'I propose, as a preliminary to the signing of our Treaty in three days, and as a gesture of faith the world cannot mistake -' A pause for emphasis, for clarity of meaning, for weight of impression, Khamovkhin thought. Angry with himself for being concerned to weigh such things, like a theatre critic with an actor's performance. 'That we institute, immediately, large and evident troop withdrawals from frontier areas.' The clarity with which his situation seemed understood in Washington chilled Khamovkhin, then instantly seemed to raise his temperature or that of the room. But Wainwright gave him no time for thought or reply. 'I will order US troops in the Federal Republic to withdraw from forward positions. I will immediately institute the stand-down of strike squadrons in the United Kingdom, and order the US 6th Fleet to a condition of secondary readiness - all of which your satellites and tracking ships can verify in a matter of hours.'

Silence - heavy, into which the breathing of the Ambassador and Gromyko dropped like stones, and the static from the amplifier scratched at his attention. He looked at Gromyko, whose face was impassive, without suggestion or support.

'Mr President, this is a gesture which pleases me, but which I need time to consider.' Lame, lame - 'What's to consider, Mr First Secretary? I have satellite pictures here -' A pause, as if an aide had gestured warningly. 'I have evidence to suggest that units of the Red Banner Fleet have been recalled to Murmansk. A gesture already on your part, surely? Continue the good work. Stand down forward units in the DDR, or maybe on the Norwegian border, or the Finnish border - yes, maybe best of all. Before I join you in Helsinki.'

Satellite pictures - stand down units - Red Banner Fleet -Khamovkhin was appalled, at a loss. He was learning, from the President of the United States, what the Red Army intended. The invasion of Scandinavia? Impossible. Finland Station. Not impossible.

'I - have to consult with the High Command of the Soviet Army, Mr President. I have no room for such a unilateral decision.'

'You're reluctant, Mr First Secretary - at this late hour ?'

It was a direct challenge. He could almost begin to frame the rest of the conversation.

'No, no, of course not. But, you expect instant action, Mr President -'

'My orders have already gone to the Pentagon, and to Brussels, Mr First Secretary. They need only be confirmed. Now - can you do less than that ?'

He was in a trap - he could not even speak to Gromyko. The red telephone, and the amplifier, sat on his desk, a squat toad listening to his thoughts.

'I - I must consult. It will take time to arrange - it is, of course, most desirable -'

'I think that way, too.' There was irony now! 'Forward units in your northern theatre, to compound your gesture of withdrawing units of the Northern Fleet to port. Can we agree on that?'

'I - in principle, yes, of course -'

'By tomorrow ?'

'But - I am not sure it can be done -'

'Mr First Secretary - unless those units are withdrawn a token fifty miles from the border with Norway and Finland -and by dawn of the 24th, then I will order units of the AMF to go ahead with the cancelled NATO exercise, "Snowfront Express". Do I make myself clear, Mr First Secretary ? I will also, in consultation with America's allies in NATO, place our forces on a twenty-four-hour readiness alert, unless I hear from you that withdrawals are beginning. This will happen at midnight, seven a.m. on the 23rd, your time.' Another pause, then: 'That's all, Mr First Secretary. Good evening to you.'

Static, for a long time, until his hand darted out to cut off the connection, kill the amplifier. Then, only then, did he look up at the other men in the room.

'We seem to have been given an ultimatum, gentlemen.'

'A sensible suggestion -' The Ambassador began, then dropped his eyes, lost his voice, and he saw the look in Khamovkhin's eyes. Gromyko remained silent.

'It must be done - he said nothing about coming to Helsinki, you notice. Nothing!' Anger, anger of confidence, he thought. Show them. 'Sensible, Mr Ambassador - of course, sensible. But - demanded, as of right, at this late hour! What kind of thing is that to do, eh? Why must it be done now, at this minute ? He talks like a schoolmaster, a dreamer!'

He looked across at Ozeroff, standing stiffly to attention by the door, as if not wishing to draw attention to himself. Inwardly, Khamovkhin quailed. Andropov was right - the 24th. The Americans knew something, something that told them the timetable of Group 1917. And they had tested him, and now they knew he was powerless, impotent. And had issued their challenge - put your house in order, or the next war begins in three days' time!

He turned his back on them, looked at the portrait of Lenin above the chair in which he had been sitting. Ozeroff, at attention, had been directing his line of sight there. With little more than a hundred men, Lenin had done it, wrested power from Kerensky and the ditherers. And Group 1917 had the whole Army as a means of doing it!

What was his code ? To those faceless men against whom he could make no move - what was his code ? Comrade Romanov ? The idea was laughable, the title apposite.

