They’d been inclined to lock her up, but they’d allowed her to call a government telephone number in Oslo, and remarkably quickly the Army had then sent a helicopter to pick her up from the military airfield just outside town. The police had taken her out there to meet it, and had insisted on getting an army signature for her, but in the interval she’d been brought up to date on recent events, including the brutal murder in Alta of a Sami by the name of Nils Aikko — who had previously been in police custody, assisting in their enquiries into the cause of the Tromsrø air disaster — and the apparent suicide by hanging of a young Sami girl in Karasjok. The dead girl had been the niece of a well-known Sami author and exponent of yoik, a man known as Isak, who’d simultaneously vanished, was believed to have taken a party of American tourists into central Finnmark.
A colonel — he and the general were both Norwegians — told her now, ‘The three individuals found shot dead within a few kilometres of the highway were, going by various indications as well as by what you’ve told us, Soviets and Spetsnazi. Their weapons were Israeli Galil assault rifles, and they’d all been killed by bullets of the same calibre. A fourth Galil has been found behind the stove in the Statens fjellstue near Aiddejavrre, along with other equipment including a short-wave radio. Probably stashed there by the man who shot the truck driver and tried to kill you. But as to the other three — what might have happened down there — well…’ He shrugged. Then glanced at her enquiringly, as if hoping for some explanation from her, for that litter of foreign bodies. She’d been told earlier, in fact, about the three dead Soviets, and her relief had been tremendous; none of the descriptions had come anywhere near a picture of Ollie, and the three dead men’s skis had been of East German manufacture, whereas Ollie’s Royal Marine skis were Norwegian-made. But none of it was any guarantee that Ollie was alive now, or would be tomorrow. Another aspect of it that kept her from making any comment was that when no war situation existed, killing was homicide even in self-defence. She’d given them a detailed report of everything that had happened, but the only death she’d mentioned had been that of Isak.
‘One must assume that Captain Lyle fought his way out of a Spetsnaz ambush.’ The general was studying his cigarette as he spoke. ‘And will now be in the process of rescuing the Americans. He does seem well able to look after himself.’ He looked at Sophie now, half smiling. ‘Your concern is entirely understandable, Miss Eriksen, but — well, by and large I believe you could afford to relax now, wait for him to surface with his Yanks in tow.’
‘He’s one man alone, General. With those two to look after, and one of them can’t walk …’ Heaven knows how many Spetsnazi there may be — but they tried to kill us, they did murder Isak… If you won’t ask the Finns for help, couldn’t you send in a small rescue party, a group of good skiers — including a doctor perhaps — maybe by helicopter?’
‘Miss Eriksen—’
‘I could guide them. I’d be only too happy, to—’
‘Would you listen to me for a moment, please?’
She waited, looking at him. He was a nice man, he was reasonably sympathetic, very likely a fine soldier too, but that had damn-all to do with it. Most sympathetic of them all, genuinely sharing her concern for Ollie, was Major Grayling, the Royal Marine officer who was the only foreigner on this staff, at this moment leaning sideways to put down his empty coffee-cup.
The general went on, ‘I would say there’s no doubt that Captain Lyle has taken precisely the best options that were open to him. In doing so he has also demonstrated a remarkable ability to evade and outwit these infiltrators, and with your own very considerable assistance he has succeeded in alerting us to this threat while at the same time doing as much as could have been done to safeguard the Americans. Personally I have every confidence that we’ll hear from him, and them, in the next day or two. I should add that by now our patrols will be all over the border regions — keeping low profile for the time being, but they’ve been told to keep a sharp lookout for that party and to render any necessary assistance — short, that is, of crossing the border. Eh?’
