The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The pilot of the Wasp helicopter tapped the shoulder of the man next to him. ‘Muckle Flugga,’ he said, pointing to the flashing light on the port side. ‘Another five or six minutes to Esha Ness. See the light there? Dead ahead.’

Liang Hui nodded, looked round at Krasnov. The Soviet lieutenant’s head bandage covered his eyes. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes,’ the Cantonese shouted to him in Russian. There was no response. Liang Hui remembered the ear plugs and smiled sympathetically. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to five. It was fifteen minutes since they’d taken off from Aries The Royal Navy was nothing if not punctual.

The pilot switched off the navigation and dimension lights, throttled back and the Wasp began to lose height. It was dark, a night of no moon, but stars shone brightly in a clear sky.

When the light at Esha Ness was two miles ahead the pilot turned the helicopter south-east. Flying low he followed the southern shore of Ronas Yoe. A mile down it he swung inland, leaving to port the flicker of light from Heyler. Soon afterwards he switched on the landing lights and put the helicopter into a slow turn. They’d almost completed a full circle when he said, ‘The broch is ahead. Almost under us now.’ The helicopter hovered. Liang Hui looked down The stone tower was on the edge of the circle of light beneath the Wasp.

The pilot chose a patch of moorland close to the broch, lowered the Wasp on to it, switched off the landing lights.

He turned to Liang Hui. ‘Okay. Keep your heads down and make it snappy. Sooner I get out of here the better.’

Instinctively, like a woman patting her hair before entering a room, Liang Hui adjusted his shoulder-holster before opening the port door. He climbed out, crouching low, uncomfortably aware of the whirling rotor blades. Once on the ground he leant back, reached for Krasnov, told him to keep his head well down, helped him out. Bent double, the two men moved away from the helicopter. The pilot opened the throttle, the engine screamed its head off and the Wasp lifted clear. The pilot swung it to the north-west in a steep turn and made for the sea.

Liang Hui unwound the bandage from Krasnov’s head, removed the ear plugs and handed the Russian a pencil torch. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You lead. We’re making for that stone tower.’ He turned Krasnov in the direction of the broch and they set off across the heather. When they reached the tower they picked their way between fallen stones as they made through the open arch. The roof had long since gone, it was cold and damp inside but thick jerseys and duffle coats helped keep them warm. Liang Hui shone his torch round the walls. ‘Sit on those stones over there,’ he said. ‘Don’t move until I tell you.’ Krasnov sat awkwardly on the pile of stones, Liang Hui leaning against the wall opposite.

A long silence followed, broken at last by the Russian. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘We’re on British soil now,’ said Liang Hui. ‘You’ll be picked up by the local police soon after daylight.’

‘And then?’

‘They’ll hand you over to the Special Branch.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The British security police. You’ll receive the usual treatment given to a defector. There are certain formalities. Debriefing, that sort of thing. When you’re cleared, when they’re satisfied you’re not a plant, you’ll enjoy the privileges of political asylum.’

‘What are they?’ Krasnov’s hoarse voice was full of doubt.

‘The life of a citizen in the West. In a free society. You’ll have friends. There are a good many defectors.’

The Russian was silent, thinking of what had been said. ‘you talk of me as a defector. As if I’d done this voluntarily.’ He was burning with resentment. ‘You know it was forced on me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Liang Hui shone his torch in Krasnov’s face. ‘You were found on a life-raft north of Vrakoy. When they picked you up you said you were a defector, claimed political asylum.’

‘That’s a pack of lies.’ The Soviet lieutenant’s voice rose in a confusion of distress and anger. ‘You know it is. I was taken from Kolhamn by force. At gun point. Then drugged. I remember you in the rorbu. You and that Chinese woman.’

Liang Hui drew a deep breath, eyed him severely. ‘Try to keep calm, Krasnov. You’re suffering from hallucinations. They can be dangerous. May jeopardize your freedom. The British might think you’re a spy. That wouldn’t be pleasant, would it? Stick to the truth. It’s safer. There’s no disgrace in being a defector. Remember we have witnesses. You have none. And we’re giving you the political asylum you asked for. A new life lies ahead of you.’

Krasnov’s voice trembled with frustration. ‘I’ve heard stories of the lies and deceptions of the imperialist capitalist powers. I had begun to believe they might be propaganda. Now I know differently.’

