'What?' I asked him.

'Thank you.'

The light was still moving over there, going in circles, some kind of patrol. I could hear an engine now.

'Zhigalin, what boat's that?' He should know these waters.

'Soviet, since we are drifting east.'

'But if you don't know what that light is, the other one, we could be drifting west, couldn't we?'

'We will hear their voices, when they see us. Then we shall know. But please take my gun. You agreed to do that.'

It's not often, I dare say, that the executive has to kill off the objective at the end of a mission.

He wants Zhigalin taken across, at all costs.

Fane. Finished now. Dead or a madman.

Poor old Croder.

And is that all you know?

That was the last we heard, sir. Ferris got them onto a plane but it went down into the sea.

The red bulb would go out, over the board for Northlight.

That's all you know, yes, and all you'll ever know.

The light was sweeping in a circle, and I moved closer to Zhigalin, the idiot ideologist, my brother of the Arctic night. The light's beam cut the sea from the sky, swinging towards us and throwing a back glare against the huge shape of the boat. It was almost on us. I put the gun against my brother's head.

The light hit us like a blow, blinding us, and swung back, steadying. A voice came over a loudhailer.

'Hvem er de?'

Zhigalin touched my wrist. 'Not Soviet,' he said. 'Not Soviet.'

'Dreie til og berede de at redde! 'No,' I said, 'Norwegian,' and lowered the gun.

THE END