He heard the noise of the helicopter, behind him, and it ' seemed as if the sound was gaseous, unnerving him, causing I the moving legs to quiver as if he had already stopped running.

He turned round, staggering as his body shifted clumsily.

he small scout helicopter, like the civilian one he had flown in, was fifty feet up, and moving across the grass towards him -a black, insect spot just horizoned above the dark lines of the trees.

He whirled round, stumbling again, and it was now as if he moved through some restraining element. The beat of rotors behind him became louder: he stumbled on, careless of stones and tussocks, waiting for the shadow of the helicopter, the waving of grass as it bent before the downdraught.

The hut wobbled on the rise, joggling in his vision as he looked up. The breath tearing, and the heartbeat frenzied. Above everything, the futility of it, the stupid blind panic to run, to keep running, thousands of miles from safety.

The grass leapt with small stones, flying dirt, near his right foot, then ahead and to his side. Gunfire. The noise of the rotors drowned the rifle shots. The helicopter was no gunship, but it carried at least one marksman. Again, flying spots of dirt. He saw the distressed earth scatter on his boot like scuffed sand.

Then his breath was knocked from him, and his shoulder jarred cruelly as he banged into the wall of the hut. He looked up, and the shadow of the chopper passed over him. White plucked splinters of dry wood stung his cheek as the rifleman, with the AK-47 on automatic, loosed a volley before he disappeared behind the overflown hut.

Sobbing, straining to get his breath - one breath, clear and deep would be sufficient, as the blood roared in his ears - he banged against the locked door. Wood splintered - he heard the sound, even as the rotor noise increased again - and he fell into the darkness, redolent of stored fodder, and tumbled against stacked hay bales.

A line of jagged holes, striped across one wall, entry of sunlight in splashes like yellow blood, as the marksman in the helicopter sprayed the hut on automatic. He buried his head, wriggling his body between the spiky, hard edges of the bales. Bullets plucked into the packed earth door, thumped softly into bales beside him. He put his hands over his ears, terrified.

The noise of the rotors came down to swallow him.

He was unsure how long it was, but he was aware of the changing noises outside. The rotors dying away, then the crack-ing of a voice, voices, as the helicopter's cabin speaker amplified the calls from nearest units in the search. He was stiff with 'ear, weak and unable to move.

The door of the hut was hanging open. He had to get out. He pushed himself upright, and staggered stiffly to the door, rugging the gun free of its shoulder holster. A ridiculous little thing, set against the AK-47 waiting for him outside.

He pressed himself against the wall, craning round the door frame. The soldier, in olive-green combat dress, was stepping cautiously towards the door. The small MIL was behind him, its rotors turning sluggishly. The pilot was bent forward over his equipment, his head turned to watch the soldier.

Vorontsyev went into the crouch, arms stiff, gun cradled by two hands. He fired three shots, all towards the centre of the target shape that the soldier had become. The man leapt aside, but a movement without volition, only the jerk of impact as two of the bullets hit him in the stomach, the other passing through his upper arm as he fell away. The AK-47 spun in the air, catching the sun along its stubby barrel and curved magazine. The pilot was moving to shut the door of the helicopter when Vorontsyev, still in the same crouch, two paces out of the door, shot him. Red hole in the temple, then the head dropping back out of sight behind the body which had been lifted out of the seat, held in some grotesque position of sexual proffering over the seat back.

He turned the soldier with his boot, then bent to pick up the AK-47. Then, he rummaged in the dead man's combat suit for the extra magazines. They were bulky, unsuitable unless he wore combat dress himself. He threw one aside in irritation, and thrust the other into the deepest pocket of his anorak. Then he went to the MIL, moved the body slightly, and only then realised, as the mood of semi-robotic efficiency left him, that he had killed the pilot, and could not fly the helicopter himself.

His legs buckled under him, and he felt tears prick against his eyes as his thinking returned fully. He could have escaped in the chopper, and instead he had killed the pilot.

