Operation Napoleon

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘It’s Júlíus,’ he said. ‘I’m alone.’

  VATNAJÖKULL GLACIER,

  SUNDAY 31 JANUARY

  It was a close call: the helicopter nearly failed to lift the wreckage off the ice and for a moment it appeared as if it would plunge back to the glacier. It seemed that this half of the German aircraft had not been loosened sufficiently and the attention of the men standing around was fixed on the helicopter’s battle with its cargo.

  Ratoff had found himself a seat in the hold of the Pave Hawk and sat, hunched tensely at a small porthole, trying to get a glimpse of the steel cables and their load. The helicopter rose with infinite slowness, jerking slightly and stopping its ascent momentarily as it took up the full weight of the Junkers’ fuselage. Little by little the wreckage rose from its icy tomb until it was free. Then the helicopter accelerated away and Ratoff watched the blur of the camp recede steadily into the surrounding night.

  The noise in the cabin was mind-numbing but Ratoff was wearing earphones and could communicate with the two pilots in the cockpit via a helmet radio. They proceeded at a sedate pace, at an altitude of five thousand feet, the load dangling from three thick steel cables; this was the front half of the German plane. Before long the second helicopter would lift off the tail section, containing the bodies from the wreck. Both halves had been removed from the ice with their contents untouched and the openings sealed with heavy-duty plastic sheeting. He heaved a sigh of relief; the mission was in its final stages and had been largely successful, despite the inconvenience caused by Kristín and the rescue team. The plane had been safely excavated and he was on his way home. Soon it would be over, or this episode at least.

  Ratoff was the only passenger. He tried to prepare his mind for what lay ahead while listening to the radio traffic between the pilots and air traffic control at the Keflavík base. The scheduled arrival time at Keflavík was in just over twenty-five minutes. Flying conditions were ideal – cold but windless – and the journey passed without incident. The helicopter would fly directly to the C-17 and set down its load on a special pallet where each half of the German aircraft would be loaded on to the transport plane. The air force referred to it as the Keiko plane, after a killer whale which, with the world’s animal lovers watching, had recently been flown to Iceland from Newport, Oregon. To save time and prevent discomfort to its unusual passenger, the C-17 had refuelled in mid-air and would do the same during the present mission. Very soon, the C-17 would take off and the Icelandic phase of the operation would be over. What followed would be a flight halfway round the world.

  But the other half of his mind was elsewhere. Ratoff was working on the assumption that they would leave him alone until they reached their final destination, but he could not count on this. He considered why Carr had chosen him for the job. It had been Carr who had originally recruited him to the organisation but over the years the general had become increasingly remote until he no longer seemed willing to recognise his existence. Ratoff was reconciled to this fact. Though he was by no means his own master, he was able to decide his own movements and enjoyed a certain amount of freedom within the service, although he knew people disliked him. No doubt he troubled their consciences. After all, Ratoff did their dirty work; he gathered information. How he did it was his own business. The less the service knew about it, the less Carr knew, the better.

  He had come to the conclusion while still on the glacier that the reason Carr had chosen him to lead the mission was because he regarded him as expendable. It would be a simple matter to make him disappear. He was an embarrassment, a relic from an era that no one wanted reminding of. Ratoff assumed that Carr knew precisely what the plane contained, along, no doubt, with a handful of other senior military intelligence officers. What he could not know was if anyone else was in on the secret. He was not even sure if anyone outside the army realised what was happening. For the first time he could remember in recent years, Ratoff was threatened, and the sensation awakened every animal instinct in him.

  Where had that damned girl found out about Napoleon? The pathetic jerk with her had mentioned something about a pilot on the base but Ratoff knew that had been nothing but a desperate ploy. He could have extracted the information from her had there been time. No matter: Bateman would take over the interrogation, after which both she and her friend would disappear once and for all.

  He recalled what he had read in one of the briefing documents from the dossier in the plane, a yellowing typewritten sheet, with a British War Cabinet Office letterhead.

