The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER TEN

The clock on the wall showed two-twenty when the Commodore (Intelligence) got back to his office from lunch with the Vice-Chief of the Naval Staff.

He rang for Briggs. The lieutenant-commander appeared with customary alacrity, file in one hand, clipboard in the other, brisk, alert, nose well forward like a hound on the scent.

‘Well, Briggs. What progress with Daisy Chain?’

‘Everything more or less under control, sir. C-in-C Fleet has diverted Aries — returning to the Clyde from an Icelandic patrol — and Bluewhale, outward bound on an Arctic patrol. They were between fifty and seventy miles north of the Faeroes at noon. Aries has been ordered to a position in area GXF — approximately one hundred and twenty miles southwest of the Lofotens. Bluewhale to a position seventy miles north of the Shetlands. She will later receive instructions to rendezvous with Aries for an anti-submarine exercise. Purpose — to test new equipment. The equipment to be flown to them by helicopter from Belligerent with ASW specialists from Portland.’ Briggs turned a sheet on the clipboard.

‘Belligerent, at present off the Forth, is to proceed to a position sixty miles east of the Shetlands to embark the ASW equipment and the specialists. She will rendezvous with Aries and Bluewhale in area GXF and take charge of the exercise. All other details — the Liang Huis, Special Branch, the yacht, etcetera — in hand as planned.’

‘Good for C-in-C Fleet,’ said the commodore trying not to look delighted. Not only had the First Sea Lord approved Daisy Chain, but C-in-C Fleet was providing more background support than Naval Intelligence had requested. The importance of exploiting the Zhukov disaster had not been lost anywhere along the line — even Maltby and the ICC, suspicious of nonintegrated operations, had liked the idea. Aries, a Leander class frigate, Bluewhale, a Porpoise class submarine, and Belligerent, an assault ship, couldn’t be a better trio for the job.

‘And now,’ he said, using his low key voice. ‘What progress with the Daisy Chain party?’

Briggs put the clipboard on the desk and consulted the manilla file. ‘Rather good, sir. We’ve had a bit of luck. Liang Hui and his sister Tanya, Secret Intelligence Service agents based on Hong Kong, are here for debriefing. On leave in London at the moment. I think you know them, sir. They helped us close that massage parlour leak in Kowloon two years ago. Before my time here, but I’ve read it up.’

‘Yes, I know them, and I’m quite sure you’ve read it up, Briggs. The parlour where dishy Cantonese birds treated our sailors to hash and saki preparatory to swapping pelvic massage and other eroticisms for classified information.’ The commodore was thoughtful. ‘So the Liang Huis are here. Well, they couldn’t have come at a better time.’

Briggs nodded absent-mindedly. He was thinking about the massage parlour. The dossier on it — polaroid photos, tapes, the lot — had long been a popular and hilarious diversion for night duty staff when things were quiet. Gems like that didn’t often come the way of naval intelligence.

Briggs returned the notes to his file. ‘The Liang Huis’ background seems tailor-made for this assignment, sir. Grandmother, a white Russian émigrée in Shanghai. Spin off from the Bolshevik revolution. She married a Cantonese, the Liang Huis’ grandfather that was. The son married a Cantonese girl. They produced Li and Tanya Liang Hui. Their father insisted they spoke Russian as well as Chinese. They are equally fluent in either. The Liang Huis are in Linton’s parish. He gives them a high rating.’

The commodore’s face gathered in seams which Briggs knew to be approval. ‘Who else have we got?’

‘Collins and I checked through the Naval Secretary’s list of interpreters. We looked for Norwegian, Russian and Chinese speakers. We also checked on RN personnel with one or more parents of non-British origin. From that sifting we made up a list, checked it against service history sheets. We had to have at least one man with BMS service. We then made inquiries about sailing experience. Having sieved through that lot we made up this short list. You’ll see I’ve made background notes about each name on it. Of course, it’s subject to your approval, sir.’

