“From the Wild Rose?” asked Dingle.
“From the Harwich police. They say that Captain Winter, of the Wild Rose, was picked up by the BAOR leave boat at three-thirty this morning.”
“But that’s over thirteen hours ago,” Jones said angrily. “What the hell kept them so long?”
“Captain Winter had several bullet wounds and he was unconscious when the leave boat found him. He was brought ashore at six-thirty, as soon as the boat docked in Harwich, and taken to hospital. His uniform showed that he was a ship’s captain, and papers on him gave his name as Winter; but there was no clue to the name of his ship. The police started inquiries to find out, of course, and they kept a shorthand-writer at his bedside in case Winter came round. They thought he was either the victim of a straightforward murder attempt, or even that there had been a mutiny aboard his ship. The fact that there were no reports of a captain missing from a ship strengthened this theory. So the police withheld the story from the press in case a radio news bulletin alerted the people responsible.”
“What made the police decide to get on to us?” asked Dingle.
The Director replied quietly. “Captain Winter recovered consciousness about an hour ago. He said his ship had been taken over by Russians, led by a man called Captain Gorki. They planned to sail the Wild Rose through the Baltic to Leningrad. He added that the Russians had been in control of the ship for several days. He didn’t say how, but I gather the take-over took place somewhere out in the Atlantic.”
“Phew,” said Dingle. “Gorki, eh?”
“Yes. He’s listed in our files. A former Red Navy officer who joined the K.G.B. Do you know about him, Jones?”
“No.”
“Well, go and read him up. You’ll be dealing with him soon. I’ll brief you about that later. In the meantime a widespread search of the North Sea is being made. As soon as the Wild Rose is sighted we’ll be informed. According to Captain Winter, she is now disguised as the Russian ship Vologda.”
“Is anyone going up to see Winter?” asked Dingle. The big man sighed. “Captain Winter died shortly after giving his message,” he said.
The red telephone buzzed. The Director picked up the receiver, listened for a few moments, and then said: “Yes, sir, I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.” He turned to the two agents. “Wait in the rest room. I’ll be back soon to brief you. And, Jones, you’d better read the file on Gorki. Miss Peach will get it for you.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Director tapped the large wall map with a pointer. “So that’s it, gentlemen. I’ll just run over it again, briefly.
“The Wild Rose — or Vologda as she’s now called — was sighted at seven-thirty.” The pointer came to rest midway between the northern tip of the Dogger Bank and the east coast of Denmark.
“She should reach here,” he indicated a spot off Hanstholm, near the entrance to the Skager Rak and Jammer Bay, “at about three tomorrow morning. And that’s where you will board her.” The Director glanced round at Jones. “Did you say something?”
The Welshman — whose nerves had brought on a severe attack of indigestion, and whose stomach had just made a peculiar noise that started as a deep gurgling rumble and ended as an anguished moan — smiled wanly and shook his head.
“No, sir.”
“Oh, I thought you spoke.” The big man turned to face the map again, and went on: “The submarine, Venturer, which is on her way back from a courtesy visit to Sweden, and which should now be just about leaving the Kattegat to enter the Skager Rak, will pick you up here,” — the pointer rapped the middle of Tannis Bay so hard that it punched a hole in the canvas — “at midnight.”
The Director glared at Dingle, who had failed to hide his grin in time when Tannis Bay had sprung a leak. The glare was transferred to Jones when his stomach, which never showed proper respect for authority, once more expressed a rude opinion of the proposed operation.
“Are there any questions?” barked the Director.
Dingle hesitated. “The Russian destroyer, sir, that you mentioned earlier … ”
“Ah. Well, it’s been cruising around off the south coast of Norway for a couple of days now. It’s only a theory, but it’s possible she’s waiting to shadow the Wild … the Vologda … into the Baltic.”
“Isn’t there a danger that she will detect the submarine?” asked Dingle.
