The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘That then,’ said the Commodore (Intelligence), ‘is the situation?’ The fingers of his left hand beat time to Saint-Saen’s Danse which sounded persistently in the outer reaches of his mind.

Briggs thought the tapping was a conditioned reflex, the commodore’s response to a problem. In fact the music was the response, the tapping its by-product, so he was partially right.

‘By and large, yes, sir.’

‘So it could be staged at any time. Tonight for example?’

‘Possible but improbable, sir. They only arrived this morning.’

The fingered staccato continued. ‘I think Freddie Lewis must go to Oslo this morning. Chat up Roald Lund.’

‘About what, sir?’

‘About what Lund knows. What if anything his lot are up to…’ The commodore hesitated, the tapping stopped. We’re coming to the nub of the matter, Briggs decided. Rat-house always stops like that when he’s made up his mind.

‘And to tell him,’ continued the commodore, ‘about our tip-off,’

‘I’m not with you, sir,’ said Briggs. ‘What tip-off?’

‘The one we’ve had from an unusually reliable source. That a great power is laying on something rather special by way of an intelligence gathering operation. Lund will want some detail, a clue perhaps. Freddie will say he has none. The tip-off in those terms is all he knows. Comes from high up the tree. Lund is sure to ask if the “great power” is a NATO power. Freddie will say he doesn’t know. That way China is not excluded.’

‘You’re not proposing to let Lund in on Daisy Chain in some round-about way, are you, sir?’ Briggs’s voice was flat, leaden.

‘I should bloody well hope not. But if Lund suspects we’re up to something, now or later, this should convince him we’re not. We’d hardly pass on a tip against ourselves. And it won’t do any harm if his speculations range over Asia as well as Europe and America.’

That lifted Briggs. He looked quite cheerful. ‘I get it, sir. Very bright idea.’

‘Many thanks. Now perhaps you’ll get Freddie Lewis down here so that I can brief him. The sooner he goes the better.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Lund said, ‘You’ve been quick, Martinsen.’

‘Chopper lifted me out of Kolhamn at 1700. I flew a Phantom on from Bodo.’

Lund looked at the younger man with interest. ‘Fly it yourself?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Still like flying?’

‘I’ve a love-hate relationship with Phantoms, sir. Like to keep my hand in.’

‘What’s happening on Vrakoy, Martinsen, that I don’t already know?’ Lund held out a packet of cheroots. ‘Care for one?’

‘I don’t, sir.’

‘Sorry, I forgot.’ Lund lit a cheroot, sat back in the chair and puffed at it contentedly.

Martinsen stood at the window enjoying the view. He said, ‘The two Nepa ships arrived during the night. Plus two salvage tugs. There was a conference on board Zhukov this morning. All the big salvage and nuclear brass was there. The chief salvage officer from Murmansk and his two assistants who’d arrived the day before, plus another seven or eight from the Nepas. There’s no shortage of technical talent.’

‘Any idea what’s been decided?’

‘None, I’m afraid, sir. Their signals to and from Murmansk are being handled by the Nepas. High-speed transmissions computer-scrambled. They’re not using our telegraphic services.’

‘Have they made a start doing anything — anything we can see?’

‘Nothing yet. The weather’s too bad at present for external diving on the rockshelf. I imagine they’ve had divers in the flooded compartments. There’s a steady traffic of ships’ motorboats between the Nepas and the submarine. Hansen — he’s in charge of the platoon on the cliff-counted eight corpses being transferred from the submarine to a motor-boat this afternoon. They were wrapped in blankets but he was using high magnification artillery glasses. Says there’s no doubt they were dead bodies.’

‘Interesting.’ With a critical eye Lund examined the smoke ring he’d exhaled. ‘Has he been getting photos?’

‘Yes. Through an observation slit in the tent. I brought back a lot of film from him and from the scientists in the minesweeper today. Keppel has it. Prints should be ready shortly. No chance of skin divers getting a look at the Zhukov’s hull. The Russians are operating underwater patrols.’

‘That was predictable. Anything else?’

