The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Olufsen had moved swiftly down the passage to the men’s lavatory. It was a small affair: an outer room leading to a washroom, off it a door to the WC.

He’d stood at the outer door waiting. Seconds later Nunn came in from the kafeteria. Olufsen nodded and they tiptoed into the washroom. It was empty.

Olufsen switched off the lights and they heard Krasnov’s exclamation of annoyance. They stood, one on either side of the WC door, and waited. There came the rattle of the chain, the sound of water flushing, the door opened and a man came out. His features were undistinguishable but the light from the passage was reflected on the gilt of his uniform buttons and stripes.

The two men closed in from behind. Olufsen’s gun pressed into the man’s back, Nunn’s into his neck. Krasnov let out a startled cry. With a large hand Nunn muffled it. ‘Keep quiet or we shoot,’ he commanded in Russian.

Krasnov attempted to turn his head to see his attackers. Nunn struck him on the temple with the butt of his gun. ‘Keep looking straight ahead,’ he hissed. The two men each seized an arm, pushed him into the passage. From the kafeteria came the throb of the juke-box, the buzz of many voices. They steered him round to the right, down the passage away from the swing-door. At its far end the passage turned and led to a fire exit. Olufsen slipped his hand over Krasnov’s eyes as Nunn pulled the bolts and opened the door. Shutting it behind them, they pushed the Soviet lieutenant down the stone steps into the darkness of the street. Two men came from the shadows. In the faint reflection of light from a distant window their mandarin moustaches and peaked caps were the only discernible details. The caps were of the sort worn by Scandinavian seamen. With rehearsed precision they took over from Olufsen and Nunn, Boland poking the barrel of his gun into the Russian’s back, Sandstrom pressing his into the man’s neck. They each took one of the Russian’s arms. In Russian, Sandstrom whispered, ‘Do what we tell you or you’re a dead man. If we are questioned we are helping you back to your ship. The coaster which came in yesterday. You’ve had too much to drink. Now come on. Move.’ The rough brutality in Sandstrom’s voice was as untypical of the man as the moustache he’d gummed on to his upper lip with theatrical glue.

Olufsen and Nunn returned their revolvers to their shoulder-holsters as they ran back up the steps into the passage. They bolted the fire-door on the inside, went into the lavatory, switched on the lights and washed their hands. The whole incident had occupied less than a minute.

Olufsen’s wide grey eyes fixed Nunn’s in an enigmatic stare. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. ‘Not bad so far,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to the kafeteria.’

Boland and Sandstrom pushed their prisoner up a dark lane between the kafeteria and a warehouse. There they took off his uniform coat and put it into the shopping bag from which they produced a raincoat. Sandstrom said, ‘Keep your back to us and put this on.’ Krasnov did as he was told. Boland said something in Chinese.

The only street in Kolhamn, a dirt road, led past the front of the kafeteria. At the back, unlighted lanes threaded their way past warehouses, sheds, cold stores, and fishing racks. It was dark and the chances of meeting anyone coming up from the harbour at that time were remote, particularly as they were making for the eastern end of the fjord, away from the houses. They had gone several hundred yards when they heard voices. A man and a woman were coming up the lane towards them, talking quietly and laughing. The English men ducked behind a pile of wooden fish-boxes, pulling Krasnov with them. For emphasis they pressed the barrels of their guns more firmly into him. They could feel his response, the trembling of his body, the laboured breathing.

The couple came abreast of the fish-boxes and stopped. They were Norwegians, much interested in each other and, unaware of the unseen audience, quite uninhibited.

For God’s sake, thought Sandstrom, don’t start anything like that against the fish-boxes. They’ll never take your weight. There must be better places. Moments later the young couple must have come to the same conclusion for the girl said, ‘Of course I want to but not here. It’s too uncomfortable, Nils. Let’s go.’

They went, and, when the sound of their footsteps had died away, Krasnov and his captors emerged from their hiding place and pressed on towards the end of the fjord well away from where the Kestrel lay. They came at last to a jetty in front of an old disused shed. A dark and deserted place without lights. The water lapped against wooden piles and the ancient structure squeaked and groaned as they moved across it. At the jetty’s edge they stopped and before Krasnov realized what had happened, a chloroformed pad was pressed over his mouth, his nostrils were pinched and he lost consciousness.

Kolfjord was shaped like a sock, the long channel which led in from the sea being the leg, and the elongated basin which formed the harbour the foot. The fishermen’s houses — the rorbu, a combination of dwelling house and store for fishing nets, buoys and other equipment — had their stone foundations on the shore, but the jetties which stood like verandahs in front were on stilts to take care of the rise and fall of the tide and to provide a safe mooring for the owners’ fishing boats.