“The Navy seem to think that the destroyer won’t take up station with the Vologda before she’s well into the Skager Rak; that’s why we want to get you aboard beforehand. If the destroyer does close in earlier, then that will be the submarine commander’s problem.”
Jones cleared his throat nervously. “Wouldn’t it be a lot simpler, sir, to intercept the ship with a couple of our own destroyers? They could force her to stop and put some Royal Marines aboard … ”
The Director interrupted him. “Gorki would just scuttle the ship. She’d sink, with all the American crew members locked up below decks. Gorki and his own crew would be picked up, no doubt with the ship’s papers of the real Vologda in their possession. The Russians would claim that we’d sunk their ship — and just think of the row that would stir up.”
Jones wasn’t finished yet. With loud moral support from his rebellious stomach, he asked: “But why us? Why don’t the Americans do their own dirty work?”
The SS(O)S chief allowed himself to look smug. “Because the C.I.A. have been caught on the hop by all this, in spite of my warnings. And we are on the spot to do the job. The P.M. is quite pleased, actually, because it’s forced the Americans to come clean and tell us exactly what they’re doing — and we may be able to bend their plan to suit us a bit better. The P.M. was on the hot line to Washington while I was with him, and he assured them that we could get their ship back for them, so the Americans are quite happy to leave it in our hands.”
“It’s all right for the P.M.,” said Jones slowly. “What makes him think we can get the bloody ship back, just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
“I told him we could,” replied the Director coldly.
Jones’s stomach rumbled.
“And you’d better buy some Rennies on the way to the heliport,” the Director added unkindly. “The helicopter is waiting to take you to the R.A.F. station at Coningsby. You’ll find everything laid on for you there.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better be on your way. You don’t want to miss the boat, do you?” There was silence for a moment, until Dingle, quick-witted as ever, forced out a laugh. He had realized, long before Jones, that their chief had cracked what he thought to be a joke.
*
The navigator came into the belly of the plane. “Weather reports for Dogger, Fisher and German Bight are in your favour,” he announced. “Visibility good, sea slight, wind light.”
Dingle nodded and grinned. “Didn’t get the temperature of the water, did you?”
The navigator grinned back. “We’re due to rendezvous with the sub in about half an hour. Shouldn’t be any bother spotting her in this moonlight,” he said as he went back to the flight deck.
Dingle, dressed in thick, woollen underclothing, began to pull on a frogman’s suit. “Come on, Jones bach,” he said. “Time to get ready.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” asked the Welshman irritably. His indigestion forgotten, he was sweating profusely. “I’ve been trying to get ready for the last fifteen minutes. How the hell does the Director expect me to get into a frogman’s suit with my bloody foot?”
“Take the damn thing off then, and strap it to your back. You can tie a knot in the leg of your suit; that’ll keep the water out.”
“I’ll get water in my foot, man. People will hear it sloshing around every time I walk about,” Jones observed gloomily.
“See if you can squeeze it into the waterproof bag with your clothes,” said Dingle.
In the end, that was what Jones did.
*
The drop, which both
Dingle and Jones had been dreading, went off without a hitch. The surfaced submarine, rolling easily to a slight swell, showed up starkly in the moonlight. The two British agents, swinging gently in the parachute harnesses, splashed down no more than three hundred yards away. Ten minutes later they were stripping off the rubber suits and enjoying the warmth and hospitality of the tiny wardroom. The time was five minutes after midnight.
Dingle remained dressed in his thick underclothes. But Jones unfastened the waterproof bag he had brought with him. He fixed on his false foot and then put on a suit that was remarkably Russian-looking.
The captain came into the wardroom and made a brief speech of welcome. “I hope you’ll be comfortable for the short time you’ll be here,” he said. “We’re on course now for the interception point.”
“Thank you, Commander,” said Dingle. “We’ll be fine; we certainly shan’t be seasick with this smooth ride you’re giving us.”
The captain smiled. “It’s always smooth when we’re submerged.”
