The couple came abreast of the fish-boxes and stopped. They were Norwegians, much interested in each other and, unaware of the unseen audience, quite uninhibited.
For God’s sake, thought Sandstrom, don’t start anything like that against the fish-boxes. They’ll never take your weight. There must be better places. Moments later the young couple must have come to the same conclusion for the girl said, ‘Of course I want to but not here. It’s too uncomfortable, Nils. Let’s go.’
They went, and, when the sound of their footsteps had died away, Krasnov and his captors emerged from their hiding place and pressed on towards the end of the fjord well away from where the Kestrel lay. They came at last to a jetty in front of an old disused shed. A dark and deserted place without lights. The water lapped against wooden piles and the ancient structure squeaked and groaned as they moved across it. At the jetty’s edge they stopped and before Krasnov realized what had happened, a chloroformed pad was pressed over his mouth, his nostrils were pinched and he lost consciousness.
Kolfjord was shaped like a sock, the long channel which led in from the sea being the leg, and the elongated basin which formed the harbour the foot. The fishermen’s houses — the rorbu, a combination of dwelling house and store for fishing nets, buoys and other equipment — had their stone foundations on the shore, but the jetties which stood like verandahs in front were on stilts to take care of the rise and fall of the tide and to provide a safe mooring for the owners’ fishing boats.
The foot of the fjord ran east and west for close on two miles. At its widest it was half a mile, narrowing to nothing at either end. The village, and almost all the rorbu, were strung along the northern side of the fjord in the lee of the mountain. On the southern side the shore line was almost deserted but for three rorbu set well apart. Two of these were derelict and crumbling, though their stone foundations were still sound. The third, that nearest to the village, was occupied by a fisherman’s widow.
Sandstrom sat in the fibre-glass dinghy while Boland lowered the bound, still-unconscious body of Krasnov with a rope turned round a bollard, easing it away gently until Sandstrom had the Russian in his arms and laid him on the bottom boards. Boland came down the ladder to the boat and took the tiller, while Sandstrom rowed into the dark night with muffled oars. There was no wind, the surface of the water was glass smooth, and the mist had thickened so that the lights of Kolhamn flickered dimly for a while then disappeared. From the fish racks on the eastern shore came the odours of drying fish and Stockholm tar.
But for an occasional whispered exchange the men were silent. Sound travelled easily over water, especially in mist. After rowing for some time they saw dimly the flashing red beacon which marked the turn into the channel which led to the sea. ‘Not far now,’ whispered Boland. ‘We’re closing the beacon. Can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards.’
Krasnov, disturbed by the voice, muttered and groaned, struggled feebly against the rope lashing which bound him, and vomited.
‘Coming round,’ said Sandstrom.
‘Listen!’ There was alarm in Boland’s voice. ‘What’s that?’
From somewhere ahead came the drumming of a diesel. He stopped rowing and the dinghy drifted. The sound of the diesel grew stronger and presently a green navigation light showed up to starboard, no more than fifty yards away. Seconds dragged by before it was swallowed up again in the mist and the noise of the engine receded.
Sandstrom said, ‘Phew. That was close.’ He began rowing once more.
The only sounds now were the slap of water against the dinghy’s hull and the faint splash of oars. Soon Boland saw a flicker of white light ahead, tenuous and uncertain like a fluttering candle. He steered towards it and before long the rocky sides of Spissberg loomed up out of the night The dinghy grounded and two dark shape came from the shore. A man’s voice enquired anxiously. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, Li. He’s coming round now. There’ll be no trouble. He’s firmly bound. Suffering from nausea. Make sure he doesn’t choke.’
‘When will Gunnar Olufsen come?’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and concerned.
‘Within the next two or three hours long before day light.’
‘You have the skimmer and the life-raft?’ said the man in his high pitched reedy voice.
‘Yes. In the dinghy. Also the outboard.’
With the aid of the man and woman, the dinghy was hauled up into the shallows. Boland and Sandstrom lifted Krasnov and carried him along the beach to the rorbu which lay to their right, towards the flashing red beacon. Inside the derelict house they lifted floor boards and by the shaded light of a torch took Krasnov down a ladder into the basement. It was a dark, evil-smelling place, wet and inhospitable, the stone walls of the foundations moss-encrusted and dripping. They propped the Russian in a corner, checked his lashings, lifted his eyelids and examined his eyes by torchlight while he mumbled unintelligibly. The woman cradled his head in her arms and gave him water from a beaker, speaking to him gently in Russian as if he were a child. But he was still dazed, barely conscious, and the water dribbled from his mouth.
The men brought the inflatable skimmer, the inflatable orange life-raft, the outboard engine and the shopping bag from the dinghy, and put them in the basement. After a hurried consultation with the Liang Huis, Sandstrom and Boland pushed the dinghy clear of the shallows and climbed back into it.
There were softly-spoken ‘goodbyes’ and the dinghy melted into the darkness. The man and woman went back along the beach towards the rorbu. When they got there Liang Hui went down to the basement, switched on a camp torch and sat on a plank near the prisoner. For reassurance he felt the bulge under his left armpit where a .32 Browning snugged in its shoulder-holster.
His sister, Tanya, sat on the floor of the deserted house watching through a broken front window as the gathering mist swirled through old and rotting timbers to add to the cold and damp of a cheerless night.
After his unsuccessful search in the lavatory, Gerasov hurried back to the table where Kroll, Martinsen, Odd Dahl and the harbourmaster were drinking beer and swapping stories. The sub-lieutenant’s eyes were wild and his speech confused. Since he had no Norwegian he tried English. ‘He’s gone. Disappeared,’ he said desperately, looking from one to the other to see if he were understood.
Martinsen said, ‘Gone? Who?’
‘Lieutenant Krasnov. He was with me over there a few minutes ago.’ He pointed to the empty table. ‘He left me to go to the lavatory. When he’d been away for about five minutes I went to find him. But he’s gone.’
‘He probably came back and you missed him,’ suggested Martinsen. ‘Maybe he’s back at the hospits.’
Gerasov shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t go without me. Besides, he left his uniform cap on the table.’ But then he remembered that he’d been talking to the English girl at the time. Perhaps Krasnov had come back, seen him talking to the girl and — and what?
Kroll said, ‘I saw Olufsen and the Englishman Nunn come out of there. Perhaps they saw him?’
Pale, hesitant, filled with doubts and fears, Gerasov considered this. He looked from one face to the other as if trying to read their thoughts then crossed to the bar counter.