  . . . following the meeting in Yalta that Stalin would have excessive power in Eastern Europe and would no doubt fail to keep the terms of the treaties. The British War Cabinet has therefore drafted a plan for an Allied attack on Stalin’s government in Moscow, which would result in the elimination of Russia. The plan has been assigned the codename ‘Operation Unthinkable’. The war in the European theatre will be brought to an end by means of a treaty with the Germans, according to the terms of which approximately one hundred thousand German soldiers will join the Allies in the attack on Stalin, to be deployed in the front line of the first wave of the invasion. It is considered advisable to launch the eastward attack from north Germany, near Dresden. A second attack, to be launched from the Baltic, cannot be ruled out. It is assumed that the Russians will respond by invading Turkey, Greece, and even Norway from the north. It is also likely that they will attempt to secure oil reserves in Iraq and Iran.

  The idea is not a new one and has been debated in the innermost circles where it initially met with overwhelming opposition. Its fiercest opponents regard negotiation with Germany as tantamount to entering into an alliance with the Nazis, who initiated the war that has laid waste to Europe. Recent discoveries in Eastern Europe have also confirmed suspicions about the organised extermination of the Jews. Another credible argument against Unthinkable is that the Russians more than any other nation have changed the course of the war, helping to secure an Allied victory at enormous cost to themselves.

  Notwithstanding, there are those who believe they can shorten the war by several months, thus minimising further loss of life. They are looking to the future and fear how the world will appear if Unthinkable is not put into action. There is serious concern about what will follow the end of the war when the Yalta Treaty authorises Stalin control over almost half of Europe as well as the Baltic States. It is already clear that he cannot be trusted to keep the terms of the treaty. His policy of expansionism, this thinking suggests, will threaten the newly won peace in future years. The Prime Minister has referred in private talks to an ‘iron curtain’ . . .

  Ratoff remembered something he had seen in the pilot’s diary. The writing was almost illegible towards the end until only fragments could be made out, only the odd sentence, of which Ratoff could make little. Disconnected snatches about his parents, his brother, death. He remembered one sentence in particular. I’m almost sure I saw Guderian at the meeting. Guderian, Hitler’s chief of staff towards the end of the war.

  Ratoff started out of his reverie. The pilots had been trying to attract his attention over the radio and finally one of them shouted his name.

  ‘A message from the glacier, sir, from someone called Bateman,’ he said when Ratoff asked what was going on.

  ‘What message?’

  ‘He says she’s vanished, sir.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Some woman. He won’t say over the radio. Doesn’t trust us. The message is: she’s disappeared from the camp.’

  He ordered them to put him through; his earpiece filled with crackling static and radio distortion as they searched for the correct channel, then he heard Bateman’s voice.

  ‘It’s incomprehensible, totally incomprehensible, sir,’ Ratoff heard him say.

  ‘Go after her,’ Ratoff shouted. ‘She must be moving away from the camp. She should show up on the radar.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. It’s as if she’s vanished into thin air. The surveillance system doesn’t
show her anywhere near the camp and we’ve turned the whole place upside down but she’s nowhere to be found. Vanished into thin air. And we’re dismantling the system so we won’t be able to use it any more.’

  A cold tremor of alarm went through Ratoff. He could not afford any more mistakes. They had fumbled their way through this operation and were on the point of getting out intact and now this infernal woman was once again jeopardising his success.

  ‘There’s another thing, sir,’ Bateman said. ‘We found a man in the tent in her place. He claims he’s the leader of the rescue team. His name’s Júlíus. He evaded our guards and it’s obvious that he must have helped her. What do you want us to do with him?’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about this man?’ Ratoff snarled.

  ‘There wasn’t time, sir,’ Bateman answered.

  Ratoff looked into the dark oblivion beyond the helicopter’s porthole.

  ‘He knows where she is. Get it out of him.’

  ‘There’s no time for that. We’re almost ready to move out. The first group will be setting off in a matter of minutes.’

  The helicopter pilots were listening to the conversation with interest.

  ‘Take him with you,’ Ratoff ordered. ‘Take him with you and for Christ’s sake make sure he doesn’t escape.’ He would have to deal with him later.

