He caught hold of Folley's arm, and hurried him out of the cell. Someone had dragged the man in the dressing-gown away from the doorway. He pushed Folley up the cellar stairs in front of him.

The small group of exhausted men were gathered hi the kitchen. There were three men, in various states of undress, against the wall. Standing. Only the man in the dressing-gown appeared to be wounded. His face was grey with weakness and pain, and he slumped against the wall. Around the table were the driver, one of the men who had entered from the rear, and the two who had searched the first floor. One of them was wounded. He nodded to them. Only one dead.

'What do we do now, sir?' the driver asked, staring at Folley, who hovered behind Vorontsyev.

'Mm? Now?' Vorontsyev was ready to leave; this was a delay. He snapped, 'Use the radio - then take these men to the safe house. Keep them there until arrangements can be made.'

'What about him, sir ? Shall I report him ?' The driver was nodding in Folley's direction.

'What ? Yes. Now, have you brought the cars round?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. I shall be going. Don't waste time getting this little gang under cover!'

They all wished to question him, it was evident. He felt guilty, caught out. He hoped they would not ask. The driver said, 'Aren't you - ?'

'Don't question me!' he snapped. 'Report in when you get to safety!'

They sat stiffly in their chairs as he turned his back on them. He had not congratulated them, thanked them. They had done well - it did not matter; was irrelevant. He had to get rid of the Englishman now, and get the first flight to Moscow.

How long did he have ?

He had no idea. It might be only hours.

The thought pressed in his back, almost expunging breath. He opened the front door, and pushed Folley on to the steps. One of the Volgas was parked by the steps.

'Get in!' he snapped. Folley stared at him dumbly, as if retreated into some catatonic escape from his situation. 'Get in!'

Vorontsyev slammed the door, fitted the key in the ignition, and then looked at his watch. Six fifty-nine. Nineteen minutes. Was that all?

He stared at the dashboard in a blank moment, then switched on. The tyres squealed on the frosty gravel as he pulled out from the drive into the still empty street. Again, he looked at his watch. Seven.

Twenty minutes to get to the Consulate, bang on the door until a marine opened it, or perhaps the doorman in pyjamas -then allow another forty minutes to get to the airport and through the controls. What time was the early-morning flight to Moscow ? Eight ? Nine ?

Eight-thirty.

He would be in Moscow by ten.

And by that time Andropov would be looking for him, just as he would be looking for Gorochenko.

'Gone - what do you mean, gone ?'

Andropov's face darkened, and he held the telephone a little from his freshly-shaven cheek as if suspicious of it. He had felt comfortable, pleased with the initial report from Leningrad, having shaved and washed to rub away some of the sleepless night's grime, and the residue of his panic. Then this. Vorontsyev was not available. 'Where is the Englishman - not dead, I hope ?'

'Comrade Chairman,' replied the voice with punctilious respect, 'we assumed he had orders from you. Major Vorontsyev left before us, with the Englishman.'

'Had he questioned him ?'

A slight delay, then: 'He was alone with him for at least ten 'minutes, Comrade Chairman.'

'And he left hurriedly?'

'Very - sir.'

Andropov was silent in his bemusement for a moment, then remembering there were certain courtesies required, he said abruptly: 'Very well. Well done. I shall despatch a team to take over from you. You will all be commended for your work, and the commendations noted on your files. That is all.'

'Thank you, Comrade -' He put the receiver down quickly. His first action was to look at his watch. Nine twenty-five. The early flight from Leningrad would already have landed.

Why had that occurred to him ?

The more proper enquiry was - why had Vorontsyev disappeared and where was he now ?

A stupid return to logic - he already knew the answer. He had disappeared because he had discovered the identity of the ringleader. Kutuzov. Vorontsyev had found out who Kutuzov really was Andropov watched his hand on the desk slowly opening and dosing, like a small, independent, grabbing animal. And he felt the excitement of knowledge.

Vorontsyev would do that because For only one member of the Politburo. One hitherto trusted, unsuspected, almost senile member of the Politburo Andropov savoured not pronouncing the word in his thoughts, even the way in which he refused to countenance an image of the old man. Instead, he picked up one of his battery of telephones and dialled the duty-room on the ground floor of the Centre.

