'Shut the d.a.m.ned door.' Revell's shout was as loud as the crash with which Cline had thrown it open.

'Private Libby, he...'

'If you can't take care of it yourself, then learn to live with it. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to play nursemaid. Now if you've fixed that camera, get to work on the hook-ups to the launcher sites.'

Cline shut his mouth fast. b.u.g.g.e.r, b.u.g.g.e.r, b.u.g.g.e.r: the realisation that he'd made a c.o.c.k-up by complaining occurred to him forcibly. From now on he'd have to think first every time, and then be very smooth. Still, if he did his job by the book he should be able to paper over the cracks he'd made in the image he'd been trying so hard to project. He'd have to, if he was going to turn the time spent on this harebrained mission to his advantage; and he would, or die in the attempt. Well maybe not die... but a neat and not too painful little wound would be in order.

The worst cases, those with multiple fractures or internal injuries, were laid on the bare floor. The other casualties sat propped against the wall, all around the room. All of them were encased in plastic-coated metal-foil survival bags, the shining coc.o.o.ns helping them retain their precious body heat.

Libby had stuffed wads of paper into the broken panes of the single window, but it was only a gesture; there was scant difference between the temperature inside and outside the building. The day had brought no warmth.

As he worked to repair the salvaged weapons, his hands almost seemed to seize up with the cold. The metal of barrels and mechanisms stung and left cold- imprinted patterns on his palms and fingertips.

The men's breath hung in fine clouds before them, dispersing slowly in the light draughts. It was a perfect at-a-glance indicator as to the more serious cases; they could be recognised by the thin plume of vapour surrounding them, their weakened bodies barely being capable of shallow breaths. In two instances that vestige of white mist was the only sign that the men in question were still alive.

Gunner Fraser, his own head bandaged, moved quietly from man to man, tucking the cold limbs of the semiconscious back inside their metallic wrapping, sometimes making a fractional adjustment to the position of a dressing or lighting a cigarette.

'Daft, isn't it.' Libby slid across to sit beside Andrea, as she watched the young medic's ceaseless fussing. 'At the moment it's the cold that's keeping some of the poor devils alive, slowing them down, giving their bodies a chance to start to cope with the damage, but in the end it'll be the cold that kills them. Why don't you give the kid a hand? That's why you're supposed to be up here. Go on, a pretty face is always good medicine. Surprise me and give them a treat, smile.'

She had never talked to Libby before. There had never been any need, and she would not have done so for any other reason. But now it was easier to talk than to try to ignore him, and she could turn the occasion to good use. 'Will the major order patrols, or are we to sit here and wait for trouble to come to us?'

'The intruder alarm perimeter is far enough out to give us fair warning if some of the natives or someone less friendly should stumble our way.' 'Then I do not know why we need to be here. Why not let the machines do it all? If they can find the enemy, why not give them the capability to kill also?'

'You don't mean that.' In spite of her German accent Libby had recognised the irony in her words. 'You love the killing. I've seen you doing it.' 'I do it well.'

'So does a nuclear bomb, but I wouldn't cuddle up to that either.' 'About the bomb I do not know, but there is no danger you would get the chance to do the other is there?' Taking her grenade-discharger fitted M16 with her, Andrea moved away and went to the window.

'And no b.l.o.o.d.y chance I'd want to.' Sod her, sod all b.l.o.o.d.y women, except for Helga. Sod 'em, sod 'em, sod 'em. When he deliberately moved to sit in the exact spot she'd occupied, he fancied he could feel something of her warmth. Sod her. Being near her, close to any woman, made his b.a.l.l.s ache. He'd have to find a corner and work his frustration off in the same degrading way he always resorted to. Oh G.o.d, he did need a woman. He smiled to himself, a tight wry thing in the privacy of the grimy hands he rubbed over his face. He'd held out so long, but the next chance he got, he'd have to, he'd just have to. But he'd said that to himself the last time, and the time before that, and so it had been for all of two years. Perhaps when, if, it actually came to it, he wouldn't be able to. Maybe lack of practice, or more likely his conscience, wouldn't let him. But it did no good to indulge in such speculations. The problem was now.

