The Ordforer stiffened involuntarily. ‘It is not possible to keep people off the mountains. This is a democratic country. We are already doing our best to help you. The military cordon at Knausnes and the seaward patrols make a close approach impossible. We cannot do more.’
On leaving the radhus, Milovych walked down to the harbour accompanied by his two officers. Krasnov reported on recent developments in Kolhamn. That day the American ornithologists had climbed the long moundlike arm of rock to the south of the village known as the Spissberg. Using the wall mike given them by Uskhan, Krasnov and the sub-lieutenant had heard the Americans in their room at the hospits discussing the beaches on the far side of Spissberg. It was there, on the southern side of the island, explained Krasnov, that Laillard’s Terns had their nesting sites and it was these the Americans had been examining. The Zhukov, he emphasized, was stranded on the western side of Vrakoy, ten kilometres from the beaches.
‘What else did they talk about?’ asked Milovych.
‘Personal matters. Their wives and families. Current affairs. They have a radio. Listen to news from the United States. They were discussing the allegations against President Nixon.’
‘His accusers are traitors,’ said the commissar sharply. ‘I don’t know why Nixon permits that sort of thing. We certainly wouldn’t. The KGB would soon deal with it.’
Krasnov thrust his chin forward in a nervous gesture. He had his own views on the Watergate affair but he wasn’t going to make them known to the commissar. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘They talked about the United States Oceanographic Service unit operating from Bodo. One of the USOS scientists is a friend of the man Ferret. At no time did they discuss our ship or anything to do with it.’
‘Very good,’ said Milovych. ‘But watch them. If they’re espionage agents they’ll assume their room is bugged. You must trust no one.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are the media people still pestering you?’
‘Not like yesterday. They realize it’s hopeless. We won’t speak. They’ve taken a few pictures of us. We can’t stop that. But we refuse absolutely to talk with them.’
Krasnov made other reports: the activities of the two Frenchmen, so far apparently harmless. The arrival of the Kestrel, a Bodo-registered yacht on hire to English tourists, one a young woman. The yacht’s engine trouble. The Russians had seen two crew members working on it during the day.
Before leaving, Milovych told Krasnov of developments on board the submarine. Although the lieutenant had long assumed that Borchoi and his torpedomen were dead, the news of the removal of their bodies through the escape hatch — forced by the Nepa — deeply affected him. On the general question of salvaging the submarine, Milovych said little other than to remark that the weather was not helping matters. ‘For reasons of security,’ he said, ‘it has been decided that no shore leave will be given to the crews of the submarine and the salvage vessels.’
In the last few days the kafeteria in Kolhamn, usually a quiet place in October when most of Vrakoy’s men were away, had become crowded and noisy. Journalists, TV reporters, cameramen, soldiers from the platoon billeted in the village, the US ornithologists, the Frenchmen from Bordeaux, the two Russian officers, some of the English from the Kestrel, and the usual sprinkling of locals had now to jostle with each other for tables, food and drink. Haakon Jern, the proprietor, and his wife could no longer manage on their own so their daughter and Mrs Jern’s sister had been brought in to help.
Above the din of voices, the dissonances of different languages, the shouts of laughter and disagreement, the bells of the cash till rang merrily. The Jerns knew it wasn’t going to last and were making the most of it.
Additional food and beer had been brought across from Sortland on Langoya, the adjoining island, and, whereas the kafeteria used to close at ten-thirty in October, it now kept open until eleven-thirty.
Shortly before ten o’clock, having spent two fruitless hours in the hospits waiting for the Americans to return, Krasnov and Gerasov went across to the kafeteria. They’d had their evening meal there earlier but the place had filled steadily since. It was a good time for beer and listening to gossip.
As on previous occasions the arrival of the Soviet officers in uniform created a small stir, but the media men whose attempts to secure interviews had failed studiously ignored them. Kroll, the Vise-Ordforer, was sitting at a table with Odd Dahl, the lensman, and Olufsen, the press agent, drinking beer. Kroll was looking fat, cheerful and hot and his gusts of hoarse laughter were frequent. He evidently found Dahl and Olufsen amusing. The lensman — the island’s bailiff — was, apart from its own policeman, the sole representative of civil law and order on Vrakoy. Two of the Kestrel’s crew, one of them the young woman, were at a table with Olaf Petersen, the harbourmaster. The Russians had seen these people from the Kestrel down in the harbour several times that day but had not spoken to them.
Krasnov said, ‘I want to get near those two Frenchmen. Listen to their chat.’
‘You do that,’ said Gerasov brightly. ‘While I close up on the yacht’s crew. I can’t speak French. English is my line.’
‘You come along with me,’ said Krasnov firmly. ‘Milovych has said we are to keep together always.’
‘I was only trying to be helpful, Ivan.’
‘Balls. It’s the English girl. You can’t keep your eyes off her.’
Gerasov sighed. ‘She’s a smasher. Look at those boobs.’
‘Forget them,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’ve a job to do.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A new moon hung like a crescent on the skyline of the Virginian hills. There was a remote beauty about the distant sickle of light which stirred memories of another moon on another night in another place; a night of danger.
Rod Stocken tugged himself away from the memory, left the window and went back to the table. He pointed his cheroot at the dark man with sleek hair. ‘Let me get this straight, Ben. Joe’s message repeats the phrase a great power. So I guess that emphasis is important. Okay? We don’t know who gave the Brits the tip-off. We don’t know which great power it is. What do we know? That this guy Freddie told Lund it came from an unusually reliable source. That could be bullshit. It could be not. Take your choice. And why does Lund want to feed the tip-off back to us? Because we may be preempted? What d’you say, Gary?’
The man with a face like a bloodhound said, ‘Yes. That could be the reason. We know we are,’ he looked down at the message sheet in front of him, ‘laying on something special by way of intelligence gathering.’ He paused, turned to Stocken. ‘And I guess we’re a great power. So maybe it’s us.’
Ben said, ‘We haven’t tipped-off the Brits. And with our security I doubt anyone could. So maybe it’s a kite they’re flying. Why? To get a reaction from Lund’s outfit or some place else?’
Stocken said, ‘From Ed’s report it looks like a crowded scenario out there right now. Could be the French or the Brits themselves. They’d both like to give us a kick up the arse.’ Stocken bit on his cheroot. ‘So what can we do? Nothing, except get in first.’