The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

More or less the usual crowd were in the kafeteria when Ferret got there. The media people, their numbers now down to six or seven, some Norwegian soldiers and sailors free from patrol duties for a few hours, with them a handful of local girls.

Petersen the harbourmaster was there with Dr Kroll and Lars Martinsen. Three of the Kestrel crew had taken a table at the far end of the room, near the juke-box. Krasnov and Gerasov were as usual at a table on their own. Gunnar Olufsen, the press and tourist agent from Bodo, was at the counter talking to the proprietor. They seemed to know each other well.

It was a noisy, cheerful night. Behind the babble of voices, the laughter, the shouts of mirth and protest, the juke-box wailed and beat its sobbing message like a twentieth-century tribal drum.

As he threaded his way towards the counter Ferret greeted those with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. As always he responded to the English girl’s cheerful smile. ‘Hi there, Julie. How’s the Kestrel?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘We’ve got the spare part at last.’

‘Leaving soon?’

‘Tonight I hope. If we can get the engine going. How are the Arctic Terns?’

Ferret shook his head. ‘Guess they’re way down south just now. In Africa mostly. We’ll be ringing them next season. Tell you more then.’

‘Must be fabulously interesting. Knowing all about birds.’

‘It is,’ said Boland. ‘Ask any man.’

Julie laughed through even white teeth. ‘Yes. I expect he knows a good deal about them too.’

‘Not me,’ said Ferret. ‘Married. Strictly lawn-mowing type.’

‘I wonder.’

Ferret reached the counter; Haakon Jern apologized to Olufsen, turned to the American. The proprietor spoke little English, enough to serve customers and handle a modest chat. ‘Evening, Mr Ferret.’

‘Evening, Mr Jern. Two bottles of Mack lager and some Gejtost cheese and biscuits. Those small square ones.’ Ferret pointed to the packets on the shelf.

Jern busied himself with the order. When he’d lined it up he said, ‘Your friend. He come tonight?’

‘He’ll be along soon, I guess.’

‘The work on the birds. Okay?’

‘Yeah. Just about finished. We’ll be moving on to Rost. Tomorrow maybe.’

‘Oh, Rost. Many birds there. A fine island. Beautiful, you know.’

‘So I hear. What’s that I owe you?’

‘Twenty-three kroner, please.’

Ferret paid, put the beer, cheese and biscuits on a metal tray and made his way to the table by the door. It was an unpopular pitch, cold and draughty. Jim Plotz came in soon afterwards. He took a glass and poured a lager. ‘I need this. Long time no drink.’

‘Vince okay?’

‘Yeah. He’s on the bed reading.’

Ferret looked at his watch. It was almost half past ten. Another hour to closing.

Plotz leant forward. ‘Seen them?’

‘Yeah. Don’t look now. Over in the corner. Opposite the Kestrel lot.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘The usual. Drinking lager, talking a little, listening mostly. Gerasov can’t keep his eyes off the English bird.’

‘Don’t blame him. The more I see her the dishier she gets.’

‘It’s abstinence, Jim.’

‘You can say that again. Usual crowd here?’

‘Just about. The French boys haven’t shown up yet. They missed the evening meal too.’

‘That so? Maybe they’re stuck on the mountain.’

‘Don’t envy them. I reckon there’s fog coming.’

Just then Odd Dahl the lensman came in and joined Kroll and Lars Martinsen.

While he talked to Jern, Olufsen leaned against the counter, relaxed and casual, his wide eyes on the room, missing nothing. He’d seen the arrival of Ferret and Plotz, noted the absence of the Frenchmen and checked the position of the Russians’ table relative to that occupied by the Daisy Chain party.

When the music stopped Boland slipped more coins into the juke-box and it started up again.

Nunn said, ‘Good. Keep the bloody thing going.’

‘Think there’ll be fog?’ Julie frowned.

Nunn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Could help,’ said Boland.