That was when Jones decided that he suffered from claustrophobia. The wardroom was thrown into confusion for a few minutes, until the ship’s doctor found a magical cure for claustrophobia. He gave the Welshman a liberal dose of whisky.
When order was restored, and the two men were left alone in the wardroom, Dingle sighed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Jones,” he said reproachfully. “You grumble about jumping out of an aeroplane; you moan about the sea being too cold; and when the Navy fish you out, you complain about claustrophobia. What sort of impression do you think these Silent Service fellows are going to get about us?” Jones, lying on one of the narrow bunks, was not to be shamed.
“They only dish out whisky in these boats for medicinal purposes, you know,” he remarked conversationally. “Very nice whisky it is too, boyo.” He winked. “Pity they didn’t give you any.”
Dingle opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He would only be wasting his breath. Jones was snoring gently.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The submarine commander stared through his night glasses at the Vologda. It was 3 a.m., and he shivered slightly as the chilly breeze pierced his thick woollen sweater. Thick clouds had rolled across the sky to mask the moon.
“Will they be able to identify us as a British sub?” asked Dingle. This point had worried him ever since they had surfaced.
“Not at this distance and in this light,” the commander replied.
“Well, let’s get it over then.”
“All right, Greaves,” said the commander.
A slim young man, whose face seemed to register worry and excitement at the same time stepped for-word with a signalling lamp. Excitement and worry gave way to sheer concentration as he began to flash out the message, in Russian, that he had been rehearsing with Jones for the past hour:
VOLOGDA WILD ROSE. HEAVE TO. OFFICER BOARDING WITH NEW ORDERS. DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE.
The slim young man knew his job. Only twice did he have to glance down at the notepad Jones was holding to refresh his memory.
“She’s not slowing down,” murmured Dingle.
“Give them time,” answered the commander. His voice rose slightly. “Yes she is, look. Watch your speed, Number One. Keep in station.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Radar contact, sir, red, bearing two nine zero; range five miles, closing.”
“Damn. That’ll be the destroyer coming in,” said the commander. “Ease up a bit, Number One. Get the Vologda between us and she might screen us from the destroyer’s radar.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The submarine captain turned to Dingle. “Ready?”
“Yes, ready.”
“Good luck then.” The Naval officer shook hands with Dingle and Jones. “As soon as you are away, we’ll submerge and make ourselves scarce. I don’t want that destroyer to pick us up on Asdic.”
As Dingle and Jones climbed down the ladder, two ratings on the deck below quickly inflated a rubber dinghy and held it alongside.
Jones stepped into it and took up the paddles; Dingle, again wearing his frogman’s suit, pulled the mask over his face, bit on the mouthpiece and slipped into the water.
As Jones started to paddle, with Dingle swimming and pushing behind, they heard the submarine commander’s quietly spoken order: “Clear the bridge.”
A minute later, the submarine had gone, swallowed up by the cold, dark sea. As they headed towards the Vologda, which by now was almost stopped, the two agents had never felt so lonely.
“Nobody seems to want us, boyo,” grunted Jones as he heaved on the paddles. “The R.A.F. kick us out of their aircraft and the Navy cast us adrift in the North Sea.”
“Shut up,” panted Dingle. “Save your breath for when you get aboard the … ” He dived quickly as a searchlight stabbed the darkness and held the dinghy in its glare.
Jones shipped the paddles, turned round and cupped his hands round his mouth. Using the coarsest Russian he could think of — and a voice that was calculated to awaken the sleeping inhabitants of Southern Norway and Northern Denmark — he roared “Put that light out.”
As he recommenced rowing, the light snapped out and Dingle surfaced.
“You sound like a Russian air raid warden,” said Dingle, who had a slight knowledge of the language. “I could even hear you down there.”
“Just practising,” replied the Welshman. “I’ll bet that frightened the blighters; they’ll wonder what they’ve got coming aboard.” The tone was light, but Dingle could just detect the underlying note of nervous tension.
The ship was looming closer now, and Dingle was anxious not to be seen.