The colonel gave him a nod of confirmation, and he went on, ‘But your suggestion that we alert our Finnish neighbours — at this juncture, Miss Eriksen, I’m sorry, but it’s not possible. In the context of decisions taken at the very highest levels. This is for your ears only, now. To start with, the only way to face a threat of this nature — and from the Soviets of all people — is from a position of strength. And ignoring for a moment the NATO exercise deployments — which have barely got under way except for the British 3 Commando Brigade Royal Marines — although, as you would have expected, such other elements as are immediately available are being rushed to us — well, for example, look at our own two hundred kilometres of frontier with the USSR. It’s a light fence, as I suppose you know, not fortified in any way on our side, and to guard it we have one rifle company of a hundred and fifty men, drawn from a garrison of five hundred men based a few miles away, the other side of Kirkenes. Whereas the Soviets face us across that fence with fifteen hundred MVD border troops backed by two motorised infantry divisions, one brigade of naval infantry, two Spetsnaz brigades, powerful air support and of course enormous naval power just along the road.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘See what I’m getting at?’
‘Are you saying we can’t defend ourselves?’
‘Certainly not. We can, and will. I’m explaining that our dispositions are designed to maintain a state of peace — with a deliberate imbalance, taking the greatest care not to offer them the slightest provocation. So until we have deployed our own reserves as well as standing forces, and also much larger forces than we have available in Norway at this moment, we would not be so idiotic as to invite an immediate attack. Doesn’t this make sense?’
‘We pretend we don’t know anything’s happening, until we’re ready for them.‘
‘Right.’
‘But the Soviets are already in Finland. How can we not inform Helsinki?’
‘Frankly, that’s an equally sensitive situation. I’m speaking in the most strict confidence again, Miss Eriksen. The point is that we can’t be certain that such information, if passed to the Finnish government, might not — well, go forward into the wrong hands, thus bringing about exactly the situation we’re determined to avoid. As soon as we’re ready — then, of course-’
‘I understand, but—’
‘Deployments are in progress. Even from — well, far away. Movements not only of troops but of air and naval forces, at this stage all under cover of preparation for the forthcoming NATO exercise.’
‘Does it have to take so long?’
The general glanced covertly at his watch. Grayling stared at the ceiling. The colonel said, ‘Forty-eight hours isn’t so long, particularly when care has to be taken not to attract attention to what’s happening. But also, bear in mind that you yourself have told us we have almost eight weeks in hand?’
‘Captain Lyle may not have eight hours!’
‘Well.’ Grayling stirred. ‘While I’m totally in agreement that the sooner he’s out of Finland the better, I’d support what the general said just now, that he’s an extremely competent, expert operator, to the extent that I’d guess the Spetsnazi should be more worried than we are.’ He smiled at her. ‘But as I mentioned, sir — the Americans have expressed concern for the safety of the professor and his assistant. I told them — this was last night, Miss Eriksen, after we’d studied your report and also one from the Kautokeino police, and obviously Oslo had been in touch with Washington — I told them Lyle had gone back into Finland to bring them out, that they’d be in his extremely capable hands; and as they know, obviously, of the policy decision as outlined by the general — well, they seemed more than satisfied—’
‘They may be.’ Sophie’s fists were clenched in her lap. ‘They are a very long way away, they haven’t any idea at all how it is down there, how it was, how it must be for him now. I am not satisfied, I want him out!’
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‘As we do.’ The colonel nodded. ‘Him and the Americans, and the sooner the better. But he’ll come out, we don’t have to fetch him — which is just as well, because we can’t.’ He glanced at the general, then back at her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Eriksen, but you really do have to accept…’
*
She said to Grayling — in his office, after they’d left the general, who had yet to shave and have some breakfast — ‘I could have been talking to the wall. Once you people have your minds made up.’
‘I know how you must feel.’ He offered her a cigarette, and she declined it. He went on, lighting his own, ‘In fact I’m entirely with you. But I also see that the arguments they were giving you are extremely cogent, in all the circumstances. And I do feel very sure that Lyle’s competence, already well demonstrated — for heaven’s sake, those three Spetsnazi didn’t kill themselves, did they — leaves little reason to doubt that he’ll emerge with his Yanks very soon now.’ He picked up a telephone.
