The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Some time after midnight, the mist thickening and swirling wetly across the fjord, Kroll, Dahl and Petersen arrived at the jetty where Kestrel lay. They stood for some time looking down on her, wondering quite how to go about their business.

The ketch’s cockpit lay between the double cabin aft and the companionway to the saloon forward. It was brightly lit. The hatches to the engine-space were off and two men, evidently unaware of the observers above, were working on the engine.

‘Hullo, there,’ called Petersen. ‘Can we come aboard?’

Nunn’s grease-streaked face looked up from the engine. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Petersen the harbourmaster, Odd Dahl the bailiff, and Doctor Kroll.’

Nunn, who’d been expecting the visit, looked pointedly at his watch, then at the men on the quay, ‘Certainly. Come aboard if you wish.’

Petersen and his companions came down into the cockpit, Kroll breathing heavily from his exertions. Nunn wiped his hands on a lump of cotton waste. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he said. ‘Our sailing clearance not in order?’ Sandstrom left the engine where he’d been working, straightened his back and ranged himself along Nunn. He gave the visitors a long hard look. A big man with dark shaggy hair and rough-hewn features, he could look intimidating when he wanted to; this was such an occasion.

Petersen looked embarrassed. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you at such a time, Mr Nunn. But, well, we know you intend to sail tonight so we…’

‘This morning,’ corrected Nunn tapping his watch. ‘Yes, we hope to sail soon. That was why I got clearance from you yesterday. As soon as we get this fuel injector properly adjusted we’re off.’ He looked towards Sandstrom. ‘It’s almost right, isn’t it?’

‘Won’t take long now. Just some bolts to tighten.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Nunn.’ Petersen struggled with his problem. ‘But we received information… that is to say we had a tip-off.’

‘Bully for you,’ said Nunn.

Petersen didn’t understand the idiom. ‘You say?’

‘Nothing,’ said Nunn. ‘Carry on.’

‘Yes, we had a tip-off. About drugs on board your ship.’

Nunn hesitated, allowing what he hoped would pass for a stunned silence. Eventually he said, ‘Drugs in Kestrel? Good God! We’ve morphine, a syringe and some Disprins in the medicine chest. Is that what you’re after?’

‘These tip-offs are often inaccurate,’ apologized Petersen. ‘Sometimes a hoax. Someone with a grudge. But we have to act on them. Just in case, you know.’

Kroll evidently felt it was time to assert himself. He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, then let it go with a wheeze. ‘I come in my capacity as Vise-Ordforer, Mr Nunn. Odd Dahl is our bailiff. Now please. If you do not mind we must discharge the unpleasant duty of searching your ship.’ Nunn affected surprise. ‘Search the Kestrel At this hour?’

‘I regret,’ said Kroll, arranging his fleshy chin into what he imagined was a pretty firm affair, ‘it must be done.’ Nunn’s sigh was a mixture of irritation and annoyance. ‘Very well. I’ll get one of my crew to show you round. I’m too busy, I’m afraid. We must get this blasted engine fixed. We’ve already wasted three days of our holidays. Excuse me for a moment.’

He went down to the saloon where Boland was lying on a settee reading. Julie had gone to her cabin.

Nunn explained the situation quickly, it was one for which the crew had been briefed, took the keys from the keyboard and handed them to Boland. ‘Show them everything. There’s nothing to hide. Make it snappy. Sooner we get rid of them the better.’

Boland followed him back into the cockpit. Nunn did the introductions, then rejoined Sandstrom on the engine.

Boland stared at the Norwegians with chilly unfriendly eyes. ‘Where d’you want to start? Aft?’

‘Forward,’ said Petersen with the instincts of a sailor.

The search party moved off, Boland leading. He opened every batch, every door, every cupboard and locker they requested. It was soon evident it was not drugs they were after. Little attention was paid to the contents of lockers where tinned food and ship’s stores were stowed, or to bilges and other spaces too small for a man. For these reasons the search was soon over. It ended with a check along the upper deck where torch beams were directed into every nook and cranny. Kroll, at times on all fours, insisted on checking along the outside of the hull. Finally he directed the beam of his torch into the rigging.

‘Bad place for drugs,’ suggested Boland. ‘Too much wind.’

Kroll glared at him. ‘You understand we have to be thorough.’

