The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A new moon hung like a crescent on the skyline of the Virginian hills. There was a remote beauty about the distant sickle of light which stirred memories of another moon on another night in another place; a night of danger.

Rod Stocken tugged himself away from the memory, left the window and went back to the table. He pointed his cheroot at the dark man with sleek hair. ‘Let me get this straight, Ben. Joe’s message repeats the phrase a great power. So I guess that emphasis is important. Okay? We don’t know who gave the Brits the tip-off. We don’t know which great power it is. What do we know? That this guy Freddie told Lund it came from an unusually reliable source. That could be bullshit. It could be not. Take your choice. And why does Lund want to feed the tip-off back to us? Because we may be preempted? What d’you say, Gary?’

The man with a face like a bloodhound said, ‘Yes. That could be the reason. We know we are,’ he looked down at the message sheet in front of him, ‘laying on something special by way of intelligence gathering.’ He paused, turned to Stocken. ‘And I guess we’re a great power. So maybe it’s us.’

Ben said, ‘We haven’t tipped-off the Brits. And with our security I doubt anyone could. So maybe it’s a kite they’re flying. Why? To get a reaction from Lund’s outfit or some place else?’

Stocken said, ‘From Ed’s report it looks like a crowded scenario out there right now. Could be the French or the Brits themselves. They’d both like to give us a kick up the arse.’ Stocken bit on his cheroot. ‘So what can we do? Nothing, except get in first.’

Gary said, ‘We’ve got the headstart. That’s certain.’

‘Nothing’s certain in this game, Gary. We’ve just got to pass the tip-off to Ed and Jim. Let them use their judgement. They’re right there on the ground.’

Ben said, ‘I’ll do that.’

Stocken picked up a set of photos and thumbed through them. When he’d put them down he trained the cheroot around in his mouth like a tank gun. ‘What’s the latest from Keflavik?’

‘They were over this afternoon at 60,000. Got fair pictures. The weather’s moderated. The two Nepas and the tugs have moved in. They’re anchored in the lee of the Dragetennene. Close to the Zhukov. Plenty of small boat activity between them and the submarine. There’ll be diving going on, I guess.’

‘What’s the ETA for the camels?’ Stocken’s finger gyrated in his ear like a drill.

‘An SR7 from Keflavik picked them up off the North Cape at 0617. Being towed in tandem. Making twelve knots. They should be at Knausnes within twenty-four to thirty hours.’

Stocken moved round the table, bent over the chart. ‘Say 1800–2200 tomorrow.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Once those camels are alongside things are going to move. There’s only two days now to spring tide.’ Stocken went across to the window. The sickle of moon had set and the night was dark. He watched it for a moment, seeing only the stabbing beams of auto lights. The time had come. There was nothing to be gained by delay. ‘Right,’ he aimed his cheroot at the table. ‘Let’s get rolling. Instruct Keflavik, USN, USOS and the fieldmen to activate Gemini. Chopper to go in at 1800 tomorrow. I want this thing pulled quicker than shit. Okay?’

The Ivy League man who’d majored in philosophy and didn’t care for four-letter words said, ‘I’ll see to that immediately.’

The Assistant to the Director of External Operations (Western Hemisphere) waved his cheroot at them. ‘Okay, boys. That’s all for now.’

‘They’ve gone,’ said Ed Ferret as he disconnected the leads to the needle aerial, looped the ear plug wire round his fingers and slipped it into a soft leather container. He put it into his hip pocket, fastened the flap button and put on his jacket. ‘Let’s go, Jim.’

‘Sure.’ Plotz pulled on a jersey and they left the room, locking the door behind them. From the hispits they walked east down the street towards the harbour. It was dark and there were few people about. They didn’t speak until they were among the sheds, then only in undertones.

‘Waste of time,’ said Plotz. ‘Listening to those kids. All they do is philosophize. Consequences of power. Fallibility of man. Inevitability of corruption. Pseudo intellectuals. They haven’t read much. I suppose they can’t. Good thing their bosses can’t hear. Subversive stuff I’d say.’

‘Tape it next time,’ said Ferret. ‘Blackmail material.’

‘Yeah. I’ll do that. They seem to be sounding each other out. You know… “what’s your view on Solzhenitsyn?”… “is there justification for Sakharov’s criticism of the Party line on Jewish emigration?”… that kind of thing. They never mention the nuke except to infer what a bastard M is.’

‘Who the hell’s M?’

‘Milovych, I guess.’

Ferret said, ‘Well at least that’s more interesting than the stuff I got. When I listened you’d have thought they were from the Bronx. Football, fornication and food. What they’d have to eat for supper in the kafeteria. What they’d give for some plain home cooking.’

‘Like caviar Romanoff, borsch and vodka,’ suggested Plotz. ‘But I guess it’s better for our Russian than refreshers in the lab in Camp Peary.’

