by Glenn Meade
“Me, I’m on this ride to the end of the tracks. You’d better ask Anna that question.”
“Anna?”
She hesitated, then looked over at Slanski’s face and said, “Yes, I’m sure.”
For a long time Massey seemed unable to make up his mind, then he sighed and said, “Okay, Alex, we do it your way. We’ll have to bury the bodies in the woods in case anyone comes by. I’ll worry about Branigan later.” Suddenly Massey seemed at a loss for words. “I’ll help you bury Vassily.”
Slanski shook his head and said fiercely, “Not in the woods with those vermin who killed him. Down by the lake.”
Massey said quietly, “There’s a shovel in the jeep. I’ll get it.”
Grief flooded Slanski’s face again as he looked at the burning cabin, flames searing up through the rafters and raging in the darkness. There was a crash and an explosion of sparks as part of the roof caved in.
He stared at the flames, his mouth tight in anger, and as Massey went to move toward the jeep Slanski grabbed his arm and said in a hard voice, “Just tell me, when do we go in?”
“There’s a flight to London from Boston tonight, with a connection to Stockholm and Helsinki. We can make it if we hurry. We’ll use Braun’s car. I’ve got passports for both of you.”
“You didn’t answer the question. How long before we go in?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
* * *
PART FOUR
* * *
FEBRUARY 23–24, 1953
23
* * *
NEW HAMPSHIRE
FEBRUARY 23
It was almost 9 a.m. the following day when Collins drove to the Boston airport from New York. He met the group off the Canadian Airlines flight from Ottawa, two women and a man, younger than himself, and by the time they had hired the camper and equipment in Boston and applied for the hunting permits in New Hampshire, it was almost noon.
The man named Collins was thin but well muscled, in his early forties, and his eyes had the steely, detached look of someone who had seen death and even dispensed it. The younger man wore glasses, and his dark hair was cropped short. There was a faint hint of the Slav in his high cheekbones, but his demeanor and manner were pure North American.
The two women were in their late twenties, both pretty and vivacious, but Collins knew they would be as capable as he was with any kind of weapon, even their hands. For the purpose of the mission they were friends who had met on a camping holiday the previous summer at Lake Ontario, renewing their acquaintance. The briefing they had received had been specific about using extreme caution.
The hired camping trailer had been Collins’s idea. Under cover of a hunting party they wouldn’t arouse suspicion. All of them were illegals with no police or criminal record, unknown to the CIA or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The rifles and pistols were legally bought and licensed in their own names.
They turned onto the road that led down to Kingdom Lake just after one that afternoon. Snow chains had been fitted on the tires, so they wouldn’t leave identifiable tracks. The landscape seemed totally deserted. It reminded Collins of the Caucasus of his homeland, and who he really was, despite almost eight years as an illegal American citizen—Major Grigori Galushko, KGB 1st Directorate.
They parked the trailer a mile from the cabin on the lakeside and decided to cook lunch before venturing closer. That way they were covered if anyone who had seen them came to investigate. But no one came, and it was almost four when they changed into their hunting clothes, all of them wearing gloves, and started to stroll toward the cabin, the men carrying the rifles. They walked in couples and made as much noise as they could, joking and laughing, acting like a quartet of married friends out for a winter shooting holiday. But their eyes were everywhere, watching any movement, hearing every sound.
A hundred yards from the lakeside cabin they stopped for a cigarette and to drink from hip flasks. Galushko’s eyes flicked nervously about the landscape. There was almost no snow in the forest itself, the ground protected by the trees. He still saw no movement, heard no sounds, only those of the wind and lake water lapping gently, some pigeons in the pine trees above cooing their arrival.
They saw the boat tied up at the promontory and the burned-out cabin, smoke still curling from its embers, the jeep and the pickup parked nearby, the tires shot through, but no sign of life.
Galushko’s face had a worried look. Instead of walking directly toward the cabin, they skirted it and walked back into the woods. It took them another half hour to determine that the area was deserted, circling it carefully, until they finally came back to the charred remains of the cabin. Each of them moved more like practiced hunters now, careful and watchful, as if they were stalking some animal hiding inside.
