“Stop engines,” roared Gorki. “Man the searchlight.”
The light was played on the sea for ten minutes; but there was no sign of Winter. Soon the ship was under way again.
Gorki rounded on Brook. “Was that your game, eh? Did you plan to help Winter to escape?”
“Of course not,” protested the pilot. He was feeling sick after seeing his old friend ruthlessly shot — but he tried to carry on the charade that Winter had started. If he could convince Gorki that he was on his side, he might be allowed to remain free; then he might find an opportunity to foil the Russians’ plan. He owed that much to the American captain.
Brook continued: “I told him I was joining you, because I thought I’d have a better chance that way. I said I didn’t care about him and his damned Yankee crew. Then the rat tried to kill me. Now he’s dead — and I’m glad.”
“I hope he’s dead,” said Gorki. “We didn’t see his body.”
“I filled him with plenty of lead; probably enough to sink him,” said Chester callously. “He’s dead all right.”
“He must be. He couldn’t swim,” lied Brook.
“Is that so?” Gorki looked thoughtful. “Well, I’ll think over your position, Captain Brook. Do you hold a Baltic licence?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I may have some work for you later. If you do it well it might help you when we reach Leningrad. But for the time being,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the chart room, “back in there.”
Once more Brook found himself locked in. But this time he was alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Glyn Jones allowed his tortured nerves to relax as the plane droned on through the night from Helsinki to Stockholm. He’d had trouble getting out this time. The Russian security police had almost caught him in Leningrad. But he’d made it; at Stockholm he would board another plane for London.
Jones thought to himself that James Dingle might enjoy hearing about how he had slipped through the net to reach Finland.
He caught sight of his reflection in the cabin window and smiled wryly. He had changed a lot since he first met Dingle in Burma. There were lines of worry — and suffering — on his face now; he had just reached his forty-third birthday, but he looked ten years older. Jones studied his reflection again. The face of a man who has been to Hell and back, he thought. And the Welshman had made that return journey four times. Russia was his Hell. Every mission was a nightmare.
Idly, he wondered why he did it. He had known what he was letting himself in for when he had allowed Dingle to recruit him into SS(O)S.
He certainly didn’t do it for the money; the pay wasn’t all that good. He didn’t do it for the glamour; there is no glamour in a job as secret and dirty as espionage. Patriotism? Jones doubted if that was the real reason — although, like Dingle, he was a dedicated crusader against Communism. He concluded the self-analysis by deciding that fear was the driving force behind his actions. He didn’t like being afraid. But he gained strength from conquering fear; the fear that sapped his strength and turned his inside to water whenever he was briefed for an operation; the fear that vanished in the danger and excitement of action, when Jones became a capable, cunning and fast-thinking agent. He enjoyed, too, the aftermath of fear — the luxury of safety, and the knowledge that he had proved to himself that he was not the coward he had once believed himself to be.
Jones switched his thoughts to the mission he had just completed. He had been organizing a new network in Novgorod, when a message from the Director had sent him to Leningrad. The SS(O)S man there was believed to be in some sort of trouble. Jones had been ordered to get the man — or his information — back to London.
The man had been in trouble all right. He was dead. And there was no information to bring back — because dead men tell no tales. On top of all that, Jones himself had almost been caught.
There would be work to be done in Leningrad soon. A new Intelligence network would have to be set up there. A shiver of fear shook the Welshman’s body as the thought came to him that he would probably get the job. He had already established networks in four other cities; that had been his main task for SS(O)S, and he did it efficiently. He had a flair for languages and was fluent in Russian.
Jones pushed the thought of Leningrad from his mind as the plane landed smoothly at Stockholm. He felt cheerful as he walked, limping slightly, to the transit lounge to await the connecting flight to London.
The casual observer would have thought that Jones had a sore heel, so well did he disguise the fact that he had a false foot. Dingle had been with him, in Nepal, when he had lost the use of his right foot. It was Dingle who had saved his life; and who had introduced him to fear.
Jones was whistling quietly to himself, twenty minutes later, as he limped out to join the London plane. He would be due for some leave when he reached England. He could have a holiday from fear — after he had reported back to the Director.
*
James Dingle and the Director were still working on the “jig-saw” when Jones arrived. He sat down beside Dingle.
“Anything more to report from the Leningrad end?” the Director asked.
“No, sir,” replied the Welshman. “The whole network’s been blown.”
“You didn’t get any information about the work our chap was busy with?”
“No. When I got to his place, I found he’d been shot. He’d been dead a long time. I started to go through his belongings, to see if I could get a line on whatever it was he’d discovered, when I realized the room had already been searched. The whole thing smelt like a trap, and I decided to get out fast. There was a man outside the door, who hadn’t been there when I went in. He tried to stop me, so I didn’t stay to argue. I shot him. But I was only just in time. I was hardly clear of the street before a car-load of security police drew up outside the house … ”
“All right, all right, spare us the details,” the Director said wearily. “Save them for your report.”
Jones stood up. “Yes, sir. I’ll write it now and hand it to Miss Peach before I go on leave.”
