‘I am not a detective, Commissar,’ said Martinsen, ‘but we cannot exclude the possibility that he has defected.’
‘Defected?’ Milovych’s attempt at incredulity was belied by the sudden fear in his eyes. Defection was the permanent nightmare of political commissars in the Soviet armed forces, more especially if the defector had access to highly classified information. And Krasnov had certainly had that. Of course the commissar had thought of defection. It had been his first reaction when he’d seen the signal in Yenev’s cabin. But if Krasnov had defected where was he? Almost certainly somewhere on Vrakoy, most probably still in Kolhamn. Yet these wretched Norwegians were not prepared to take the elementary precaution of a house search. The situation was impossible.
‘Yes. Defected,’ Martinsen was saying. ‘It may have been pre-arranged. Some girl perhaps. He leaves his cap on the table so that Gerasov’s suspicions are not aroused. He goes out by the fire exit door and his accomplice — man or woman — bolts it on the inside.’
Gerasov will have to account for this, the commissar was thinking. My instructions were unequivocal. They were never to leave each other. Always to remain together. Even on a visit to the lavatory. He turned to Martinsen. ‘At daylight we will land a party of naval ratings under officers to conduct a thorough search of the island. In the meantime I must take Sub-Lieutenant Gerasov back to the ship.’ The commissar smiled. ‘There will have to be an official inquiry on board and we shall need his evidence.’
Poor little bastard, thought Martinsen.
Milovych got up to go.
Martinsen raised a restraining hand. ‘Before you go, Commissar, I must draw your attention to certain matters of protocol. In the first place please understand that Vrakoy, however small, is a part of Norway. We do not permit searches on Norwegian soil by the armed forces of foreign countries. If you wish to land a few naval ratings under an officer to carry out the normal duties of a naval patrol — that is to supervise and control the behaviour of your libertymen ashore, if any — ’ He stared at Milovych. Both men knew there weren’t any — ‘you may do so provided the Ordforer has no objection. But your men will have no right of search. Neither of houses nor anything else on Vrakoy. I trust you understand?’
Milovych smiled. He knew when to give in. His bluff had been called. He was not so much a devotee of the Party as of Boris Milovych. He knew a good thing when he saw it, and when he did devoted his devious but capable mind to its pursuit. He was a successful member of the Party, but he could have been equally successful as a Wall Street broker or a brothel keeper in the Reeperbahn.
‘You may rest assured, gentlemen, that we will do nothing improper. Perhaps I should have put it this way: if you would like the assistance of our men in the search for Lieutenant Krasnov, we shall be only too happy to co-operate.’
‘Your offer will be borne in mind, Commissar,’ said Martinsen gravely. ‘But I think we are capable of handling the situation. Of course, we will keep you informed.’
Milovych rose, beckoned to Gallinin. ‘Well, goodnight gentlemen. We must be going.’
Martinsen and the Ordforer stood up. ‘Goodnight, Commissar,’ said Martinsen.
Milovych’s instinct told him they weren’t sorry to see him go.
With the improvement in the weather salvage work on the Zhukov proceeded apace. The ‘camels’ had arrived, been placed alongside to port and starboard and flooded. Divers passed lifting cables under the stern which was clear of the bottom for some twenty metres of its length, whereafter they were hauled forward as far as possible by wires taken through lead-blocks to the submarine’s fin and winched in by the tugs.
At high tide the ballast in the ‘camels’ was blown and with the aid of the submarine’s own buoyancy they lifted two-thirds of her length clear of the bottom. Divers then passed another set of lifting cables under her hull, this time further forward. At low water the ‘camels’, free of their load, were manoeuvred towards the bow, flooded and secured to the new set. Blowing of the ‘camels’’ ballast tanks and lifting took place again at the next high tide. This operation was repeated on five successive tides until the ‘camels’ and cables had arrived in the desired position to port and starboard of the fin. They were then flooded and the final set of lifting cables placed in position.
Towing wires were rigged between the submarine and the Oktober tugs — three of them now, an additional tug having towed the ‘camels’ from Polyarnyo — and Feodor, the salvage expert, announced that all was ready for the final operation. On the following day at high tide the flooded bow would be lifted, full flotation achieved and the Zhukov would be towed stern first out of the cove.
The tow line would then be re-rigged so that the submarine could be towed bows first, the ‘camels’ providing buoyancy forward. That done, the six-hundred mile journey to Murmansk would begin, Zhukov using her main engines at slow speed to supplement the towing power of the Oktober tugs and to assist steering.
During the operation she would be escorted by the Nepa salvage vessels, two Kashin and two Kanin class destroyers, and three patrol submarines.
The Soviet Navy’s High Command was taking no chances with their crippled giant. Every effort would be made to ensure that she and her secrets were returned safely to the Soviet Union.
Gerasov was brought before Yenev and Milovych early in the forenoon. The sub-lieutenant had arrived back on board with the commissar and Gallinin at five o’clock that morning. Haggard, pale and red of eye, he’d not slept for some twenty-four hours and was close to breaking point.
Milovych questioned, cajoled, grilled, pleaded, threatened and bullied, but Gerasov stuck to his story: Krasnov had, notwithstanding Gerasov’s protests, told him to remain at the table when he went to the lavatory.
‘Why should he do such a thing?’ prodded Milovych.
‘I don’t know, Commissar.’
‘Did this not arouse your suspicions? Why did you not insist on accompanying him? You knew he could not countermand my orders.’
Gerasov had no satisfactory answer. He could not tell the truth: that the point hadn’t arisen, that Krasnov had simply got up and gone while Gerasov had remained at the table. Why? To exchange glances with the English girl, hopefully to speak to her because he’d sensed she was interested. How could he tell these things to Milovych and Yenev?
Milovych pressed on relentlessly. In the few days they’d been together in the hospits had Krasnov given any indication of an intention to defect? Had he expressed views critical of the Navy or the Party? Had he said or done anything which raised the slightest doubt in Gerasov’s mind?
No, lied the tired and frightened Gerasov, he had not. How could he tell them that Krasnov disliked the Navy, regarded many aspects of naval discipline and procedure as asinine, longed to get out of it into the academic world, into an environment where his doubts about the Party and its policies might not seem so out of place? Gerasov knew only too well that if he’d heard such things he should at once have informed Milovych. Nor had he remained neutral. Instead, in a mild indecisive way, he’d sympathized, shown some understanding of Krasnov’s feelings.