  KEFLAVÍK AIRPORT,

  SUNDAY 31 JANUARY

  The helicopters took off ten minutes apart but the second made better progress and had narrowed the gap by the time they reached Keflavík Airport. They flew straight to the C-17 at the end of runway seven, where each half of the German aircraft was lowered on to a special pallet which was then rolled into the transport plane. There would be no other cargo on this trip. It took no more than half an hour to load the old Junkers into the hold where it was swallowed up by the cavernous interior.

  Ratoff strode hurriedly down the runway towards the C-17. He knew Carr was waiting for him on board but no other passengers would be crossing the Atlantic with them. The Delta Force operators would report back to the base over the next fifteen hours, bringing their equipment and vehicles, and the C-17 would make a return journey to fetch them.

  By the time Ratoff reached the C-17, the rear section of the German aircraft was in the process of being loaded. He followed in its wake up the ramp and into a hold half the size of a football pitch, lit by powerful strip-lights. The Junkers’ front section was already on board, looking tiny in the belly of the machine. Ratoff stopped to watch the manoeuvres, breathing in the stench of metal, oil and high-octane fuel.

  ‘Everything went according to plan, I hope,’ said a voice behind him. Turning, he came face to face with Carr. The general had aged since the last time they met, his ashen face was withered and his uniform hung loosely on his frame despite his imposing height. His eyes looked dull and weary behind his glasses and his shoulders sagged.

  ‘For the most part, sir,’ Ratoff replied.

  ‘For the most part?’ Carr queried.

  ‘That girl is unbelievable. She managed to escape from the camp after we caught her, but it’s irrelevant now. She won’t be able to expose this,’ Ratoff said, jerking his head in the direction of the Junkers.

  ‘Has she found anything out, do you know?’

  Ratoff thought.

  ‘She’s gotten hold of the name Napoleon,’ he said eventually, ‘but I don’t think she knows its significance.’

  ‘But you do?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ratoff’s gaze was steady.

  ‘You’ve read the documents.’

  ‘It couldn’t be avoided, as I believe you anticipated, sir.’

  Carr ignored this.

  ‘Where on earth can she have heard the name linked to the plane?’

  ‘Maybe someone on the base told her their suspicions. I didn’t have time to interrogate her properly but I gather that she and her companion, Steve, had visited a retired pilot who fed them some half-baked gossip. When she mentioned Napoleon, it was a last-ditch attempt to play for time. I don’t believe she knows what the name in the documents signifies.’

  ‘She was lucky to get away from you alive. Not many do.’

  ‘You knew what you were doing when you put me in charge of the operation, sir.’

  ‘And what do you think of Operation Napoleon?’

  ‘I haven’t formed an opinion as such, but I do have the information,’ Ratoff said, holding up the briefcase, ‘and hope that we can come to an agreement.’

  ‘An agreement?’

  ‘Yes, an agreement, sir.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no question of any agreement, Ratoff. I thought you understood that.’

  Three men suddenly materialised from the shadows and formed a ring around Ratoff. He did not react. As he watched them, he noticed that the other personnel had melted away and they were the only ones left in the hold. The only aspect that took him by surprise was how quickly Carr had acted. The general extended a hand for the briefcase and Ratoff passed it over without resistance.

  Carr opened the case, took out some papers and examined them. They were blank, every page of them. He looked back in the case. Nothing.

  ‘As I say, I hope we can come to an agreement,’ Ratoff repeated.

  ‘Search him,’ Carr ordered, and two of the men held Ratoff while the third frisked him from head to toe. He found nothing.

  ‘I prepared an insurance policy for myself,’ Ratoff said. ‘I don’t know if the operation mentioned in the files was actually carried out – I don’t have a clue about that, but I know about the operation and I’m guessing that knowledge is dangerous – as you’ve just confirmed. All that fuss: satellite images, expeditions to the glacier. The rumours about gold, a virus, a bomb, German scientists. All designed to mislead people over a few old papers. You must have known that I would read them, Carr. I knew as soon as I’d looked through them that I was in danger, so I have taken precautions to insure myself against whatever you have planned for me.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Carr asked.