He casually stood up and went out to the tiny bathroom. Quietly and carefully, he pulled the door shut behind him.

'f.u.c.king neutrals? I'd bomb the b.l.o.o.d.y lot of them, and all the s.h.i.tty bleeding hearts and pacifists and fellow-travellers back home.' The few daylight hours had gone, taking with them the low cloud that had offered some degree of concealment to their activities. In places, the first hard white points of light that were stars were already appearing.

Dooley turned from the kitchen window. With tight-clenched hands he was draining the last drop of warmth from the can of self-heating soup. 'I don't know how York does it. He reckons he's a decent cook, but somehow he can even screw up this muck.' His body ached, he could still feel where the harness straps had bitten into his shoulders and stripped the skin, even through his several thick layers of clothing. 'Why the h.e.l.l should some po-faced pacifist s.h.i.t be sitting at home, with a full table and a warm b.u.t.t, while I'm stuck out here?'

'You're not the only one who wants to go home.' Burke had finished his soup and now crushed the double-skinned can and shied it into the sink.

'Who said anything about going home? I want the cruds out here with me, so I can show 'em just what it's like.' Dooley sent his can after Burke's. Aimed less accurately it bounced from the drainer and on to the floor, to be flattened under the big man's boot. 'It's the f.u.c.king neutrals I really hate, especially the f.u.c.king Frogs, I'd smear every last one of them.' He demonstrated his. meaning by grinding the can hard into the boards.

Over in a corner, Clarence had built a nest of rags and paper and burrowed into it with his sleeping bag, but the noise Dooley was making was preventing him from sleeping. 'Alright, so you don't like them, does your continuing tirade mean I'm not to get any rest? Now be a good idiot and be quiet for a while will you, six hours will do nicely, but I'll settle for two.' He pulled a smelly, dog hair- smothered, threadbare rug over his head. It didn't help, Dooley was like a record that had become stuck in a groove, going on and on. After a further five minutes Clarence could stand no more.

'That does it. I have to tolerate this ghastly war, you loathsome oafs, this stinking ruin, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to put up with your simplistic all- embracing bigotry. Since when have you Americans been so fast off the mark in joining a war? Seems to me I remember a slight delay - of, what was it, three years? - before you came into the first World War. It took a reminder from the j.a.panese to get you into the second. You're only in this one because half your troops were stoked up on drugs when the balloon went pop, and the Ruskies clouted seven thousand of your men on the first day.'

It was not going to be that easy to get Dooley away from his pet subject, even using provocation of that magnitude. So determined was he not to be sidetracked, he virtually ignored the sniper's interruption except to glower in his direction and threateningly ball a huge fist. 'They're all the f.u.c.king same you know, the Swiss, the Swedes, the Finns, the Frogs; they're all a f.u.c.k sight more neutral towards the Commies than they are to us. It's only a couple of months since the Swiss shot down that Casevac transport. First thing I did when I heard about that was to go to a club I knew they used, to crack a few heads. When I got there I had to join a queue. Take the Swedes, smug b.a.s.t.a.r.ds: free health care, free love and free coming and going for half the Red spies in Europe. And all the time they keep bleating about their neutrality while their factories keep supplying the f.u.c.king Ruskies with everything from telegraph poles to fur caps.'

'They have the highest suicide rate in the whole of Europe you know.' 'Let me know when it reaches a hundred per cent, I'll give a cheer.' Dooley turned to see who had come in, it was Boris. He took in the man's battered face and torn clothing, roughly held together by an a.s.sortment of improvised fasteners. 'I'm glad to see those bricks made a real mess of you. I couldn't be happier if it had happened to Burke. Nothing broken is there? No? What a pity!'

'You do not have to like me, I do not expect you to, but you should try to remember that we are fighting on the same side. Would you have spoken in the same way to Solzhenitsyn, or any of the other dissidents from the pre-war days?'