‘Quite.’ Nunn’s face, high cheekboned and almond-eyed, betrayed no emotion. ‘Hope you’re now satisfied. There is of course the hull underwater. You might care to look at that.’

Kroll ignored the jibe. He turned to Petersen and Dahl. ‘Are you both satisfied?’

They’d not shared Kroll’s obsession and were only too ready to abandon a search they’d considered unnecessary.

Kroll bowed stiffly to Nunn. ‘Goodnight, Mr Nunn. I am sorry we had to disturb you. We were doing our duty.’

‘I am sure you were, Doctor Kroll,’ Nunn smiled at Petersen. He’d always liked the harbourmaster who was a bluff honest-to-God seaman. ‘We want to leave as soon as we get this injector working, Mr Petersen. We’d like to get to Andenes at first light if possible.’

‘Of course,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘You’ve settled your harbour dues, completed the clearance papers. You are free to leave when you like.’

‘Thank you, Mr Petersen.’

There was an exchange of goodbyes and the Norwegians climbed up the ladder to the jetty and disappeared into the darkness.

Nunn watched while Sandstrom replaced the bolts in the fuel injector which he’d removed soon after dark. When he’d finished they went down to the saloon.

Julie, disturbed from sleep by the search party, and Boland were already there. Nunn drew a hand across his forehead and yawned. ‘So that little comedy is over. Christ, what a day.’

Sandstrom said, ‘That was a bit dodgy. We got back less than ten minutes before they arrived.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Boland. ‘I was sweating blood. The dinghy’s only about thirty yards astern.’

‘Makes no odds. It’s a local one. We left nothing in it. Tell you what. I’m going to have a beer. I’m bloody whacked.’ Sandstrom took a can from the locker beneath the settee.

‘Yuk. That fat doctor.’ Julie shivered. ‘I wouldn’t have him examine me. Those podgy fingers. Like a string of sausages.’

Nunn looked at Julie curiously. The towelling wrap she was wearing was doing a poor job of concealment. She was getting into his hair and it disturbed him. His marriage was just recovering from a trauma for which he’d been responsible. It had been nearly wrecked by one Wren, he didn’t want to repeat the experience with another. He wasn’t looking for more trouble. His manner became brusque. ‘Okay, Julie. We read you. Now let’s get down to business.’ He looked at the saloon clock. It showed one seventeen. ‘We sail at 0200. Olufsen and Co. move fifteen minutes later. See any snags?’

Sandstrom said, ‘Only the weather. The mist has thickened. Fog can complicate things.’

‘There are always complications,’ said Nunn. ‘Makes life more interesting.’

Julie yawned. ‘I’m off to bed while the going’s good.’

It occurred to Nunn that it would be pleasant to join her there but he said, ‘In the Service we call it “turning in”. I’ll give you a shake five minutes before we sail.’

‘I call it bed,’ she said. ‘Sounds more exciting.’

Her smile was a queer mixture of affection and mischief.

Dr Gustav Kroll left the Kestrel a puzzled man. He was convinced that Krasnov had been abducted by the British. It was the sort of thing they’d do. Like the raid on the Norsk Hydro heavy water plant near Venmork. They were amateurish, their planning was half-baked, much left to chance, but their operations were always conducted with great determination. Kroll hated the British. He had suffered much because of that raid. What did they know of the pressures to which a man had to submit in an enemy-occupied country? Britain hadn’t been occupied for a thousand years.

Krasnov was not in the Kestrel. Where had they taken him? And where was Olufsen? Kroll’s mind was at full stretch. Olufsen — Inga Bodde. Ah, that was it. He remembered seeing them together in the post office, their whispered conversation, the message sheets she’d taken from a drawer under the counter. Messages Olufsen had put into his pocket without reading. Kroll had had his suspicions then. The whole island knew of Olufsen’s relationship with Inga Bodde.

What could be more simple? Having abducted Krasnov, where — if you were Olufsen — would you hide him? In Inga Bodde’s house of course. And then, when the hue and cry had died down, you’d take him off the island under cover of darkness.

Because Inga Bodde was a much-respected woman on Vrakoy, Kroll was not prepared to share his suspicions with Dahl and Petersen. She lived with an invalid father. There was no one else in the house. It was a situation he could handle alone.

Back at the radhus they reported failure to the Ordforer and bade him goodnight. Kroll thanked Dahl and Petersen for their services and they parted.