The foot of the fjord ran east and west for close on two miles. At its widest it was half a mile, narrowing to nothing at either end. The village, and almost all the rorbu, were strung along the northern side of the fjord in the lee of the mountain. On the southern side the shore line was almost deserted but for three rorbu set well apart. Two of these were derelict and crumbling, though their stone foundations were still sound. The third, that nearest to the village, was occupied by a fisherman’s widow.

Sandstrom sat in the fibre-glass dinghy while Boland lowered the bound, still-unconscious body of Krasnov with a rope turned round a bollard, easing it away gently until Sandstrom had the Russian in his arms and laid him on the bottom boards. Boland came down the ladder to the boat and took the tiller, while Sandstrom rowed into the dark night with muffled oars. There was no wind, the surface of the water was glass smooth, and the mist had thickened so that the lights of Kolhamn flickered dimly for a while then disappeared. From the fish racks on the eastern shore came the odours of drying fish and Stockholm tar.

But for an occasional whispered exchange the men were silent. Sound travelled easily over water, especially in mist. After rowing for some time they saw dimly the flashing red beacon which marked the turn into the channel which led to the sea. ‘Not far now,’ whispered Boland. ‘We’re closing the beacon. Can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards.’

Krasnov, disturbed by the voice, muttered and groaned, struggled feebly against the rope lashing which bound him, and vomited.

‘Coming round,’ said Sandstrom.

‘Listen!’ There was alarm in Boland’s voice. ‘What’s that?’

From somewhere ahead came the drumming of a diesel. He stopped rowing and the dinghy drifted. The sound of the diesel grew stronger and presently a green navigation light showed up to starboard, no more than fifty yards away. Seconds dragged by before it was swallowed up again in the mist and the noise of the engine receded.

Sandstrom said, ‘Phew. That was close.’ He began rowing once more.

The only sounds now were the slap of water against the dinghy’s hull and the faint splash of oars. Soon Boland saw a flicker of white light ahead, tenuous and uncertain like a fluttering candle. He steered towards it and before long the rocky sides of Spissberg loomed up out of the night The dinghy grounded and two dark shape came from the shore. A man’s voice enquired anxiously. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, Li. He’s coming round now. There’ll be no trouble. He’s firmly bound. Suffering from nausea. Make sure he doesn’t choke.’

‘When will Gunnar Olufsen come?’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and concerned.

‘Within the next two or three hours long before day light.’

‘You have the skimmer and the life-raft?’ said the man in his high pitched reedy voice.

‘Yes. In the dinghy. Also the outboard.’

With the aid of the man and woman, the dinghy was hauled up into the shallows. Boland and Sandstrom lifted Krasnov and carried him along the beach to the rorbu which lay to their right, towards the flashing red beacon. Inside the derelict house they lifted floor boards and by the shaded light of a torch took Krasnov down a ladder into the basement. It was a dark, evil-smelling place, wet and inhospitable, the stone walls of the foundations moss-encrusted and dripping. They propped the Russian in a corner, checked his lashings, lifted his eyelids and examined his eyes by torchlight while he mumbled unintelligibly. The woman cradled his head in her arms and gave him water from a beaker, speaking to him gently in Russian as if he were a child. But he was still dazed, barely conscious, and the water dribbled from his mouth.

The men brought the inflatable skimmer, the inflatable orange life-raft, the outboard engine and the shopping bag from the dinghy, and put them in the basement. After a hurried consultation with the Liang Huis, Sandstrom and Boland pushed the dinghy clear of the shallows and climbed back into it.

There were softly-spoken ‘goodbyes’ and the dinghy melted into the darkness. The man and woman went back along the beach towards the rorbu. When they got there Liang Hui went down to the basement, switched on a camp torch and sat on a plank near the prisoner. For reassurance he felt the bulge under his left armpit where a .32 Browning snugged in its shoulder-holster.

His sister, Tanya, sat on the floor of the deserted house watching through a broken front window as the gathering mist swirled through old and rotting timbers to add to the cold and damp of a cheerless night.

After his unsuccessful search in the lavatory, Gerasov hurried back to the table where Kroll, Martinsen, Odd Dahl and the harbourmaster were drinking beer and swapping stories. The sub-lieutenant’s eyes were wild and his speech confused. Since he had no Norwegian he tried English. ‘He’s gone. Disappeared,’ he said desperately, looking from one to the other to see if he were understood.

