‘Good for C-in-C Fleet,’ said the commodore trying not to look delighted. Not only had the First Sea Lord approved Daisy Chain, but C-in-C Fleet was providing more background support than Naval Intelligence had requested. The importance of exploiting the Zhukov disaster had not been lost anywhere along the line — even Maltby and the ICC, suspicious of nonintegrated operations, had liked the idea. Aries, a Leander class frigate, Bluewhale, a Porpoise class submarine, and Belligerent, an assault ship, couldn’t be a better trio for the job.
‘And now,’ he said, using his low key voice. ‘What progress with the Daisy Chain party?’
Briggs put the clipboard on the desk and consulted the manilla file. ‘Rather good, sir. We’ve had a bit of luck. Liang Hui and his sister Tanya, Secret Intelligence Service agents based on Hong Kong, are here for debriefing. On leave in London at the moment. I think you know them, sir. They helped us close that massage parlour leak in Kowloon two years ago. Before my time here, but I’ve read it up.’
‘Yes, I know them, and I’m quite sure you’ve read it up, Briggs. The parlour where dishy Cantonese birds treated our sailors to hash and saki preparatory to swapping pelvic massage and other eroticisms for classified information.’ The commodore was thoughtful. ‘So the Liang Huis are here. Well, they couldn’t have come at a better time.’
Briggs nodded absent-mindedly. He was thinking about the massage parlour. The dossier on it — polaroid photos, tapes, the lot — had long been a popular and hilarious diversion for night duty staff when things were quiet. Gems like that didn’t often come the way of naval intelligence.
Briggs returned the notes to his file. ‘The Liang Huis’ background seems tailor-made for this assignment, sir. Grandmother, a white Russian émigrée in Shanghai. Spin off from the Bolshevik revolution. She married a Cantonese, the Liang Huis’ grandfather that was. The son married a Cantonese girl. They produced Li and Tanya Liang Hui. Their father insisted they spoke Russian as well as Chinese. They are equally fluent in either. The Liang Huis are in Linton’s parish. He gives them a high rating.’
The commodore’s face gathered in seams which Briggs knew to be approval. ‘Who else have we got?’
‘Collins and I checked through the Naval Secretary’s list of interpreters. We looked for Norwegian, Russian and Chinese speakers. We also checked on RN personnel with one or more parents of non-British origin. From that sifting we made up a list, checked it against service history sheets. We had to have at least one man with BMS service. We then made inquiries about sailing experience. Having sieved through that lot we made up this short list. You’ll see I’ve made background notes about each name on it. Of course, it’s subject to your approval, sir.’
‘Very considerate of you, Briggs.’ The commodore took the list, bunched bushy eyebrows and began to read:
Lieutenant-Commander Stephen Nunn RN. 31. Married. No children. Weapons Electrical Officer. Four years’ service in ballistic missile submarines of which eight months with USN. Father English, mother Cantonese. Qualified interpreter in Chinese, Japanese and Korean. In addition has sound knowledge of Russian and Scandinavian languages. Member of the RN Sailing Association. Has crewed and skippered for ten years.
‘Good God,’ said the commodore. ‘Wonder what he thinks in?’
‘They come like that, sir. Quite a lot of bodies in NS’s list are qualified in three or four languages.’
The commodore read on:
Chief Petty Officer Sven Sandstrom, 38. Married. Three children. Gunnery Instructor (gunnery and missiles). Ten months’ service in ballistic missile submarines. Mother and father Norwegian. Later served in Norwegian destroyer attached RN, WWII. Qualified interpreter in Russian and Norwegian. Good sailing experience.
John Boland, Leading Marine Engineering Mechanic, qualified diver, 28. Two children. Father Ulsterman, mother Chinese. Qualified interpreter in Chinese.
‘Extraordinary mixture,’ said the commodore. ‘Children must be Catholic Buddhists.’ He went back to the list. ‘Ah — the bait.’
Julie Saville, 24. Third Officer WRNS. Unmarried. Daughter of former Norwegian diplomat, now dead. Mother came from North Russia. Saville has taken stepfather’s name. She speaks fluent Norwegian, fair Russian. Good sailing experience.
‘I expect that’s not all she’s good at,’ said the commodore. ‘What is her stepfather’s background?’
‘Oh. Sorry, sir. I forgot to record that. He’s a captain RN retired. Three terms junior to you.’
‘Saville. Saville. Probably J. I. He was a submariner.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s him.’
‘Good. Well, I can’t fault your list, Briggs. They’re just names to me. Other than the Liang Huis. But they sound a pretty useful lot. When do we get them together?’
‘We’re busy on that now, sir. The briefing is scheduled for ten o’clock tonight.’
‘Secure venue?’
‘A farmhouse. It’s near…’
The commodore’s hand shot up like a pointsman’s. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t tell me. I’m not supposed to know.’ His pucklike face became preoccupied, worried. ‘They won’t know, I take it?’
‘No, sir. They’ll arrive in a closed van.’
‘General security?’
‘Special Branch have it wrapped up.’
‘Good. I want Daisy Chain off the ground by noon tomorrow at the latest. Tonight there won’t be a newspaper or TV station not carrying the Zhukov story. And don’t forget the Soviet salvage lot. They’re not going to waste time.’
‘D’you really think the media will know it’s the Zhukov, sir?’
‘No. I hope not. But they’ll report a bloody great Soviet nuke high and dry on Vrakoy. That’ll stir the pot.’
The commodore looked at his notes, then at Briggs. ‘You’d better get the charter message off. The yacht to be available by 1800 tomorrow.’
‘It’s drafted, sir. Just waiting your go ahead.’
‘Right. Dispatch it.’
Briggs went to the door, stood there undecided. ‘By the way, sir. You said you’d let me know who was to take operational command of Daisy Chain.’
The commodore frowned. ‘I know you’d like to, Briggs. But you lack the essentials. Russian, Norwegian and an intimate knowledge of that part of the world. That rules you out, I’m afraid.’ He scribbled a name on a slip of paper and handed it to the lieutenant-commander. ‘Planted in Norway twenty years ago. You won’t find him on any retired list. But he’s the man for the job. Afraid I can’t tell you more just now.’
Briggs looked at the name: Lieutenant-Commander James Harald Craddock, RN (retd). He returned the slip of paper to the commodore who put it in an ashtray and burnt it.
‘How do I contact him, sir?’
‘You don’t,’ said the commodore. ‘I do that.’
In Bodo that afternoon Gunnar Olufsen’s travel agency received a request by teleprinter from Thos. Cook and Sons’s West End office requesting the charter of an ocean-going yacht for a party of four arriving the next day. The teleprint message recorded that three of the tourists were experienced yachtsmen. The boat would be required for about two weeks, during which time the charterees planned a sailing holiday in and around the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands. Since time was limited, an auxiliary engine capable of providing a speed of at least eight knots without sail was essential. Gunnar Olufsen attended to the request personally. Within a few hours he had selected the forty-foot ketch Kestrel from the list provided by Halvorsen Brothers, yacht brokers and hirers. Its 60 HP diesel gave it ten knots without sail. She was lying in Bodo.