‘Very considerate of you, Briggs.’ The commodore took the list, bunched bushy eyebrows and began to read:

Lieutenant-Commander Stephen Nunn RN. 31. Married. No children. Weapons Electrical Officer. Four years’ service in ballistic missile submarines of which eight months with USN. Father English, mother Cantonese. Qualified interpreter in Chinese, Japanese and Korean. In addition has sound knowledge of Russian and Scandinavian languages. Member of the RN Sailing Association. Has crewed and skippered for ten years.

‘Good God,’ said the commodore. ‘Wonder what he thinks in?’

‘They come like that, sir. Quite a lot of bodies in NS’s list are qualified in three or four languages.’

The commodore read on:

Chief Petty Officer Sven Sandstrom, 38. Married. Three children. Gunnery Instructor (gunnery and missiles). Ten months’ service in ballistic missile submarines. Mother and father Norwegian. Later served in Norwegian destroyer attached RN, WWII. Qualified interpreter in Russian and Norwegian. Good sailing experience.

John Boland, Leading Marine Engineering Mechanic, qualified diver, 28. Two children. Father Ulsterman, mother Chinese. Qualified interpreter in Chinese.

‘Extraordinary mixture,’ said the commodore. ‘Children must be Catholic Buddhists.’ He went back to the list. ‘Ah — the bait.’

Julie Saville, 24. Third Officer WRNS. Unmarried. Daughter of former Norwegian diplomat, now dead. Mother came from North Russia. Saville has taken stepfather’s name. She speaks fluent Norwegian, fair Russian. Good sailing experience.

‘I expect that’s not all she’s good at,’ said the commodore. ‘What is her stepfather’s background?’

‘Oh. Sorry, sir. I forgot to record that. He’s a captain RN retired. Three terms junior to you.’

‘Saville. Saville. Probably J. I. He was a submariner.’

‘Yes, sir. That’s him.’

‘Good. Well, I can’t fault your list, Briggs. They’re just names to me. Other than the Liang Huis. But they sound a pretty useful lot. When do we get them together?’

‘We’re busy on that now, sir. The briefing is scheduled for ten o’clock tonight.’

‘Secure venue?’

‘A farmhouse. It’s near…’

The commodore’s hand shot up like a pointsman’s. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t tell me. I’m not supposed to know.’ His pucklike face became preoccupied, worried. ‘They won’t know, I take it?’

‘No, sir. They’ll arrive in a closed van.’

‘General security?’

‘Special Branch have it wrapped up.’

‘Good. I want Daisy Chain off the ground by noon tomorrow at the latest. Tonight there won’t be a newspaper or TV station not carrying the Zhukov story. And don’t forget the Soviet salvage lot. They’re not going to waste time.’

‘D’you really think the media will know it’s the Zhukov, sir?’

‘No. I hope not. But they’ll report a bloody great Soviet nuke high and dry on Vrakoy. That’ll stir the pot.’

The commodore looked at his notes, then at Briggs. ‘You’d better get the charter message off. The yacht to be available by 1800 tomorrow.’

‘It’s drafted, sir. Just waiting your go ahead.’

‘Right. Dispatch it.’

Briggs went to the door, stood there undecided. ‘By the way, sir. You said you’d let me know who was to take operational command of Daisy Chain.’

The commodore frowned. ‘I know you’d like to, Briggs. But you lack the essentials. Russian, Norwegian and an intimate knowledge of that part of the world. That rules you out, I’m afraid.’ He scribbled a name on a slip of paper and handed it to the lieutenant-commander. ‘Planted in Norway twenty years ago. You won’t find him on any retired list. But he’s the man for the job. Afraid I can’t tell you more just now.’

Briggs looked at the name: Lieutenant-Commander James Harald Craddock, RN (retd). He returned the slip of paper to the commodore who put it in an ashtray and burnt it.

‘How do I contact him, sir?’

‘You don’t,’ said the commodore. ‘I do that.’