Get them out, get them out, he told himself. He had to get back to Lahti, talk to Andropov in Moscow. Had to. Everything was crumbling in his big, clumsy hands - he had dreamed, hadn't he, a couple of nights ago, of huge hands picking up delicate china cups and saucers, and smashing them with sheer clumsiness. Looking down, he had seen his own body in the dream, and these great shovels of hands sticking out of the sleeves of his coat.

Woken in a sweat - almost crying out, then realising.

He had to talk to Andropov. There had to be something, some lead, some identification of the leader, his enemy. Had to be.

'Captain Ozeroff, order the helicopter to stand by. We are returning to Lahtilinna at once!'

'Sir.'

Galakhov was smiling as he closed the door of the Ambassador's office behind him. In the morning, he could contact a courier and relay a message to Kutuzov. The Americans were suspicious, forewarned. But Khamovkhin knew nothing, feared everything. He would even, as duty officer, hear what was said between Andropov and the First Secretary. The American suspicions would change nothing. Wainwright was bluffing -all the High Command knew he would not go to war for Norway and Finland - it was an axiom of strategy.

He enjoyed Khamovkhin's fear as he went down the stairs to the duty-room to prepare the car and the helicopter.

'So that's it, Kenneth - Khamovkhin isn't behind anything. Right this minute, he's got about as much clout as my Aunt Fanny!'

Buckholz appeared suitably grim, but Aubrey saw the gleam in his eyes, the set of his jaw, and admired, and was amused by, the easy way in which the man had been impressed by the manner of his President's conversation with Khamovkhin.

'I accept your reasoning, and see you are pleased with the President's enactment of your scenario -' Buckholz turned on Aubrey, grimaced, then smiled swiftly, raising his hands in an admission. 'However, I am not certain -'

'Not certain of what ?'

'How effective it will be. It places us in a position of impotence not unlike that of Khamovkhin himself. We can do nothing more, except sit and wait.'

'Tomorrow, we go see Khamovkhin, for openers -'

'Charles, what good will that do ? The man knows nothing! Otherwise, this Group 1917 would have disappeared from sight long ago, into Gulag or the ground or the mental home, Khamovkhin doesn't know who they are, dammit! It hasn't worked out. We can't expect him to move against the High Command, even though we helped put him on the knife-edge.'

'Don't come cold water with me, Kenneth. Right now, Khamovkhin is on board his chopper, heading hell-for-leather for his castle on the hill to talk to the Chairman of the KGB!'

Buckholz walked round his desk to confront Aubrey. The round face of an ancient, cunning child looked up into his. Buckholz shook his head, walked over to the dumb-waiter.

'It isn't that I don't want to be optimistic,' Aubrey said in a more conciliatory tone. 'It's simply a matter of looking at facts head-on, without the squint imparted by the status of representing a super-power. I can do that, having been born into the aftermath of the British Empire, on which the sun has firmly set - ' Aubrey smiled as Buckholz handed him the tumbler of whisky. 'Your health. No, it is simply that we now have to rely on the efforts of the KGB for our survival - as simple as that.'

'It won't come to war - they'll back down.'

'Khamovkhin would turn somersaults, I agree. But - the Red Army. Will they feel threatened, or simply challenged to a fight - and respond by picking up the gage ?'

'It won't come to it, Kenneth.'

'In the time that may be left to us, I shall do my best to solve the mystery surrounding Captain Ozeroff - after all, he may know something useful. My surveillance of him begins with the dawn. And I have a way of placing him in our hands -do you wish to hear it ?'

Buckholz nodded.

'Very well, but bring the bottle first. And I shall tell you what we shall request of Khamovkhin tomorrow.' Then, struck by a sobering realisation, he added, 'I wonder who the KGB have investigating this matter. I hope it's someone first-class -I really do!'

Vorontsyev stirred in the big bed, reached out, and found Natalia near him. She was still, apparently, asleep, and he touched her only lightly on the arm, not wishing to wake her.

As he came awake himself, there was the groundswell of urgency, and fear, in the pit of his stomach, making the bed colder, his wife distanced. He had been in Khabarovsk for thirty-six hours, and nothing. Except that they followed him everywhere, and probably laughed as he got nowhere, learned nothing.

Yet he could not move. It was just a case of getting out of bed, stepping on cold tiles in the bathroom - but, literally and metaphorically, he did not want to leave this bed.

He looked at his wife again. They had dined together early the previous evening, and drunk perhaps more than was good for them. Later, they had made love for the first time in months; it had been a natural conclusion to the evening - and perhaps he had wanted to bury his waking, wakeful mind in the temporary dream of sex. It had been as if they were on holiday together, and their behaviour imitated domestic life but with the added piquancy of a new place, a strange bed.