Briggs, who was an incurable optimist and felt the commodore fussed too much, smiled politely. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Brough and Hamsov still in Bluewhale?’
‘Yes, sir. They’ll transfer to Aries with the ditched aircraft survivors in the morning. After the ditching has taken place.’
‘Quite,’ said the commodore. ‘It would be difficult to be a survivor before it had.’
Briggs grinned. ‘Sorry, sir. My wife says I tend to emphasize the obvious.’
The commodore handed the file back to him. ‘You do, Briggs. Not a bad fault. In planning repetition is an irritant, but omission is the kiss of death.’
The Nepa launch delivered Krasnov and Gerasov on board Zhukov shortly after daylight. Both were unshaven. The petty officer who called at the hospits to collect them had said his orders were to take them out to the submarine immediately.
Yenev and Milovych were in the control-room when they arrived.
‘The bodies are in the sick-bay,’ said Yenev. ‘We’ll come with you.’
The sick-bay was a fair-sized compartment with four bunks in two double tiers. The centre compartment was dominated by an operating-table with surgical arc-lights above. Along two bulkheads stood stainless steel cabinets for medical supplies, in the corner a stainless steel wash-basin and faucets; X-ray, shower and decontamination rooms led off the sickbay. Five of the bunks were occupied by Russian crewmen who’d been injured in the explosion. One with radio-active burns moaned intermittently. The hiss of air-conditioning ducts was the dominant sound, iodoform the dominant smell.
Zhukov’s doctor and two medical attendants stood by the operating-table like officiates at a funeral. On the table alongside them lay two corpses, brightly illuminated by the arc-lights. Very close together because the table was intended for one person, very still because rigor mortis had set in. ‘Recognize them?’ asked Yenev.
‘Yes, Captain,’ said Krasnov. ‘They are the Frenchmen who were at the hospits.’
Yenev’s pale eyes switched to Gerasov. ‘And you?’
‘Yes, Captain. The cod buyers from Bordeaux.’
Krasnov said, ‘We saw them leave the hospits yesterday. With their climbing packs. They told the manageress they were going to climb Bodvag, the highest peak on the island.’
The Wideroe’s daily flight from Harstad brought in a mixed bag of passengers at midday. Three were Kolhamn residents returning, one a Norwegian fisheries man from Narvik, another the doctor from Harstad on his weekly rounds. The remaining two were tourists; a brother and sister visiting the Arctic islands of Vesteralen and Lofoten.
They went at once to the hospits where they were obliged to share a double-room owing to the shortage of accommodation. It had been booked for them some days earlier. After lunch in the kafeteria, followed by a brief rest, they explored the village. They were particularly interested in the harbour, the fishing vessels, the fish-drying racks and the rorbu — the house-cum-fishing sheds used by fishermen and largely deserted at this time of year.
They had signed the hospits’ register as Li and Tanya Liang Hui from Hong Kong. Their passports showed their nationality to be Cantonese.
The light was failing as the big white Sikorsky came in low over the sea. The roar of its jets and the beat of its twin rotors were like the sound of an approaching storm. When it reached the shore it turned and swept down the beach below the Spissberg. At the end of the beach it climbed steeply, lifting over the rocky ledge which guarded the Kolfjord’s southern flank like an outflung arm, and slowed its pace on the approach to the airstrip. On arrival there the Sikorsky turned into wind and hovered like a great white bird before lowering itself on to the tarmac where it sank on to its haunches as if to underscore its intention to fly no more.
For some time the rotors continued to turn, the navigation and dimension lights to blink. Then a door in the forward end of the podlike body opened and three men stepped out carrying hand luggage. In the gathering gloom it was just possible to discern the red-lettered inscription on the fuselage: UNITED STATES OCEANOGRAPHIC SERVICE.
Plotz took the red and yellow bathing towel from the cupboard and hung it out of the window facing the harbour. He closed the window, the sash jamming the towel in place.
Ferret looked at his watch. ‘Two minutes to eight,’ he said. ‘That’s close enough to eight.’
‘I guess so.’ Plotz stood at the window looking down on to the dark street. The nearest light, dim in the gathering mist, was some distance away. ‘Could be fog tonight,’ he said.
‘Yeah. It’s looking that way.’
‘Better go down on the street. Check if he’ll see it okay.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Ferret.
He came back in a few minutes. ‘It’s fine. Light from the window’s enough without the street light.’
‘Great.’
They heard footsteps in the passage outside, voices, a door opening and closing.
‘Jesus!’ said Ferret. ‘They’re back early. Pull in that towel, Jim.’
Plotz turned off the light as Ferret finished the sentence. He opened the window and pulled in the towel. ‘Guess we better listen,’ he said, switching on the light again.
Ferret pulled the bed clear of the wall, removed the plug from the wainscoting and clipped the mike leads on to the needle aerial. He inserted the earpiece, cupping a hand over his vacant ear, pushed the bed against the wall and lay on it.
Plotz read a paperback and chain-smoked Chestertons. Later they swopped places. ‘Anything?’ Plotz whispered as he took over. Ferret shook his head. ‘Usual bull.’
It was not until close on ten o’clock that Ferret clicked his fingers and nodded to his companion. Some minutes later came the sounds of a door opening and shutting, of a key turning, of voices and footsteps receding down the passage. Ferret disconnected the mike, put the plug back in the wainscoting, the bed against the wall. ‘They’re going to the kafeteria. Put the towel out, Jim. Vince’ll be peeing himself.’
The towel had been out for about ten minutes when there was a discreet knock on the door. Ferret opened it and a man came in. Ferret shut and locked the door. The newcomer wore a cloth cap and raincoat, and carried a canvas grip. He took off the cap and stood in the light. A tall, lean man with the brown skin of an American Indian. High cheekbones, dark intense eyes, black hair over an immobile face.
‘Hi, Jim. Hi, Ed.’ He thrust out a hand, shook each of theirs in turn.
Plotz said, ‘Good to see you, Vince. Sorry for the balls-up. These guys would have to change their routine this night.’ The newcomer smiled and the deadpan face came alive. ‘Guess it’s kinda wet and cold out there, even for October. Maybe there’s fog coming.’
‘Jesus,’ said Ferret. ‘We don’t need that.’
‘I don’t know. Could be useful. Depends.’
‘Where you been, Vince?’ Plotz inclined his head towards the window.
‘Holed up in the lane between the sheds. See your window from there without being seen.’
Vincent Strutt put the grip on the floor, unbuttoned his raincoat and sat on the bed. He took a cigarette from the packet Plotz offered him, lit it and lay back, puffing whorls of smoke at the ceiling.
‘Any troubles?’ said Ferret.