by Glenn Meade
Branigan’s face was drawn and had an unmistakable five o’clock shadow, his limbs still aching and tense after the cramped flight, and he didn’t feel like playing the diplomat. “That’s correct,” he said briskly, almost forgetting who he was talking to, and added, “Mr. Ambassador, sir.”
“And I’m not permitted to ask what is the exact nature of this operation that these people are intent on carrying out?”
Branigan shook his head and said bluntly, “You read the letter from Mr. Dulles. That’s the exact position and all you need to know. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me any further questions in that regard.”
The ambassador’s face registered his annoyance at the candor, but he carried on. “You’re requesting I put my entire embassy staff at your disposal, if necessary, in the pursuance of this matter. You also want my personal intervention at the highest level in Finland, to request that their air force prevent these people leaving Finnish airspace. Shoot them down if they’re airborne.”
“Correct.”
“Mr. Branigan, I would suggest this is all somewhat without precedent.” There was a look of frustration on the ambassador’s face. “So what in tarnation is going on here?”
Branigan looked pointedly at his watch. “I’ve simply got a job to do and quickly. Time’s ticking away. So, can I rely on your help?”
The ambassador went back behind his desk and sat down. “Mr. Branigan, quite frankly, I find this matter not only lacking in protocol, but rather disturbing. What do you think, Canning?”
Canning hesitated. “Everything we’ve been asked is really rather impractical. Perhaps we ought to contact Mr. Dulles ourselves to discuss this further?”
Branigan shook his head impatiently. “Not possible. My orders say no telephone contact with CIA Headquarters from Helsinki right now. As you’ve gathered, the nature of this mission is extremely, and I repeat extremely, sensitive and covert.”
The ambassador looked over smugly and made a steeple of his fingers. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to remind you, sir, that your Mr. Dulles is only acting CIA director. His official appointment doesn’t take place in Washington until later today, and he won’t be sworn into office for several more days. For such formidable requests as these, I’ll need higher authority, I’m afraid.”
Branigan stood up angrily and grabbed the letter from Canning, replaced it in his pocket, and glared at both men. “Now how about we cut out the baloney right here and now. If you morons don’t want your careers wrecked in the Washington grinder, I suggest you do as the letter says. And another thing, I need a senior liaison man here from the Finnish SUPO. Someone who can be relied on to be completely discreet. And I need every trustworthy and available man you can spare. And I want to tell you something else for nothing: either you or they breathe a word about this operation to anyone, and I’ll personally see to it the offender gets a bullet in the head.”
The ambassador’s face suddenly flushed angry red at the blatant threat made to his high office, but Branigan ignored it as the telephone on the desk jangled.
The ambassador glared over in shock before he grabbed the phone. “What is it?” he snapped.
There was a long pause, then the ambassador went pale as he flicked a switch to activate the scrambler, and the first words Branigan heard the ambassador say were “Mr. President, we’re doing everything we can.”
• • •
The dimly lit temporary operations room in the back office of the east wing of the embassy was thick with sweaty men, cigarette smoke, and the babble of voices. Branigan had a dozen telephones rigged up, and they stood on six trestle tables in the center, a half dozen personnel from the embassy huddled around them.
The Finn who stood beside Branigan was tall but chubby-faced, his dark hair graying slightly at the sides, and he spoke perfect English. Henry Stenlund, the deputy director of SUPO, Finnish counterintelligence, and a lawyer by profession, stared over at the bustle of men and equipment with nothing short of amazement.
Finland’s security police had its entire operation housed in a grim and drafty three-story granite office building on Ratakatu Street and was composed of ten men, three worn-out Volkswagens, and a half dozen rusting Raleigh bicycles for his best agents. The offices had nothing like the bustle of this, and it generated a certain excitement in Stenlund that he hadn’t experienced since the Germans had left Helsinki.
