‘How is it known so soon that Zhukov is here?’
‘I’m sure they don’t know it’s the Zhukov. But the news that a big Soviet BMS is aground on Vrakoy is already being broadcast. Uskhan heard it on the emergency receiver.’
‘How did they get it?’ Milovych, head cocked on one side, watched Yenev closely.
‘Somebody in Kolhamn must have talked. Fishermen perhaps. Such news travels fast. It is something for which we cannot be responsible.’
‘It might be said, comrade Yenev,’ Milovych smiled amiably, ‘that your decision not to destroy Zhukov, to put the ship in a place where Western reconnaissance could observe her, was responsible.’
Yenev’s pale eyes held the commissar’s. ‘Our decision, I thought.’
‘Made on your advice, comrade.’
‘Somehow,’ said Yenev, ‘I don’t think that argument would carry much weight at a court martial.’
Milovych winced. It seemed Yenev’s unblinking eyes could peer into his brain, read his thoughts. The commissar changed the subject abruptly. ‘What do you think of the weather?’
‘The glass is steady but broadcast weather reports from Oslo are not encouraging.’
Milovych kneaded the flesh under his eyes with his knuckles. He felt tired, despondent. These matters were not susceptible to political treatment. If they were, how different everything would be.
Later that afternoon the Norwegian minesweeper from Harstad arrived. It landed two platoons of infantrymen and left immediately for Knausnes to patrol to seaward of the Zhukov.
One platoon of infantrymen was billeted in the town with a lieutenant in charge; the other, under the command of a young captain, embarked with their equipment in a fishing vessel commandeered by the Ordforer. Forty minutes later they were landed in a small cove in the deserted bay at Uklarvik, near the Fyrberg lighthouse. From there they set out to cover the three kilometres to Knausnes, led by a guide provided by the Ordforer. The journey involved climbing the lower slopes of Fyrberg before making the descent to the cliffs above the Dragetennene. It took all of two hours.
It was raining and almost dark when they arrived at their destination. After posting sentries along the cliff, the captain returned to the site where patrol tents were being erected for what promised to be a miserable night. His orders were to keep sightseers, journalists, photographers and other unauthorized persons away from the submarine. He regarded the whole operation as a waste of time. Who on earth, he asked his second-in-command, a bespectacled young lieutenant with lanky hair which belied his toughness, would be crazy enough to make the journey across the mountain to see a submarine aground?
‘That’s right,’ said the lieutenant. ‘But what a size. Bloody fantastic, isn’t it?’
At about the time the minesweeper disembarked its load of soldiers in Kolhamn a helicopter of the Norwegian Air Force flew in. From it stepped Lars Martinsen. He went immediately to the radhus where he had a brief discussion with Hjalmar Nordsen.
Soon afterwards, accompanied by the harbourmaster, Olaf Petersen, he climbed into a launch and they headed down the Kolfjord towards the open sea.
The helicopter had brought three other passengers. These men, civilians, didn’t disembark. They sat in the helicopter behind drawn blinds talking in low voices. On the tarmac outside an armed military policeman stood on guard. He, too, had come in the helicopter.
Krasnov and Gerasov spent most of that day walking round Kolhamn, visiting the radhus at regular intervals to see if the reply from Oslo had come in. Their uniforms attracted attention but this was not serious. The news that a Russian submarine was aground had circulated quickly and they had no need to explain their presence.
By four o’clock that afternoon there was still no reply from Oslo. The two Soviet officers now had a fairly good idea of the small harbour town and its activities. They had observed that it spread like the foot of a large sock round the head of the fjord and was dominated by the mountain which cradled it, its dark slopes leading to rocky summits mantled with early snow.
The wooden houses of the fishermen — for the most part perched on stilts — lined the fjord. They were fronted by quays of rough-hewn wood on which nets, dan buoys and other fishing gear were stowed. Above and beyond them small houses traced irregular patterns in the foothills. Toy-like in the distance, they were painted in bright colours: terracottas, beiges, greens, blues and creams. All had white doors and window frames and were modest in size and appearance. A single dirt road threaded its way round the fjord between the houses. There were bicycles but no cars. Krasnov had learnt that it was the time of year when most of the fishermen were up in the Barents Sea cod fishing. Thus women and children predominated.
There were two general stores housed in old clapboard buildings. In strange contrast to its exterior, one was organized as a supermarket. Krasnov and Gerasov had made small purchases in both. By design the task had taken a long time for Krasnov did not then admit to speaking Norwegian and changing money had presented problems.
His instructions from Milovych had been clear listen to the gossip in the town. Find out what the locals know. And so he and Gerasov set themselves the task of finding out where local gossip could best be overheard.
It was this they were now discussing. ‘The two stores, I reckon,’ said Krasnov, ‘and this place.’ He looked round the small kafeteria in which they were sitting. They had eaten there at midday. The only other occupants were two young men, fishermen it seemed, who were at a pin-table, two old men sitting in a corner smoking pipes and engaging in brief monosyllabic conversation, and three teenage girls whose whispered sentences, sudden giggles and sidelong glances were directed at the Russians.
Gerasov refilled his beer glass. ‘Yes. I agree.’ He belched quietly. ‘The stores and the kafeteria. Wish they sold spirits here. This beer would go well with vodka or akvavit.’
‘You’re lucky to get beer,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’re not here to sample the booze. Concentrate on the job, my lad.’
They’d found in the course of what seemed a long thirsty day that the kafeteria was the only place in Kolhamn which served beer for drinking on the premises. Spirits could not be bought on the island, the population being too small for a state liquor shop. Many of the fishermen apparently made their own spirits — hjemmebreut — and drank them at home, but these could not be bought. Krasnov had made casual but calculated inquiries about local drinking habits in the belief that where locals congregated to drink gossip would be plentiful. But there was nowhere other than the kafeteria and that seemed poorly attended.
He looked at his watch, emptied the glass and reached for his cap. ‘Come on. Drink up. The skimmer’s due at five. We’ve only ten minutes.’
Gerasov swallowed the last of his beer, took a uniform cap from the table and looked at the teenagers. ‘Think they’d part with it?’
‘Better ask them,’ said Krasnov. ‘But not now. We must get cracking.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gerasov. ‘Must have a pee first. This beer goes through a man like a knife.’
‘Well shake it up. There’s little time.’ The lieutenant stood waiting while Gerasov went through the glass door at the back marked Toileten.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The harbourmaster’s launch taking Martinsen out to the Zhukov emerged from Kolfjord as the submarine’s skimmer making its 1700 trip entered. Leaping and spraying it passed within a hundred yards of the launch. Had the men known each other rain, spray and distance would have concealed their identity. Martinsen had no idea that one of the hunched figures in the skimmer was Milovych; and Milovych, unaware that the launch was bound for the Zhukov, didn’t know it carried Martinsen with the reply from Oslo which the commissar was hoping to find in the Ordforer’s office.