Martinsen said, ‘Gone? Who?’

‘Lieutenant Krasnov. He was with me over there a few minutes ago.’ He pointed to the empty table. ‘He left me to go to the lavatory. When he’d been away for about five minutes I went to find him. But he’s gone.’

‘He probably came back and you missed him,’ suggested Martinsen. ‘Maybe he’s back at the hospits.’

Gerasov shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t go without me. Besides, he left his uniform cap on the table.’ But then he remembered that he’d been talking to the English girl at the time. Perhaps Krasnov had come back, seen him talking to the girl and — and what?

Kroll said, ‘I saw Olufsen and the Englishman Nunn come out of there. Perhaps they saw him?’

Pale, hesitant, filled with doubts and fears, Gerasov considered this. He looked from one face to the other as if trying to read their thoughts then crossed to the bar counter.

No. Olufsen had not seen him. There had been no one in the lavatory while he was there except Nunn. Nunn told the same story. Sorry. No one there except Olufsen.

Gerasov looked round the room again. But the kafeteria was a comparatively small place, there were not many tables and Krasnov was nowhere to be seen.

The sub-lieutenant went back to Martinsen’s table. ‘Mr Olufsen and Mr Nunn say he wasn’t in the lavatory.’ His voice was tremulous. He looked utterly defeated.

Odd Dahl, the lensman, said, ‘There’s a fire-door at the back. Maybe he went out that way.’

‘No,’ said Gerasov. ‘It’s bolted on the inside. I checked.’ He turned to Martinsen. ‘What should I do, sir?’ It was a cri de coeur. Martinsen was thinking of Freddie Lewis’s… a great power… something special by way of intelligence gathering. Was this it? He kept his thoughts to himself. ‘I suggest you run across to the hospits,’ he said. ‘He may be there. If not come back to us. It’ll only take you a few minutes.’

Gerasov said, ‘I can’t go alone, sir. My orders are never to be alone.’ He paused, his face drawn. ‘That’s my problem. I should never have let Krasnov go to the lavatory alone.’ Martinsen wanted to laugh at that but he controlled himself. ‘I see your point, Sub-Lieutenant. Very well. We’ll accompany you.’ He looked at Odd Dahl, ‘You come along, too, Bailiff. After all, it’s your problem.’

‘Of course, Major.’

The three men left the kafeteria together.

When they’d gone Kroll said, ‘If Krasnov has disappeared we must report at once to the Ordforer. The consequences could be serious.’

‘He’s probably with a girl,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘Doesn’t want the sub-lieutenant to know. Let’s have some more beer.’

Kroll’s plump face, bright with perspiration, gathered itself into a smile. ‘Why not? Maybe you are right.’

Ferret and Plotz hadn’t missed much. They’d seen Krasnov leave the table and go through the swing-door, followed by Olufsen and Nunn who’d returned later. They’d seen, too, how Gerasov had gone off in search of his companion, his agitation when he came back. It was then that Ferret had bought two more bottles of lager and gone back to the table by the door. ‘Jesus!’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘I think Krasnov’s beat it.’

Plotz said, ‘He’s not come back through that door. Never had my eyes off it. But his uniform cap is still on the table over there.’

‘I’m going to check the lavatory, Jim. Watch things while I’m away.’

Ferret was soon back. ‘He’s not there. That’s for sure. There’s a fire-door at the back. It’s bolted on the inside. It’s the only way he could have gone.’

‘How come if it’s bolted on the inside, Ed?’

‘Because Krasnov wasn’t there alone. Somebody let him out and bolted the door after he’d gone.’

‘Or pushed him out,’ suggested Plotz.

‘Yeah. Could be. And that might mean Olufsen and Nunn. They went in after him.’

‘There’s another possibility,’ Plotz leant over the table, lowering his voice. ‘Krasnov could have defected. Maybe he planned this thing. Norwegian accomplice. Right? Remember the girl. She came out soon after Olufsen and Nunn went in. Maybe she was around by the fire-door. She lets Krasnov out, bolts it and comes back in.’

Ferret picked at a broken finger nail, then tried biting it. He was deep in thought. ‘Wouldn’t Olufsen and Nunn have seen her?’

‘Unlikely, Ed. If you check the time intervals. I guess they must have been in the men’s for at least a minute when she came out that door.’

Plotz laughed, a sudden explosive laugh, a combination of nerves and discovery. ‘We’re hypersensitive, Ed. It’s an occupational hazard. Know what I think?’

