The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

At noon course was altered to the south-west.

A light wind from the north had dispersed the fog. The day was fine, the sky an abstract of blues and whites, the sea calm above the undulations of a long swell.

Bluewhale, still submerged, had travelled a hundred and twenty miles to the north-west since picking up Krasnov and the Liang Huis. By mid-afternoon, in company with Belligerent and Aries, she had arrived in area GVF. Soon afterwards Belligerent made the executive signal for Phase Two of Kilo Zulu. Outward signs of the exercise were the constantly-changing dispositions of the surface ships, a surge in the volume of radio traffic, and increased activity by helicopters which executed complicated search patterns, often hovering close to the surface, tell-tale cables leading down like umbilical cords to dunked sonar buoys. The centre of all this, the target for the ASW scientists in Aries, was understood to be Bluewhale.

What was happening in Aries’ laundry in the stern of the ship was known only to her captain and the Portland boffins. Like them, he knew a number of other things the ship’s company didn’t know. For example, that McGhee, the chief scientist, was the same Superintendent McGhee of the Special Branch who’d been at the Zhukov briefing in the Surrey farmhouse, and that Krasnov had been given the cover name of NORTON for the purposes of Daisy Chain.

When darkness fell, weather still fine, sea calm, the submarine and its consorts were two hundred and fifty miles south-west of Vrakoy.

At eight o’clock Bluewhale surfaced. Belligerent was in sight but Aries, twenty miles to the south, was well below the horizon. A few minutes later the approach of Belligerent’s helicopter was reported to the submarine’s bridge. Bill Boyd ordered the first-lieutenant to stand by to transfer survivors. Krasnov, recovering from heavy sedation but able to walk with assistance, eyes still covered by the head bandage beneath which his ears were plugged, was taken up to the casing with the Liang Huis, Hamsov and Brough. All wore orange life-jackets. The first-lieutenant, a petty officer and two seamen accompanied them.

It was cold and dark under a clouded sky as the submarine, running at slow speed on main diesels, rolled gently to the swell, all that remained of the recent north-westerly gale. They heard the jet engines before the winking lights showed up in the distance and there was a stir amongst the little party on the casing when the first-lieutenant called out, ‘There she is. Fine on the port quarter.’ As it approached, the helicopter’s landing lights came on, illuminating a moving circle of sea beneath it.

The first-lieutenant signalled with neon-lit orange wands and the helicopter closed in, its rotor blades shimmering in reflected light, the noise of the jets and the beat of the rotors transcending all other sounds as it stationed itself on the port quarter. The neon wands waved again and the Wessex V crabbed in sideways, hovering above the casing. A line was lowered, helping hands slipped Tanya Liang Hui into the harness and she was winched up; Krasnov, Li Liang Hui, Brough and Hamsov followed in quick succession. The wands were waved once more and the helicopter lifted to swing away in a sharp turn to port.

The little blip on Bluewhale’s radar screen moved purposefully towards the bigger blip which was Belligerent where it was finally swallowed. The radar operator watching the screen then knew that the Wessex V had landed on the assault ship. Soon afterwards another small blip broke away from Belligerent and travelled southwards until it, too, merged with a larger blip and disappeared. He knew then that it had reached Aries. What he didn’t know was that in the course of its brief visit to Belligerent no one had left the helicopter. It had crouched on the flight deck, rotors turning, lights flashing, until it took off a few minutes later and made for Aries.

In the frigate the upper deck had once again been cleared for a nuclear fall-out exercise — ‘We ought to be bloody dead by now,’ remarked a disgruntled seaman — and only the flight deck officer saw the helicopter’s arrival over the flight deck. It hovered there winching down its passengers. They were greeted by the ASW scientists from Portland who’d transferred to the frigate the day before. They helped Krasnov, Brough and the others from the winching harness, led them aft, down the ladder to the mortar well and along into the laundry, now innocent of any signs of its function. Broadcast speakers aft of the hangar had been switched off, screen doors shut and all other necessary steps taken to suppress the sounds of the ship. This, the captain explained by broadcast, had been done at the request of the scientists whose acutely sensitive equipment required a minimum of ‘on board’ noise during testing.

In the laundry all lights had been switched off but for one red globe. On arrival there, Krasnov was placed in a chair, the bandages and ear plugs were removed, a black hood slipped over his head and secured with a light chain under his chin. His wrists were secured by metal straps to the arms of the chair, his ankles to its legs. The only people who spoke were the Liang Huis: to each other in Chinese, to Krasnov in Russian. From time to time he heard other Chinese voices. He could not know that they came from a high fidelity speaker behind a screen at the after end of the laundry.