‘Our scientists in the sweeper have carried out various laser infra, geiger probes in the last twenty-four hours. They say there is a radiation leak. Probably from the reactor. And she is carrying missiles with nuclear warheads.’ He paused to let that sink in.

‘So she’s not the surveillance/ECM outfit our photo analysts thought?’

Martinsen shook his head. ‘They drew the wrong conclusions. Probably the unusual hull configuration. That extension to the fin, and the tail pods.’

‘Any idea about those?’

‘No. Our scientists admit defeat.’

‘Anything unusual happening on the island?’

‘A lot of odds and sods have drifted in.’

Lund said, ‘Such as?’

‘Mostly media people. We’re managing to keep them away from the submarine. The Ordforer’s got word round that boats are not to be hired to them. So they can’t get out to where our sweeper would stop them anyway.’

‘There’s no law on that.’

‘He’s his own law on Vrakoy, sir. A tough cookie. And the air is well under control. Nothing can get in close. There’s still some high altitude stuff about. Difficult to control. Too high and too fast for fighter interception. But the weather’s making life difficult for them. Our fighters are getting all the photos we need.’

‘Good,’ said Lund.

‘Among recent arrivals — apart from the media — are two US types. Ornithologists. Came in yesterday. Sponsored by the Ornithological Society of America. Headquarters in New York. Come to investigate the nesting and breeding habits of Laillard’s Tern.’

‘I should have thought spring was the time for that. At least the terns would be there then.’

Martinsen nodded. ‘Their story is they’re going to survey last season’s nesting sites. Make plans for next season’s count and ringing.’

Lund puffed at the cheeroot. ‘That takes them along the cliffs and down the beaches.’

‘And on to Hausen I expect. Ornithologists have an excuse for carrying powerful binoculars.’

‘Who else of interest?’

‘Apart from the two Russian officers — Krasnov and Gerasov — you know about them — two Frenchmen arrived yesterday at the hospits. From Bordeaux. Cod buyers.’

‘Sounds reasonable. France buys a lot of cod from the islands.’

‘Their credentials are okay. But they’re keen mountaineers. Seems a little odd. Got their equipment with them. Anxious to climb Bodrag. If it’s a close-up of the Zhukov they want, they’ll be disappointed. Our cordon will see to that.’

Lund said, ‘A lot of people seem anxious to climb Bodrag just now. Is that all?’

‘Not quite. A yacht came in early this morning with engine trouble. Three men and a girl. English. On a fortnight’s yachting holiday. Doing the islands.’

‘Anything unusual about them?’

‘Nothing that I know of. The Ordforer’s quite happy. Gunnar Olufsen from Bodo — you know of him — the press and tourist agent? He’s among the media men on the island. He’s well in with the Ordforer. Old friends. Olufsen told him the yacht party are okay. They hired it through his agency. They intend to move on as soon as they can fix the engine. Olufsen’s sent for a spare part.’

Lund shook his head. ‘Don’t know how you get this stuff so quickly.’

‘A lot of it comes from the Ordforer. He knows just about everything that happens on Vrakoy. And he likes co-operating with us. Enhances his status.’

‘What’s Kroll like? His deputy.’

‘Cheerful, good-natured old boy. Lazy I’d say.’

Lund said, ‘So staying in the Ordforer’s house has worked out well?’

‘Excellently. They’ve given me a comfortable room, she’s a good cook and he feeds me information. Couldn’t be better.’

‘Splendid.’ Lund left his desk and joined Martinsen at the window. ‘It’s a great view, isn’t it?’

‘Marvellous. I don’t see it often enough.’

Lund changed the subject. ‘Freddie Lewis called on me earlier today.’

‘Lewis from Whitehall, RAF intelligence?’

‘Yes. You’ve met him. We’re old friends. We had a long chat. Whitehall wants to know what we’re doing about the Zhukov. They’re afraid we’re going to miss a fabulous opportunity.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Said I couldn’t give him chapter and verse but we weren’t standing by doing nothing. Towards the end he told me something interesting. Very interesting. Something you should know,’ Lund paused, turned away from the window and smiled at Martinsen, ‘and your contact.’ Unnecessary though it was Lund dropped his voice. ‘Lewis says they’ve had a tip-off from an unusually reliable source that a great power is laying on something special by way of intelligence gathering on Vrakoy.’

