If it was unlocked, folded back - it would take one small push to tumble him out over the Yablonovny Mountains, or Lake Baikal. A shudder went through him.

He had rehearsed what he knew in his own mind in the early moments, or minutes - not hours ? - before the sense of his isolation pressed down on him. There was the faintly creaking silence of the baggage compartment and nothing more for a long time, before the voice began to speak to him. The handcuffs had hurt then. Now, he could not feel his hands. They might have rotted on the ends of his wrists for all he knew. His stomach churned at the thought, and he hated the weakness that allowed such ridiculous imaginings to take root.

He knew some things, but not all. What could he tell them, what keep back ? If he told them, would it help them, or himself?

It was the blindfold, of course. And the numbing cold. Deprivation of sense; so easy to achieve. He had lost the ability to know his surroundings, and the space around him expanded and contracted like something malleable. He could retain no firm hold on his environment. It was, at the worst moments, like falling from the plane.

They would not kill him, they would not kill him.

'You are a brave man, Boris. Many would have already broken. But not you.' He dung to the voice, now at his other ear, pathetically. It told him he was not alone, that he was still in the baggage compartment. Then someone moved a heavy weight across the floor, a deep scraping noise. He twitched, as if the door had opened and the sub-zero air outside had flowed over him. 'I don't think you will tell me what I want to know.' He felt proud of that. 'I shall dispose of you, then. You can be of no use to me.'

Then, silence.

He wanted to cry out, but they had gagged him as well with an evil-tasting woollen scarf. It filled his nostrils with the smell of cheap hair-oil. He wanted to cry out - it was too late, he realised. He shook his head, then nodded it stupidly, like a moving doll, and tried to wriggle his numb limbs about. To show them he was alive.

He could not tell them, if they didn't take off the gag ! Desperately, he worked his mouth on the gag, trying to chew at it, his mouth full of the strands of wool. He couldn't get his teeth outside the great wrap of the scarf - if only he could do that. He tried to pull his arms back to his face, but he must have been tied in such a way that he wouldn't -couldn't move them . . .

His one chance lay in getting the gag off, crying out. They could not see his eyes, he could not move his arms. He could not show them how much he wanted to talk - that he did not want to die.

Someone laughed, a distance away. So disorientated was he, that it could have come from beneath him. He moaned, and could not even hear the noise he made.

Cold air - he swore it. The click of a lock - he bent his body towards the sound, straining to hear it. Then the arms round him, moving him so that he was against the bulkhead. Gratefully he pressed his head against its solidity. Then the door slid back - he was against the door ! The air - freezing. The wind, terrible. He screamed, and screamed. He was falling, he knew he was falling . ..

At that moment, some sensation at the back of his head.

The blindfold was coming off! He passed out, gratefully. He did not want to see the jagged mountains, the endless lake towards which he was falling.

Vorontsyev stood against the luggage, securely strapped except for the one chest they had used to make a noise, just before opening the hatch. He was smoking a cigarette, the feeling just returning to his hands and feet and face, despite the fact that he had worn gloves, and wrapped his scarf around his cheeks when they opened the hatch. The gale that had blown on them had terrified him, and he understood a little of what Vassiliev had undergone.

He had no pity for him; he had had to break him, and quickly. They were half-way to Moscow, possibly, and due to refuel at Novosibirsk before very long. That respite in his agony would have given Vassiliev the strength to hold out, perhaps.

Besides which, Vorontsyev knew and accepted without qualm that he was avenging his private betrayal on the steward who was also a courier. It served the man right. They had used his own wife against him.

He drew deeply on the cigarette, watching the KGB man -Tikhon - as he revived Vassiliev. The trick now was too appear friendly, reconciled. The heavy coat was loosely buttoned around Vassiliev, and the handcuffs and the strap had disappeared. There was vodka in a flask. Tikhon poured some against Vassiliev's blue lips, the man spluttered, and his eyelids echoed the movement.

Then he was staring at Vorontsyev, who smiled at him, took out his cigarette case, and offered Vassiliev a cigarette. They had moved the steward so that he was sitting on a strapped pile of luggage, Tikhon holding him almost in his arms, the vodka flask tilted towards the man's lips. It was as if two other people had come and rescued Vassiliev.

'Well, Boris ?' Vorontsyev said, coming to sit beside him, so that all three sat like children on a wall, legs dangling free. Vassiliev coughed on the cigarette smoke. 'Tell me about it.'

It was important not to mention what he had been through, or to indicate that it might recur. He would remember vividly and know.

'I - I wanted to, didn't want to...' Vassiliev stuttered, his eyes rolling in his head.

'I know, I know. But that is over now. Just tell me. Shall I ask you questions ? Will that make it simpler ?'

Vassiliev stared in silence at the closed cargo hatch, checking minutely that the locks were fully shut. He drew on the cigarette - a bout of nausea gripped him, lurching his stomach sideways. He gagged on the vomit, then lay back, the sharp edges of a case digging into his spine. When Tikhon offered him the vodka, he guzzled at the narrow neck of the flask, and the liquor burned down into his stomach.

It seemed to settle him. He sat up again, and nodded. 'Yes. Ask me.'

Vorontsyev knew he could not take long. Vassiliev, after his experience, would retreat progressively into a grudging silence. There would be some recovery of the will, enough to lead to lying and prevarication. The truth would come only at first.

'Who is your superior ? Who recruited you ? Who is behind Group 1917 ?' Vassiliev appeared disappointed that he could not answer the question. He said: 'I - don't know ...'

'You've never met him ?'

'A few times - to report directly to him.'

'And?'

'It was always at night. He kept his face away from the light. Just an old man, with a dog.'

'Where were these meetings ?'

'Usually in the "Field of Virgins", near the Tolstoy statue. You know it ?'

Vorontsyev nodded. He did not consider the information. He said, 'What is his code-name ?'

'Kutuzov,' Vassiliev replied, still at the point of being eager to help.

Vorontsyev smiled. 'A liking for heroic figures,' he commented. 'So have you, no doubt. How many are there like you?'

'Perhaps thirty - no more than that.'

'You will write down all the names you know, when we have finished talking. Now - Ossipov is the dry-run for the invasion, is he not ?' Vassiliev nodded. Vorontsyev stifled his sigh of relief. 'Who will command the invasion ?'

'Praporovich himself.'

Vorontsyev had known, of course. It had to be the Commander of Soviet Forces North. Nevertheless, the information was like a blow that expelled breath, left him winded. He was silent for a time, then he said, 'His entire staff is involved ?'

Vassiliev nodded. Vorontsyev forebore to call them traitors. 'What do his staff know ?'

'Some of them have the complete picture, but most believe it is - sanctioned by the Kremlin.' There was a contempt in the voice. 'Dolohov is involved, too,' Vassiliev offered confidingly.

'Yes, he would have to be.' He lit another cigarette, then said: 'When is it to happen ?'

Vassiliev was silent. Vorontsyev wondered whether he was already becoming truculent, considering evasion and lies. Then: 'I have been relieved of my job as a courier. It must be close.'

'How are they communicating now ?'

'Secure telephones.'

'Kutuzov is in Moscow?'

'I suppose so.'

'What of the coup ?' It was difficult to keep the excitement from his voice.

'To co-incide with the invasion of Norway and Finland. Exactly.'