Voices, querulous and puzzled, demanded reply from the MIL's cabin speaker. Idem codes, positions, movements, details of force strength - spinning in his head.

He looked around. Specks to the west, lifting clear of a rise. Bigger helicopters. Away to the east, down a long slope, as far as a mile away, dots moving across a field, out of the cover of trees. Men on the ground already. A road away to the north of them. Olive-green APCs moving swiftly.

He was watching his encirclement.

Nothing, as yet, south of him, down towards the village of Nikoleyev that he could now see, nestling in gentler folds of country; not as flat as he had thought from the map, better for him. Dotted clumps of trees. He began to run again, the unfamiliar AK-47 banging against his thigh. The tussocky grass seemed longer on this long downslope - something to do with drainage, he wondered incongruously - and it seemed to wrestle with his tired legs, continually throwing the body too far forward, out of balance.

Bending low as he ran, he watched the sky. Only the air concerned him for the moment. Nothing on wheels or afoot was close enough.

Except that he knew they would put men down in Nikoleyev now. If they hadn't already done so.

Something had happened to him, however. Probably a result of the killing he had done, the evident superiority given him by two dead bodies that belonged to the enemy. He no longer thought ahead more than minutes. He had no sense of distances other than the little way to the village, the seventeen or eighteen miles to Khabarovsk. No promises, none of the luxuries of larger thought. Only the body moving, its imperatives occupying him.

He paused behind a rock, near the bottom of a stretch down from the hut. Below him, the road into the village wound through a shallow defile, cracked with frost, icy puddles in the shadows of trees. Empty. He paused long enough to regain something like casual breath, then jumped down on to the road. The hard earth jarred his legs and spine, and he groaned. More in fear of injury than in pain.

He crossed the road, which was lined with dark trees, and began to trot carefully, under their shadow, towards Nikoleyev. He stopped only once, hearing behind him the dull thump of in explosion. He knew what it was, and shuddered with knowledge. The first gunship at the hut had destroyed it with rocket fire. Probably simply because of the dead pilot, and the dive drab spot of a body below them. Incensed anger transmitted to firepower before reason could interfere. He consciously stopped the trembling of his body.

The road dropped down into the village - a straggle of houses, peasant dwellings of wood, single-storeyed and ramshackle. He bit his glove as his hand wiped his face. A car -thereIt was like a grainy photograph from some old album; from Gorochenko's pictures of his peasant origins on the steppes. Chickens flicked across the road, and a cow ambled I between two houses. Straggling dead gardens, patches of dark, cultivated earth marking the properties, darker than the packed earth of the village's one street. He looked for a store. Yes.

He breathed deeply, as if he had gained some kind of victory. There had to be some kind of delivery van. Unless they still delivered by cart.

He waited, his body eager, the legs quivering with the need move; but he had to be sure of troops, yet the longer he waited the more surely they would come. As he stood up, caution finally satisfied, an olive-green APC rolled up and over the rise at the other end of the village street, He dropped back into the shadow of a fir with a groan. He had waited too bloody long.

Twelve: The Train.

The APC rolled to a halt at what the driver considered the centre of the tiny hamlet. There was almost a contempt about the reluctant way in which the vehicle slowed, then stopped. It was a BTR-152, standard model without roof armour. Vorontsyev could see the heads of the troops it carried, bobbing up and down, two rows of flattish Red Army helmets, like mushrooms or Chinese straw hats painted green.

When it stopped, the gun mounted at the front began to swivel threateningly. There was no one on the street. Only the officer stood up, a Stechkin automatic in his hand. His movements were lazy, confident. Either he hadn't heard about the two dead men, or he had accepted the unchanged, sleepy parameters of the scene before him. Nothing could happen there, in the precise middle of nowhere.

Eventually, he barked an order, and the soldiers began to dismount from the back of the personnel carrier. Vorontsyev clutched the AK-47 tighter, as if it were a talisman.