‘Which power and in what way special?’

Lund lit another cheroot. ‘I asked him that. I said was it a NATO power? He said, “Look Roald. The words used were definitely great power. That puzzled us too. It’s rather old-fashioned. But that’s all I know. Absolutely all. Shouldn’t really have mentioned it. Far too vague. Only worry you. It could be something. Could be nothing.” That’s all Lewis said. I couldn’t get anything more out of him.’

Martinsen made church steeples with his fingers. ‘Not very helpful. I imagine it’s the CIA. After all we’ve tipped them off in the hope that they’ll do something.’

Lund said, ‘I’m pretty sure it is the CIA. The ornithologists could well be their advance guard. Though how Whitehall gets into it that fast I can’t imagine. But there’s just the chance — a very remote one — that it’s the French or British themselves. They’re neither really great powers today, but I wouldn’t put it past them. They’d love to steal a march on the States. You know the CIA’s not exactly flattering about French and British intelligence. Particularly in its militant form.’

Martinsen thought for a long time. ‘D’you trust Freddie Lewis, sir?’

‘In this game one trusts no one, Martinsen. But he’s a good friend. He tipped us off that it was the Zhukov within a few hours of her stranding. We know now that he was right.’

‘D’you think he knows we’re doing a feedback to the CIA?’

‘Good God! I hope not. How could he? We daren’t have that known. Imagine if the USSR got wind of it.’

Martinsen ran his hands through his tousled brown hair. ‘So I feed Freddie’s tip back through Karen.’

Through your contact,’ corrected Lund.

‘Sorry, sir. I meant contact.’ His grin made the strong white teeth in the sun-tanned face look like a TV ad for toothpaste.

‘The CIA must know,’ said Lund. ‘Just in case it’s not them.’

The rain stopped in the late afternoon but the north-westerly wind persisted, and with it the rough sea and fast-moving clouds that darkened the sky.

Milovych came in late in a fast launch provided by one of the Nepa vessels, the fishing boat hired for the Russians having been returned to its Norwegian owners. The commissar called on the Ordforer to report formally the arrival of the salvage ships. Two-way voice radio, he said, had been established between the submarine and the Nepas. Messages could now be transmitted between Kolhamn and the submarine, using the salvage vessels as link.

‘So you will no longer require your officers to remain ashore in Kolhamn?’ the Ordforer inquired.

‘We have considered that,’ said Milovych. ‘We feel they must remain ashore for the present. Both to represent us and to handle messages which may arrive through your postal and telegraphic services.’ Milovych had not added that their principal duty would continue to be one of surveillance. To keep him and Yenev informed of what was going on ashore and what the local people knew.

He said, ‘I have to request that your authorities intensify the seaward and landward patrols. You must know that Vrakoy is now full of Press, television reporters, photographers and other busybodies. Our lookouts have on several occasions seen observers on the mountain watching the submarine through glasses.’

The Ordforer stiffened involuntarily. ‘It is not possible to keep people off the mountains. This is a democratic country. We are already doing our best to help you. The military cordon at Knausnes and the seaward patrols make a close approach impossible. We cannot do more.’

On leaving the radhus, Milovych walked down to the harbour accompanied by his two officers. Krasnov reported on recent developments in Kolhamn. That day the American ornithologists had climbed the long moundlike arm of rock to the south of the village known as the Spissberg. Using the wall mike given them by Uskhan, Krasnov and the sub-lieutenant had heard the Americans in their room at the hospits discussing the beaches on the far side of Spissberg. It was there, on the southern side of the island, explained Krasnov, that Laillard’s Terns had their nesting sites and it was these the Americans had been examining. The Zhukov, he emphasized, was stranded on the western side of Vrakoy, ten kilometres from the beaches.

‘What else did they talk about?’ asked Milovych.