‘Yes. Absolutely… Yes, all right, I’ll be there in—’ glancing at a clock ‘— say fifteen minutes? Fine.’ He hung up. ‘Sorry. But it’s all your doing, this, you started it all, didn’t you? Actually, thanks to the fact that everything is now in hand and rolling faster every minute, this is by far the quietest it’s been since your call came in and electrified us all, about this time yesterday. As you’d already been on to your department in Oslo, we had them, London, Washington and Brussels all yelling at us at one and the same time. Confucius he say, ‘Instant satellite communication mean total bloody chaos’… But the show’s on the road now, things may seem to be moving in slow motion but you really would be surprised.’
‘I believe you, Major. But I’m concerned only for one person.’
‘Quite.’ He nodded. ‘Am I right in thinking it’s — very personal?’
‘Even if it were not—’
He‘d snatched up another ringing phone. ‘Grayling here.’ Listening, making a note… ‘Right. Got it. Thank you.‘
He hung up. Feeling his unshaven jaw, and turning his mind back to her problem. When MoD had dumped this Lyle thing on him he hadn’t thought of it as anything important. Now it had blown up into major earth tremors and, potentially, if it wasn’t handled very, very skilfully, could become the start of World War 3. And Lyle in person was still so to speak his baby. He began — feeling his way, sympathetic but wanting her off his back now because there was a lot going on in which he was involved — including the possibly imminent arrival of 4 MAB, Marine Amphibious Brigade, six thousand US Marines under a two-star general and with all their own transport and artillery — ‘I can really only advise you as the general did — to be patient, try not to worry, trust in his turning up very shortly, complete with Yanks. There really isn’t anything we can do except wait. NATO simply cannot go barging into neutral Finland, you see… Actually I’d like to persuade you to go and have a good rest, you’ve been through the hell of an ordeal and it’s hardly surprising you’re maybe a little overwrought. Frankly, you ought to be tucked up in a warm bed!’
She thought — almost said aloud — Yes. With Ollie…
*
The shotgun blast was a thudding punctuation in the wind’s howl. But it was recognisable. He was in the fringes of the wood, with the snow-hole thirty metres away: and seeing a man appear reeling, staggering and then falling sideways on to the low wall, struggling along it and sidling bear-like around its end, into the open. Arms clasped across his belly… Ollie crouching in the straggle of birch, releasing the skis’ bindings; then, as he straightened, pushing the selector-switch of the MKS to semi-automatic. This would be a mercy killing: having devised the trap that had done that. The Russian was bent double, forearms clamped over his lower abdomen in an attempt to hold himself together or simply clasping pain, blood literally flooding down. His face turned upward, staring up and forward like a blind cripple begging — for release, for the impossible — his mouth a black hole, no sound audible except the wind’s. Ollie sighted, point of aim the forehead: he was on target and about to squeeze the trigger when he heard what he realised later was the metallic thwack of a steel crossbow firing, and the head in his gun’s sights shattered as if something inside it had exploded. The Russian toppled — his weight had been well forward — his arms opening, limp, as he collapsed on his face and the mess of his own stomach.
Ollie lay flat in the snow, facing downslope, searching through trees and blizzard, knowing the crossbow artist couldn’t have seen him either, certainly hadn’t before he’d fired that shot… Mind on the search, but also wondering where Juffu might be — he was out there somewhere, having gone ahead, an old fox sniffing out its territory, snuffling for any intruder’s scent. Probably passed wide of the snow-hole: leaving it for me…
A shot cracked over. He heard the shot itself — from his right? — and had guessed there might be a suppressor on that weapon, before the bullet whipped past his head with an unmistakable ‘down-range’ crack which again suggested reduced muzzle velocity, reinforcing the suppressor theory. Crossbow first, then a silenced rifle, and the shooter had him in sight, obviously, which made for a situation that wasn’t tolerable, so move… Sprinting — baboon-type lope, the only kind soft snow allowed — for the cover of his own custom-built wall. Built for others, not for himself, but they wouldn’t be needing it now. Dodging, before he got there and dived in behind it, and a burst of automatic fire raking the trees, then raising snow-fountains along the top of the mound. Shifting into automatic and crabbing rapidly to the wall’s far end. Russian blood all over, orange-looking in this light. From the end he’d work his way out close to the ground, try to get some sight of wherever this threat might be. Over Carl’s legs: smell of scorching as he passed.