'There's the world of f.u.c.king difference between a dissident and a deserter. Those guys thought that way from the start, and said so. They didn't wait till they'd served a year in the Red Army, and had just been moved to the front before coming round to that way of thinking. I know your sort. Cruddy a.r.s.e-licking party member while everything is going well in the motherland, then a whining s.h.i.t- scared coward when your piddling little post at some factory suddenly comes off the exemption list.'

Shoving the Russian roughly aside, Dooley stamped out of the room. In pa.s.sing, he kicked two of the bottom rails from the stairs and booted their splintered remains ahead of him.

'You were lucky there, Boris.' Burke listened to the American's noisy progress to the control room. 'Friend Dooley gets really worked up when he's waiting to go into action, it ties him in knots. The only way he can let off steam is to lash out. If he'd swiped at you, you'd have snapped as easy as those rails.'

Boris sat on the corner of the wobbly pine table dominating the centre of the room. It creaked beneath him, but took his weight. Like the few other pieces of furniture remaining in the house it was too heavy and c.u.mbersome for the owners to take with them in their rush to leave the place, and of too little value to be of interest to the looters who'd dared visit the island after the Swedish government had declared it a prohibited area on the outbreak of war, at the time of the first battles in the waters of the Kattegat.

'I should tell you, I was not a combat soldier with the Red Army. I was, I am a technician. That is all.' Boris took cigarette papers and a pinch of dark, almost black, tobacco from a stained leather pouch. He rolled the long ' shreds into the valley of white paper he made between thumb and forefinger, licked its edge and lit the finished cigarette with a lighter fashioned from a Russian 12.7mm heavy machine gun cartridge case. He toyed with it.

'And neither was I an intellectual, with the protection of the interest of the world's press. I am an ordinary Russian, not a party member. It took a long time for me to see, longer still even to summon up the courage to tell myself that what the Communists were doing to my country was terribly wrong. This lighter, it was produced, unofficially, at one of our second-line vehicle repair workshops, in East Germany. The men made and sold them so they would have the money to buy extra food. Their rations had been cut when their productivity fell. That happened because a senior officer, a member of the party of course, had diverted shipments of tools and spares to the black market. Without them they could not do their job.' Boris flicked the lighter on and off. It emitted a strong smell of petrol.

'The day after I bought this, the man who sold it to me was arrested, as were all the machinists and the junior officer in charge of the workshop. I think the machinists were sent to the northern Chinese border. The officer and the salesman were shot. There was no trial, not as you would know one. They were charged, gave their names, and were taken out. That in Russia is a trial.'

'For turning out a few c.r.a.ppy lighters?' Hyde took the lighter and examined it. 'Some of these parts have been cut by hand, you can see the marks of the saw. How many could they have made, ten, twenty?'

'The charge would have been sabotage of the Russian war effort. Anything which in the eyes of an official or an officer, if he is a party member, can be construed as misuse of materials, is punishable by death. There is no appeal, in most cases there would not be the time unless there was some delay in mustering a firing squad, and usually there is one waiting. If they really wanted to get rid of you, then even wiping your nose on the sleeve of your uniform could provide the excuse. Usually they do not need one, but they have bureaucratic minds, and like to put a label to all that they do.' Accepting the lighter back, Boris returned it to his pocket. 'Your big friend was almost right. I had a secure position, actually it was at a small research centre. The pay was quite good and I rode with the tide, did nothing that would make ripples, attract attention to myself. I ignored what went on around me, even when an inoffensive colleague was arrested by the KGB. So long as I was untouched by it all, I closed my eyes, tolerated the shortages, pretended I did mot see the privilege of the party members. But there is a time when these things can no longer be ignored.'

'Why the h.e.l.l didn't you chuck them out years ago, you could have saved all this?' Sweeping his arm wide, Hyde took in the room, the island, the whole of the Zone.