When he had gone a short distance in the direction of his own house, Kroll turned away and set off up the hill, his mind full of resolve. It was dark and the mist had reduced visibility, but he knew Kolhamn like a book and he walked unhesitatingly along the path which led to the Boddes’ house. It was steep going because the house was well up the slope. Land was cheaper there and the Boddes had little money.

Kroll was a heavy man, unused to exertion, and the climb made him breathless. Several times he rested. Once he thought he heard footsteps behind him and stopped to listen. But all was quiet except for the distant barking of a dog, the thump of the town’s generator, and the sound of a fishing boat’s diesel somewhere in the fjord. As he drew close to the house a new sound intruded… the long-drawn blare of the foghorn at the mouth of Kolfjord. A few minutes later the house loomed out of the mist. He stopped. It was then that he heard again something behind him. This time it was no illusion, for a man’s voice called from the darkness. ‘Doctor Kroll. Doctor Kroll. Excuse me. I have a message for you.’

When Ferret reached the hospits and reported events in the kafeteria, Strutt told him to join up with Plotz as soon as possible. ‘Krasnov has disappeared. Okay? So your objective now’ — Strutt’s dark eyes fixed Ferret’s in compelling concentration — ‘is to get Gerasov. The prospects don’t look too good, Ed, but keep right on that boy’s tail. Maybe something’ll come up for us.’

Ferret sat on the bed, scratched his head and sighed. ‘What are you going to do, Vince?’

Strutt got up from the bed where he’d been reading, stubbed out a cigarette, put on a raincoat, and pulled a cloth cap low on his head. ‘I guess I’ve a job to do, Ed.’

Ferret’s expression showed only too clearly how much he’d like to have known what it was. Presumably the other leg of Gemini. He’d already been told it was none of his business. He sighed again. ‘Be seeing you some place, Vince?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Strutt shrugged his shoulders.

Ferret looked at him glumly. ‘Things haven’t been going for us, Vince. I wonder who the bastards are that snatched Krasnov.’

Strutt shook his head. ‘Maybe the French boys. They’ve not shown up. Whoever it is, they’ve sure screwed things up for us.’ He went towards the door, put his hand on the latch. ‘Bye now. Look after yourself.’

‘Bye Vince. See you.’

For Jim Potz it was a night of endless frustration. After Martinsen, Dahl and Gerasov had left the kafeteria he’d followed them down to the hospits, kept watch while they went inside, latched on to them again when they came out, kept discreetly behind them all the way to the radhus.

There he’d waited outside in the cold misty night, miserable, bored and alone, until he was joined by Ferret. In brief staccato sentences they exchanged news before settling down to watch the radhus, Plotz in front, Ferret at the back. Some time later three men came out of the front door. Gerasov was not with them. Plotz recognized Kroll, Dahl and Petersen. They disappeared in the direction of the harbour. The American’s assignment was to tail Gerasov. The sub-lieutenant had not left the radhus. For Plotz there was no alternative but to continue his miserable vigil.

From the hospits Strutt made for the radhus. He knew that sooner or later the principal characters in the hunt for Krasnov would collect there.

He hadn’t long to wait, and he wasn’t disappointed. From where he hid in the shadows he saw three men go in. He didn’t know or recognize Martinsen and Dahl, but he’d seen recent photographs of Kroll at the CIA briefing. He’d have picked out the fat, bearded doctor anywhere. Later another man went in. Strutt didn’t know that he was Hjalmar Nordsen, the Ordforer. In due course Kroll emerged with the two men he’d gone in with originally. Strutt tailed them down to the harbour, saw them go aboard the Kestrel He waited patiently in a dark alleyway between fishing sheds until they’d climbed back on to the jetty. They set off and he followed them back to the radhus. For a man with Strutt’s training and experience, shadowing in a fishing village with virtually no street lighting, on a dark misty night with most inhabitants in bed, was not difficult. But he took no chances and even Plotz and Ferret failed to see him when he moved into a doorway diagonally opposite the radhus.

Time went by. Three men came out. Kroll was one of them. They split, two going towards the western side of the village, Kroll to the eastern. Strutt followed Kroll, saw him back-track, then turn up the hill. He lost sight of him in the mist, but the Norwegian walked heavily, breathed noisily, and the American was in no danger of losing him. At times Kroll would stop. Instantly, Strutt would do the same. The American, younger and fitter, moving silently in rubber-soled shoes, soon reduced the distance between them.