He had received the call just as he was leaving the office and had brought the files to the embassy as Branigan requested. Stenlund knew better than to ask too many questions, except the bare facts, for he knew from the grim look on the face of the CIA man that the matter was serious indeed and sensitive enough for him to be summoned by the director himself. Now he stood beside Branigan as they went through a list of names.
All were mercenary pilots who risked their lives flying into Soviet airspace from the Baltic on covert Finnish military and CIA reconnaissance and agent-dropping missions, an activity Finland officially denied. Apart from one daring, highly decorated but demented German ex-Luftwaffe mercenary pilot, with more Russian shrapnel in his head than brains, all were Finns. Not surprising really, as Stenlund’s country had long been an enemy of Russia, and old hatreds and grievances ran as deep as his country’s fear of its powerful neighbor.
Branigan looked on as Stenlund consulted the list. “What have we got?”
“According to my files, fifteen men who operate freelance with their own aircraft for either our people or yours. They’re all very capable pilots. Unfortunately, we’re talking about places as far apart as the east coast of Helsinki, near the Soviet border, to the Åland Islands in the west. A distance of well over a hundred miles.”
Branigan ran a hand across the back of his neck. “You sure know how to cheer me up.”
Stenlund puffed on his pipe and shrugged. “However, we can eliminate most by assuming the people you’re looking for will want to cross the Baltic in the quickest possible time, and that means the pilot would possibly have a base within close proximity to Soviet soil. Also, weather is an important consideration. And right now, the imminent bad weather we’re expecting would favor a drop.”
Branigan nodded. “So who are the likely suspects?”
“Two strong possibilities, seeing as both have worked for the CIA at one time or another. A man named Hakala who lives in a small fishing village near Spjutsund. He’s got an aircraft hangared there, a German Fieseler Storch. The second is a man named Saarinen.”
“How far is the first?”
“Spjutsund? Over twelve miles east of Helsinki. An hour there and back by car.”
“And the other guy?”
“Janne Saarinen.” Stenlund consulted a file. “An excellent pilot. Ex-Luftwaffe. According to our intelligence reports, he sometimes uses a place at Bylandet Island, twenty miles west of here. Both men would be based pretty much the same distance from Tallinn as the crow flies.”
“Which would you pick?”
Stenlund shrugged. “Like I said, they’re both likely candidates. They’re excellent pilots and, as I understand it, reckless enough to try a crossing in the type of weather we’re expecting.”
Branigan hesitated, the tension in the small room stifling. “Okay, we try the nearest. Hak—?”
“Hakala.”
“Him first, then this guy Saarinen. I’ll get us a car.”
“As you wish.”
Branigan reached for a shoulder holster with a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver and buckled it on, then checked the chambers before slipping the gun back in its holster and turning to beckon several burly-looking men waiting in the room, who began to check their firearms. Stenlund looked on, alarmed, and when Branigan turned back, said nervously, “You think there’ll be shooting?”
Branigan put on his jacket and overcoat. “If there is, leave it to me and my men.”
Small beads of sweat had already appeared on Stenlund’s forehead. “My pleasure. Personally, I never carry a weapon since the war. H
aving the Gestapo forever on my case was quite excitement enough.”
Stenlund stood and tapped out his pipe, then pulled on his overcoat and glanced over at the clock on the wall. The hands read exactly 7 p.m.
BYLANDET ISLAND
Slanski sat down at the table, and Massey pulled up a chair. His face was serious. “There are a couple of things I want to make clear, Alex, and they’ve got to do with Anna.”
Slanski lit a cigarette. “Fire away.”
“No matter what happens I don’t want to see her hurt. Either by the KGB or anyone else.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She likes you, Alex. I can tell. A man and woman going on a dangerous mission together are bound to be drawn close, for comfort if nothing else. But I don’t want her put in any unnecessary danger on the mission or hurt by getting too close to you. There’s a good chance she’ll make it back. You may not be as lucky.”
Slanski said defensively, “You sound as if you have a personal interest in Anna.”
