Gary said, ‘We’ve got the headstart. That’s certain.’
‘Nothing’s certain in this game, Gary. We’ve just got to pass the tip-off to Ed and Jim. Let them use their judgement. They’re right there on the ground.’
Ben said, ‘I’ll do that.’
Stocken picked up a set of photos and thumbed through them. When he’d put them down he trained the cheroot around in his mouth like a tank gun. ‘What’s the latest from Keflavik?’
‘They were over this afternoon at 60,000. Got fair pictures. The weather’s moderated. The two Nepas and the tugs have moved in. They’re anchored in the lee of the Dragetennene. Close to the Zhukov. Plenty of small boat activity between them and the submarine. There’ll be diving going on, I guess.’
‘What’s the ETA for the camels?’ Stocken’s finger gyrated in his ear like a drill.
‘An SR7 from Keflavik picked them up off the North Cape at 0617. Being towed in tandem. Making twelve knots. They should be at Knausnes within twenty-four to thirty hours.’
Stocken moved round the table, bent over the chart. ‘Say 1800–2200 tomorrow.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Once those camels are alongside things are going to move. There’s only two days now to spring tide.’ Stocken went across to the window. The sickle of moon had set and the night was dark. He watched it for a moment, seeing only the stabbing beams of auto lights. The time had come. There was nothing to be gained by delay. ‘Right,’ he aimed his cheroot at the table. ‘Let’s get rolling. Instruct Keflavik, USN, USOS and the fieldmen to activate Gemini. Chopper to go in at 1800 tomorrow. I want this thing pulled quicker than shit. Okay?’
The Ivy League man who’d majored in philosophy and didn’t care for four-letter words said, ‘I’ll see to that immediately.’
The Assistant to the Director of External Operations (Western Hemisphere) waved his cheroot at them. ‘Okay, boys. That’s all for now.’
‘They’ve gone,’ said Ed Ferret as he disconnected the leads to the needle aerial, looped the ear plug wire round his fingers and slipped it into a soft leather container. He put it into his hip pocket, fastened the flap button and put on his jacket. ‘Let’s go, Jim.’
‘Sure.’ Plotz pulled on a jersey and they left the room, locking the door behind them. From the hispits they walked east down the street towards the harbour. It was dark and there were few people about. They didn’t speak until they were among the sheds, then only in undertones.
‘Waste of time,’ said Plotz. ‘Listening to those kids. All they do is philosophize. Consequences of power. Fallibility of man. Inevitability of corruption. Pseudo intellectuals. They haven’t read much. I suppose they can’t. Good thing their bosses can’t hear. Subversive stuff I’d say.’
‘Tape it next time,’ said Ferret. ‘Blackmail material.’
‘Yeah. I’ll do that. They seem to be sounding each other out. You know… “what’s your view on Solzhenitsyn?”… “is there justification for Sakharov’s criticism of the Party line on Jewish emigration?”… that kind of thing. They never mention the nuke except to infer what a bastard M is.’
‘Who the hell’s M?’
‘Milovych, I guess.’
Ferret said, ‘Well at least that’s more interesting than the stuff I got. When I listened you’d have thought they were from the Bronx. Football, fornication and food. What they’d have to eat for supper in the kafeteria. What they’d give for some plain home cooking.’
‘Like caviar Romanoff, borsch and vodka,’ suggested Plotz. ‘But I guess it’s better for our Russian than refreshers in the lab in Camp Peary.’
‘Stuff the language,’ said Ferret. ‘I dream it. Seven years in Moscow. Jesus!’
‘Spoke it before I knew English. When I was a kid,’ said Plotz.
‘You know English? You could fool me.’
Plotz pulled a crumpled packet of Chestertons from his coat pocket, fingered one into shape and lit it. They stopped under a warehouse lamp and he took the cable from his wallet and read it again: Suggest you examine nesting sites on Rost before returning. Harrison, 1800/2000. It had been dispatched from New York at 1.37 p.m. that day.
He passed it to Ed Ferret who was exploring his mouth with a toothpick. ‘So it’s tomorrow,’ said Plotz with heavy finality.
Ferret read the cable they’d collected from Inga Bodde, the postmistress, late that afternoon. ‘Yeah. It’s the activate signal for Gemini. Harrison is tomorrow. Chopper’s ETA 1800. Vince’ll look for the towel at 2000.’
‘Rod’s in a hurry.’
‘He knows what’s on the line.’
‘Yeah. Vince’ll update us on that.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Let’s give the kafeteria the once-over.’
‘’Kay. Let’s do that.’
It was a small wooden building, squat and solid on stone foundations. Its roof of semi-circular tiles dated it late nineteenth century. Even without the ‘POST’ signboard and posthorn emblem, its function would have been sufficiently advertised by the double letterbox, the telephone and teleprinter lines feeding in under the eaves, and the whip-like R/T aerial standing proud of the roof.
A man walked up the steps, opened the glass-panelled door and went in. The universal smell of post offices, a compound of postage glues, the mustiness of old stationery, and ink franking pads hung in the air. Behind the small counter a switchboard stood sideways on, so that the operator could see the counter while at the board. For the woman who was postmistress, switchboard operator and radio-minder rolled in one, this was just as well. With only four hundred inhabitants, less than sixty telephones — all wired for direct dialling of local calls — and recording devices for incoming telephone, teleprinter and radio messages during off-duty hours, Inga Bodde managed the postal affairs of Vrakoy remarkably well.
Still in her thirties she gave an impression of severity until she smiled and her face filled with warmth. As it did when she saw the man who’d just come in. ‘Hullo, Gunnar.’ She came to the counter, her eyes bright.
‘Hullo, Inga.’ He leant over and kissed her.
‘You can’t do that,’ she said with mock disapproval. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘I’m a customer,’ he said. ‘We have our rights.’
‘For you.’ She produced a small parcel from under the counter.
He took it. ‘The spare part for the Kestrel’s engine. They’ll be glad. They’re tired of waiting.’
‘I know. The girl told me. She’s nice, Gunnar.’
‘She said that about you. It surprised me.’
‘You’re a horrible man.’
He took a telegraphic form from his pocket. ‘For my office in Bodo,’ he said. ‘They’ll forward it on to the papers. It’s urgent, Inga.’
‘I know. I know,’ she protested. ‘All Mr Olufsen’s messages are urgent. Wait.’ She read it. Soviet salvage vessels and divers are now working on USSR nuclear submarine stranded off Knausnes. Local opinion suggests flotation attempt will probably be made in next few days to coincide with spring tides. Norwegian naval, military and air units patrolling area where submarine is aground keeping shipping, small craft, aircraft, media representatives and sightseers away. Message ends. Pass to local and foreign press. Daffodil Y. 1627.
‘I’ve forgotten what Daffodil Y means, Gunnar.’
‘It’s simply a code. We represent a number of newspapers. This tells my office which papers are to receive it and in what order. Sometimes I use X. Sometimes Z. Sometimes Primrose. Sometimes Dahlia. Sometimes nothing.’