There were twelve men. Some women, one or two old men, began to emerge from the low wooden houses. The officer spoke to one of the women, who seemed undeterred by his tone of voice. A large woman, great bosom and dragged-back hair, wiping her hands on a check apron. Vorontsyev, relaxed by the slow pace of the scene, the indifference of the troops who fanned out slowly, and the NCO who was already smoking a cigarette, watched the encounter. He could almost see the scowl on the woman's face.

The officer walked away eventually, then questioned another villager, an old man; he shrugged repeatedly, and appeared simple-minded. The officer's step expressed frustration as he rejoined the NCO. He gave his orders with a deal of arm-waving, and it was as if the projector showing a film had slipped into another speed. The whole scene speeded up. Men went now from house to house with a purpose, and much noise. The officer and the NCO stood by the APC, where they were joined by the driver, who also lit a cigarette. The officer, as if the habit was somehow beneath him, walked a little apart, watching the search.

It took little more than ten minutes. Then, at an order from the NCO, the men doubled back to the APC. For one moment, Vorontsyev thought he might be given the unbelievable luck of their leaving the hamlet of Nikoleyev.

Then he saw that they were detailed to fall out, except for individuals posted one at either end of the village, on the road. There seemed, then, nothing more to do, and the officer cast about, his head turning like that on a doll. Vorontsyev thought he must be looking for a drink, or a chair.

He had to move now. Soon, the men would drift towards the store, which might proffer food, or something to drink. The officer would, having absorbed the motionless innocence of the hamlet, allow them to relax as the afternoon wore on. They were obviously detailed to remain in the hamlet, and until they received new orders they were no longer part of the search.

He studied the land immediately round the village. He could, by moving carefully around the southern perimeter, use such things as wood-stacks, outhouses, to shield him. Only if one of the villagers saw him would he be in danger.

He stood up, let his cramped legs relax, then moved off to his right through the thin belt of trees until he was overlooking, from a slight rise, a stack of logs behind the most outlying of the poor wooden houses. This one appeared deserted, he could see a cracked window and there was no smoke from the thin chimney. Cautiously, he moved out of the trees and half-slid down the slope, resting only when he was concealed by the logs.

A few moments, then he raised his head cautiously. Here, he could not see the APC nor the soldiers. He fished out the map, and studied it carefully. The nearest village was three., perhaps four miles away, and in the wrong direction. He looked at his watch and made a swift calculation. He would not have enough time, unless he took a vehicle of some kind from Nikoleyev.

He considered, uselessly, the APC. He could not overpower twelve men, an NCO, a driver and an officer, not even with surprise and an AK-47. The store had to have some kind of van.

He looked at the roads on the map, fully marked even to farm tracks. He thought he could see a way of keeping away from any road that might be carrying troops, or have a roadblock in operation. He would be safe from everything, perhaps, except aerial patrols. Which might, or might not, investigate a civilian vehicle.

But the APC . ..

He wished he had taken the dead soldier's grenades.

How could he leave, without being followed, and captured ? It was an impossibility, so impossible that his body became weak, his mind irresolute. He sat with his back against the wood, its rough bark pressing into him, the rifle upright between his legs like a prop - he gripped it tightly.

Stupid, stupid.

The soldier who had come to relieve himself behind the pile of logs was as surprised to see Vorontsyev as the KGB man was to be stumbled upon.

It was a ridiculous moment. The soldier's hand was in his flies, and his rifle was over his shoulder. He was helpless, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. He appeared at every instant to be about to cry out, but no sound would come. Vorontsyev himself, moving as if through a great pressure of water, or clinging nets, moved the gun to his hip, turned his body so slowly, levelled the gun, and squeezed the trigger. The soldier jumped back, his hand and his penis appearing from his trousers, and then he lay still on his back.

A single, loud shot.

This time Vorontsyev scrabbled in the combat dress, and unfastened the two RGD-5 fragmentation grenades the man carried. He could hear, at a distance, shouted orders, and perhaps the soldier's name being called. He ducked behind the togs again, then leaned forward, caught hold of the dead man's boot, and pulled the body awkwardly towards him, out of sight.