It was Galushko and the younger man who went toward the cabin first, moving cautiously onto the remains of the veranda. The women remained a distance away, watching in case anyone appeared.
“Anybody here?” Galushko called out twice. He could hear the two women doing the same outside, their voices carrying on the breeze and out onto the cold lake like ghostly cries for help. But still no one came and no voice answered.
Then Galushko and his companion took their time, sifting through the remains. When they checked the area around the cabin they saw no sign of a disturbance at first, but then Galushko’s practiced eyes saw the dark stains on the ground, the patchy snow all around melted from the heat. When he bent to examine the stains he knew it was blood. He stood and glanced anxiously at his companion.
After that they moved more quickly.
It took them almost half an hour, searching the area as thoroughly as they could, then checking the vehicles and the boat and the perimeter of the lake, before they moved out into the woods again.
Another hour later they had found nothing and Galushko was frustrated. They were about to go back to the trailer, had walked back along the lakeshore, when one of the women went off to relieve herself in the woods, the cold biting at them all.
They had almost reached the camper when she came running after them breathlessly. Galushko saw the look on her face—not fear, these women didn’t show fear—but something else, and then she was beside Galushko, but looking at the others too, saying, “I think you’d better come back and have a look.”
MOSCOW
Hours later in New York, on that same late February evening, Leonid Kislov, the KGB station head in New York’s Soviet UN Mission, boarded a Pan Am flight to London, with onward connections to Vienna and Moscow. He carried with him a diplomatic briefcase handcuffed to his right wrist, and he hardly slept throughout the entire twenty-two-hour journey.
As he climbed tiredly into a cold Zis, Kislov found a blanket on the backseat and pulled it over his freezing legs. The driver climbed in front and looked around cheerfully. “You had a pleasant flight, comrade?”
Kislov didn’t feel like small talk, his head aching after the long flights, especially with the knowledge of what he carried in the briefcase gnawing at his brain. He said gruffly, “The Kremlin, quick as you can.”
The driver turned back at the rebuff and eased the Zis across the snowy tarmac toward the airfield exit.
24
* * *
FINLAND
FEBRUARY 23
The scheduled SAS Constellation from Stockholm landed in darkness at Helsinki’s Malmi airport a little after five that February afternoon. Three of the passengers on board were Massey, Slanski, and Anna Khorev.
As the plane taxied in, there was little to see in the almost arctic darkness beyond the cabin windows. Ten minutes after the aircraft touched down they came through Arrivals.
A blond-haired man wearing a worn leather flying jacket and a white woolen scarf stepped out of the waiting crowd and shook Massey’s hand cheerfully. “Good to see you, Jake. So this must be the cargo?”
Massey turned to Anna and Slanski. “I’d like you to meet Janne Saarinen, your pilot. One of Finland’s be
st.”
Saarinen smiled as he shook their hands. He looked small for a Finn and his face was a mass of angry scars, but despite the disfigurement he seemed a cheerful sort. “Don’t pay any attention to Jake,” Saarinen said in perfect English. “He’s an old flatterer. You must be exhausted after the flight. I’ve got a car outside, so let’s get you to our base.”
It was very cold and eerily dark outside, just a faint trace of watery light on the arctic horizon. As Saarinen took Anna’s case and led them to the parking lot, Massey saw the look on their faces as the Finn limped his way ahead of them, swinging his leg out in front with each step. When he was out of hearing, Massey asked Slanski, “What’s wrong?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed I’d say your friend’s missing a leg.”
“Don’t let it bother you. It hasn’t bothered Janne. Believe me, he’s the best there is.”
Saarinen climbed in the front of a small muddied green Volvo, and Massey slid in beside him, Slanski in the back with Anna. As they drove out of the airport minutes later she was already asleep, exhausted after the long journey, her head resting on Slanski’s shoulder.
• • •
“Welcome to Bylandet Island,” said Saarinen.