‘Personal matters. Their wives and families. Current affairs. They have a radio. Listen to news from the United States. They were discussing the allegations against President Nixon.’

‘His accusers are traitors,’ said the commissar sharply. ‘I don’t know why Nixon permits that sort of thing. We certainly wouldn’t. The KGB would soon deal with it.’

Krasnov thrust his chin forward in a nervous gesture. He had his own views on the Watergate affair but he wasn’t going to make them known to the commissar. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘They talked about the United States Oceanographic Service unit operating from Bodo. One of the USOS scientists is a friend of the man Ferret. At no time did they discuss our ship or anything to do with it.’

‘Very good,’ said Milovych. ‘But watch them. If they’re espionage agents they’ll assume their room is bugged. You must trust no one.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are the media people still pestering you?’

‘Not like yesterday. They realize it’s hopeless. We won’t speak. They’ve taken a few pictures of us. We can’t stop that. But we refuse absolutely to talk with them.’

Krasnov made other reports: the activities of the two Frenchmen, so far apparently harmless. The arrival of the Kestrel, a Bodo-registered yacht on hire to English tourists, one a young woman. The yacht’s engine trouble. The Russians had seen two crew members working on it during the day.

Before leaving, Milovych told Krasnov of developments on board the submarine. Although the lieutenant had long assumed that Borchoi and his torpedomen were dead, the news of the removal of their bodies through the escape hatch — forced by the Nepa — deeply affected him. On the general question of salvaging the submarine, Milovych said little other than to remark that the weather was not helping matters. ‘For reasons of security,’ he said, ‘it has been decided that no shore leave will be given to the crews of the submarine and the salvage vessels.’

In the last few days the kafeteria in Kolhamn, usually a quiet place in October when most of Vrakoy’s men were away, had become crowded and noisy. Journalists, TV reporters, cameramen, soldiers from the platoon billeted in the village, the US ornithologists, the Frenchmen from Bordeaux, the two Russian officers, some of the English from the Kestrel, and the usual sprinkling of locals had now to jostle with each other for tables, food and drink. Haakon Jern, the proprietor, and his wife could no longer manage on their own so their daughter and Mrs Jern’s sister had been brought in to help.

Above the din of voices, the dissonances of different languages, the shouts of laughter and disagreement, the bells of the cash till rang merrily. The Jerns knew it wasn’t going to last and were making the most of it.

Additional food and beer had been brought across from Sortland on Langoya, the adjoining island, and, whereas the kafeteria used to close at ten-thirty in October, it now kept open until eleven-thirty.

Shortly before ten o’clock, having spent two fruitless hours in the hospits waiting for the Americans to return, Krasnov and Gerasov went across to the kafeteria. They’d had their evening meal there earlier but the place had filled steadily since. It was a good time for beer and listening to gossip.

As on previous occasions the arrival of the Soviet officers in uniform created a small stir, but the media men whose attempts to secure interviews had failed studiously ignored them. Kroll, the Vise-Ordforer, was sitting at a table with Odd Dahl, the lensman, and Olufsen, the press agent, drinking beer. Kroll was looking fat, cheerful and hot and his gusts of hoarse laughter were frequent. He evidently found Dahl and Olufsen amusing. The lensman — the island’s bailiff — was, apart from its own policeman, the sole representative of civil law and order on Vrakoy. Two of the Kestrel’s crew, one of them the young woman, were at a table with Olaf Petersen, the harbourmaster. The Russians had seen these people from the Kestrel down in the harbour several times that day but had not spoken to them.

Krasnov said, ‘I want to get near those two Frenchmen. Listen to their chat.’

‘You do that,’ said Gerasov brightly. ‘While I close up on the yacht’s crew. I can’t speak French. English is my line.’

‘You come along with me,’ said Krasnov firmly. ‘Milovych has said we are to keep together always.’

‘I was only trying to be helpful, Ivan.’

‘Balls. It’s the English girl. You can’t keep your eyes off her.’

Gerasov sighed. ‘She’s a smasher. Look at those boobs.’

‘Forget them,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’ve a job to do.’