‘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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The dinghy grounded. Olufsen stepped out, hauled it into the shallows. He walked along the beach in the darkness until he reached the stilts supporting the rough wooden jetty. He climbed the ladder and from its top flashed his torch three times at the dilapidated house. Answering flashes came from a front window.
He went through the empty door frame, his hand over the lens of the torch so that its light showed only a few feet ahead. The floor-boards creaked and groaned as he walked. From somewhere close came the anxious tones of a woman. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. But they’re looking for him. They searched the Kestrel. There was no trouble.’
‘Good.’ She sighed with relief.
‘How is he?’
‘Conscious now, but muzzy. He tries to keep awake.’
‘We leave in another fifteen minutes, Tanya. Has he changed clothes?’
‘Yes. He refused to at first but Li persuaded him. It was not difficult. He’s so weak and confused.’
‘I’ll keep watch. Go down and give him the tablets.’
Liang Hui shone the torch into the far corner of the basement. The beam revealed a man sitting on the earthen floor, his back to the wall. The combination of light and shadow emphasized the haggard features, high cheek bones and sunken eyes. He was wearing denim slacks, blue roll-neck jersey and canvas shoes. His wrists and ankles were tied with rope. Liang Hui got up from the wooden box and aimed the torch at the stone steps. Somebody was coming down them.
‘It’s me, Tanya.’ She spoke in Chinese. ‘Gunnar has come. He says we leave in fifteen minutes.’
Liang Hui switched the torch beam back to the man in the corner, put the automatic pistol on the box.
‘We must give him these now.’ Tanya unscrewed the metal cap of the Thermos flask, filled it with water and handed it to Liang Hui with the Sodium Pentothal tablets.
He went over to the corner. ‘You must take these,’ he said in Russian. ‘To offset the chloroform.’
Krasnov looked at the Chinaman and the tablets with suspicion. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I will not.’
‘Then we must inject’ Liang Hui called to his sister. ‘The hypodermic.’
The Russian’s eyes lit up with sudden fear. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Please not.’
‘Good. Take these tablets. They will help you.’
With a sigh of resignation Krasnov submitted. Liang Hui put the tablets in the lieutenant’s mouth, held the metal cup to his lips. Within a few minutes he had slumped into unconsciousness.
They called Olufsen. With his help they took the skimmer pack to the water’s edge, unrolled and inflated it and fitted the outboard. That done, they carried Krasnov up from the basement and put him in the skimmer. They loaded the orange life-raft pack, the VHF transmitter, the compass and the shopping bag. In it were Krasnov’s uniform coat and trousers, the false moustaches and seamen’s caps worn by Boland and Sandstrom.
Tanya got into the skimmer. Olufsen and Liang Hui pushed it clear of the beach and jumped in.
The mist lay thick over the fjord and they kept close inshore, the men using paddles while Tanya steered. The sound of the foghorn grew stronger and before long the flashing light of the beacon showed through the mist and they turned ninety degrees round it into the channel leading to the sea.
They stopped paddling and waited. Minutes passed before the noise of a diesel came from the lower end of the fjord. The sound grew stronger, came closer. Olufsen whispered, ‘There. Almost dead astern. They’ll have picked us up on radar.’
As they watched, the uncertain flickers of light resolved into a misty red and green, grew stronger, came closer, then faded and disappeared as the sound of the diesel engine passed up the skimmer’s starboard side. A beam of light exposed for a few seconds by someone on board illuminated the name on the stern transom. It was Kestrel.
‘Thank God for that.’ Olufsen breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Let’s get cracking.’
He started the outboard, barely opening the throttle. The skimmer moved ahead keeping the stern light of the Kestrel just visible in the darkness. Ten minutes later, still following the ketch, they rounded Kolnoy, the foghorn booming, the beacon flashing mistily. They remained close inshore until they reached the end of the channel. Once clear of the fjord, Olufsen steered north-east to pass along the southern coast of the island. The long rocky arm of Spissberg was close to port.
He said, ‘We couldn’t have coped with this fog without Kestrel’s radar.’
‘They’d have had a hell of a job finding us,’ agreed Liang Hui.
‘Take the tiller, Li.’ Olufsen moved aside in the darkness. ‘Keep her heading as she is. I must look at the chart.’
Liang Hui took the tiller. Olufsen spread the chart on his knees, looked at it with the shaded torchlight. He’d already marked the courses to steer to the rendezvous, twenty miles to the north-east. He put away the chart, took over the tiller. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll go ahead now.’ He opened the throttle, the note of the engine rose and the skimmer’s bows lifted as it gathered speed. Above the noise he shouted, ‘We’re steering north-east. Doing about thirty knots.’
‘Feels like it,’ said Liang Hui as the skimmer bounced, bumped and sprayed through the mist-laden night.
Before long they overhauled the Kestrel, passed up her starboard side, drew swiftly ahead.