In Bodo that afternoon Gunnar Olufsen’s travel agency received a request by teleprinter from Thos. Cook and Sons’s West End office requesting the charter of an ocean-going yacht for a party of four arriving the next day. The teleprint message recorded that three of the tourists were experienced yachtsmen. The boat would be required for about two weeks, during which time the charterees planned a sailing holiday in and around the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands. Since time was limited, an auxiliary engine capable of providing a speed of at least eight knots without sail was essential. Gunnar Olufsen attended to the request personally. Within a few hours he had selected the forty-foot ketch Kestrel from the list provided by Halvorsen Brothers, yacht brokers and hirers. Its 60 HP diesel gave it ten knots without sail. She was lying in Bodo.

That done he flew down to Oslo and transferred to the night flight to Heathrow.

The Rover slowed down for the hairpin bend, took the humpback bridge and turned left along a farm road, its lights sweeping fields and hedgerows before steadying on the iron gates ahead. It squealed to a stop. A dark shape appeared from nowhere. In the headlights it became a man, sheepskin coated and tweed hatted. He opened a door, searched inside the car with a torch, checked the registration plates and licence disc. At the driver’s window he spoke to the sole occupant. ‘Let’s see it, then.’

Briggs produced an identity card. The torch focused on it then shifted to Briggs’s face. The man passed back the card, spoke into a walkie-talkie. ‘Okay, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr McGhee’s waiting.’

Briggs let in the clutch and the Rover bumped down the track towards the farmhouse. He parked it behind a cowshed.

At the back door another man checked Briggs’s face against the identity card by torchlight. ‘Mr McGhee’s in the living-room, sir,’ he said. His breath smelt of a recently finished meal.

The superintendent was sitting on a stool in an inglenook where broken necklaces of plaster hung from the ceiling.

‘Good organization, McGhee.’

‘Cold for the time of year,’ said McGhee warming his hands in front of a log fire. ‘Might as well be comfortable.’

‘’Fraid we’re going to be late,’ said Briggs, ‘One of our lot’s been delayed.’

‘Not the first time,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nor the last I’ll warrant.’

‘He’s had to come rather a long way,’ said Briggs apologetically.

They were all there by midnight. Six rather ordinary looking civilians. Unnotable save, perhaps, for the Cantonese brother and sister and the faintly oriental flavour of two other members of the party. All were dressed in a casual nonconformist way. The usual run of denim jeans, jackets and woollen jerseys. But for the brother and sister, they were unknown to each other, as were their faces until they’d reached the living-room. The van’s interior light hadn’t worked.

The late arrival came in the van on its second journey. He was a lean man with greying hair and a lined weathered face. He sat alone at the far end of the table, silent and immobile except when turning an aquiline nose and large questioning eyes on those who spoke. Occasionally the eyes and lips combined in a smile and the face was transformed.

‘I’m Martin,’ said Briggs. ‘Please introduce yourselves.’

All but the late arrival did, and from somewhere a Special Branch man produced hot coffee. Not that they knew he was Special Branch. Lights flared, cigarettes were lit, and they stood about chatting warily as strangers do, drinking hot coffee from earthenware mugs and feeling slightly self-conscious. Later Briggs gathered them round the solid farmhouse table. He took the chair at its head. ‘I want to kick off,’ he said, ‘by repeating what you’ve already been told by your commanding officers. This is a private venture. Get that clearly into your minds. A private venture. If you get into trouble you’ll be repudiated by the British Government. There’ll be no official support or recognition. The Ministry of Defence will deny any knowledge of you. There’ll be no reward for success. No compensation for failure. And whichever way it goes you’ll have to be forever silent.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘You know the penalties if you’re not. You’ve all been accepted as volunteers — repeat volunteers — for what may be a dodgy operation. It’s of the utmost importance to the West or we wouldn’t be bothering with it. Then there’s…’

Briggs stared at the girl. She was scrabbling in her shoulder-bag like a terrier looking for a bone. ‘You listening?’

‘Yes. I am actually.’ She saw his eyes on the bag. ‘Sorry. Looking for a file. Broke a nail.’ She held up a slender finger.

Briggs gave her one of his specially baleful looks. ‘As I was saying, it’s vital to the West. It shouldn’t take long. Five to six days we estimate. It’ll be carried out in a foreign but friendly country.’ Feeling he’d been over formal he added, ‘Should be rather fun, I think.’