Shoulders bowed, there was a weak attempt at a weary smile on Boris's bruised face. 'I was asked that by another British soldier during one of the interrogations after my desertion. My answer to you is, as it was to him, a question. Why did you not stand up to them years ago? Time after time the Free World let the Communists commit crimes that could have been prevented if the West had only stood up and shouted 'enough', and backed the demand with determination and the threat of force. Afghanistan and Poland and all the others since, you sat back and watched. And worse, you kept supplying them with grain to feed their armies and the materials to make the pipelines that now keep their army in the field.

The West has never understood that they are dealing with a bully, and when you are faced with a bully you do not hand over what he wants and then tie your hands behind your back, as the West did by not re-arming sooner. No, you refuse, and you wave the biggest stick you can. For years your countries practised a cowardice that was matched only in its scope by the brutality and sadism of the Communists.'

'Who are you calling b.l.o.o.d.y cowards?' Forced on to the defensive by the accusations, Burke sought an answer. 'We did stand up to them, what do you think this war is all about?'

'Too little, and too late. Perhaps you would prefer I used the word appeasers, rather than cowards; but even an appeaser must take steps to protect himself when the bully's hands are at his throat and clawing for his eyes.' Burke didn't bother to come back with another reb.u.t.tal. The Russian was much to close to what he personally saw as the truth. He felt cold. Unable to answer, he feigned interest in the rusting children's climbing frame in the garden, having to sc.r.a.pe frost from the dirty pane to see it.

'The snow has stopped.' Boris joined him at the window. Apart from a few places where it had drifted, the covering was only a foot or so deep. The branches of the trees at the back of the house had been swept clean of their light burden by the dying wind. Every bough and twig stood stark against the white backdrop. It was a two-dimensional landscape, like a pen and ink sketch on virgin parchment. 'Take a long look.' Hyde peered over the pair's shoulders. 'Next chance you get, it may have been remodelled by a few Commie surface to surface missiles and guns. Come to that, so might you.'

Running his tongue over the broken stumps of his front teeth, Boris felt the pulsing ache in his jaw and cheek. The process had already started.

SIX.

'Are we ready for that floating Commie hardware yet?' The room was dark, save for the glow from the screens. Revell stood behind the bombardier and scrutinised the complex a.s.sortment of electronic equipment set on various improvised tables and trestles in a crescent around him.

'Computer is running the last tests now, Major. We should get a green any moment, then we can start blowing parts off those tubs whenever they appear.' Cline leant forward and made a fractional adjustment to a dial. The image on the main radar display sharpened.

A composite from three dishes, there was little to be seen on it. To the west, the empty water of the Kattegat, to the north the Swedish coastline tailed away towards Norway and the open sea. To the south, the same coastal strip led to the exit from the narrow waters of the Sound, through which the Soviet warships must come. At twenty miles, the neck of the opening was just visible at the extreme limit of the low powered radar's range. A few other islands scattered randomly along the coast completed the picture.

The tiny six-inch-diameter tube of the air-watch scanner was a blank, and hopefully it would stay that way. Revell was more interested in the image on the electro-optical TV. It showed the Kattegat to be not as uncluttered as the radar picture suggested. Although restricted in range by their limited power source, the cameras were still able to reach out all of six miles, picking out the stretch of sea at the limit of Sweden's territorial waters with perfect clarity. View after view, as Cline switched from camera to camera, showed the almost oily calm to be liberally scattered with variously sized slabs of floating ice. None were sufficiently thick to have registered yet, but in places they had come together to form floes a hundred yards across, and were growing more substantial all the time. Others were constantly being created.

'That should slow up any Swedish patrol boats.' After the way in which he'd almost queered it for himself earlier, Cline thought that things were beginning to go rather well - for him at least. His swift visual check of the components being unloaded from the sledge had revealed no apparent damage, and when all the gear had at last been set up, and he'd thrown the switch, every single status indicator had glowed an unbelievable green. A moment's worry, when the light indicating the condition of the standby batteries had flickered, had been quickly allayed by the discovery of a loose connection.