Soon after they had strapped the Soviet lieutenant into the chair the Liang Huis were startled by his sudden cry, ‘Oh God, what’s going to happen to me?’ It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d given him the Sodium Pentothal tablets back in the rorbu in Kolfjord.

Instinctively Tanya put her hand over his. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

Her brother quickly remonstrated.

‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I hate what we’re doing to him.’

Liang Hui said, ‘Do it again and you’ll be in trouble.’ She knew from the hardness of his voice that it was a threat, that he meant it.

It was understood by the frigate’s crew that the latest arrivals were more ASW scientists from Portland come to take part in the secret equipment trials.

The first-lieutenant came up the starboard ladder on to the bridge two steps at a time. Seeing nothing but the glow of instrument dials he made for the dark shape on the pedestal seat. ‘They’re all on board, sir.’

‘Everything all right, Number One?’

‘One of them, Norton, has some sort of injury. Head’s bandaged. McGhee says it’s okay. Slipped down a ladder in Belligerent yesterday. Otherwise everything seems go. The accommodation problem’s a bit dodgy. Got nine of them now, one a woman.’

‘What’s her name?’ The captain, usually a silent man, seemed to perk up.

‘Miss Tanya Liang Hui, sir.’

‘Chinese. What’s she like?’

‘Rather a dish. Cantonese actually. Their secretary bird, note-taker and general what not.’

‘I want none of that in this ship,’ said the captain severely. ‘We’re Mary Whitehouse fans, we are. What about accommodation?’

‘With the two spare cabins — and getting the midshipmen to give up their cabin and sleep in the wardroom — we’ve managed to look after yesterday’s party. This lot’s more difficult. The girl’s a problem.’

‘My day cabin perhaps?’ suggested the captain.

‘Sir!’ mocked the first-lieutenant. Then more hopefully, ‘I thought the settee in mine might do.’

‘I’m sure you did, Number One. Think up something else.’

‘I’ll get one of our subs to give up his cabin. He can join the midshipmen in the wardroom when he’s not on watch and wants to get his head down.’

‘Sounds reasonable. Thank God we’ve only got them for the duration of the exercise. About twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes. That helps. Another thing is that McGhee, the boss boffin, says the latest arrivals will stay in the laundry, fiddling with their nuts and bolts. If they need kip, he says, they’ll take it on stretchers and blankets we’ve put down there.’

‘You’ve let him know they can use the wardroom if they wish to?’

‘Yes. I’ve done that, sir. And made arrangements for coffee, sandwiches, whatever, to be taken aft when needed.’

‘By whom?’

‘One of their own party, sir.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘Yes. You might let McGhee know that I’d like him to take a glass of sherry with me at noon tomorrow.’

‘Aye, aye, sir. I’ll see to that.’ The first-lieutenant made for the ladder.

‘One other thing. Number One. Tell McGhee that if he cares to bring Miss Liang Hui I shall be delighted.’

The first-lieutenant said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and smiled in the darkness.

As the effect of the Sodium Pentothal wore off and increasing awareness returned, Krasnov tried to put together the bits and pieces. The motion, the vibration, told him he was in a ship. From beneath the chair came the feel and sound of churning propellers, so he knew he was in the stern. He was aware of other things: the hood over his head, the chain round his neck, the steel straps fastening his wrists and ankles to the chair, the sound of voices. Some near, some far, speaking an Oriental language. At first he took it to be Japanese, but later knew it was Chinese. The man and woman had talked to him briefly in Russian when they took him down ladders, led him into this place and put him in the chair. Otherwise they spoke Chinese.

Where was he? Why was he here? What would they do to him? Were they about to torture him? These questions kept repeating themselves.

He groped in his memory for familiar things. His parents. His brothers and sisters. Nasha Simeonov, the girl he hoped to marry. The small apartment in Kuslaya overlooking the Neva. The local primary school. The Leonin Govorov secondary school. Then on to Leningrad State University. Leningrad Naval Academy, Frunze Naval College. The training cruiser. What was its name? No. It wouldn’t come. The submarine training course. That was it! Submarines. The Zhukov. His ship. An explosion in the forward torpedo-compartment. The struggle to beach her. It was coming back. The little harbour town on the island. Kolhamn. What had he been doing there? Leonid Gerasov? Yes, of course. They’d been in the kafeteria together. That was it. He’d gone to the lavatory.

