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Finland - safety - is only a hundred miles away. It wasn't a thought that gave Harvey Winthrop any comfort as he walked steadily towards the seaman approaching him: he might just as well be in Kiev, in the heart of the Ukraine where Gorov had just come from after meeting his brother, Michael.
    It was getting darker every minute. The seaman came closer, trailed by the policeman who wore a dark blue greatcoat and kept an even distance of fifty yards behind the seaman. Was this another coincidence - that the policeman was maintaining exactly the same walking pace as Peter Gorov? If this was Gorov - Winthrop still couldn't see the button. He could see the red band on the policeman's peaked cap but he couldn't see Gorov's goddamned button. The seaman, less than thirty years old, was staring straight ahead and Winthrop fancied he saw strain in the stiffened jaw muscles. The poor devil must be close to screaming point: he hadn't been trained for this kind of tension. Then Winthrop saw the lighter-coloured button at the top of the coat.
    • Winthrop slipped on the ice in front of the Lenin statue, slipped while the seaman was only feet away with the police man still fifty yards to his rear. As the American fell the coloured catalogue dropped to the ground and an illustration of a Rubens painting stood out on the darkened snow like a bloodstain. The catalogue was his positive identifica tion. In the most natural way the seaman paused while Winthrop was trying to get back on his feet and spoke swiftly and softly in Russian.
    'He is coming out on 20 February ... to the American research base Target Number Five ... 20 February ...' He repeated the date in an even lower tone and Winthrop knew he was terrified about two things - that the American might not have heard the vital date, that the policeman might overhear him.
    Winthrop was on his feet now, brushing snow from his coat. The seaman shrugged his shoulders as though people were always slipping in this weather and continued through the park towards the Nevsky Prospekt and the docks be yond. Winthrop picked up his catalogue, tried to walk, limped badly, then leaned against the railings round the statue. The policeman reached Winthrop and asked his question in Russian. 'Can you walk? Have you far to go?'
    'I'm OK. I reckon I twisted my ankle a bit - but I'm OK.' Winthrop had carefully replied in English - no one knew that he understood any Russian, no one except Gorov who was already outside the park. The policeman stared at him without understanding as Winthrop smiled painfully -he really had twisted his ankle. 'I'm from the Europa Hotel,' Winthrop went on, anxious to get rid of the man. He waved a hand. 'Not far to go.' He smiled again and began walking slowly back the way he had come.
    Winthrop limped painfully through the park, really wor ried now about slipping. He simply had to make it back to the hotel, and even in his pain the American's brain was working. Maybe this twisted ankle could be used to get him out of Russia.
    Winthrop was due to leave for Helsinki the day after tomorrow - on the early Sunday morning flight. But that was the day Michael Gorov was starting his run for Target-5. The Soviet authorities knew his exit date, knew that he was in Leningrad to view the wonderful collection of Rubens paintings in the Hermitage in his capacity as a writer on art, so normally they might think his early de parture strange. The genuinely-sprained ankle gave him his reason for catching Saturday's Finnair flight to Helsinki - then the signal could be sent to Dawes in Washington a day before Gorov fled from North Pole 17.
    As Winthrop limped out on to the Nevsky Prospekt it began to snow. He observed the situation along the street automatically, noticed that the leather-jacketed youth was still arguing with his red-haired girl. They must be in love, he thought ironically. No traffic was coming. He still hadn't glanced back to see if the policeman was following. He stepped off the