Without looking round, Cline knew the officer was still behind him, the ghost of his reflection showed on the hooded radar display. He didn't find it easy to communicate with Revell, talking to him was like throwing stones at a snow drift, made little impression, got no reaction. Still, it couldn't hurt to impress the stiff b.u.g.g.e.r at bit. Now was an opportune moment to enhance the good impression he must have already created by setting up and bringing the equipment into action single-handed. Cutting to the camera mounted on the church tower he zoomed in on two men trudging back to the house from their most northerly launcher site, number one, situated almost precisely in the centre of the island.

Revell could make out the faces of Lieutenant Hogg, and Ripper. Powdered snow plumed out from each footfall, and the men clutched empty demolition charge satchels that they hugged to their bodies as extra protection against the cold which made their breath hang in freezing clouds behind them.

Revell did acknowledge that the bombardier was good, but only to himself. He demanded that the men under his command do their job to the best of their ability, he expected no less, accepted no less, and doing it didn't warrant praise. In the gunner he recognised a climber, a man chasing promotion; in Cline's case chasing very hard. Well he was c.o.c.ky enough already, he wasn't going to oblige Cline by inflating his ego still further. 'What's that?'

Cline snapped his attention back to the radar. A tiny green dot had sprung into existence just off the Swedish coast. It was moving perceptibly, and heading for their island. 'Patrol boat?'

'Not unless the Swedes are running some itty-bitty ones we don't know about. Try and get it on camera.' Revell craned closer, crowding the operator.

The snap-guess had been a bad one, Cline knew he should have allowed himself more time. On examination the blip obviously couldn't be anything bigger than a small yacht, twenty-foot maybe, although it was more likely a motor cruiser. The computer gave its speed as fifteen knots. 'I can't get it on camera, Major. None of them were mounted to cover the area between the island and the mainland. With the water too shallow for the big units we're expecting, it wasn't thought there'd be any need to.'

'd.a.m.n. Track it on the radar then. I want to know its precise landfall.' This was a complication Revell could have done without. Every possible contingency had been allowed for in the planning of the operation, but the probability of Swedish civilians visiting the island during the comparatively short period they were there had been calculated to be miniscule, and so his orders as to what to do in the event were brief and vague. Refugees in the Zone were one thing, neutral civilians on their own territory were quite another. No staff officer, even the greenest, was going to commit himself too definitely, in writing.

Short and in pa.s.sing though his instruction had been on the subject, Revell remembered the nebulous phrase 'contact is to be avoided.' Avoided! d.a.m.n it, it looked like he had one or more Swedish civvies about to land in his lap.

There was no perceptible movement of air when the lieutenant and Ripper entered, but the drop in temperature was instantly noticeable. Body heat, the residue from the self-heating cans, and the miniscule amounts given off by the tubes had contrived to raise the reading in the downstairs rooms to several degrees above the outside. The stuffed and papered-over broken panes, a labour of love by York, had done much to help, even though the resulting filling of the windows had still further reduced the weak light during the all too brief day.

Blood continued to drip from Hogg's nose, and had ' soaked and frozen on his fur collar to create a dark spiked hedge. 'All the demolition charges are set, Major. Anytime you want, we can mangle the artillery beyond recognition and spread it around the island. If the Ruskies don't do it for us first.' He stamped and shuffled his feet. His toes hurt. Each one was a distinctively separate lump of marble that throbbed where it joined his flesh. 'What's it down to? It's just incredible out there.'

First brushing condensation from the dial, Cline checked the monitor. 'Forty below, and still dropping.'

'Get yourself some hot food. There's coffee and soup in the kitchen.' Noticing York rising from his seat, Revell motioned him back down, 'They can get their own. I want you to stay on the radio, start checking Swedish naval and coastguard frequencies. I want to know if that boat has so much as a CB set on board.'

Holding a near dead-straight course for the north of the island, the small trace had now covered half the distance. Cline let his mind riffle through a pack of speculations, but held back from offering any of them. He could smell the coffee being poured, could have done with another cup himself. Was it his imagination, or could he also feel its warmth? It was as if a narrow shaft of warmed air was wafting from the filled mugs and brushing past him. Again he inhaled the aroma, softer this time, the lieutenant was putting a dollop of condensed milk in his, having to gouge the barely fluid sweet white cream from the tin with his fingernails. Tearing himself away from the contemplation of the hot food, Cline turned back to the screen and forced himself to concentrate. The cold must be affecting his eyes, the screens looked dimmer, their pictures fuzzy and poorly defined. A hard blink and a second look brought no improvement, then he saw the dials. 'Major, we're losing...'