‘Could be a flaming disaster.’ Nunn looked at Julie. She’d hung the sheepskin coat over the back of the chair. Her blue denim slacks were faded and patched and over the black sweater a medallion on a silver chain emphasized the curve of her breasts. ‘You’re quite a dish, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘You feeling well, Steve?’ It was the first time he’d seemed to notice her. She’d long ago put him down as a misogynist.

‘I’ve been watching Gerasov. Can’t keep his eyes off you. I wondered why. So I checked. Simple as that.’

‘Bully for you. Such compliments.’

‘No. Don’t get me wrong. He does, doesn’t he?’

‘Does what?’

‘Looks at you as though…’ he trailed off.

‘He’d like to rape her,’ suggested Boland.

‘For your information one of the reasons he looks at me as though he’d like to rape me,’ said Julie, ‘is that I’ve shown in a distant maidenly way that I’d like him to. Men always fall for that.’

‘How do you do this in a maidenly way?’ asked Nunn.

Julie shook her head. ‘I give up. Hasn’t anybody told you the facts of life?’

‘Of course,’ said Boland. ‘But it was a long time ago. He’s forgotten.’

Julie looked at her watch. ‘Almost another hour,’ she said. ‘I feel all churned up.’

‘If you want to feel relaxed, watch Gunnar,’ said Nunn. ‘You wouldn’t think he’d a care in the world.’ He looked across to where Olufsen was leaning on the counter talking to Haakon Jern.

‘Or that he had a .38 Smith and Wesson stashed under that denim jacket.’

‘Mine feels like a socking great boil under my armpit,’ said Boland.

‘I’m the fastest gun in the islands.’ Nunn did an imaginary draw. ‘Practised in the radhus loo this afternoon. Accidentally bashed the door three times. The attendant came and asked me if I was all right.’

‘Great,’ said Julie. ‘Gives a girl confidence.’

Nunn looked at her. ‘To return to your charms, Julie.’ His eyes were on her medallion. ‘Don’t forget when thanking our friends, you speak English to them — not Russian.’

‘For Pete’s sake, Steve. That’s the fourth time. I’m not a moron.’

‘No. But you got it wrong at rehearsal.’ He tweaked her nose gently. ‘Remember? You spoke Russian.’

‘A girl can make a mistake.’

‘They often do,’ said Nunn. ‘Sorry my twitch count’s high tonight. Don’t like waiting.’

‘Who does?’ said Boland.

‘The important thing,’ Nunn paused while the juke-box switched to Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head, ‘is that Julie gets out of here before K and G. The moment we see them move she makes for the door. Gets well ahead.’

‘So kind of you,’ said Julie, ‘to remind me of my role. I hope you’ve not forgotten yours. Remember I haven’t a gun.’

‘Just as well,’ said Nunn. ‘It’s a dodgy do anyway.’

‘Get lost,’ said Julie. ‘And I don’t approve of violence. I hope…’

‘Look out!’ Nunn did a stage hiss. ‘Don’t look. K’s on the move.’

Julie reached for her shoulder-bag. Nunn put out a restraining hand. ‘Hold on. Gunnar’s watching but he’s not given the signal. K’s going to the counter. No. No he’s not. It’s the loo. Christ! They’re forgetting their drill. They usually go together. Old Russian custom.’

‘What’ll I do?’ whispered Julie urgently.

‘You can’t go with him,’ said Boland.

‘Wait,’ said Nunn. ‘For chrissake, just wait.’

Gunnar Olufsen was still leaning on the counter, one foot over the other, talking to Jern. For a split second his eyes held Nunn’s. Then he turned back to the proprietor. As he did so his elbow caught the counter. The glass he was holding dropped from his hand, clattered to the floor. ‘The signal,’ whispered Nunn. ‘Stand by.’

They saw Krasnov open the swing-door beyond the jukebox. It lead down the passage to the lavatories: men on the right, women on the left.

Gunnar Olufsen looked at his beer-stained trousers. ‘Excuse me Haakon. I must fix these. I’m soaked.’ In a leisurely, unhurried way, he made for the swing-door. He passed the Kestrel table, winked at its occupants, went through the door. In a very quiet voice Nunn said, ‘Julie, give Gerasov the works.’ He turned to Boland. ‘Get moving, John.’

