Julie, left alone, busied herself with a mirror and lipstick. Looking up she caught Gerasov’s stare and smiled. He smiled back. She got up, took her purse from the shoulder-bag, put the bag under her arm and made for the counter.
As she passed the Russian the shoulder-bag slipped and fell beside him. She stooped to pick it up, but he got there first, rose from the table, bowed awkwardly and gave it to her. Their hands touched.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So stupid of me.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It was my pleasure.’
She looked surprised. ‘Your English is super. Where did you learn it?’
‘It is not so good,’ he said. ‘In Leningrad University.’
‘I think it’s fabulous. Wish I could speak Russian as well.’
‘You speak Russia?’
‘Not a word, I’m afraid.’
‘Please.’ He indicated Krasnov’s empty chair. ‘You sit down.’
She looked uncertain, seemed hesitant, glanced back at the table she’d just left. ‘May I? Just for a minute. My friends will be back soon.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw a Norwegian girl come out of the swing-door. God, she thought, she must have complicated things.
Gerasov said, ‘Some beer? Anything?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing thank you. I’ve still got some over there.’
‘You are from the English yacht, yes?’
She nodded. ‘The Kestrel. You’re from the submarine aren’t you?’
‘Yes. That is correct.’ He said it very formally and she sensed it was not something he wished to talk about, so she said, ‘Not a very exciting place Kolhamn, is it?’
‘No.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘Just this kafeteria. Otherwise nothing.’
Two minutes have gone by, she thought. Please God, may all be going well in there. Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan. They’d always assumed it would happen after closing, on the way down to the hospits. I must hold this chap’s attention a little longer, she told herself. God, what if I can’t? For a moment her head swam and she couldn’t think what to do next. The Russian was saying something. What was it?
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What did you say?’
‘I asked what work you do in England. When you are not with your vacation.’
‘Oh,’ she said with relief. ‘I’m a secretary. I work in a shipping office in Southampton.’
‘Southampton,’ he said. ‘The seaport, yes?’
Above the blare of the juke-box and the din of conversation she thought she heard a muted cry from beyond the swing-door. She trembled. ‘Yes. It’s a big port. Tell me,’ she leant towards him. ‘Do you often go to the ballet? You have marvellous ballet in Russia.’
‘Yes. I like ballet also. It is a strong part of our culture, you know. But I prefer to dance. Do you like dancing?’
‘Yes, I love it.’
‘It brings a man and woman close together. Yes?’ Gerasov looked into her eyes for confirmation, then at the medallion. She could feel his warm breath on her face and his eyes were bright. Thank God for my breasts, she thought. They’re doing a great job.
The chat went on. After they’d exchanged first names Gerasov warmed to his task. He led the conversation firmly in one direction, she responded and the minutes ticked by, while under the table the pressure of his knee against hers became bolder. At last she saw the swing-door open. Through it came Olufsen and Nunn, calm and unruffled. Olufsen rejoined Haakon Jern at the counter, and Nunn went back to their table. Perhaps nothing had happened. Her stomach churned.
It was only then that she noticed Steve Nunn’s hair was disarranged. A few minutes later she excused herself. ‘It was fun talking to you, Mikhail. We must meet again.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Julie.’
Back at the table she whispered, ‘Your hair, Steven. Put it straight for God’s sake. Was everything okay?’
‘Yes,’ he said, brushing it casually with one hand.
She saw Gerasov look at his watch, frown, then leave the table and make for the swing-door.
‘Now the balloon’ll go up,’ said Nunn. ‘Hold on for a rough ride.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Olufsen had moved swiftly down the passage to the men’s lavatory. It was a small affair: an outer room leading to a washroom, off it a door to the WC.
He’d stood at the outer door waiting. Seconds later Nunn came in from the kafeteria. Olufsen nodded and they tiptoed into the washroom. It was empty.
Olufsen switched off the lights and they heard Krasnov’s exclamation of annoyance. They stood, one on either side of the WC door, and waited. There came the rattle of the chain, the sound of water flushing, the door opened and a man came out. His features were undistinguishable but the light from the passage was reflected on the gilt of his uniform buttons and stripes.
The two men closed in from behind. Olufsen’s gun pressed into the man’s back, Nunn’s into his neck. Krasnov let out a startled cry. With a large hand Nunn muffled it. ‘Keep quiet or we shoot,’ he commanded in Russian.
Krasnov attempted to turn his head to see his attackers. Nunn struck him on the temple with the butt of his gun. ‘Keep looking straight ahead,’ he hissed. The two men each seized an arm, pushed him into the passage. From the kafeteria came the throb of the juke-box, the buzz of many voices. They steered him round to the right, down the passage away from the swing-door. At its far end the passage turned and led to a fire exit. Olufsen slipped his hand over Krasnov’s eyes as Nunn pulled the bolts and opened the door. Shutting it behind them, they pushed the Soviet lieutenant down the stone steps into the darkness of the street. Two men came from the shadows. In the faint reflection of light from a distant window their mandarin moustaches and peaked caps were the only discernible details. The caps were of the sort worn by Scandinavian seamen. With rehearsed precision they took over from Olufsen and Nunn, Boland poking the barrel of his gun into the Russian’s back, Sandstrom pressing his into the man’s neck. They each took one of the Russian’s arms. In Russian, Sandstrom whispered, ‘Do what we tell you or you’re a dead man. If we are questioned we are helping you back to your ship. The coaster which came in yesterday. You’ve had too much to drink. Now come on. Move.’ The rough brutality in Sandstrom’s voice was as untypical of the man as the moustache he’d gummed on to his upper lip with theatrical glue.
Olufsen and Nunn returned their revolvers to their shoulder-holsters as they ran back up the steps into the passage. They bolted the fire-door on the inside, went into the lavatory, switched on the lights and washed their hands. The whole incident had occupied less than a minute.
Olufsen’s wide grey eyes fixed Nunn’s in an enigmatic stare. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. ‘Not bad so far,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to the kafeteria.’
Boland and Sandstrom pushed their prisoner up a dark lane between the kafeteria and a warehouse. There they took off his uniform coat and put it into the shopping bag from which they produced a raincoat. Sandstrom said, ‘Keep your back to us and put this on.’ Krasnov did as he was told. Boland said something in Chinese.
The only street in Kolhamn, a dirt road, led past the front of the kafeteria. At the back, unlighted lanes threaded their way past warehouses, sheds, cold stores, and fishing racks. It was dark and the chances of meeting anyone coming up from the harbour at that time were remote, particularly as they were making for the eastern end of the fjord, away from the houses. They had gone several hundred yards when they heard voices. A man and a woman were coming up the lane towards them, talking quietly and laughing. The English men ducked behind a pile of wooden fish-boxes, pulling Krasnov with them. For emphasis they pressed the barrels of their guns more firmly into him. They could feel his response, the trembling of his body, the laboured breathing.