“Before you what?”
“Go on leave, sir. I’m due … ”
“Sit down!” roared the Director, as Dingle tried in vain to smother a grin.
Jones sat. He always felt like a stammering schoolboy in front of the Director.
The fat man glared through his bushy eyebrows. “Forget the report. And forget about leave. You’re going on an operation with Dingle.” The anger died from his voice as he continued: “When we know exactly what the operation is.”
Jones felt the familiar fingers of fear clawing his stomach as the Director explained the situation.
“The C.I.A. have admitted that the Wild Rose is carrying something special,” he said. “I assume it’s something to do with an ABM system, although they won’t confirm that, naturally; nor will they take seriously the idea that the Russians plan to hi-jack the ship. I must confess that I don’t see how they’re going to do it either.
“Of course, the Americans say they are keeping in close touch with the Wild Rose, and they say that everything is normal aboard her so far; all messages are being answered promptly. The C.I.A. had a call sent, ordering the captain to have the ship searched in case of possible sabotage. The captain radioed back that a search had been carried out — and it revealed nothing. The vessel cleared Dover some time ago, after picking up a North Sea pilot for the passage to Hamburg. Everything seemed to be in order.
“If it weren’t for all the reports we’ve been getting lately — especially the last one from Leningrad, which resulted in the death of our agent there — I’d be inclined to agree with the C.I.A. boys and say … ”
The green telephone buzzed. The Director picked up the receiver and listened. Then he said: “Thank you. Keep me informed.”
He replaced the receiver and looked at the two agents. “A routine message has just been sent by the Wild Rose, giving he
r position, course and speed. Everything is as it should be.”
Jones said: “Possibly the Russian plan didn’t come off, sir.”
The Director sighed: “It’s possible; but they don’t usually make plans that don’t work. If they’re going to hijack the ship they’ll surely have to make the attempt soon.”
“But how the hell can they do it?” asked Dingle.
“I don’t know. If they used a submarine or a gunboat, the Wild Rose would have time to send a message. In that event I’ve arranged that R.A.F. planes and Navy ships are standing by — here and in North Germany — to race to the area. But I can’t see the other side doing anything as open as that. It would be too risky.”
Jones asked: “What about the captain? Could he have been bought by the Russians?”
“He couldn’t do anything on his own. He’d need all the officers and at least half the crew with him. They couldn’t all be bribed. No, I think we can rule that out.”
The Welshman persisted: “Suppose the captain, or one of the officers, arranged to have enough Russians smuggled aboard with the cargo at Houston. They could hide in the holds until it was time to come out and take over the ship.”
The Director laughed: “With all the security precautions the Americans would take over a cargo like this? Impossible.”
Dingle spoke. “Why didn’t you fix a naval escort for the Wild Rose from Dover, sir? If the Navy shadowed her, we’d know the minute anything went wrong.”
The big man laughed again; but this time the laugh was bitter. “I did put in a request for a naval escort — but it was refused on the grounds of expense. I was told I didn’t have enough concrete evidence to justify it. The Americans were satisfied that the ship was safe, so why should we worry or spend British taxpayers’ money. In the end the Admiralty and Air Ministry agreed to have ships and planes standing by; but that’s as far as they would go.”
“What time is the ship due at Hamburg?” Jones asked.
The Director glanced at some notes on his desk.
“She left Dover at 8 p.m., and it’s a twenty-two-hour passage to the Elbe 1 Pilot. So she should be there by six tomorrow evening … ” he glanced at his watch, “or I should say this evening. Once she gets that close to Hamburg, I don’t see what the Russians can do.”
He paused, looking tired and worried. Then he continued, speaking more slowly, almost as though he was talking to himself. “Yet, if I’ve interpreted my reports correctly, something must happen to that ship; unless it’s just a big bluff, deliberately organized by the K.G.B. in Moscow, to keep us busy while they pull off an entirely different operation.”
The SS(O)S chief’s massive shoulders heaved themselves up into a shrug. His voice took on a more decisive note: “We’ll just have to wait until the Wild Rose is due to pick up the Elbe 1 Pilot. But I don’t think I’m making a mistake.” He looked at his watch again. “In the meantime I suggest you go through to the rest room and snatch some sleep. I’d no idea it was so late; nearly three o’clock. I’ll have you called if anything develops. If nothing does happen, Miss Peach will wake you up with a cup of tea when she comes in at nine o’clock. You’d like that wouldn’t you, Dingle?” he added with a sour sense of humour, implying at the same time that he didn’t approve of the way Dingle teased his secretary.
*
As the two agents entered the rest room, where beds were kept made up for emergencies such as this, Dingle said: “I wonder if there is any truth in the rumour that there is more than just a boss–secretary relationship between the Director and Miss Peach? They must have both been quite young when they began working together.”
Jones grinned: “God help you, boyo, if he thinks you are trying to pinch his bird. The next mission he sends you on will be a suicide one.”
