No one had entered the first class compartment. Vorontsyev could hardly believe his luck. The 'No Smoking' notice flicked on at the end of the compartment, and the voice of the steward instructed him to fasten his seat belt. He did so, amused at the quiver in his hands; a record of a past tremor. It was over now. He settled back in his seat as the Tupolev turned out of the taxiway on to the long runway.

The steward entered the first class only minutes after the Tupolev had reached its cruising height and speed, taking orders for drinks and breakfast. Vorontsyev decided at first against a drink, then relented and ordered whisky rather than vodka, but no food. He could not feel hungry, even though the steward had hovered at his elbow until he ordered at least a drink. He had again succumbed to the sapping imagery of Natalia's betrayal.

The steward went away. Vorontsyev, as if for distraction, glanced behind him at the KGB man. He was apparently sleeping, head lolling on the shoulder of a good-looking girl, who appeared reluctant to enjoy the experience, reluctant to move the greasy-haired head. As if she knew the man's occupation. Probably she had seen the ID card.

Natalia. The betrayal went to his loins, to his head; touches of hands and lips, but now cold, revolting. He felt sick, and cursed the feverish imagination she had always encouraged whenever he thought about her. It was not time now to fall to pieces, to dissolve like a snowman into the comfortable seat. He had to be strong, he told himself, tears pricking behind his eyes, and his nose seeming to run. He sniffed like a child, loudly.

He could not believe they had forced her to do it. That was the trouble. He knew she had agreed, that she had only come with him to watch him, to - distract him. He could see her, vividly naked, even when he opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on the dazzle of sunlight off the cloudbase below the wing. Her arms out to him.

He hated, too, the thought that someone else, other than her, knew him well enough to exploit his weakness, his stupid, pleading, childish desire for her. That, perhaps, since all things seemed to return to himself, more than anything; that he was known, and his weaknesses were sufficiently understood to make him a tool, a pawn, on someone's operations.

He coughed, the bile of anguish in the back of his throat, choking him. More than anything, the impotence - the lack of secrecy about his deep self.

The steward proffered the whisky on his tray - soda in a tiny bottle. He looked up in surprise, then seemed to come to himself, and nodded. He wanted the drink now. The steward smiled, the tray with its ringed white cloth waiting for his money. He pulled out his wallet, then, clumsily, fitted the glass into the socket attached to his seat. Then he juggled the bottle from hand to hand, trying at the same time to open his wallet on his lap. He fumbled for money, as if he had just been awoken from sleep, and saw his SID identity card staring up at him. He looked up at the steward, hastily closing the wallet, a ten-rouble note gripped in his free hand.

The steward had noticed nothing. The suspicious quality in his behaviour was that there was no flicker of increased deference hi his manner. Simply the bland, smiling features of a young man who saw nothing. Vorontsyev passed him the money, and raised the glass to his lips. Then things happened confusingly, and his only impression was of the steward being elbowed aside and his lap getting wet as the whisky was spilled. He leaned out in his seat. The steward was on the floor, and a heavy body was astride his, a gun - a big Stechkin - was at the steward's temple.

'What's going on ?' Vorontsyev asked, standing up, wiping foolishly at the wet lap of his suit.

'This little bastard put something in your whisky, comrade. I was going to tell you after he went - but you couldn't wait for your reviver!' There was a certain contempt in the voice, as well as delight at the KGB man's own prowess.

'In the drink ?' Vorontsyev asked stupidly. He looked round at the other passengers, all of whom were moving out of shock into calculated lack of attention. Except the girl. She seemed relieved that the KGB man had left his seat. With a delicate but angry movement, she wiped at the shoulder of her coat where his head had rested. Vorontsyev returned his attention to the tableau in the aisle.

The KGB man had dragged himself and the steward upright - then he pushed the slight figure in the white uniform jacket into an empty seat. The Stechkin was again thrust against the temple. Vorontsyev, studying the steward for the first time, could see an evident fear, and behind it something that appeared like confidence. It was as if he had the gun, or he were protected by the kind of power and organisation the KGB man had on his side. Puzzling.

'What was it ?' the KGB man asked in a harsh voice. The steward said nothing. The KGB man slapped him across the face, then forced his head back with the barrel of the gun, and roughly searched the steward's pockets. The steward did not resist, but even when the KGB man held up a small phial, empty, in his big hand, the steward showed no fear, no terror of discovery. 'What's this ?'

The steward did not reply.

'You know who I am?' Vorontsyev said quietly, and the deference that had been missing seemed automatically to reappear in the other KGB man. The steward stared at him unblinkingly.

'Answer the Major!' the KGB man snapped. Silence.

'Who are you ?' Vorontsyev asked.

