Later he’d been in an aircraft. Then, aware of the excessive vibration, he’d realized it was a helicopter. They’d landed. Once or twice? There’d been some interruption? He’d known for sure it was a helicopter when they’d winched him down on to the deck of a ship. That was something he’d done many times before.
What was the ship? Chinese? China was Russia’s enemy. But what was a Chinese warship doing in the Arctic? Was it a warship? Submarine perhaps? The helicopter? There’d been no Chinese in the kafeteria. It didn’t make sense. The more questions he posed the more nightmarish it became. How could he draw the line between reality and fantasy?
Then, with sudden and frightening clarity the truth dawned upon him. They’d found out that the submarine on the rocks was the Zhukov. They would try to force him to talk. To tell them all he knew. But he wouldn’t co-operate. Nothing would make him do that. So they would…? Reason gave way to terror and he cried out in Russian. ‘Oh God, what’s going to happen to me?’
It was then that the woman had touched him. Her warm hand on his. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d said in a low voice. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
A number of surprising developments were being discussed in the Ordforer’s office the morning after Krasnov’s disappearance.
‘Who found the body?’ Hjalmar Nordsen ran the back of his hand across tired eyes.
Odd Dahl said, ‘Inga Bodde and Gunnar Olufsen. They left her house at eight-fifteen this morning. Walking down the footpath they saw a foot sticking out from behind some rocks.’
‘What was Olufsen doing there at that time?’ The Ordforer’s lifted eyebrows underlined the question.
‘He spent the night in the Bodde house. After leaving the kafeteria at eleven-thirty last night.’
‘Of course. I was forgetting. They are engaged.’
Odd Dahl took up the story again. ‘They didn’t touch the body. Came straight to my house. I was still asleep.’ He looked at the Ordforer apologetically. ‘Didn’t get to bed until four o’clock this morning.’
‘I know. Neither did I. All this business.’ He waved a disapproving hand. ‘Why should Vrakoy be troubled with such things? And now murder.’
‘I went at once,’ continued Odd Dahl. ‘Examined the body. He was stabbed in the throat. A fierce wound. The carotid artery severed. I looked around but couldn’t find a knife. A few blood-stained tissues, a trail of blood from the path. Nothing more. I searched him — the body I mean. There were the usual things. And this unopened letter, addressed to you.’ Odd Dahl passed the sealed envelope to the Ordforer. Hjalmar Nordsen opened it and they saw that his hands were trembling. He took out several sheets of paper, spread them on the desk. There was no sender’s address, no signature. Just the date, October 1974, and the heading, TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. Impeccably typed, electric IBM, a three-page summary of the career of Gustav Kroll, alias Charlsen, alias Rodsand, alias Sorensen, alias Lillevik…
The Ordforer read in silence his face hardening as the story unfolded. When he’d finished he passed the summary to Lars Martinsen. ‘Such a man has many enemies,’ he said.
They discussed Kroll’s death at length, finally agreeing on three possibilities: that Kroll had been killed by the KGB, or by the CIA, or by a Norwegian patriot with a long memory. The KGB or CIA seemed the more likely.
Martinsen was strangely silent during this part of the discussion. ‘It is no use speculating,’ he said. ‘One must have facts before drawing worthwhile conclusions.’ He was thinking of Karen and Joe. Nothing about Kroll had come from the CIA through that source. So it was probably the KGB. Why now? Was it because, with the Zhukov stranded on Vrakoy, the KGB dispatched an agent to the island? That he’d chanced upon Kroll? It was guesswork and unrewarding. He gave up. At the Ordforer’s request he took the anonymous report, undertook to pass it without delay to Norwegian Intelligence.
Then, choosing his moment, he lifted the canvas grip from the floor and put it on the table. From it he took a faded blue denim jacket and trousers, a pair of well-worn plimsolls, and the uniform jacket of a lieutenant of the Soviet Navy. ‘They were found this morning by two of our soldiers on the rocks in Nordvag Bay,’ he said. ‘Members of the search party sent out to look for Krasnov.’
He took a worn plastic wallet from the bag. ‘This was found in the denim jacket. It has in it some Chinese money and a number of personal items including the papers of a Chinese seaman. Ho Lu Kwang. The denims, the plimsolls and the wallet were made in China.’ Martinsen picked up the naval uniform jacket. On it were traces of sand and sea water stains. ‘This is Ivan Krasnov’s jacket. It has his name tag. Presumably the one he was wearing in the kafeteria last night. I say that because of these.’ He held up three slips of paper, print-outs from a cash register. ‘They are imprinted with yesterday’s date. Haakon Jern has examined them. He says they were issued last night.’
‘My God,’ said the Ordforer, forsaking his customary calm. ‘Why did you not tell us this at once?’
Martinsen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Odd Dahl got in first — the finding of Kroll’s body. That seemed important enough.’
‘Is there any connection between the two events?’
‘There may be. I don’t see it at present.’
‘My goodness.’ The Ordforer looked both shocked and baffled. ‘What’s your theory?’
Martinsen thought about that. ‘I don’t know that I have one. Superficially it looks as if Krasnov was abducted by the Chinese. The Liang Huis are missing. These garments were found close to the sea in Nordvag Bay. There are signs of a scuffle having taken place. Krasnov may have been taken off in a small boat. Perhaps to a ship or submarine.’
‘Why does a Chinese seaman leave his clothes and wallet on the rocks?’ Odd Dahl’s rubbery weatherbeaten face creased with doubt.
‘That’s why I said “superficially”,’ said Martinsen. ‘It’s difficult to answer your question.’
‘Unless,’ the Ordforer hesitated. ‘Unless it was done deliberately. To create the impression that it was a Chinese act.’ Martinsen nodded. ‘Of course. But there are other possibilities. They may have been about to dress Krasnov in the clothes of a Chinese seaman when they were disturbed. Or a Chinese seaman may have taken his clothes off to swim to a boat anchored off-shore — again they were disturbed. How can we say what happened?’
‘I wonder,’ said the Ordforer pressing the tips of his fingers together. ‘It is an extraordinary business.’
Martinsen was thinking of Karen and the feed-back to Joe… of Freddie Lewis’s tip-off… ‘a great power is laying on something special by way of intelligence gathering’. Roald Lund’s ‘Is it a NATO power?’ Freddie Lewis’s reply ‘The words used were a great power. That’s all I know.’ China was a great power, not a member of NATO. Martinsen thought, too, of Plotz and Ferret, the American ornithologists, and the United States Oceanographic Service’s Sikorsky helicopter. Plotz and Ferret were still on Vrakoy. He’d checked that. Due to leave on the Wideroe’s midday flight to Bodo, en route to Rost. The USOS helicopter and its survey crew were scheduled to fly to Bodo that afternoon. He’d checked that too. And the Kestrel manned by the English party? She’d sailed at two o’clock in the morning. That had looked suspicious. But she’d been searched before and after sailing, and the captain of the gunboat said she was absolutely clean. No one but the English tourists aboard. And they had arrived in Andenes at a quarter-to-eight that morning. That also he’d checked. There were so many unrelated, odd-shaped pieces in the jig-saw puzzle. It was time, he decided, to report to Roald Lund. ‘I must go to Oslo this afternoon, Ordforer,’ he said. ‘To report to my superiors.’ Before the meeting broke up other items were discussed. There was still no sign of the Frenchmen who’d set out to climb Bodvag. A representative of the Sûreté Nationale was arriving in Kolhamn at midday to inquire into their disappearance. The Liang Huis had not returned to the hospits the night before though their hand luggage had been left in their room. There was no trace of them in Kolhamn.