‘What’s that?’

‘It was that girl we saw come out the loo. I guess Krasnov’s laying her right now. Maybe over at the hospits. Maybe some place else.’

‘You could be right.’ Ferret abandoned the broken nail. ‘But it could also be he’s defected. You know the way he talks with Gerasov. He doesn’t dig the navy or the Party.’

‘And so,’ said Plotz. ‘What do we do now?’

Ferret’s frown seemed to draw his small eyes closer together and the line of his mouth hardened. ‘If we can’t take K, we take G. That’s what Gemini says. So now we keep right on G’s tail. Okay?’

At that moment Gerasov, Martinsen and Odd Dahl got up, walked their way through the tables and out of the kafeteria’s front door.

‘Jesus!’ Plotz’s face froze. ‘What d’you know?’

‘For Chrissake,’ said Ferret. ‘Why do they have to lay on a king’s escort for that little bastard?’ He stood up. ‘Tail them, Jim. I must see Vince. We’re short of time.’

By midnight the hue and cry, if it could be called that, had been raised, but in a minor key It wasn’t Kroll’s fault. If he’d had his way it would have been very different. But the Ordforer who’d made no attempt to conceal his displeasure at being called by his deputy from deep sleep had other ideas. It was absurd, he said, to assume as Kroll had done, that Krasnov had been abducted. There were other, more likely possibilities. A woman probably. Or Krasnov had defected and was hiding somewhere in Kolhamn. If so, political asylum was involved and that was a matter for Oslo. Martinsen supported the Ordforer.

Kroll made the point that Oslo had instructed that the Russians be given every assistance. The disappearance of one of their officers was surely an emergency justifying special steps.

‘That,’ said the Ordforer in a manner which brooked no opposition, ‘is a matter for Major Martinsen. He’s responsible for security while the submarine’s aground on Vrakoy.’

Martinsen agreed. He would, he said, do certain things at once. The few soldiers and sailors presently in Kolhamn on leave from patrol duties — mostly billeted with local families — would be mustered as soon as possible. They would conduct a house-to-house inquiry in the village, and search its environs. He would also alert the minesweeper off Knausnes and order the fast gunboat to carry out a sweep round the island to challenge, and if necessary search, any strange craft encountered. Finally, he would arrange for a radio message to be sent to the Zhukov, informing its commander that Lieutenant Krasnov had disappeared and that a search for him was in progress.

Kroll then blurted out his suspicions: Olufsen had arranged the charter of the Kestrel for the English tourists, he emphasized the word. A day or so ago he had seen Olufsen go on board the yacht in the early hours of the morning.

What had Kroll had been doing down there at that hour? challenged the Ordforer, ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said the doctor. ‘So I took a walk. Sometimes I do this.’

He explained how in the kafeteria that evening Olufsen and Nunn had gone through the swing-door to the lavatory soon after Krasnov. They’d returned a few minutes later. Krasnov had not. Indeed, since that moment he’d not been seen again. With a touch of dramatic emphasis Kroll pointed a podgy finger in the direction of the harbour. ‘I am certain Krasnov is a prisoner in the Kestrel.’

The Ordforer was not impressed. He was a strong, stolid man, not one to jump to conclusions and he didn’t like his deputy overmuch. In his opinion the doctor’s air of geniality and goodwill masked a lazy, inquisitive character. But Kroll was popular locally and the herredstyre had elected him Vise-Ordforer, Nordsen had accepted the decision with misgiving.

Before the meeting broke up he made one concession to Kroll — yes, the Kestrel could be searched. It must be done officially by Odd Dahl, the lensman, and Olaf Petersen, the harbourmaster. Kroll could accompany them in his capacity as Vise-Ordforer. The reason for the search was to be given as action following a drug tip-off. There was to be no reference to the missing Russian naval officer.

With a smile of satisfaction Kroll said, ‘Thank you, Nordsen. I’m sure that is a wise decision.’ Which wasn’t the most tactful thing to say to Vrakoy’s ‘Little King’. Nordsen said, ‘You needn’t thank me, Kroll. I think you’ll be wasting your time. I’m more concerned with the disappearance of the two Frenchmen.’

Martinsen said, ‘What’s the latest news about them, Ordforer?’

‘As you know, the search party found nothing on the eastern slopes. Low cloud and mist are making things difficult. There is no way of scanning the rock faces. We have notified the company in Bordeaux.’

‘I expect they’ll turn up,’ said Martinsen. ‘They’re probably shut in by the weather.’