All three screens went blank and the glow faded from-every dial and digital display. The room was plunged into darkness.

'Switch to batteries.' In the long moment of silence that followed the failure of the equipment, Revell became aware that he could no longer hear the drone of the generator.

The fact that it was pitch-black made no difference, Cline didn't need the beam from the torch that was turned towards the panels to find the controls he needed, using touch alone he pinpointed them as the brilliant pencil of light flashed into his face and forced him to close his eyes against its brightness. Slowly be opened them, faster as they registered that the harsh glare was gone, to find it being replaced by the soft sickly aura of the screens.

'Using all the systems, we can only run two hours on the batteries. If I cut the peripherals and only keep a couple of the princ.i.p.al functions, say the air-watch and surface radar, I can stretch it to five. We can always switch the others back in if we need to.'

'OK, do that. At least until we find what's the matter with the generator. Let the gunners out at the sites know what we're doing before you shut down. Tell them to double their guards.'

'That'll please them. Right now they'll be just starting to get nice and snug in their little tents.'

The voice was Burke's. Revel recognised the gruff tones, even though he couldn't see the man, somewhere at the back of the crowd that had come in the doorway. 'Let's see if a dose of work will cure that wagging tongue of yours. You're the expert with engines, fix the generator. I want to know the moment you trace the fault. Sergeant Hyde!'

'Sir.'

The men parted to let the NCO through.

'We've got visitors.' A glance Revell took at the screen showed the unidentified craft still on course for the island. 'It's probably, almost certainly, civvies. I'd be happier if they didn't find us, but if they do trip over a launch site, then I'll be very unhappy if we don't grab them before they get back to their boat. We can always figure out what to do with them later. I don't want them running off and squawking, and bringing half the Swedish navy and air-force down on us before we've had the chance to carry out our mission.'

'How many men shall I take?' Hyde began to fasten his snow-suit. 'I'll be taking them, Sergeant.'

It was Hogg who pushed to the front this time. A pillar of steam rose from his coffee. He stepped in front of the major and the vapour rising from the mug created a curtain between them.

'If you're figuring I can't see the state you're in behind that smokescreen, you're wrong. You've done enough, Lieutenant, you're in no condition to go out again for a while. When you've finished that get yourself upstairs to the medic, see if he can stop that bleeding, before you drain away.' 'When I'm in the open it dries up, I feel fine.'

'It doesn't dry up, it freezes up; and smokescreen or no smokescreen you don't look fine. You look like a victim in a horror movie.' 'Message coming in, Major.' Hand poised over the printout, York tore the strip off the instant the machine stopped. He leant back and stretched to hand it to Revell.

'This is it, we're in business. The latest satellite pictures show twelve major surface units moving out of Russian waters into the Baltic, and it looks like there's more to come. Twenty-five escort ships have moved from their berths in Polish and East German ports. They're probably going to meet up inside Swedish territorial limits, and we can expect upward revisions on those figures.'

'Going to be a big party. I love parties.' Dooley's huge grin matched in width and display of teeth that which Hogg had permanently worn until the flying debris had made forming it painful.

'Find him some work, Sergeant. We could do with a few slit-trenches around the house, and check with Libby, see what he's managed to get into working order in the way of support weapons. What he hasn't fixed by now he'll have to leave.'

'What about the boat, Major? It'll be making landfall in the next ten minutes or so.' Hyde could see the chance of a little independent action slipping away from him. b.u.g.g.e.r, and he'd been looking forward to the opportunity of operating as his own boss again, even if only for an hour or two. It would have been almost like the old days, before he'd joined the Special Combat Company, when he'd had his own tank-busting unit.

