Briggs turned away from the window. ‘Yes, sir. I’m most awfully sorry.’
‘Sorry! I should damn well think so. Now listen to me, Briggs. I am at this moment extremely angry and you happen to be in the line of fire. Why? Because the queen bee planner of Operation Daisy Chain was none other than Lieutenant-Commander William Beresford Briggs. I should think you’ll be fired, and that I may say would give me a great deal of pleasure if I weren’t involved too. Someone, and I suspect it may be you, has done something extremely stupid. As a result your Chinese fantasy has become a monumental cock-up. And I am left carrying the baby.’ The commodore paused for breath, took a few more paces. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said desperately. ‘I just don’t know what we’re going to do with this bloody Russian.’
‘Couldn’t we have the sod shot, sir?’ Briggs appeared to be dazzled by the brilliant simplicity of his proposal. The commodore, however, greeted it with a chilling stare. ‘You’re either mad, Briggs, or trying to be funny. I dislike both.’
‘Sorry, sir. I can’t imagine…’
‘I’m sure you can’t. So please have the good sense to keep quiet.’ The commodore got back to the pacing business, head forward, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped beneath the gilt-framed portrait of Nelson which hung over the blanked-off fireplace at the far end of the room. ‘Wonder what you’d have done, old chap?’ he thought with affection. Belatedly, he recalled that Nelson was only forty-six at Trafalgar, whereas he was already fifty-three. The ‘old chap’ seemed somehow inappropriate.
At that moment — afterwards he put it down to inspiration borrowed from the great man’s portrait — he saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. ‘I tell you what, Briggs.’ He stared thoughtfully at the unhappy lieutenant-commander. ‘This bloody Russian wants to be treated as a defector. Well, he shall be treated as one to the letter. Our ship found him alone — repeat alone — on a life-raft north of Vrakoy, well clear — repeat well clear — of Norwegian territorial waters. We picked him up. As soon as he realized it was a British ship he said he was a defector and claimed asylum. In accordance with British policy our captain took him into custody, told him he’d be vetted on arrival in Britain, whereafter the decision about asylum would be taken at the political level. Got it? Until then he is to be kept incommunicado.’
‘Oh, first rate, sir. Absolutely marvellous.’
‘It may not be marvellous, Briggs, but that’s going to be the story and all concerned are going to stick to it.’
Briggs now showed some signs of anxiety. ‘A problem occurs to me, sir. Once he’s here — if our Press gets hold of him — and they will sooner or later — they may blow the whole story.’
The commodore’s chin shot out aggressively. ‘Those bloody Fleet Street butchers can say what they damn well like. It’ll be his word against ours. We’ve got witnesses, he hasn’t. And if necessary we’ll slap a D notice on the story.’
‘Well done, sir. I’m sure this is the answer.’
‘Forget the congratulations, Briggs, and get busy. Draft a signal — we’ll have to get Northwood’s approval for this one — an immediate — C-in-C Fleet to Aries, ordering her to detach, to reverse course and make for the Shetlands at twenty knots. To a position twenty-five miles due west of Muckle Flugga. What’s her fuel state by the way?’
‘She replenished from Fleetwave at midnight, sir.’
‘Good. Now a signal for McGhee in these general terms — Our passenger is to be told that his request is granted. He’ll be treated as a defector, landed on British soil. He is not, repeat not, to be told where or when, and while on board he is to remain in strict isolation but for the Liang Huis who will stay with him. Got that?’
Briggs, who’d been scribbling on the signal clipboard in his own peculiar shorthand, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Aries and McGhee to be informed,’ continued the commodore, ‘that precise details of time and place of landing will be passed to them in due course.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. I’ll draft those right away.’ The lieutenant-commander made for the door.
‘One moment, Briggs.’ The commodore held up his hand with the peremptory authority of a point policeman. ‘I shall have to see VCNS about this. Put him in the picture. Not a job I relish. But before that there are certain things I have to do. In the meantime please understand that there never was an Operation Daisy Chain… what’s more I don’t want to hear those words again. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Briggs made once more for the door, looking back as he went with the expression of a mouse wondering whether the cat was about to have another go.
The moment he was alone the commodore picked up a phone, dialled an MOD internal number.
‘Freddie,’ said the commodore. ‘Ratters here.’
‘Oh. Hullo, Ratters. What’s the trouble? One of your lot on the sink again?’
‘Listen, Freddie. This is damned serious. I want you to go to Oslo to see Lund.’
‘When?’
‘Now. In the fastest thing your lot’s got. Get back here before we. open up shop tomorrow morning.’
‘D’you realize the time? I’m late as it is. Supposed to be meeting Jane at the club. You’re making a disaster area of my private life, Ratters.’
‘I thought you’d already done that. But seriously, Freddie, you must see Lund tonight. It’s absolutely vital.’
‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to. What’s the problem?’
‘Something’s gone badly wrong. Come down and I’ll tell you about it.’
‘I see. The first part sounds normal. Not so happy about the second. I’m on my way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Roald Lund was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie and red carnation. He was a handsome man and knew it.
‘You’re looking very grand, Roald,’ said Lewis. ‘Opera?’
Lund got up from the desk, walked across the sludge green carpet and helped himself to a cheroot. ‘No. Diplomats’ dinner. There’s nothing worse. Your message was a real shot in the arm. Left at half time. My hostess gave me a frosty look and a hare-fang smile.’
‘I couldn’t be more sorry, old chap. But as the message said, it’s frightfully urgent.’
Lund spun a match into the marble ashtray flanked by a silver-framed portrait of his wife and a carriage clock. He opened the door of the mahogany corner cupboard. ‘Scotch, akvavit, beer, sherry?’
‘Akvavit and a beer to chase it.’
‘You like our strange customs?’
‘That one definitely.’
Lund poured the drinks, put them on a table between two easy chairs, lowered himself into one and stretched his legs.
‘Skol,’ he said, raising and lowering his glass.
‘Skol,’ echoed Lewis.
‘Now, what is it, Freddie?’
‘It’s a problem. Peripherally, it concerns the Zhukov.’
‘Oh God! Not her again?’
‘In a sense, yes.’ Lewis sipped the akvavit, rolled it round his tongue. ‘We have it on unimpeachable authority that one of her lieutenants — Ivan Krasnov — has defected.’ While he swallowed the chaser of beer he watched Lund’s face.
‘Not difficult to guess who the unimpeachable authority is. Why the stir?’
‘His hosts don’t want him.’
Lund’s grey eyes focused on the group captain. ‘So that’s how peripheral it is?’
‘You’re very perceptive, Roald.’
‘Was that your great power laying on something special by way of an intelligence gathering operation?’