He looked round the table. ‘If anyone wishes to pull out, now’s the time. Before we get on to the detail. Pulling out won’t affect your service career. And if you do, we won’t ask any questions because we know you’ll have good reasons. Anyone?’

There were no takers, just a murmur of noes.

‘That’s great,’ said Briggs. ‘Now for one or two preliminaries. First, the name of the operation is Daisy Chain. Remember that, will you? Next, you’re all civilians with no RN or other service background or connections. Just a party of friends who’ve decided to charter a yacht for a week or so of sailing in and around the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands.’ He grinned. ‘So you’d better get to know each other pretty quickly.’

The girl said, ‘Are you coming with us?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he said, wishing he were. She had friendly eyes, an inviting smile. ‘Passport: are being prepared. The essential facts — names, dates and places of birth, etcetera — will be correct. Your occupations will be relevant but they won’t suggest any tie up with the Royal Navy. For example, Lieutenant Commander Stephen Nunn,’ — Briggs looked at the man with the pallid high-cheekboned face and almond eyes ‘is a weapons electrical officer. He’ll travel as Mr Stephen Nunn, electronics engineer. He, like all of you, will get his passport, tickets and travel cheques, a written summary of his background, firm which employs him, home address — we’ve fixed them in case of inquiries — and so on. That summary is to be committed to memory before you leave, then destroyed.’

‘If we’re friends we ought to be on first names, oughtn’t we, sir?’ The man who’d spoken looked faintly oriental, notwithstanding the Irish accent.

‘Yes, John Boland, we bloody well ought And don’t use sir again. Either to me or anybody else while on this Daisy Chain operation. Get me, John?’

‘Yes.’ The leading seaman looked embarrassed.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Martin.’

‘Right. Now we’ll have a look at some slides and you’ll be given a general outline of things as we go along. There’s no operational plan. Just an objective, a set of options, and the means available. Put quite simply the object is to learn certain things about the Zhukov. I’ll deal with them in a moment. But this thing will have to be played by ear. So much depends on what you find when you get there. On the opportunities that present themselves.’

Briggs turned to the man on the projector. ‘Ready, Harry?’

‘Okay. All set.’

‘Good. Lights out. Let’s go.’

The first picture on the screen was a map of the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands, Vrakoy arrowed. Next a large scale map of the island itself, followed by numerous shots of the fishing village and harbour mostly taken from tourist postcards. Then a chart of Kolfjord and a plan of the small harbour town; photos of the cliffs and rocks at Knausnes were followed by enlargements from stereoscopic projections. These showed the long slim line of the grounded Soviet submarine. There were slides of missile submarines of various types, ending with an artist’s impression of the new Delta Two class.

To most of the slides Briggs provided the running commentary. For those of Vrakoy, the late arrival was commentator. Stephen Nunn did the commentary on ballistic missile submarines and their technology.

The slides, the running commentaries, the questions and answers and Briggs’s summaries provided the hard core of the Zhukov briefing.

The last slide had been shown, the penultimate question answered, when the inevitable came from Stephen Nunn. ‘Who’ll lead Daisy Chain once we’re on the ground?’ Briggs, nettled at the forestalling of his pièce de résistance, looked aggrieved. ‘I was about to deal with that,’ he said. ‘You’ll be led by a man who has considerable knowledge of the terrain…’ he paused. ‘And other things important to Daisy Chain,’ Briggs pointed to the late arrival. ‘His name is Gunnar Olufsen.’

The beaky nose and questioning eyes of the late arrival encompassed them all, the sensitive mouth and eyes crumpled into a smile. ‘Hullo,’ he said.

One way and another it was after four in the morning when members of the Daisy Chain party climbed back into the van. All except Gunnar Olufsen. He and Briggs stayed in the farmhouse with McGhee after the others had left. Later they said goodnight to the superintendent, climbed into the Rover and followed winding lanes down through West Clandon to the A3. Once on it, Briggs pointed the car’s nose for London and hit the accelerator hard.