Gerasov should have come too, but there was the English girl and he’d not insisted. The lights had gone out. Two men had grabbed him. He remembered the terror of that moment. They’d poked guns into his back and neck. Frog-marched him along a dark passage. Out by a door at the back. Handed him over to two other men. He could remember them. Faces seen dimly in reflected light. Peaked caps, drooping black moustaches, white teeth, menacing eyes. Funny what you could remember from just a glimpse. They had pistol-marched him down to the harbour. What happened after that? A dark damp place, sitting in a corner. Vomiting. A man and woman speaking Chinese? How had he got there?

It didn’t make sense. There were too many vague, uncertain, unrelated recollections. Like a half-remembered dream. The noise of an engine. Bumping along, a violent repetitive motion. Pushed and pulled by strong hands. An odd feeling in his head: thick, muzzy. Touching it to find a bandage over his eyes. Hitting out with a flat hand against a cold metallic wall. Realizing with a shock that he couldn’t hear the sound of the slap. Thinking he had a head injury. Had he?

Later he’d been in an aircraft. Then, aware of the excessive vibration, he’d realized it was a helicopter. They’d landed. Once or twice? There’d been some interruption? He’d known for sure it was a helicopter when they’d winched him down on to the deck of a ship. That was something he’d done many times before.

What was the ship? Chinese? China was Russia’s enemy. But what was a Chinese warship doing in the Arctic? Was it a warship? Submarine perhaps? The helicopter? There’d been no Chinese in the kafeteria. It didn’t make sense. The more questions he posed the more nightmarish it became. How could he draw the line between reality and fantasy?

Then, with sudden and frightening clarity the truth dawned upon him. They’d found out that the submarine on the rocks was the Zhukov. They would try to force him to talk. To tell them all he knew. But he wouldn’t co-operate. Nothing would make him do that. So they would…? Reason gave way to terror and he cried out in Russian. ‘Oh God, what’s going to happen to me?’

It was then that the woman had touched him. Her warm hand on his. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d said in a low voice. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

A number of surprising developments were being discussed in the Ordforer’s office the morning after Krasnov’s disappearance.

‘Who found the body?’ Hjalmar Nordsen ran the back of his hand across tired eyes.

Odd Dahl said, ‘Inga Bodde and Gunnar Olufsen. They left her house at eight-fifteen this morning. Walking down the footpath they saw a foot sticking out from behind some rocks.’

‘What was Olufsen doing there at that time?’ The Ordforer’s lifted eyebrows underlined the question.

‘He spent the night in the Bodde house. After leaving the kafeteria at eleven-thirty last night.’

‘Of course. I was forgetting. They are engaged.’

Odd Dahl took up the story again. ‘They didn’t touch the body. Came straight to my house. I was still asleep.’ He looked at the Ordforer apologetically. ‘Didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning.’

‘I know. Neither did I. All this business.’ He waved a disapproving hand. ‘Why should Vrakoy be troubled with such things? And now murder.’

‘I went at once,’ continued Odd Dahl. ‘Examined the body. He was stabbed in the throat. A fierce wound. The carotid artery severed. I looked around but couldn’t find a knife. A few blood-stained tissues, a trail of blood from the path. Nothing more. I searched him — the body I mean. There were the usual things. And this unopened letter, addressed to you.’ Odd Dahl passed the sealed envelope to the Ordforer. Hjalmar Nordsen opened it and they saw that his hands were trembling. He took out several sheets of paper, spread them on the desk. There was no sender’s address, no signature. Just the date, October 1974, and the heading, TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. Impeccably typed, electric IBM, a three-page summary of the career of Gustav Kroll, alias Charlsen, alias Rodsand, alias Sorensen, alias Lillevik…

The Ordforer read in silence his face hardening as the story unfolded. When he’d finished he passed the summary to Lars Martinsen. ‘Such a man has many enemies,’ he said.

They discussed Kroll’s death at length, finally agreeing on three possibilities: that Kroll had been killed by the KGB, or by the CIA, or by a Norwegian patriot with a long memory. The KGB or CIA seemed the more likely.

Martinsen was strangely silent during this part of the discussion. ‘It is no use speculating,’ he said. ‘One must have facts before drawing worthwhile conclusions.’ He was thinking of Karen and Joe. Nothing about Kroll had come from the CIA through that source. So it was probably the KGB. Why now? Was it because, with the Zhukov stranded on Vrakoy, the KGB dispatched an agent to the island? That he’d chanced upon Kroll? It was guesswork and unrewarding. He gave up. At the Ordforer’s request he took the anonymous report, undertook to pass it without delay to Norwegian Intelligence.