Hogg had not been slow to see the changed circ.u.mstances might be turned to his advantage. He jumped in. 'If you reckon the sergeant is fitter, Major, he'll be more use to you around here. Maybe I'll be better out of the way, strolling about keeping an eye on our late season tourists.'

'OK, you can take Clarence, Remember, avoid contact if it's humanly possible, and if it isn't be gentle. If we get bagged and interned simply for being here, that's one thing; getting hanged for what the Swedes would call murder is another.'

'They don't have a death penalty in Sweden.' Hogg didn't look up from the radar display. He was noting the precise location 'at which the trace of the boat suddenly merged with the island's, north-eastern coastline and ceased to exist as a separate ent.i.ty on the screen.

'I bet they'd make an exception for us.' Pa.s.sing through, a pick and shovel over his shoulder, Dooley was no longer smiling.

'What the h.e.l.l are they doing?' Through the lens of the pocket image intensifier, Lieutenant Hogg kept constant watch on the comings and goings of the four men, as they moved among the broken walls of the old castle.

Using the night-scope on his rifle, Clarence had been watching as well. 'They've taken all the packs into the tower, but the sledge hasn't been unloaded yet, it's close by the arch leading in. It's a bit cold for a picnic'

'Maybe it's an orgy. I heard the Swedes were big on that sort of thing. h.e.l.l, I wish we could use a radio, I know it doesn't look like these guys are going to roam about and stumble on our set-up, but my gut tells me there's something funny going on, and I sure would like to chew it over with the major.'

'I think one of them is a woman. The figure taking the box off the sledge ...there ...you see.'

'Either that's a man with a full pack stuffed down the front of his ski-suit, or like you say, it's female. That helps my orgy theory.'

'Not necessarily, Lieutenant.' Panning over the ruins, Clarence sought the other people from the boat. 'I've seen a few of the Swedish magazines Dooley buys: four men, four women, one woman and three monkeys, they'll do it with anything. That's nothing to go by.'

'There's one on the roof of the tower.' Hogg had to be careful not to breathe too heavily and to exhale towards the ground on which they lay among the leafless copse. Any other way would have fogged the lens, and produced a white cloud that might have betrayed their position. 'Is that an aerial he's rigging?'

'Could be, but we'd need to get closer to be certain'. 'Major Revell ought to know about this. You get word to him. I'll stay here and keep an eye on them.' Wiping his nose on the back of his mitten, Hogg winced at the pain it brought, but was pleased to see the flow of blood did at last seem to be slowing. The thick fabric of his glove was stiff with it, and he could feel where runs of blood had turned to ice on his face. Any fresh trickle either had to be wiped away immediately, or he needed to move his head from side to side in a gentle motion that prevented it from welding his face to his hood when it dripped sluggishly from his chin.

Pushing himself up on to his hands and knees, Clarence paused. 'You had better move around now and again, Lieutenant. The bottom must have dropped out of the thermometer. Cold has a way of creeping up on you.'

'I'm not about to let myself be turned into a popsicle when the best slice of action so far in the whole war is in the offing. Get word to the major, then we can get this sideshow sorted out and get down to the main business.'

Clarence didn't offer further argument or advice. Crouched low, and moving quietly through the powder-like snow, he started back to the house. The combination of snow on the ground and brilliantly sharp starlight provided sufficient illumination to light his way, but the absence of shadows made it impossible to see the prints they had made on the way out, and twice within a hundred yards, he missed his way. The cold was a very physical thing, plucking at him with needle-covered hands. Unable to measure it, he could only speculate on how far the temperature had now plunged. Recalling something he had read long ago, he made to spit. If his memory served, it would crackle when it touched the ground once the temperature had dropped below fifty degrees, but was it Fahrenheit or Centigrade? He couldn't be sure. The skin of his face was taut, his cheeks ached and he gave up the attempt to make spittle. For once he envied Hyde his ghastly face, at least the sergeant had no feeling in it. His eyes blinked hoi tears that turned to ice droplets, and wiping them away added more discomfort, as in parting from his face the flakes and droplets seared his skin like freeze-branding irons.