“Good luck, Glyn; see you later,” he said. He ducked his head below the surface and swam underneath the dinghy.
A minute later, Jones tied the dinghy to the rope ladder that had been lowered from the Vologda. As he climbed slowly up the ship’s side, he caught a glimpse of the luminous dial of his watch. Seven minutes past three. Was it only seven minutes ago that he had stood on the bridge of the submarine while the young sailor signalled with the lamp? he wondered.
With a shock he realized that he had reached the ship’s rail. He raised his face. Two seamen were waiting for him, with the mate, Kubychev. There was no turning back now. Jones steeled himself.
“Don’t just stand there; help me over the rail,” he snapped irritably.
The two seamen leaped forward to obey. When Jones was standing safely on the deck, he stared at Kubychev. “Where is the captain? I thought he would have been here to meet me.”
“I will take you to him, Comrade. He is on the bridge.”
“Good.” The Welshman took a pace forward and then stopped when Kubychev turned to the two seamen and said: “Get that dinghy and ladder stowed away.”
“No, wait,” commanded Jones. “You run ahead and tell the captain to get under way again immediately. The ship has been stopped for too long. And you,” he addressed the two seamen, “can carry my bag and help me up to the bridge. I have a false foot, and I hurt my good one as I left the submarine. The ladder and dinghy can stay where they are for a few minutes.”
Kubychev looked uncertain for a moment, then he nodded, and hurried towards the bridge. Jones, supported by a man on each side, followed slowly.
*
As soon as the Vologda’s screw began to turn once more, Dingle surfaced and heaved himself into the rubber dinghy. Quickly, he jettisoned his cylinder, mask and flippers; and then, after setting the dinghy adrift, he began to climb the rope ladder. He moved more slowly near the top, cautiously raising his eyes to deck level.
There was no one on deck. He looked up and to his right. Jones, helped by two men, was just entering the bridge house. Another man was staring down at the deck from one of the windows. Dingle waited, a human limpet glued to the ship’s side, hardly daring to breathe. The man turned away. All eyes on the bridge — including those of the
lookout on the starboard wing — were focused on Jones.
And then Dingle was over the rail, darting into the shadow of a large ventilator. Like a shiny black ghost, he moved silently aft and selected a lifeboat which was partially hidden from the wheelhouse by the funnel. He worked a section of the canvas cover loose, climbed inside the boat, and drew the cover back over the gap he had made.
After struggling out of the tight-fitting frogman’s suit, he dressed himself in the T-shirt, sweater, serge trousers and rope-soled canvas shoes that had been strapped to his back in a waterproof bag. He hoped he looked like a seaman.
Dingle found he had plenty of room in the lifeboat; he stretched out and settled down for what could be a long wait.
The next part of the operation depended on Glyn Jones.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Impatiently, Jones shrugged off the helping hands of the two seamen. Aggressively, he flung open the door and, clumsily banging down his false foot, thump-thumped across the bridge deck.
He knew he had succeeded in attracting attention to his disability rather than to himself. Except in the case of Gorki. The Russians eyes — the eyes of a shrewd and dangerous opponent — were staring straight into the Welshman’s.
Jones halted and stared back, icily.
“Comrade Gorki? I am Kirenski.”
Gorki’s bleak smile flashed on and off. He inclined his head slightly.
“Welcome aboard, Comrade Kirenski.” The voice sharpened: “Will you kindly tell me … ”
Jones interrupted: “What I am doing here? Certainly. I have come to take over command of this operation.”
Angry red blotches began to show on Gorki’s face.
“What the hell … Colonel Balachov didn’t say anything … ”
“Balachov? Why should he have said anything?”
Jones was keeping up his strategy of never allowing the Russian to finish a sentence. In this way he kept the initiative, forcing Gorki to adopt a defensive role.
Gorki said: “The Colonel briefed me for this mission. He made it clear that I would have over-all control. He didn’t mention that anyone … ”
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