments, but that wouldn't explain it.'

'And what if he disappeared?'

'Why would he do that? Boredom?' The pilot was disbelieving. 'With you lot on his tail as soon as he does ? Why not disappear from here, anyway? Nip over the border. Nothing easier 1'

'Nothing?'

'Well - almost.' The pilot pushed the stick forward, and the nose of the MIL dipped so that the trees and the river and the whiter ribbon of the road all seemed to assert themselves, reach up at Ilya. He stared at the pilot, who pointed. 'Down there!' he said, pointing ahead. 'You see if you can spot them -three tank regiments on permanent station.'

'Finland Station,' Ilya said, thankful for the opportunity, savouring his assumed indifference as he said the words.

'What was that?'

'I was making a joke,' Ilya said, looking directly ahead. 'Isn't that what they're for - Finland. So it's a Finland station -uh ?' He simulated huge amusement; rather well, he considered.

The helicopter drove towards the trees, and Ilya concentrated, as he had been instructed. He could see nothing. Only a single clearing, and two figures in heavy coats and fur caps -and perhaps netting.

The pilot said, as they lifted away again, 'Finland station ? That's good, that is. Do you think Comrade Lenin would have laughed ?' Now he too, was smiling. The rapport of humour seemed to have returned to the flight-cabin.

'I doubt it,' Ilya said, relaxing now that the helicopter was flying a level course once more. 'No sense of humour!' He laughed.

And you, you bastard, grinning away, Ilya thought. You've heard that before - Finland Station. I wonder what it means to you?

They had staked out the ground as clearly as they could; tape and stakes, a weird pattern of parking spaces where they had discovered the traces of vehicles. Or where temporary wooden huts had been erected, or tents put up. And they had amassed their evidence - pitifully labelled and stored in plastic bags -cigarette-ends, oil-stained snow - this in a freezer box in the jeep - splinters of wood, empty cigarette packets.

And the photographs - roll after roll of film.

When they reported back to Aubrey, he would authorise a angle low-level photo recce flight over the area. Then the hard evidence would be presented to the government of Finland, and to NATO, and to America and the Soviet Union.

Davenhill had slept an exhausted sleep, and resented it when roused by Waterford, though it was mid-morning by the time he awoke. When they had eaten, they set off down the last miles of the one road to Rontaluumi and the border.

By afternoon they were on a rise above the village looking down on the back of the few houses that clustered around the main street and square of the village. They had been there for two hours, and they had seen nothing.

As the glasses passed between them once more, and Waterford pulled his flask before handing it, too, to Davenhill, the Foreign Office adviser said, 'It is deserted, I suppose ?'

'Could be full of vampires,' Waterford observed. 'Sleeping off the daylight and the peculiar diet.'

'What are they using for victims ?' Davenhill said, feeling the long monotony thaw, resolve itself in grudging humour. He rolled on to his back, drinking the brandy, handing the glasses back to the soldier.

'How about a tank regiment of the Red Army?'

'A nice solution to our problem. Is it deserted 'Christ knows. It certainly looks it.' Waterford scanned the silent village once more through the glasses, then put them at his side, and stretched himself, shifting his prone body. 'We are going to have to find out. Fancy volunteering ?' There was no longer a sneer in the voice, and Davenhill felt no offence. Their relationship had become anaesthetised in work; they were part of the same mission, and that sufficed for both of them. They relied upon each other now. Davenhill nodded.

'Come on then. I don't fancy this place after dark. We'd better go in now.' Davenhill was still smiling when his tone darkened and he added: 'Softly, softly is the word, Alex. You keep close to me, you take the safety-catch off your gun, and you keep your eyes swivelling like those on a bloody chameleon. Savvy?'

'OK. You're the expert. What do you expect?'

'The dead lying on their beds, hands across the chest,'

Waterford said. 'Or mere emptiness. I don't know. What I don't expect is to find Russian soldiers - but then, I don't want to be surprised.' He lifted his head, raised the glasses, scanned, then said, 'The big house - village headman that will be. We'll make for that. Just follow me.' He looked at Davenhill, and the younger man saw the features tauten, the eyes seem to become shallow yet intent. It was as if he were looking at a sharp monochrome picture of the man, without shadows or highlights. Something etched, yet flat.