Julie said, ‘I’m giving him all I’ve got. But he’s fiddling with his wallet, blast him.’

Boland emptied his glass, stretched, yawned, said a few words to his companions and walked slowly down the room between the tables and out of the front door.

Nunn said, ‘Okay, Julie. I’m off. Over to you.’ He stood up, went to the swing-door and passed through it.

Julie, left alone, busied herself with a mirror and lipstick. Looking up she caught Gerasov’s stare and smiled. He smiled back. She got up, took her purse from the shoulder-bag, put the bag under her arm and made for the counter.

As she passed the Russian the shoulder-bag slipped and fell beside him. She stooped to pick it up, but he got there first, rose from the table, bowed awkwardly and gave it to her. Their hands touched.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So stupid of me.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It was my pleasure.’

She looked surprised. ‘Your English is super. Where did you learn it?’

‘It is not so good,’ he said. ‘In Leningrad University.’

‘I think it’s fabulous. Wish I could speak Russian as well.’

‘You speak Russia?’

‘Not a word, I’m afraid.’

‘Please.’ He indicated Krasnov’s empty chair. ‘You sit down.’

She looked uncertain, seemed hesitant, glanced back at the table she’d just left. ‘May I? Just for a minute. My friends will be back soon.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw a Norwegian girl come out of the swing-door. God, she thought, she must have complicated things.

Gerasov said, ‘Some beer? Anything?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing thank you. I’ve still got some over there.’

‘You are from the English yacht, yes?’

She nodded. ‘The Kestrel. You’re from the submarine aren’t you?’

‘Yes. That is correct.’ He said it very formally and she sensed it was not something he wished to talk about, so she said, ‘Not a very exciting place Kolhamn, is it?’

‘No.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘Just this kafeteria. Otherwise nothing.’

Two minutes have gone by, she thought. Please God, may all be going well in there. Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan. They’d always assumed it would happen after closing, on the way down to the hospits. I must hold this chap’s attention a little longer, she told herself. God, what if I can’t? For a moment her head swam and she couldn’t think what to do next. The Russian was saying something. What was it?

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What did you say?’

‘I asked what work you do in England. When you are not with your vacation.’

‘Oh,’ she said with relief. ‘I’m a secretary. I work in a shipping office in Southampton.’

‘Southampton,’ he said. ‘The seaport, yes?’

Above the blare of the juke-box and the din of conversation she thought she heard a muted cry from beyond the swing-door. She trembled. ‘Yes. It’s a big port. Tell me,’ she leant towards him. ‘Do you often go to the ballet? You have marvellous ballet in Russia.’

‘Yes. I like ballet also. It is a strong part of our culture, you know. But I prefer to dance. Do you like dancing?’

‘Yes, I love it.’

‘It brings a man and woman close together. Yes?’ Gerasov looked into her eyes for confirmation, then at the medallion. She could feel his warm breath on her face and his eyes were bright. Thank God for my breasts, she thought. They’re doing a great job.

The chat went on. After they’d exchanged first names Gerasov warmed to his task. He led the conversation firmly in one direction, she responded and the minutes ticked by, while under the table the pressure of his knee against hers became bolder. At last she saw the swing-door open. Through it came Olufsen and Nunn, calm and unruffled. Olufsen rejoined Haakon Jern at the counter, and Nunn went back to their table. Perhaps nothing had happened. Her stomach churned.

It was only then that she noticed Steve Nunn’s hair was disarranged. A few minutes later she excused herself. ‘It was fun talking to you, Mikhail. We must meet again.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Julie.’

Back at the table she whispered, ‘Your hair, Steven. Put it straight for God’s sake. Was everything okay?’

‘Yes,’ he said, brushing it casually with one hand.

She saw Gerasov look at his watch, frown, then leave the table and make for the swing-door.

‘Now the balloon’ll go up,’ said Nunn. ‘Hold on for a rough ride.’