They rattled over the bridge and came to a small cove that consisted of a couple of bright-painted wooden buildings, a stretch of curved frozen beach in front, and a thick forest behind. Saarinen drove toward a big, solitary two-story green-painted wooden house, its shutters firmly closed, and halted in front. Wood fuel was piled high against one of the walls, and the remains of a fishing boat languished nearby, a clump of ancient frozen netting hanging from a rusty hook on the side of the house.
“The place used to belong to a local fisherman, until he drank himself to death,” Saarinen told them. “Not surprising, really. This is the only house on this part of the island and it’s off the beaten track. Hardly anyone comes here in winter apart from wildlife, unless like us they’re completely mad, so we won’t be bothered.”
The house was all bright pine inside and freezing cold. Saarinen lit a couple of oil lamps and showed them around. A large room downstairs served as the kitchen and living room area, sparsely furnished with a pine table and four chairs and an ancient settee and dresser, but the place was kept neat and tidy. A small wooden table in a corner of the room was covered with a heavy canvas sheet that hid something bulky underneath. There was a wood-burning stove in the corner, and when Saarinen had lit it, pouring some kerosene on the logs to get the blaze going, he showed them their rooms upstairs.
They were comfortably furnished with simple pine beds, an oil lamp and locker beside each; but the rooms smelled unpleasantly of must and salty sea air. When they went downstairs ten minutes later, Saarinen had the electric generator going and made coffee.
In the kitchen a single light was on overhead, and a couple of maps were spread out on the table, showing the southern coast of Finland and the western coasts of Russia and the Baltic countries in detail. On one Saarinen had marked the intended flight route with a red pen. He smiled. “The house isn’t exactly the Helsinki Palace, I’m afraid, and the salt smell can’t be helped, but it’s just for one night. Right, now to business. The crossing shouldn’t take more than thirty-five minutes, forty at the outside, depending on any headwinds we might meet after we take off from here.”
He pointed to the map and the red curved line he had drawn that ran from Bylandet Island to a point across the Baltic Sea, just outside Tallinn, Estonia. “From the island here to the drop point near Tallinn it’s exactly seventy-five miles. A snap, really, if things go according to plan.”
Anna looked at him. “Where’s the runway on the island?”
Saarinen shook his head and grinned. “There isn’t one. The aircraft is fitted with skis so we can take off from the ice. Don’t worry, it may be a tiny bit bumpy to start with, but you’ll hardly notice the difference.”
Massey said, “What about the latest weather reports?”
Saarinen offered a rakish smile. “According to the Helsinki office, it couldn’t be better for a covert drop. Strong winds tonight, followed by a heavy cold front with a threat of some cumulonimbus cloud across parts of the Gulf of Finland, possibly down to a thousand feet from five, expected by tomorrow evening. That kind of cloud can give snow and hail and even thunderstorms, and we’ll have to try and avoid the worst of it, if that’s possible.”
He shrugged. “Flying through heavy snow cloud isn’t a pleasant way to travel for the passengers because it can get pretty rough up there, only it’s less likely the Soviets will have their MiGs patrolling the airspace in such extreme conditions. Of course I can’t guarantee that. Let’s just say I’m optimistic.” He smiled again, looking as if he were actually about to enjoy the bad-weather flying and the danger involved.
Slanski lit a cigarette. “Isn’t that taking a risk, flying in such bad conditions in a light aircraft?”
Saarinen laughed. “Sure, but not as big a risk as the certainty of getting blown out of the sky by the latest MiG jet fighter in clear weather. Those machines are the fastest things in the skies, even faster than anything the Americans have right now.”
“What about radar?” asked Slanski. “Surely the Soviets scan the area.”
“You can bet your backside on it.” Saarinen tapped a finger at a point on the map near Tallinn. “There’s a Soviet air base right here, equipped with the MiG 15P all-weather interceptors with onboard radar that’s only just been introduced. It operates a Baltic air patrol jointly with another base outside Leningrad for a full twenty-four-hour shift. If any aircraft comes into Soviet airspace, they blast it out of the skies, without asking questions.