Massey thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “She’s been through more pain than most. Let’s just say I feel protective toward her.”
Slanski stood. “It’s not my intention to hurt Anna. But I can’t help whatever happens between us, Jake. If you feel more for Anna than you’re saying—and I think maybe you do—then you should have considered that before this thing began.”
Massey was silent for several moments, and his face looked grim. “Then just promise me one thing: if your backs are ever to the wall and there’s a chance you’re going to be caught, and she can’t swallow her pill in time, just make certain the KGB doesn’t get her alive.”
For a moment Slanski didn’t reply. He saw the genuine concern in Massey’s face, then said, “Let’s hope it never comes to that.”
Anna came down the stairs five minutes later, dressed in her peasant clothes, the thermal suit underneath making her look bloated, and carrying her suitcase. There was a bottle of vodka and some glasses on the table, and Slanski went to pour one for each of them. He handed one to Massey, then Anna. “Nervous?”
She looked at him, something passing between them, and said, “I’m shaking.”
Slanski smiled and raised his glass. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all over before you know it.”
Massey nodded to the corner of the room where the parachutes, canvas jumpsuits, helmets, goggles, and gloves waited. There was an extra ’chute for Saarinen. “You can leave those until Janne’s almost ready to go. One more thing. If you somehow separate from each other after you jump, or the contact who’s to meet you at the drop doesn’t make it, the rendezvous will be the main railway station in Tallinn, the waiting room on the main platform, nine tomorrow morning. If either one of you or the contact doesn’t show, go the next day an hour later, taking the precautions I told you about. If there’s no show on the third day, you’re each on your own, I’m afraid. Anything you need to ask?”
Anna said, “You never told me who the contact meeting us is.”
“It’ll be a member of the Estonian resistance. Any more than that I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Anna, just in case you’re caught.” Anna looked back at Massey doubtfully but said nothing, and he put a hand gently on her arm. “Just stick close together for safety and you’ll both be fine.”
The door opened with a blast of freezing air, and Saarinen appeared carrying a heavy-duty electric flashlight. He wore a yellow oilskin and scarf over his flying suit and a pair of thick woolen gloves. “What a night,” he said, closing the door. He shook his clothes and nodded to the vodka bottle. “One of those would go down nicely.”
Massey said, “You think that’s wise?”
Saarinen grinned and pulled off his gloves. “Relax, Jake. I never drink and fly. One limb is penalty enough without being completely legless.” He checked his watch and looked at Anna and Slanski. “Ten more minutes, I reckon. You’d better get into those jumpsuits.”
As Anna and Slanski went to put on their suits, Massey crossed to the Finn. “How’s the weather turning out?”
“It seems a bit rougher than expected, but don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”
Massey nodded. Saarinen came back to the table, picked up the vodka bottle, and filled each of their glasses generously, then poured himself a tiny drop of spirit.
Slanski and Anna had dressed in the green canvas suits and helmets and goggles but left the gloves until last.
Saarinen smiled and raised his glass. “It looks as if I’m breaking the habit of a lifetime. Just enough to wet my lips in a final toast for luck. Kipiss.” He knocked back the vodka, and the others did the same.
Massey could feel the growing tension in the room. It was almost physical. He put down his glass and looked over at Anna and Slanski, then Saarinen. “Are we ready?”
Saarinen nodded and smiled. “Onward and upward.” He picked up the flashlight and his parachute, and they followed him out of the door.
• • •
The tiny office that served as the operations room of the Finnish Air Force Liaison Unit at Helsinki’s Malmi airport was bitterly cold, despite a tiled stove going full blast in the corner. The wing commander had been summoned from a dinner party at the Palace Hotel, and his pinched face showed his irritation as he looked up at the warrant officer standing in front of the desk. “They can’t be serious, Matti.”
The warrant officer was in his late twenties, tall, and lean. He wore an air force greatcoat and scarf and gloves. “I’m afraid so, sir. It’s Priority One. If the aircraft manages to get airborne it’s to be stopped at all costs before it reaches Russian airspace.”
