That done he flew down to Oslo and transferred to the night flight to Heathrow.
The Rover slowed down for the hairpin bend, took the humpback bridge and turned left along a farm road, its lights sweeping fields and hedgerows before steadying on the iron gates ahead. It squealed to a stop. A dark shape appeared from nowhere. In the headlights it became a man, sheepskin coated and tweed hatted. He opened a door, searched inside the car with a torch, checked the registration plates and licence disc. At the driver’s window he spoke to the sole occupant. ‘Let’s see it, then.’
Briggs produced an identity card. The torch focused on it then shifted to Briggs’s face. The man passed back the card, spoke into a walkie-talkie. ‘Okay, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr McGhee’s waiting.’
Briggs let in the clutch and the Rover bumped down the track towards the farmhouse. He parked it behind a cowshed.
At the back door another man checked Briggs’s face against the identity card by torchlight. ‘Mr McGhee’s in the living-room, sir,’ he said. His breath smelt of a recently finished meal.
The superintendent was sitting on a stool in an inglenook where broken necklaces of plaster hung from the ceiling.
‘Good organization, McGhee.’
‘Cold for the time of year,’ said McGhee warming his hands in front of a log fire. ‘Might as well be comfortable.’
‘’Fraid we’re going to be late,’ said Briggs, ‘One of our lot’s been delayed.’
‘Not the first time,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nor the last I’ll warrant.’
‘He’s had to come rather a long way,’ said Briggs apologetically.
They were all there by midnight. Six rather ordinary looking civilians. Unnotable save, perhaps, for the Cantonese brother and sister and the faintly oriental flavour of two other members of the party. All were dressed in a casual nonconformist way. The usual run of denim jeans, jackets and woollen jerseys. But for the brother and sister, they were unknown to each other, as were their faces until they’d reached the living-room. The van’s interior light hadn’t worked.
The late arrival came in the van on its second journey. He was a lean man with greying hair and a lined weathered face. He sat alone at the far end of the table, silent and immobile except when turning an aquiline nose and large questioning eyes on those who spoke. Occasionally the eyes and lips combined in a smile and the face was transformed.
‘I’m Martin,’ said Briggs. ‘Please introduce yourselves.’
All but the late arrival did, and from somewhere a Special Branch man produced hot coffee. Not that they knew he was Special Branch. Lights flared, cigarettes were lit, and they stood about chatting warily as strangers do, drinking hot coffee from earthenware mugs and feeling slightly self-conscious. Later Briggs gathered them round the solid farmhouse table. He took the chair at its head. ‘I want to kick off,’ he said, ‘by repeating what you’ve already been told by your commanding officers. This is a private venture. Get that clearly into your minds. A private venture. If you get into trouble you’ll be repudiated by the British Government. There’ll be no official support or recognition. The Ministry of Defence will deny any knowledge of you. There’ll be no reward for success. No compensation for failure. And whichever way it goes you’ll have to be forever silent.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘You know the penalties if you’re not. You’ve all been accepted as volunteers — repeat volunteers — for what may be a dodgy operation. It’s of the utmost importance to the West or we wouldn’t be bothering with it. Then there’s…’
Briggs stared at the girl. She was scrabbling in her shoulder-bag like a terrier looking for a bone. ‘You listening?’
‘Yes. I am actually.’ She saw his eyes on the bag. ‘Sorry. Looking for a file. Broke a nail.’ She held up a slender finger.
Briggs gave her one of his specially baleful looks. ‘As I was saying, it’s vital to the West. It shouldn’t take long. Five to six days we estimate. It’ll be carried out in a foreign but friendly country.’ Feeling he’d been over formal he added, ‘Should be rather fun, I think.’
He looked round the table. ‘If anyone wishes to pull out, now’s the time. Before we get on to the detail. Pulling out won’t affect your service career. And if you do, we won’t ask any questions because we know you’ll have good reasons. Anyone?’
There were no takers, just a murmur of noes.
‘That’s great,’ said Briggs. ‘Now for one or two preliminaries. First, the name of the operation is Daisy Chain. Remember that, will you? Next, you’re all civilians with no RN or other service background or connections. Just a party of friends who’ve decided to charter a yacht for a week or so of sailing in and around the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands.’ He grinned. ‘So you’d better get to know each other pretty quickly.’
The girl said, ‘Are you coming with us?’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, wishing he were. She had friendly eyes, an inviting smile. ‘Passport: are being prepared. The essential facts — names, dates and places of birth, etcetera — will be correct. Your occupations will be relevant but they won’t suggest any tie up with the Royal Navy. For example, Lieutenant Commander Stephen Nunn,’ — Briggs looked at the man with the pallid high-cheekboned face and almond eyes ‘is a weapons electrical officer. He’ll travel as Mr Stephen Nunn, electronics engineer. He, like all of you, will get his passport, tickets and travel cheques, a written summary of his background, firm which employs him, home address — we’ve fixed them in case of inquiries — and so on. That summary is to be committed to memory before you leave, then destroyed.’
‘If we’re friends we ought to be on first names, oughtn’t we, sir?’ The man who’d spoken looked faintly oriental, notwithstanding the Irish accent.
‘Yes, John Boland, we bloody well ought And don’t use sir again. Either to me or anybody else while on this Daisy Chain operation. Get me, John?’
‘Yes.’ The leading seaman looked embarrassed.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Martin.’
‘Right. Now we’ll have a look at some slides and you’ll be given a general outline of things as we go along. There’s no operational plan. Just an objective, a set of options, and the means available. Put quite simply the object is to learn certain things about the Zhukov. I’ll deal with them in a moment. But this thing will have to be played by ear. So much depends on what you find when you get there. On the opportunities that present themselves.’
Briggs turned to the man on the projector. ‘Ready, Harry?’
‘Okay. All set.’
‘Good. Lights out. Let’s go.’
The first picture on the screen was a map of the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands, Vrakoy arrowed. Next a large scale map of the island itself, followed by numerous shots of the fishing village and harbour mostly taken from tourist postcards. Then a chart of Kolfjord and a plan of the small harbour town; photos of the cliffs and rocks at Knausnes were followed by enlargements from stereoscopic projections. These showed the long slim line of the grounded Soviet submarine. There were slides of missile submarines of various types, ending with an artist’s impression of the new Delta Two class.