‘Stuff the language,’ said Ferret. ‘I dream it. Seven years in Moscow. Jesus!’

‘Spoke it before I knew English. When I was a kid,’ said Plotz.

‘You know English? You could fool me.’

Plotz pulled a crumpled packet of Chestertons from his coat pocket, fingered one into shape and lit it. They stopped under a warehouse lamp and he took the cable from his wallet and read it again: Suggest you examine nesting sites on Rost before returning. Harrison, 1800/2000. It had been dispatched from New York at 1.37 p.m. that day.

He passed it to Ed Ferret who was exploring his mouth with a toothpick. ‘So it’s tomorrow,’ said Plotz with heavy finality.

Ferret read the cable they’d collected from Inga Bodde, the postmistress, late that afternoon. ‘Yeah. It’s the activate signal for Gemini. Harrison is tomorrow. Chopper’s ETA 1800. Vince’ll look for the towel at 2000.’

‘Rod’s in a hurry.’

‘He knows what’s on the line.’

‘Yeah. Vince’ll update us on that.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Let’s give the kafeteria the once-over.’

‘’Kay. Let’s do that.’

It was a small wooden building, squat and solid on stone foundations. Its roof of semi-circular tiles dated it late nineteenth century. Even without the ‘POST’ signboard and posthorn emblem, its function would have been sufficiently advertised by the double letterbox, the telephone and teleprinter lines feeding in under the eaves, and the whip-like R/T aerial standing proud of the roof.

A man walked up the steps, opened the glass-panelled door and went in. The universal smell of post offices, a compound of postage glues, the mustiness of old stationery, and ink franking pads hung in the air. Behind the small counter a switchboard stood sideways on, so that the operator could see the counter while at the board. For the woman who was postmistress, switchboard operator and radio-minder rolled in one, this was just as well. With only four hundred inhabitants, less than sixty telephones — all wired for direct dialling of local calls — and recording devices for incoming telephone, teleprinter and radio messages during off-duty hours, Inga Bodde managed the postal affairs of Vrakoy remarkably well.

Still in her thirties she gave an impression of severity until she smiled and her face filled with warmth. As it did when she saw the man who’d just come in. ‘Hullo, Gunnar.’ She came to the counter, her eyes bright.

‘Hullo, Inga.’ He leant over and kissed her.

‘You can’t do that,’ she said with mock disapproval. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘I’m a customer,’ he said. ‘We have our rights.’

‘For you.’ She produced a small parcel from under the counter.

He took it. ‘The spare part for the Kestrel’s engine. They’ll be glad. They’re tired of waiting.’

‘I know. The girl told me. She’s nice, Gunnar.’

‘She said that about you. It surprised me.’

‘You’re a horrible man.’

He took a telegraphic form from his pocket. ‘For my office in Bodo,’ he said. ‘They’ll forward it on to the papers. It’s urgent, Inga.’

‘I know. I know,’ she protested. ‘All Mr Olufsen’s messages are urgent. Wait.’ She read it. Soviet salvage vessels and divers are now working on USSR nuclear submarine stranded off Knausnes. Local opinion suggests flotation attempt will probably be made in next few days to coincide with spring tides. Norwegian naval, military and air units patrolling area where submarine is aground keeping shipping, small craft, aircraft, media representatives and sightseers away. Message ends. Pass to local and foreign press. Daffodil Y. 1627.

‘I’ve forgotten what Daffodil Y means, Gunnar.’

‘It’s simply a code. We represent a number of newspapers. This tells my office which papers are to receive it and in what order. Sometimes I use X. Sometimes Z. Sometimes Primrose. Sometimes Dahlia. Sometimes nothing.’

‘Yes, I remember. You told me when you were here in the spring.’

‘Did I?’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Did I tell you anything else?’

‘What else?’

‘That I loved you.’

‘No. You never do. I have to guess it.’

He dropped his voice. ‘Anything interesting, Inga?’

She looked through the window into the street. ‘Yes. I’ve made copies for you. You must destroy them afterwards.’

‘Of course. I always do.’

She unlocked a drawer in the counter, took several message sheets from it and passed them to him. She sighed. ‘It’s terrible that I do this. Wish I didn’t love you.’

He glanced briefly at the messages before thrusting them into his pocket. ‘I know. It’s marvellous of you. But it does no harm and it helps me so much in my press work.’ He was preoccupied, thinking about something. ‘That telegram for my office, Inga. Can you let me see it again. I think I want to amend it.’

She gave it to him. Before Daffodil Y and the time of dispatch he wrote, Expect more positive news within twenty-four hours. When he handed it back she read it, looked at him curiously. ‘Funny man,’ she said, shaking her head.