Liang Hui ignored the remark and they relapsed into silence. Later the Cantonese said, à propos of nothing. ‘What made you think you were in a British ship?’ Krasnov didn’t answer so Liang Hui repeated the question.

‘It was not a matter of thinking. I knew.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Never mind. It’s not important.’ The Russian shook his head.

Sitting on the pile of stones waiting, cold, miserable and frightened, wondering what the future held for him, Krasnov considered Liang Hui’s last question. He managed a smile in the dark because the explanation he was not prepared to give was so simple, the precautions the British had taken so elaborate. His thoughts went back to the steel cell in which he’d awakened.

After the interrogation, when he was stilt dazed, suffering from shock and drugs, they must have taken him there, laid him on the stretcher, covered him with the blanket. He had vague recollections of a steel door clanging, the sound of a key turning. He must have slept for hours. When he woke he remembered his surprise at finding his wrists and ankles no longer bound, his eyes no longer masked. Not that he could see for there was no light in the cell, but the mask had gone. The plugs were still in his ears, so he pulled them out and stuffed them into a trouser pocket. For some time he lay there thinking.

Later, very quietly, he got off the stretcher, stood up and tested his limbs. He found with relief that they were undamaged. Slowly, and with no plan other than a desire to satisfy curiosity, to do something rather than just sit in the dark, he explored the cell. It was small, four by three metres, with shelves along one side and across the far end. He felt along the empty shelves, found the door, the handle and the keyhole. It was a solid door, perhaps watertight because no chink of light showed through between it and the frame. Afterwards he found the light switch, turned it on. He’d been in the dark so long that it took time to accustom his eyes to the brightness of the single lamp in the deckhead. For the first time he saw the stretcher and blanket, the rows of empty steel shelves, and realized that he was in a ship’s storeroom, not a cell. He was about to sit down on the stretcher when something caught his eyes. It was on the highest shelf, on the far side; the edge of something just clear of the line of the shelf. He reached up, touched it, pulled it down.

It was a cheap plastic briefcase. He unfastened the zip, took out the contents. There were a few letters in their envelopes, some writing paper and unused envelopes, a number of itemized forms — stores lists or something of that sort, he decided — a postcard and a cyclostyled sheet.

Krasnov could not speak or understand spoken English, but he had an elementary schoolboy’s knowledge of the language. Enough, for example, to understand the significance of the address which appeared on each envelope:

All bore a London postmark and a franking date within recent weeks. The itemized lists were headed HMS ARIES, as was the blank notepaper with the ship’s crest. There was a Danish postcard: a photo of Copenhagen harbour, the mermaid at Langelinie in the foreground. The writing in the body of the card was Chinese but it was addressed in English to:

Most important of all was the cyclostyled sheets headed HMS ARIES, Visit to Copenhagen, Sept. 20-24, 1974.

Signed by the first-lieutenant, it gave the programme of events and entertainment arranged for the ship’s company during the course of the five-day visit. The distribution list at its foot had an inked tick against ‘Ship’s Laundry’.

Krasnov put everything back in the briefcase, replaced it on the shelf where he’d found it, and pushed it well out of sight. He turned off the lights, lay down on the stretcher and covered himself with the blanket.

After that he lay in the darkness thinking about his discovery.

As the pale greys of morning began to show in the sky above the broch, they heard somewhere in the distance the solitary bleat of a sheep, followed by the cries of seagulls.

‘It’ll be daylight soon,’ said Liang Hui.

Sitting disconsolately, chin in hands, elbows on knees, body bent forward, weary with waiting, stiff from the damp and cold of early morning, Krasnov ignored the remark.

Not long afterwards they heard a distant rumble, low at first but growing steadily stronger.

‘Helicopter,’ said Liang Hui. ‘Coming in from the sea.’ He stood up. ‘Stay here. I’ll take a look.’ He held the revolver in front of him, prominently, in such a way that the Russian must see it.

‘Don’t worry.’ Krasnov shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘I won’t move.’

Liang Hui went outside and looked in the direction from which the sound was coming. Before long he saw the dark blob coming in low over the moor towards the broch, the sound of its engine an enormous intrusion on the quiet landscape. When it had almost reached the broch it hovered less than fifty yards from him. There was just enough light to identify it as a Sikorsky Sea King. He looked for markings on the helicopter’s fuselage but there were none. It looked curiously anonymous in its coat of dark olive.