A gun — MKS, like this one — was propped against the inside of the wall. The Russian would have put it down in order to have his hands free to grab hold of Carl’s boots and haul him out… He had his own gun ready: hoping to be lucky, catch the Spetsnaz shifting his position… Edging out from the wall — flat, in the snow, but a blare of automatic fire came so instantly that the Russian must have known this was where he’d show himself, might have been sighting on this spot and ready for him to show; but also he’d have to be up on his feet, even up on a branch, to have enough height of eye to get a view of him from downslope. Wherever he was, this was no second-rater.
Back in partial cover of the wall he was straining for a glimpse of him through the blinding effect of blizzard when there was one quite different-sounding single shot — from the right, up in those trees. An entirely different sound, and he guessed Juffu… Well timed, at that, with luck an end to the frustrating business of being shot at without knowing where to shoot back. Part of his own slowness could have been psychological, the image still vivid of that shambling creature virtually gutted. You could think of yourself as case-hardened, but there were limits. He was in the open again, clear of the wall, half up to search for his enemy, hoping he might be preoccupied with Juffu but not taking anything for granted, having respect for this Spetsnaz man’s fast reactions and marksmanship. Snow driving horizontally from left to right, all white and grey with the blackness of the trees behind, daylight growing but nothing like grown yet…
There.
Movement, a flitting from one tree to another. Ollie knelt with his left shoulder against the end of the wall; back in semi-auto, sighting on an apparent swelling of the lower part of one birch trunk. He fired, fired again at a blur of very swift movement, and heard the Armalite bark again from his right. And the target was suddenly in full view. For a half second… He’d shifted to automatic and squeezed off a short burst but the Russian had gone — into trees, bark splinters flying where he’d vanished. Ollie had squeezed off a longer burst, the end of it wasted except for the hope of a fluke shot, the target already out of sight: he must have crashed out into the open snowfield and would have gone straight down, no doubt.
Or stopped, in trees a short distan
ce down, hoping to be followed?
Juffu had fired twice, was reloading on the move, ski-skating away through the wood in long, swaying lunges. Following the Russian out into the open — for Christ’s sake… Ollie yelled at him: the sound was lost in the welter of wind and snow. Changing his magazine… Then he floundered to his skis, twenty or so metres away, passing close to the whitening body. Guessing that the big man — who might be the guy Juffu had talked about, which could partly account for Juffu’s extreme rashness — had decided odds of two to one were unacceptable and therefore ducked out of it: and Juffu was now offering him a grand slam… Ollie forced his bindings shut and pushed off across the slope, twisting between trees with the storm’s force at his back. The edge of this wood was as far as he was intending to go: if the old fool had chased, gone on down — well, Christ…
He’d picked a pro, too, who might well be the one he’d talked about, Spetsnaz leader, thus a red rag to the bull. Still, a very unwise bull: a wolf lacking one man’s cunning, let alone nine… Skidding to a stop, outside the trees, to have some kind of view, but close to them. Visibility about five, six metres. He saw two sets of tracks. One would be the Russian’s, the other where Juffu had stem-turned in the soft surface snow to point his skis straight down the hill, narrow twin tracks converging where he’d brought his planks together to race down parallel to that other set. Visibility faded into whiteout where hillside and blizzard merged.
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