“But the way I understand it, in really bad snow, the MiG pilots keep above the cloud, because they’re not yet fully used to operating the new onboard radar. But there’s a radar unit at the air base itself, another in the main Soviet army headquarters in Tondy barracks, just outside Tallinn, and yet another positioned in the old town in a church tower, St. Olaus, next to the local KGB headquarters, probably the tallest point in the town. Between the three of them they keep the patrolling MiGs informed.”
He smiled. “On a clear day I believe the post in the church can pick up the buzz of a wasp. But on a bad one, with snow and hail, the Soviet radar units often can’t discriminate between a target and the clutter produced on their screens by the weather. That’s where really bad conditions help us. But anyway I’m going to stay as low as I can within the cloud to avoid being picked up on their screens. The real risk is once we come out of the cloud briefly for the drop zone. There’s a chance we’ll be noticed by their radar, and Ivan will get interested. That’s why I’ve got to find the target quickly and drop you. But at that stage, it would really be my problem, and nothing for you to worry about. Even if Ivan did respond, you’d have parachuted by then, and with luck I’d be on the homeward leg.”
Massey crossed to the window and looked out at the frozen bay. Twilight up here in the north had a curiously depressing effect. He looked back at Saarinen. The man was a very capable pilot, but he was also plainly crazy to be so enthusiastic, considering the dangers. Massey wondered if some of the shrapnel in his leg had lodged in his brain as well. “Okay, Janne, so what’s the schedule? When can we get under way?”
Saarinen sat on the edge of the table. “The cloud is expected due southeast of here by eight tomorrow night. If the weather boys are right, it should give us cover as far as the coast of Estonia. If we leave at twenty thirty, then according to my predictions we should meet the cloud about twenty miles out on our course. The route we take is this.” He pointed to the red line on the map. “Almost straight across the Baltic to the drop area. I know the frequencies of the Russian beacons, and I can use them for more exact navigational reference when we get near Tallinn so I can pick up the drop reference.”
Massey frowned. “And what happens if the weather really is bad, like you say?”
“Don’t wo
rry. I’ll still pick it up. I can go in low, to within five hundred feet of the ground if necessary. I should be able to make out the lights of Tallinn once we’re out of the cloud. And the terrain profile is pretty flat around there, so hopefully we’re not going to bump into any mountains when we’re flying blind in cloud.
“Right, any more questions?” No one spoke and Saarinen smiled broadly. “Good, that must mean you trust me.” He swung his leg off the table and said to Massey, “Come on, I’ll show your friends the little beauty that’s going to take them into the jaws of hell.”
• • •
Saarinen led them out across the wooden promenade to the hangar. It was a converted boat shed, and there were two sets of double wooden doors, one each at the front and rear of the building. Saarinen swung them both open to reveal a short, sturdy-looking single-engine aircraft with high wings, painted all white. It had no markings and its landing wheels had been replaced with combination skis and wheels, so that it could take off and land on ice or a runway. The engine cowling and propeller had a thick woolen blanket thrown over them.
Saarinen ran a hand lovingly over the edge of the starboard wing. “A beauty, isn’t she? The Norseman C-64 light transporter, Canadian design, as used by the American air force during the war. I picked her up for next to nothing at a military surplus auction in Hamburg. She’s ideal for cold-weather countries and can fly at a hundred and forty knots with up to eight passengers. But in these temperatures she needs to be looked after like a baby. You’ve got to keep the engine turning over several times a day; otherwise the oil freezes and the engine metal cracks from severe cold.” He looked at his watch. “Almost time now. Better stand well back.”
They stood beyond the open rear doors of the hangar, and Saarinen pulled off the heavy blanket over the engine and propeller. He hefted himself with relative ease into the cockpit, swinging his false leg in last. He started the engine, opening the throttle and revving, the noise almost deafening, letting the oil run hot. Then he pulled back on the throttle to idle for another few minutes before closing down the engine and climbing out.