But I didn't think it had been Zymyanin. His business had been intelligence, not terrorism or political assassination. It had been someone else, and they wouldn't have wanted to take the risk of getting killed if the whole train ran amok, and if they'd been on the train they would have known that the generals had moved out of Car No. 12.

Someone screamed and went on screaming as part of the wreckage collapsed, and two or three people went over there from the rescue squads but there was too much to do and not enough hands.

'For Christ's sake,' I said to Konarev, 'can't we make ourselves useful instead of just standing here? You can leave these things on me.'

'No.' It was the first time he'd said anything except to warn me that I could incriminate myself if I talked. 'Stay where you are.'

'Look,' I said, 'you can keep your fucking gun on me while I'm working, what more do you want?'

'No.'

Bastard.

He was nervous because I was on a capital charge and he'd be entirely responsible if I got away from him; Chief Investigator Gromov and his team were helping with the rescue work: I'd seen two of them carrying a body in a sheet over to the place where they'd set up a morgue — Zymyanin's, possibly.

The screaming went on and I turned my back, it was all I could do, and Konarev told me to stay where I was and I told him to fuck himself and I added that in front of the whole court I was going to let it be known that while people were trapped in that wreckage and dying for the want of help he'd been content just to stand here and do nothing, nothing, but he just went back to his broken record, I could incriminate myself, bastard.

You could turn your back on the train but there was nowhere you could look where there weren't people injured or in shock or crying or standing with their arms round someone else and trying to comfort them. I'd seen Tanya twice, Tanya Rusakova, she'd been helping one of the stretcher bearers, and then I'd seen her working with some other passengers, pulling wreckage clear where someone was calling for help.

I hadn't seen the generals.

The Bureau should do everything to keep them under surveillance, Zymyanin had said.

Then I would have to do that. Get rid of this bloody peasant and look for the generals and keep them in sight wherever they went; it had been all Zymyanin had left for me as a focus for the mission. I looked into Konarev's flat square face and saw the nerves in his eyes, listened to that man screaming over there, the one who was trapped.

'Haven't you got any bloody humanity?'

It would have been dangerous, I think, if he'd warned me again about incriminating myself, because that would have blown all my fuses and I would have incriminated myself all over the stupid bastard and he would have ripped off a shot and that would have brought people running, people in uniform, end of mission, finis.

He didn't say anything, watched me with his eyes flickering slightly, worried about me, he should be, I can tell you he bloody well should be.

Then people began looking upwards as the first flakes of snow came drifting out of the dark belly of the storm. The Rossiya had been running into it when the bomb had gone off and the train had come to a halt, but the storm itself was moving westwards across the city and into the open steppes, and the snowflakes were big ones, eddying out of the silence of the sky. Then in the distance I saw the faint flashing of strobes as the first helicopters came in low, guided by the glow of the fire where the Rossiya was lying crippled.

Gypsies had wandered in from their camp nearer the town and stood watching the scene, then" dogs barking in excitement. Two of the security guards passed us, going to talk to them, possibly to ask if they could bring some of their tents here to give people shelter. Someone was trying to break into one of the darkened dachas, shouldering the door until the lock broke with a bang. They were summer places, shuttered for the long winter season; none of them had lights in the windows.

The strobes glittered in the east, much nearer now and lower still, and the beam of a floodlight came fanning across the scene from the wading helicopter.

People called out to one another, and some of the children waved.

I would have to do something soon now, if I could do anything at all: time was becoming critical. Investigator Gromov would bring his team away from the train as soon as the reinforcements arrived, and I would again become the centre of their attention, and when that happened there'd be nothing I could do, nothing at all.

The chopping of rotors came in and the shadows shifted across the scene, swinging as the floodlight turned and the helicopter put down in a whirling flurry of snow. Two more landed — three — and the snow became blinding until the rotors came to a stop.

I could kill Konarev but there was no case for that: it couldn't be justified as self-defence. I could overpower him but there was the risk of his gun going off and if that happened it would bring down Meridian in the instant because I wouldn't have any chance left of finding the generals and keeping them under surveillance.

Another helicopter put down near the compound where most of the passengers were huddled against the cold, and the snow whirled upwards, blotting them out of sight. Two of the machines were military, with the insignia of the Russian Air Force on their sides; the other two carried a red cross.

Konarev was watching them, and I looked at him, at the angle of his head and the set of his body, left hand hooked into his belt, right hand with the revolver in it, finger inside the trigger guard. There was no safety-catch: it was ready to fire. I would have to use both arms together for whatever action I could take because of the handcuffs, and that would make things more difficult, but not impossible. I was just running the whole thing through my mind, that was all: I probably had another few minutes before I actually needed to do something, if the risk was worth it.

I didn't think it was. Gromov and his team were less than a hundred yards away, still working with the rescue parties and close enough to hear a shot. They'd turn and start running across here and they'd be within optimum target range within fifty yards and when they saw me trying to get clear they'd shoot and they'd shoot to kill.

Two more helicopters landed, huge machines with twin rotors, troop-carriers, and the dark figures of their crews came running from the haze of snow.

Then I saw the generals, recognizably, moving in a group with their bodyguards away from the train and towards the helicopters. They were thirty or forty yards away, their faces not distinct but the cut of their greatcoats clear enough, and their air of purpose. The three leaders were moving slightly ahead, with their bodyguards holding off on each side; it was almost a miniature parade.

I sensed Konarev, tested his aura, let my nerves pick up his vibrations, but the information I was receiving, fine as gossamer, was simply that he wasn't relaxed, wasn't just standing there. He was ready for me if I made a move.

The generals were talking to one of the military pilots, showing him papers, the snow drifting across their dark coats and settling on them as the edge of the storm reached us. The pilot was looking at the papers, turning them to catch the light from the helicopters that was still flooding the scene.

I didn't need the light. I needed darkness. I needed to be able to get clear of this man Konarev and follow the generals: they were asking the pilot to lift them out with the first of the passengers and the injured, what else would they be asking him?

The gun was six inches from my body, Konarev's gun.