“They must be out of their tiny minds at the Defense Ministry wanting us up in this weather. What in sanity’s name is going on? Where’s the authorized signal, the paperwork?”
The warrant officer shrugged. “I wish I knew, sir. But you know the ministry brass.”
The wing commander shook his head doubtfully. “Well, it’s bloody irregular. And I want the orders verified.”
“I already did, sir. I contacted the C-in-C by telephone. The order stands.”
“Does he realize we’ll be risking the boys’ lives? I wouldn’t send up a balloon in weather like this.”
The warrant officer shrugged. “The orders were quite specific, I’m afraid, sir.”
“What type is it?”
“Possibly a Norseman C-64, though we can’t be absolutely certain. One thing will be, though. It’ll be the only light aircraft flying up there tonight. I have the likely flight projection here.”
The wing commander studied the paper the warrant officer handed him, then stood and crossed to the window. He sighed. “Well, I suppose we had better do as we’re told. But I’ll check with the ministry myself, just to be absolutely sure. You’re quite certain we’re to blast this thing out of the sky?”
“Those were the orders, sir. No question.”
The commander scratched his chin and sighed. “I suppose it could be some Russian spy trying to beat a hasty retreat. It’s about all that makes sense on a dog’s night like this. If that’s the case, I hope it’s worth the risk to get the swine, that’s all I can say.”
He nodded to the warrant officer and reached for the telephone. “Very well, Matti, give the order to crank up. We’d better warn the boys to be extra careful. It’s going to be pretty bloody rough up there.”
• • •
The two Fords came off the Espoo main road and turned left, taking the narrow track that led down to Bylandet Island.
Branigan gritted his teeth in frustration. His watch said 8:10. The visit to the pilot near Spjutsund had been a waste of time. The man was laid up with a broken leg and hadn’t flown in weeks. The roads had been bad, hard-packed snow and ice all the way. An hour shot.
He looked at the SUPO officer impatiently. “What about the local police near the island? Couldn’t we get in touch with them?”
Stenlund smiled indulgently. “That was some
thing I considered, Mr. Branigan. But you did say you wanted this done discreetly and that the people you’re looking for will be armed and possibly dangerous. The nearest police station to Bylandet Island is over half an hour away by car, but all the local policemen have are bicycles. In this weather, we’d probably have passed them on the way.”
Branigan leaned over and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Can’t you go any faster?”
The man was embassy staff and glanced back nervously. “If I do that we end up in a ditch or worse. These roads are treacherous.”
“Just put your darned foot down!”
• • •
Darkness had swallowed up the sea, and the sky was pitch black. The wind slashed at their skin and the four of them shivered as they walked down to the hangar, Saarinen ahead of them playing the flashlight beam in front.
A long stretch of electric cable ran from the generator out onto the ice, and when Massey and Slanski helped open the hangar doors Saarinen flicked a switch on the wall. A single string of yellow lights glowed brilliantly out on the ice and stretched into the gloom for well over a hundred yards. “Our runway lights. Simple but effective,” Saarinen said to Massey. “You can leave the lights on. I’ll be back in no time.” He removed the blanket from the engine and took away the chocks from the skis. “Okay, let’s move this baby out,” he said.
They all helped to slide the Norseman out and down the ramp onto the ice. It kept on sliding for a couple of yards, then came to a halt. Saarinen told them to move back before he started the engine, then opened the door and hauled himself into the cockpit.
Moments later the Norseman’s engine erupted into life, exploding the silence as the propeller turned, sounding like the buzz of a giant angry wasp. As Saarinen checked the instruments and moved the control surfaces, going through his preflight check, Massey looked up at the sky.
The storm was obviously getting worse. Flakes of snow began to fly around them in gusts. Anna and Slanski started to pull on their parachutes, looking a little absurd in their jumpsuits, helmets, and goggles with the worn suitcases beside them.