When Strutt was no more than twenty feet from the man ahead he heard him stop. As Kroll moved forward again the American slid a hand into a raincoat pocket and quickened his pace. In his haste he stumbled over a heap of loose gravel. The noise must have alarmed Kroll. He stopped and turned, facing the pathway. Strutt called out in Norwegian. ‘Doctor Kroll. Doctor Kroll. Excuse me. I have a message for you.’

‘Who are you?’ It was a laboured, breathless voice.

Strutt moved forward in the darkness until he was a few feet from the doctor ‘Major Martinsen asked me to give you this, sir. It’s urgent.’ He held out the envelope. As Kroll took it, Strutt slipped an arm round the fat man’s neck in a half-Nelson. The Norwegian’s muffled cry changed to muted gurgling as Strutt plunged the knife deep into his throat, jerking it to and fro with sharp tugs. Kroll sagged, Strutt let him fall, watched the dark twitching shape for a few moments before taking it by the ankles and dragging it behind some rocks clear of the pathway. Strutt placed the envelope addressed to the Ordforer in the doctor’s pocket, removed the surgical gloves, stuffed them into his raincoat, and disappeared into the mist.

As the American made his way east across the upper limits of Kolhamn towards Spissberg he did some mental arithmetic: time to make the five hundred foot ascent and descent to the beach on the far side; time to get along the beach to the RV one mile southwest of the Ostnes Beacon. Certain things were fixed in his mind: the blown-up aerial photo provided by the US Air Force Base at Keflavik which showed the ridge he had to cross and the section of beach on the far side; the diagram drawn by Plotz and Ferret who’d reconnoitred the route; the mental picture of what he’d seen from the USOS helicopter the day before when it had run down the beach and lifted over the Spissberg on the approach to the air-strip.

He recalled that the north-eastern end of the beach ended in the rocky promontory of Ostnes. He planned to come down from the Spissberg just south of that. If he couldn’t see the beacon for mist he’d back-track to the rock face, then turn about and travel the mile south-west to the RV. His watch showed one-forty-three. He reckoned he’d make the RV within the hour if all went well. Not that it mattered. The skimmer would wait if necessary until an hour before first light. That gave him to close on five o’clock.

He reached the slope and began the ascent. The going was wet, slippery, mostly rock with occasional patches of tundra. His rubber shoes though deep-treaded were not what he’d have chosen for that part of the journey. But he was strong and lithe. He’d walked, climbed and run in the Appalachians day and night in worse weather and over tougher terrain. That had been a year back, a routine part of the course at the ‘Farm’ in Virginia.

Several times he stopped, set up the pocket compass and checked his bearings on its luminous dial. His task was simplified by the knowledge that he must keep his face to the upward slope. He reached the top and began the descent. The mist from the sea thickened and he checked his pace, coming down in long oblique contours, losing height slowly, slipping and slithering at times. Twice he fell. Each time he covered the metal-cased transmitter with both hands. His body could take the tumbles but the transmitter might not. It was vital to his mission.

Working his way down the slope, Strutt’s thoughts turned back to the man he’d just killed. Kroll alias Charlsen, alias Rodsand, alias Sorensen, alias Lillevik… ‘Alias Christ knows who else,’ Rod Stocken had said after reeling them off at the briefing. It had long seemed that Kroll’s past was buried in those aliases as securely as it he’d been buried beneath the earth, which was where a number of people would like to have seen him.

Strutt recalled Rod Stocken’s run-down on Kroll: Born in Sweden in 1916 of Norwegian parents. Graduated from Malmo University in 1938 with a physics degree. Began teaching in a state secondary school in Oslo in October that year. Collaborated with the Nazis after the occupation of Norway. Secured employment with the German scientific team working on the A-bomb project at Norsk Hydro plant in the mountains near Venmork. Stayed with them until late 1943 when Allied bombers destroyed the power station.

When the Germans moved the project to a site in the Reich, Kroll opted out.

After the Russians had cleared the Germans from Norway, Kroll re-appeared in December 1945 in the Bergen district. Name then was Rodsand. KGB agents — tipped off by Norwegian wartime underground — picked him up, threatened to expose him as a Nazi collaborator unless he came clean on the Norsk Hydro project. Kroll told all he knew. Then, under pressure of blackmail, he was taken on as a KGB agent. After a long apprenticeship he became a useful low-key unit in the KGB apparat in Norway.