Then, choosing his moment, he lifted the canvas grip from the floor and put it on the table. From it he took a faded blue denim jacket and trousers, a pair of well-worn plimsolls, and the uniform jacket of a lieutenant of the Soviet Navy. ‘They were found this morning by two of our soldiers on the rocks in Nordvag Bay,’ he said. ‘Members of the search party sent out to look for Krasnov.’

He took a worn plastic wallet from the bag. ‘This was found in the denim jacket. It has in it some Chinese money and a number of personal items including the papers of a Chinese seaman. Ho Lu Kwang. The denims, the plimsolls and the wallet were made in China.’ Martinsen picked up the naval uniform jacket. On it were traces of sand and sea water stains. ‘This is Ivan Krasnov’s jacket. It has his name tag. Presumably the one he was wearing in the kafeteria last night. I say that because of these.’ He held up three slips of paper, print-outs from a cash register. ‘They are imprinted with yesterday’s date. Haakon Jern has examined them. He says they were issued last night.’

‘My God,’ said the Ordforer, forsaking his customary calm. ‘Why did you not tell us this at once?’

Martinsen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Odd Dahl got in first — the finding of Kroll’s body. That seemed important enough.’

‘Is there any connection between the two events?’

‘There may be. I don’t see it at present.’

‘My goodness.’ The Ordforer looked both shocked and baffled. ‘What’s your theory?’

Martinsen thought about that. ‘I don’t know that I have one. Superficially it looks as if Krasnov was abducted by the Chinese. The Liang Huis are missing. These garments were found close to the sea in Nordvag Bay. There are signs of a scuffle having taken place. Krasnov may have been taken off in a small boat. Perhaps to a ship or submarine.’

‘Why does a Chinese seaman leave his clothes and wallet on the rocks?’ Odd Dahl’s rubbery weatherbeaten face creased with doubt.

‘That’s why I said “superficially”,’ said Martinsen. ‘It’s difficult to answer your question.’

‘Unless,’ the Ordforer hesitated. ‘Unless it was done deliberately. To create the impression that it was a Chinese act.’ Martinsen nodded. ‘Of course. But there are other possibilities. They may have been about to dress Krasnov in the clothes of a Chinese seaman when they were disturbed. Or a Chinese seaman may have taken his clothes off to swim to a boat anchored off-shore — again they were disturbed. How can we say what happened?’

‘I wonder,’ said the Ordforer pressing the tips of his fingers together. ‘It is an extraordinary business.’

Martinsen was thinking of Karen and the feed-back to Joe… of Freddie Lewis’s tip-off… ‘a great power is laying on something special by way of intelligence gathering’. Roald Lund’s ‘Is it a NATO power?’ Freddie Lewis’s reply ‘The words used were a great power. That’s all I know.’ China was a great power, not a member of NATO. Martinsen thought, too, of Plotz and Ferret, the American ornithologists, and the United States Oceanographic Service’s Sikorsky helicopter. Plotz and Ferret were still on Vrakoy. He’d checked that. Due to leave on the Wideroe’s midday flight to Bodo, en route to Rost. The USOS helicopter and its survey crew were scheduled to fly to Bodo that afternoon. He’d checked that too. And the Kestrel manned by the English party? She’d sailed at two o’clock in the morning. That had looked suspicious. But she’d been searched before and after sailing, and the captain of the gunboat said she was absolutely clean. No one but the English tourists aboard. And they had arrived in Andenes at a quarter-to-eight that morning. That also he’d checked. There were so many unrelated, odd-shaped pieces in the jig-saw puzzle. It was time, he decided, to report to Roald Lund. ‘I must go to Oslo this afternoon, Ordforer,’ he said. ‘To report to my superiors.’ Before the meeting broke up other items were discussed. There was still no sign of the Frenchmen who’d set out to climb Bodvag. A representative of the Sûreté Nationale was arriving in Kolhamn at midday to inquire into their disappearance. The Liang Huis had not returned to the hospits the night before though their hand luggage had been left in their room. There was no trace of them in Kolhamn.

‘I have spent most of my life on this island,’ said the Ordforer. ‘It has always been a peaceful law-abiding place, except when the Germans came. Now, since that Soviet submarine ran ashore on the Dragetennene, we have these extraordinary happenings.’ He shook his shaggy white head. ‘We live in bad times.’