Over Olufsen’s shoulder, she saw a face staring at them through the glass panel of the door. It was Gustav Kroll. He swung the door open and came into the office. ‘Good morning, Mr Olufsen.’ His smile exuded warmth and geniality. ‘Hope I’m not intruding. I’ve come for some stamps.’ The relationship between Olufsen and Inga Bodde was no secret on the island.

In his room in the hospits Olufsen re-read the message sheets before burning them. One was the Ornithological Society’s telegram to Plotz and Ferret about visiting Rost, another a telegram from the Ordforer to the county governor in Bodo summarizing Milovych’s non-committal salvage reports.

The Ordforer’s reports to the county governor were a formality. He knew that Martinsen’s daily dispatch by sealed airbag to Military HQ in Bodo gave considerably more information, for the major received reports twice daily from the naval vessels on patrol and the soldiers on the cliffs.

A third message was from the US Consulate-General in Bodo informing the Ordforer that a helicopter of the United States Oceanographic Service would be landing in Kolhamn at 1800 that day. It was engaged on an oceanographic survey in conjunction with the Norwegian authorities.

The fourth and final message was from Military GHQ Oslo informing the Ordforer that a Soviet ocean-going salvage tug with two ‘camels’ in tow would be arriving off Knausnes within forty-eight hours.

In the kafeteria that night Gunnar Olufsen stopped for a moment at the table where Nunn and Julie were sitting. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘How are things?’

‘We’re tired of waiting,’ said Nunn.

‘All for a titchy spare part,’ said Julie. ‘Our holiday’s coming apart at the seams. It’s traumatic.’

Olufsen’s sympathetic eyes widened. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s unusual for a boat hired from Halvorsen Brothers to give trouble. These things happen with the best of engines.’

‘I’m not blaming you,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault.’

He smiled and she felt strangely drawn to him in spite of the gulf of years. In the short time she’d known this man, his eyes, the warmth and kindness they conveyed, were like a caress.

Then, as if there’d never been a smile, the line of his mouth tightened. ‘Well. By tomorrow you’ll know the land of the midnight sun.’ His eyes held theirs for a moment before he said, ‘Bye now.’

When he’d gone Nunn said, ‘So it’s tomorrow night.’

Julie shivered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I heard.’

It was dark down in the harbour where the Kestrel lay. The single lamp on the warehouse shone dimly through the pall of rain, its light barely reaching the outer edge of the wooden quay. The night was quiet and still but for the lap of water against the ketch’s hull and the chug-chug of a distant diesel as Gunnar Olufsen went down the ladder on to the ketch and made his way through the cockpit to the saloon.

‘You’re punctual,’ said Nunn looking at his watch.

Olufsen frowned. If he’d stayed in the Royal Navy he might well have reached flag-rank by now. Of course he was punctual. His training, his conditioning, his life were based upon punctuality. It could mean the difference between success and failure, sometimes between life and death. Was this young lieutenant-commander trying to patronize him? Olufsen ignored the remark. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ He did so without waiting for Nunn’s, ‘Sorry. Of course.’

In a manner which was disconcerting to strangers but very much a part of the man, Olufsen looked in silence at the faces round the table. After a pause long enough to be embarrassing he said, ‘Hullo,’ and put on the table the parcel he’d collected from the post office that afternoon. ‘The spare part,’ he said.

Sandstrom took it. ‘Now we’ve got two.’

Olufsen said, ‘How long to re-assemble that fuel injector?’

‘An hour at most.’

‘Good. Work on it tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I mean today. It’s ten minutes past midnight. Make a start in the forenoon. Take your time. Encounter problems. Appear not to have completed the job when darkness falls. In fact, be sure you have finished. That engine must be a hundred per cent long before that.’

‘I will.’ Sandstrom was about to say ‘sir’ but checked himself in time.

Olufsen looked at each of them in turn. ‘I know it’s been boring… and worrying… for you. This waiting. It’s nearly over.’ He smiled and once again Julie, feeling the magic of his eyes, wondered about him. How and why he’d come to be where he was.

His mood changed suddenly and it seemed to her as if a cloud had drifted across the sun. ‘We execute Daisy Chain in about twenty-four hours.’ He leant forward. ‘Now listen carefully. This is the final briefing. It outlines what each of you has to do. When I’ve finished I want your suggestions.’ It was close to three in the morning when he left the Kestrel and climbed back on to the quay. He stood there for a moment, pulling up the collar of his raincoat before making his way between the sheds to the road which led to the village.

After he’d gone a dark shape emerged from the pile of fishing nets and buoys which lay against the warehouse. As the shape moved towards the light cast by the solitary lamp it resolved itself into a man in oilskins. He stopped, looked up and down the quay, listened intently, then disappeared round the corner of the shed.

When he was well down the road which led to the village he took off his tweed hat, produced a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead. It was sweat more than rain which worried Gustav Kroll for he perspired freely at the best of times and the oilskins had trapped the heat of his ample body.