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irritation to show: he had reached the stage where he couldn't stand the sight of a security man. It was Col Papanin's Security Service which had killed Rachel Levitzer six months ago.
    Gorov's eyes filled with tears as he thought of her. They had been unofficially engaged, but because she was Jewish, because he was an eminent Academician, they had kept their relationship secret. Then the news had come through in August 1971: Rachel had died in Leningrad.
    The Security Service had come to her flat to arrest her: something to do with the Jewish underground - Gorov had never been clear on the details - but Rachel had attempted to escape, fleeing down a long staircase. A security man had tripped her and Rachel had gone down - down a flight of thirty stone steps. When they had reached her she was dead, her neck broken.
    Gorov checked his watch. 4.10 am, local time. Twenty more hours to wait before he started out across the polar pack in his desperate bid to reach Target-5. Timing was everything: he had been warned by the Americans that he must fix his own departure date - and then stick to it. Gorov's plan was to leave North Pole 17 at exactly midnight and he wondered how he was going to get through the next twenty hours while he pretended to be absorbed in his depth-sounding experiments. But at least there was one consolation: his brother, Peter, would by now have passed on the message. The Americans knew already when he was coming.

    The Locomotive was building up a head of steam. By eleven o'clock on Saturday morning all witnesses had been interrogated at security headquarters - interrogated by Papanin himself. He had seen the Intourist guide, Madame Vollin - a cow of a woman, Kramer. And she has bad breath. I don't know how Winthrop stood it . ..' He had spent far longer with the policeman who had seen Winthrop die. He had interviewed staff from the Hotel Europa and the airport official who had noted down Winthrop's arrival five days earlier from Helsinki. And he had found nothing remotely suspicious.
    'I think we are looking down a large hole with nothing in it,' Kramer remarked as the airport official left. 'There is not one piece of evidence to connect this man Winthrop with the Jews.'
    'Someone is bringing in money to them - we know that. And Winthrop still smells.' The Siberian bounded up from behind his desk and started striding round the room. 'For five days he behaves himself- he goes to the Hermitage and stares at the Rubens, always with his nursemaid, the Vollin woman. Then, what happens yesterday?' Papanin bent down, picked up a poker and began to attack the interior of the stove, stirring up the glowing coals the way he stirred up people.
    'He dies in a street accident...'
    'Before that! He breaks routine, Kramer - he tells the guide he is tired and will not be going out.' He rammed the poker in deep. 'The moment her back is turned he slips out again on his own - when it is nearly dark. Why, Kramer, why?'
    'He is feeling better. He is going back to the Her mitage . . .'
    'When the museum closes at four? He'd get there just in time to come back. Why did he go out on his own?'
    'To meet someone . . .' Kramer made the reply casually, for something to say. The Siberian's grip tightened on the poker. He withdrew the weapon from the stove, straightened up slowly and stared at his assistant. 'I don't really believe that,' Kramer said quickly.
    'To meet someone?' Papanin repeated. 'You know, you could be right. But who? He didn't meet anyone - he didn't have time before he was killed.' Papanin prodded the poker in Kramer's direction. 'Let's use our heads - by which I mean let's use my head. The American goes out, walks to the park ...'
    'Twists his ankle .. .'
    'Appears to twist his ankle, Kramer.' Papanin had his eyes closed as he tried to visualize the scene the policeman had described. 'He slips close to the seaman, then he starts back again. I wonder who that seaman was, Kramer?'
    'Could have been anyone.'
    'No - we