In 1963 Kroll, always a conceited man, decided the KGB had burned him out, weren’t using him enough, weren’t paying him enough. He contacted the CIA. Fed them sample information on the KGB network in Norway. CIA checked, found it reliable, classified him potentially useful — unsafe — minimum access — possible double agent. Over the next few years he was used to feed mix-info to the KGB. CIA’s confidence in him grew, he was re-classified useful — probably unsafe — limited access — double agent.

During this time he gained, of necessity, certain knowledge of the CIA Norwegian network: communications system, hatches, channels for the procuration of false documents. For some time he continued to work for the KGB and CIA. He was proving useful to both sides, received reasonable rewards for information, and profited from dual expense accounts. He saved money and invested shrewdly.

In 1961, due to an administrative and security failure, Kroll gained access to a highly-classified CIA dossier. On learning this the Directorate instructed a deep-cover agent in Moscow to plant evidence that Kroll was feeding KGB systems material to the CIA. It was confidently anticipated that the KGB would liquidate Kroll. In the event, a senior KGB agent in Oslo confronted him with the evidence and the choice of liquidation or revelation. Kroll, anxious to live, told it all. As a result the cover of two contact men, long-established CIA agents in Norway, was blown; so was much else — including the communications system, the cipher-crypts, letter-drops, safe houses and escape hatches — before the CIA realized what had happened.

Kroll, now fearing both the CIA and KGB, did an overnight skip to Sweden, underwent cosmetic surgery, fattened on hormones and grew the beard which masked his face. He obtained employment in a Swedish secondary school teaching physics. For this purpose he used faked cover documents which he’d long before procured for just such a purpose.

Several years later he turned up on Vrakoy as Dr Gustav Kroll, a Norwegian of private means, long retired from school teaching in Sweden. He chose Vrakoy because of its extreme remoteness from the main stream of people and events.

A few weeks before the stranding of the Zhukov the CIA had — by a strange chance arising directly from Kroll’s vanity — discovered that he was on Vrakoy. If he were still active he was a potential threat. For that reason, and because of the damage he’d done to the CIA, it was decided to recommend his liquidation. It would serve, too, as a salutary warning to the KGB and their Norwegian agents.

‘He’s no great catch.’ Stocken had mouthed his cheroot aggressively. ‘Just a one-time Nazi collaborator and two-bit double agent. But he’s a mean bastard and dangerous. He sold the CIA down the river and he’s got to pay for it.’

Thus, in somewhat unjuridical terms, was sentence of death pronounced upon Gustav Kroll.

Before there was time for the recommendation to be approved by the Directorate, the need to plan Gemini had arisen. It was then decided that if the main leg of the plan failed — the abduction of one or more officers from the Soviet submarine — Strutt should liquidate Kroll before leaving Vrakoy, thus making unnecessary the dispatch of a hatchet man.

The envelope which Strutt had placed in the dead man’s pocket contained a precis of all the CIA knew about Kroll. There was no indication of its origin or authorship.

By the time Strutt reached the beach mist had become fog. Visibility was down to fifty or sixty feet. There was no sign of the light at the Ostnes Beacon so he walked north until he reached the rockface. Then he reversed direction and set off towards the RV, a mile distant.

The tide was falling and with fog swirling wetly in his face, the sea at times lapping his feet, he made his way down the beach. Every thirty seconds he would hear the deep blare of the foghorn at the mouth of the fjord; but for that, the only sounds were those made by small waves breaking on the lee shore, the crunch of pebbles underfoot and the noise of his own breathing.

He was wondering whether he’d overshot when he stumbled over the line of stones Plotz and Ferret had laid across the beach to serve as a marker.

Strutt took the VHF transmitter from his pocket, extended the aerial and pressed the transmit button. He began to count in Norwegian, en… to… fre… fire… fem…, at ten he stopped, released the button, held the receiver to his ear. He heard a deep voice counting down in Norwegian, ti… ni… olle… ayv… at five it stopped.

Strutt waited. Before long he heard the high note of outboard engines as a skimmer homed in on the bearing of his VHF transmission. He took the pencil torch from his pocket, switched it on and aimed it seawards.