  ‘Why, to get out alive, of course,’ Ratoff said, laughing drily, ‘and hopefully somewhat richer.’

  ‘Money? You want money?’

  ‘Why don’t we make ourselves more comfortable and discuss this?’ Ratoff asked, eyeing the men surrounding him. ‘I’ve been looking for a way to retire and I believe I may have found it.’

  Carr made a final attempt.

  ‘What are you going to do with those papers? As you say, the operation was never carried out. It was only an idea. A crazy idea, one among many, formulated during the dying days of the war. It has no relevance today. None at all. Why should anyone be interested? We can easily deny the whole affair as an unholy blend of rumour and demented conspiracy theory.’

  ‘The papers name the island,’ Ratoff said. ‘Imagine a live broadcast from the island.’

  ‘Even if we did pay you,’ Carr said, ‘and left you in peace, what guarantee would we have that you would leave it at that? That you’re not concealing copies?’

  ‘What guarantee do I have that you won’t hunt me down and pay me a visit one day?’ Ratoff asked. ‘And how could I have made copies? We didn’t take any photocopiers with us to the glacier and I don’t carry a camera.’

  Carr looked even wearier. He had predicted this scenario. After considering the negligible range of alternatives, he nodded at the three men. He did not have time for games, nor any intention of making a deal. Besides, he had never been able to tolerate insubordination, let alone this kind of subterfuge and betrayal. With the mission this close to completion, Ratoff’s conduct seemed, if anything, pitiable.

  ‘You’re right,’ Carr said, his patience audibly exhausted. He addressed the soldiers: ‘Take him and find out what he’s done with the documents.’

  For the first time, Ratoff looked momentarily unsure of himself. Skittering across his unattractive face was the ghost of something that might have been fear.

  ‘If I don’t make contact by a desi
gnated time to confirm that I’m safe, the papers will automatically be released,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Then get to work fast,’ Carr told the three men and turned on his heel. He did not hear Ratoff’s protests of surprise and alarm because the aircraft’s tail-ramp had begun to lift, sealing the aft door.

  C-17 TRANSPORT PLANE, ATLANTIC AIR SPACE,

  SUNDAY 31 JANUARY, 0500 GMT

  At precisely three in the morning the C-17 took off and, after an hour’s flight due west over the Atlantic, changed course, swinging in a smooth curve southwards. It was cruising at an altitude of 35,000 feet, making steady progress in perfect conditions, the thunderous drone of its engines filling the hold which stood empty but for the wreck of the German aircraft.

  A heavy steel door connected the flight cabin to the hold. About two hours into the flight, the door opened and Miller appeared. He stepped forwards, closing the door carefully behind him. From where he stood, he could see that the floor of the hold consisted of dozens of rows of thick, mechanised steel rollers that worked like conveyor belts, over which military equipment and armaments could be moved. He was aware that CCTV cameras lining the hold made it possible to monitor the cargo from the flight deck but he would have to take that risk.

  The temperature inside was several degrees below freezing and small fluorescent strips provided only a dim illumination. Miller shuffled carefully over to the German aircraft, his breath clouding around him, and began to loosen the tarpaulin from one of the sections, on the side where he believed the fuselage was open. He cut through the ties but, unable to pull the heavy sheeting from the wreckage, resorted to hacking at the plastic until he had made a hole large enough to crawl through. Groping his way forwards, with the aid of a powerful torch which he now switched on, he discovered that he was in the front half of the plane. He did not know which section they had stowed the bodies in. The roof was much lower than he had expected, the cabin surprisingly narrow. Once he reached the cockpit, he panned his torch around, taking in the broken windows, the old instrument deck with its switches and cracked dials, the joystick and levers with which the pilot had once flown the plane. His thoughts strayed to the young man who had last handled those controls and he pictured again, as he had countless times before, the moment of the plane’s impact with the ice. After lingering briefly he turned and retraced his steps.