He moved away from the stone tower while the Sikorsky, its engines and rotors reaching a crescendo, descended like some awkward bird, crunched on to the heather and rocked gently as the undercarriage spread and recoiled, the engines throttled back, the spinning rotors drooped. A door opened and two men in flying suits climbed out. Bending low they came clear of the Sea King and walked quickly through the dusk of early morning towards him.

‘Morning,’ said the tall man. He had the brown skin and bony features of an American Indian. ‘I guess we’d better exchange credentials. You’re Liang Hui.’

‘Correct,’ said the Cantonese. ‘And you are Vincent Strutt?’

‘Right,’ said the American. From nowhere it seemed he produced a revolver, poked it into Liang Hui’s rib-cage. ‘Get your hands up, China boy,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘And keep them there.’

Liang Hui raised his hands high above his head The thickset man frisked him while Strutt kept him covered. The frisker found the shoulder-holster, pulled the gun from it, stuck it into the pocket of his flying-suit. ‘Okay, Vince,’ he said. ‘He’s clean now.’

Strutt said, ‘Right, China boy. Take us to him. Make it fast. We’re short on time.’

Hands still above his head, Liang Hui turned towards the broch. As he did so he saw the Soviet lieutenant slip back from the entrance and knew that he’d been watching. When they got into the broch Krasnov had his back to the far wall, his arms spread. His face was drawn with fear. ‘What’s this?’ he stammered, his eyes on Liang Hui.

The Cantonese shook his head, reached higher with his hands. ‘I don’t know.’ His voice was thin, reedy. ‘Ask them.’

‘That’ll do, China boy,’ said Strutt. ‘We’ll take over. Just watch your step. You’re liable to get hurt.’ He turned to Krasnov and spoke to him in Russian. ‘Come along, Lieutenant. You’re with us now.’

Krasnov held back but they each took an arm and marched him out of the broch while Liang Hui stood watching helplessly. Once outside Strutt released the Russian’s arm. ‘Put him in the chopper, Stan,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you when I’ve dealt with our friend here.’

He came back to Liang Hui who had moved outside the broch, arms still above his head. ‘I guess we’ll be going now,’ said the American. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes. They’ll be coming for me soon.’

‘How’s this guy Krasnov?’

‘He’s not a bad youngster. Treat him decently. He’s had a rough time.’

‘Sure. We’ll look after him. Have him on board in twenty minutes. In the States in a few days. He’ll be okay if he’s straight.’

‘He is.’ Liang Hui could see the Soviet lieutenant’s face pressed to a fuselage window; very white and frightened he looked.

‘Okay. Bye now.’ Strutt lifted his right hand and fired two shots at Liang Hui at point blank range. The Cantonese dropped his arms, clutched his stomach, bent double and wobbled absurdly before collapsing. Strutt ran towards the helicopter, climbed in through the open door. Before it was shut the jets shrieked and screamed up the sound scale and the Sea King lifted clear.

Lying on his side, Liang Hui watched it making off, flying low across the moor towards Ronas Voe until it was lost to sight in the morning twilight. Only then did he get up and dust himself. He spent the next few minutes hiding the shoulder-holster in the heather.

An hour later he saw a car stop in the distance. Two men climbed out and set off across the moor towards him. It was full daylight now. To the west he could see the tower of the lighthouse at Esha Ness and in the north, across the Voe, the black bulk of Ronas Hill.

As the men drew close he saw their uniform, the checkered bands round their peaked caps and the sergeant’s stripes. When they reached him the sergeant, pink-cheeked and brown-moustached, smiled in kindly fashion. ‘Ye’ll be expecting us, I dare say.’

Liang Hui looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Rada vas videt,’ he muttered.

The sergeant spoke to the constable. ‘It’s him, Andrew. But it’s nae guld speaking the English. Hell nae understand.’

‘Looks more like a Chinaman than a Roosian to me, sergeant.’

‘There’s many o’ them that’s Mongolian, Andrew.’

He turned back to Liang Hui. ‘Come along wi’ us then laddie. We’ll be lookin’ after ye.’ He took Liang Hui gently by the arm and the three of them set off towards the car.