'Boris Vassiliev - a steward, as you see.' Something had happened to the steward; the deference that was part of his function seemed to have been removed by the surprise with which he had been assaulted, discovered. But nothing else had gone, in the face of the gun and the threats. Now he tried to reassume the mask of ordinariness it fitted incompletely, letting the strong personality they had already seen glance out.

'Who gave you the order to dope my drink ? It was lethal, I take it ?' Vorontsyev was fascinated now. There was no reaction to the attempt on his life - shock or hate or anger. Just the aroused, challenged curiosity. 'Who gave you the order ? Is that why no one boarded the plane, because you were here already ?'

'Answer the Major!' The gun pressed beneath the jaw. The face distorted, but only because of the pressure. Still was there no real, shaken fear.

Ideas tumbled through Vorontsyev's head. He needed a shape to contain them, a process to undergo.

'Watch him,' he said. 'Don't hurt him - yet.' Then he walked forward, towards the galley and the door to the flight-deck.

As he opened the door, the flight-engineer, sitting side-on to him and to the rear of the two pilots, glanced up, and said, 'Please return to your seat at once.'

Vorontsyev showed him the ID card. The flight-engineer studied it suspiciously, then spoke into his microphone.

'Captain - Major Vorontsyev, SID, would like to speak to you . . . ?' Vorontsyev nodded. 'Now, I think.'

'Take control, Pavel,' the captain said to his second officer, and then released the control column. He took off his headset, and squeezed past the second officer, to confront Vorontsyev. He seemed surprised at the man's youth, being probably fifty, Vorontsyev estimated. A bulky, solid individual, still in command on his own flight-deck.

Vorontsyev said as they confronted one another, 'Captain, what do you know about your steward, Vassiliev ?'

Immediately, the captain appeared puzzled. His mouth opened, and even the flight-engineer, looking up at them like a wondering child, smiled at the question.

'Know about him ?' the captain said. 'The little - he's one of yours, KGB!' He seemed unwilling, even defiant, about concealing his dislike of Vorontsyev.

'He's not,' Vorontsyev said. 'I would have known that. The officer from Vladivostok travelling with me would certainly have known it. Why do you believe it ?'

'He has the proper authority, Major,' the captain said stiffly, as if his dignity had been affronted. 'I have flown with Vassiliev on board a number of times. He has always presented himself to me as KGB Airline Security.'

Vorontsyev nodded. 'Thank you, captain. You may leave the matter in my hands. How soon before we can talk direct to Moscow ?'

The pilot appeared puzzled.

'A matter of hours yet, I'm afraid. However, anything you wish can be relayed ahead of us . . .'

'Thank you for your cooperation. Tell me, you say that Vassiliev has travelled with you many times. He is your regular steward, then ?'

'Not really. It doesn't work like that. We draw from a pool of available stewards and stewardesses, for internal flights. They're always changing flights and journeys with one another - proper little capitalist enterprise, Major!' There was a smile hi the blue eyes, and round the mouth. 'They very much suit themselves - especially the ones who are hi your organisation. They fly where they want, and when they want.'

'I see. But Vassiliev flies this route regularly ?'

'Quite often. When I come aboard, I don't expect to see the same faces. But his - yes, quite often.'

'You always thought him - one of us ?'

'Yes - his arrogance.' The pilot was cool, even amused. Vorontsyev smiled, and saw in his mind the face of the young steward. Yes, he could be KGB. Certainly not a steward.

Working for Ossipov - travelling all over the Soviet Union. Nor frightened by the KGB, even masquerading as a KGB man. Pleasing himself which destination - changing his travelling arrangements at the last moment, perhaps.

Vorontsyev was quivering with excitement. He knew what he had caught.

'Leave - this matter in my hands, captain.' He had to make him talk - had to! 'Captain, I must ask you to descend to a level where the pressurised cabin is not needed!'

'Must you hell!'

'That is an order! Disobedience to that order may be construed as treason!' Vorontsyev was in no mood to trifle, to bargain or persuade. His face was grim with determination. He would not need to touch the gun in his holster. He knew the power of SID, even on people like this experienced pilot.

It was a moment only. Then the pilot, with ill grace in his voice and impotent, angry contempt in his eyes, said, 'Very well. What are you going to do, throw the little sod out ?'

'Threaten to. You understand, captain. This aircraft is effectively under the control of an officer in the SID. I shall not interfere, more than is necessary, with your flight-plan or your authority. But I must have your complete cooperation!'

'Very well,' he replied surlily. 'Very well, Major Vorontsyev.' He leaned to speak into the flight-engineer's microphone. 'Pavel, descend slowly to flight level seven-zero. And tell no one.' Then he straightened up. 'Will that do you? Seven thousand feet. It will be bloody cold, so don't leave the door open too long, will you?' There was an acid humour in the voice, the truculence of forced assistance.

'Thank you, captain. And keep her steady, would you ? I have no wish to fall out somewhere over Siberia!'