'Andropov. Alert the security team at Cheremetievo. If Major Alexei Vorontsyev lands, he is to be detained and brought to me here.' He broke the connection and pushed his glasses more firmly on to the bridge of his nose. Then he dialled a second extension. 'Records ? Bring me Major Alexei Vorontsyev's personal file, at once. And the file on Mihail Pyotravich Gorochenko - yes, the Deputy Foreign Minister.'

He put down the phone and looked at his watch. Vorontsyev might have passed through visa control already. If he had done, where would he go ?

The two personal files he had requested might tell.

He felt a twitch of fear. The night's fatalism had disappeared not so much with the dawn, but with this sudden knowledge, and the danger offered by the disappearance of Vorontsyev.

They could not have known, of course. He allowed himself to think that, quite clearly and precisely. Even now that he knew, it was hard to believe, hard to elevate the shambling has-been Gorochenko to the level of arch-plotter, overthrower of the state. A broken-winded nag who's toed every line ever pointed out to him, whoever owned the pointing finger. Army, yes - they'd spotted that right away, but that was during the war, and he'd gone straight back into government. A good man with paper, patient on committees, a good right-hand for Gromyko. Never any trouble As Andropov rehearsed the innocuousness of the Deputy Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union, the confidence that the KGB had been rightly and unavoidably fooled became the hollow laughter of the hoaxer. He could almost hear Gorochenko laughing at the manner in which they had been taken in for thirty years - by a caricature of the third-rate Party man!

He dosed hands into fists, one containing the other, and the knuckles whitened as he squeezed. He had played the booby, and taken them, Beria and himself. His very spotlessness should have been sufficient proof I He released his hands from the mind's grip, and nibbed them, as if washing.

Concentrate on Gorochenko. Think, think - forget Vorontsyev, concentrate on Gorochenko. Find him - stop a coup. He reached for the telephone. There would be time to tell Khamovkhin at Lahtilinna later, when he had given his instructions. Perhaps they had as much as twenty hours A tyranny is sufficient, he thought. He is ours already.

Kutuzov sat in his study. He concentrated on each item of furniture, each painting and photograph, even the grandfather clock which told him it was almost nine-thirty, as if in valediction. He felt very tired. He had been unable to sleep - who would have done, in his situation ?

Twenty hours to go. Only twenty.

He stared at the telephone. Praporovich dead, Dolohov dead, Pnin and other generals - dead, too. He put his head in his hands for a moment, then shrugged and made himself sit upright in his chair. He was angry, and would not accept, not for a moment, the image of defeat such a slumped posture would portray. An angry movement of his hand, as if brushing something aside, rattled the bone-china cup and saucer on the delicate little table with the leather surface at the side of the chair. He glanced at it, then replaced the base of the cup firmly in the centre of the saucer.

He was all will-power; a strong man. He had always known that. He had needed it, all of it, then, as he had listened to the report from Leningrad. Or, most of all perhaps, when he had been told that Vorontsyev had talked to the Englishman, and then disappeared.

He stood up. There, he could do it steadily, betraying no reaction from the news he had received. It was as if he were aware of some audience. He laughed, a deep, almost threatening noise. Yes, he did behave as if for an audience, a great deal of the time. He was his own audience now. Once, the audience had been Kyril Vorontsyev, Alexei's father. Then Alexei himself. Not usually his wife. She, though he had sometimes loved her, occasionally needed her, had borne with him as he was without make-up and a role to play.

Yes, Alexei would know by now - would have talked to the Englishman, primed by Vassiliev as to what to look for. And he would know about the stupid bitch, Natalia, and how she had been used against him. There was a moment of admiration for his adopted son. He was clever, and brave, and dogged.

And now, doubtless, would be coming for him. And, even if he had not told Andropov - he might not have - Andropov would have guessed.

He crossed to an escritoire, opened a drawer, and took out a Makarov automatic. He checked the mechanism, and inserted a full clip. Then he put two more clips in his coat pocket. He closed the drawer again.

The invasion - that may have been stopped. But the coup -that would proceed. Oh, yes, that would proceed. He swept his hand through the air in a slicing motion. That, and Fanny Kaplan. The Kremlin gang and their secret police would be swept away. Valenkov would obey him, as long as he was free to make the telephone call at six the next morning.