The Englishman smiled back: “Well it looks as though you are coming with me on the next mission.” He became serious again. “Which reminds me. In all the talking the Director’s done about this blasted American ship, he hasn’t once explained where you and I come into it. What does he expect us to do about it?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m too tired to think. I’m the boy who has just got back from Russia. Remember? So don’t keep me awake with your snoring,” said Jones as he climbed into one of the beds. “Good night.”
“Good night,” said Dingle, as he clicked off the light before climbing into the other bed.
The Director, who had been listening to the conversation, smiled as he snapped up the switch of the loudspeaker which was connected to a microphone concealed in the rest room. Then he reached for the green telephone. “I want the following message sent to the Air Ministry and to the Admiralty … ”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dingle and Jones spent a boring and frustrating morning playing billiards in the games room and getting in some practice in the shooting gallery. Only once, at about ten o’clock, were they summoned to the Director’s office.
Dingle had never known the Director to be so irritable. Nothing had happened during the night, he told them. The Wild Rose had sent another routine report about an hour ago; nothing was reported amiss.
But the Air Ministry’s attitude had softened a little. They had arranged for three training flights to be switched; the planes would trace the course of the American ship and report when they sighted her; in this way a discreet watch could be kept on Wild Rose. The first flight was due to take off at midday.
“So you two had better go out for lunch at noon — but be back by one o’clock,” the Director said.
*
When the two agents returned from lunch, they found the big man in a rage. The report from the first aircraft had just arrived.
“Sea fog,” he fumed. “Bloody sea fog. Masses of it, covering the area where the ship is supposed to be.”
The Director slumped down in the chair behind his desk, the fury suddenly spent. All at once he looked a tired old man. The big, bushy eyebrows were drawn closer together by his worried frown. The ridges and furrows which spread across that high forehead were even more pronounced; like the ripples on a lake lapping at the edges of a barren shore, threatening to engulf it — threatening to cover for ever that huge bald pate.
For the first time, Dingle felt pity for his chief.
As if reading his thoughts, the Director looked up. “I’ve got to be right,” he said. “If I’ve misinterpreted the facts, then I’ve no business in this job. But it’s you I pity, Dingle. One day you may be sitting in this chair. The problems, the anxiety will be yours; because one wrong decision made in this room could make a mockery of the lives of the people who will inhabit this country after we’ve gone. At the best, they would become the soulless subjects of a Communist world; at the worst, there would be no world for them to inherit. Do you think I worry about sending you, Jones and others like you to possible death? Well, I don’t. You know what you’re doing, so it’s your responsibility; mine is the security of this country. It’s because I’m a peaceful man that I’m forced to deal in death and destruction, to give others the chance to live in peace.”
The Director swung round to face Jones. “I know what it’s like to go out into the cold; I’ve done it in the past. But now I’ve come in … to the warmth of Hell. This room with its responsibility is my Hell, gentlemen.”
The two agents shifted uncomfortably. They were embarrassed. They had never heard the Director give a lecture like this before. Dingle cleared his throat to speak; he felt he should say something, but he couldn’t think what.
The big man saved him the bother by continuing: “So that’s why I can’t afford to be mistaken about the Wild Rose. I must be right.” The snap was back in his voice. “Now you two had better get some rest. I suspect there’ll be some action for you soon.”
Jones said: “Exactly what’s at stake, sir, if the Russians do grab the Wild Rose?”
The bushy eyebrows registered surprise by sliding up an inch to expose Jones to the full glare of
those piercing eyes.
“Don’t you know, man?” he barked, adding in a more patient tone: “You know about the balance of power, don’t you? Both sides pointing rockets at each other and all that sort of thing?”
Jones nodded dumbly.
“Well the balance of power has escalated now. Both sides have found ways of dealing with rockets. But if the Russians can capture a ship carrying the secret of the American defence system, they will be able to study it and find a way to break through that defence.
If they do that, the scales will be weighted heavily in favour of the Communist camp. It’s our job to keep the scales evenly balanced; but it’s no longer a balance of power. With each side seeking to be the first to render the other’s power harmless, while keeping their own intact, it has become a balance of fear … ”
*
At five o’clock, Dingle and Jones were recalled, urgently, to their chief’s office.
The Director was a changed man. Energy flowed through his bulky frame. There was no trace of tiredness in his face, although he could not have slept for almost forty-eight hours. His voice held all its old authority.
“I was right. Something’s happening.” There was no smug ‘I told you so’ note in his words. It was a simple statement of fact. “A message came through about an hour ago from the Wild Rose. It gave her position — about two hours from the Elbe pilot — and said there had been a serious explosion. It said the ship was sinking rapidly and there was a danger of other explosions. Then the message faded out, and nothing has been heard from her since.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Jones. “Sabotage?”
The Director waved a hand for silence. “A thorough search of the area has revealed nothing. The fog has cleared now, and ships and planes reached the position given by the Wild Rose very quickly. You’d expect to find some sort of flotsam; but there was nothing. Not even a piece of wood.” He paused impressively. “And then we received another message.”
Balance of Fear Page 3