In Scandinavia, lights burned in government buildings all through the night. The Swedes had no doubt that the Russians would also try to take over Sweden and Denmark and Norway. The Finns had already conceded defeat, and opened their borders to the Soviet Army so that a representative tank force could drive into the centre of Helsinki, and park in serried ranks along Mannerheimintie, the main shopping street.
The Finnish correspondent for the New York Times, Aaro Haanpää, wrote in his private diary. ‘I understand rationally why the government has allowed the Soviet Army to drive without resistance into Helsinki; they could not face the prospect of another war of attrition with the Russians. Not another Viipurii, not another Lake Ladoga, not another Bombing of Helsinki. There are times when you look back into your mind, and you have to say, ‘not again’.
‘But walking this evening all the way from Museigatan to Erottaja Skillnaden, beside rows and rows of Russian tanks, I felt an emotional fury so great that I could scarcely prevent myself from pounding with my fists on the armour of each one of them, and crying out, “Mitä te olette tehneet maalleni? Mitä sinā olet tehnyt sydāmelleni?” What have you done to my country? What have you done to my heart?’
Twenty-Five
In Copenhagen, however, on the fourth floor of a shiny grey office block on Thorvaldsensvej, just across from the Landbohøjskolen, an extraordinary meeting was taking place – an extraordinary meeting that would have extraordinary consequences. The office had been borrowed from the Frederiksberg Paper Company, whose managing director was a longtime friend of the man who called himself ‘Hans’. It was quiet, air-conditioned, decorated in dark blue. On the walls were rows of shiny abstract lithographs by young Danish artists. The furniture was made of white leather and curved beechwood.
Michael and John and Lev had been the first to arrive. Rufina was being kept in a house in the suburb of Brønshøj, west of Copenhagen, for questioning by two of Lamprey’s Danish agents, one of whom had been a double KGB agent for nearly nine years.
Michael and John were both exhausted, and even Lev was red-eyed. After they had been picked up from the beach at Vyborgskij Zaliv, the two Bell Jetranger helicopters had flown them first to Karhula, 50 miles further west along the coast, and well into Finland; and then, after refuelling from a parked tanker, they had been taken to a small private airfield at Kirkkonumini. From there, they had been flown through the night in a Learjet belonging to Suomi Cardboards, and landed in the early hours of the morning at Ledøje, in Denmark, an hour’s drive by rented car from Copenhagen.
The Finnish helicopter pilots who had rescued them from the Soviet Union were friendly and amusing. During the winter months, they said, they flew food and mail up into Lapland, During the summer, they took any work they could get, and that included ‘rescue missions’ for Lamprey. At Kirkkonumini, while they were waiting for their plane, Michael had talked to the younger of the two, whose face under his huge multi-coloured knitted hat was entrancingly troll-like. Fie had asked him whether the risks of flying illegally into the Soviet Union were worth taking.
The young man had grinned, and laughed. ‘Meidān ystā-vāmme aina maksavat meille hyvin. Sinā unohdat, heillā on rahaa kuin roskaa! He ottavat mitāhe haluavat valtiolta, heillā on varaa olla antelioita. Sitāpaitsi, ystāvāni ja minā teemme kaikkemme etta Ryssa nāyttāisivat nauretivilta. Ystāvāni taistell Viipurissa.’
Lev had briefly translated. Lamprey always paid the pilots very well, because Lamprey had almost unlimited financial resources – the intelligence budgets of nearly a dozen different countries. What was more, they would do anything to cock a snoot at the Russians. The older of the two pilots had fought during the war at Viipurii.
The older pilot, who had been smoking a small black cigarette, had spat out of the side of his mouth on to the linoleum floor. Then he had grinned, and said ‘Alā ole huolissusi minusta. En saannut hyvāā kasvatusta.’
Michael and John showered in the green-tiled executive bathroom at the Frederiksberg Paper Company, and a blonde girl called Krysta brought them clean blue shirts and C&A slacks and new pairs of nylon socks. Then they were taken through to the main office, where ‘Hans’ was sitting on the edge of the desk reading through sheets of computer programs.
‘Hans’ smiled and offered his hand. ‘Mr Townsend, Mr Bishop. You may call me ‘Hans’ if you wish. It is not my real name, but it is better than people saying “hey, you,” every time they want to speak to me.’
‘Do we have you to thank for our escape?’ asked Michael. Then suddenly, feeling weak, he said, ‘Would you mind if I sat down? I think I’ve just about had it.’
‘Please,’ said ‘Hans’, and offered them chairs. He walked around the desk, picked up the telephone, and said, ‘Krysta, bring us some coffee, please. Yes, you know where they keep it.’ Then he walked around the desk again, and sat down, rhythmically swinging his leg.
‘Your escape was not the first. So far – as Lev might have told you – we have brought seven British specialists out of Russia; not because we were particularly interested in saving them from a lifetime of hard work in some distant and uncomfortable part of the Soviet Union. We are not so philanthropic! No, the reason was that we were interested in depriving the Soviet Union of expertise in several crucial areas of defence. Weapons systems, radar, all kinds of avionics, missile-proof armour, computers… they were being sent experts of all descriptions. Most of the experts are still imprisoned in the Soviet Union, of course, but we did manage to snatch quite a respectable percentage.’
‘Hans’ smiled, and stood up again. ‘Now, of course, we know why they were being sent these experts, and under what kind of arrangement.’
Michael said, ‘You mean that it was all a prelude to what happened today? The Russian invasion?’
‘Of course. The sharing of high-tech information was unquestionably part of a package deal which the Americans and the British must have come to with the Kremlin. It seems to us that the deal has many ramifications; some of which have been obvious, like the withdrawal of American and British forces in the face of the Soviet incursion. Others have not been so obvious, like the very careful protection of ancient monuments. I had word today from one of our people in Bremen that a special detachment of the Soviet Army was protecting the Schütting guildhouse, and presumably they are protecting the rathaus, too. So you see, this military operation has been very carefully worked out, down to the last details; and it was plainly a major part of the agreement that there should be very little bloodshed and no damage to property. The ultimate war, my friends! Far more sophisticated than nuclear attack. Far more frightening, in a way. A war in which the outcome has already been decided before any of the armies begin to move.’
Michael wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘Can you still get telephone lines to England?’ he asked. ‘I would very much like to call my wife.’
‘Of course,’ said ‘Flans’. ‘But please understand why we have deployed a considerable amount of our resources to bring you here to Copenhagen. You are computer experts, yes? That was fortuitous for us. It would have been even more fortuitous if you had fallen into our hands a week ago. We believe, you see, that some of the details of the agreement reached between the Western allies and the Kremlin may be stored in the databank of a computer here in Copenhagen; and we would appreciate it very much if one of you could attempt to log on to that computer and extract as many of the details as possible.’
John slowly shook his head, and sniffed. ‘Can’t see much hope of that. Sorry.’
‘You are an expert, yes?’ ‘Hans’ asked him.
‘Well, yes; and I can log on to most run-of-the-mill computers; but if any of this agreement is stored in a databank here in Copenhagen, in a country that is basically hostile to the Soviet Union, then you can bet your life that it’s totally secure. Protected by prime-number codes, special security passwords, you name it.’
‘You can’t get in?’
John looked across at Michael, and blew out his
cheeks, and shrugged.
Michael said, ‘You could give it a try.’
‘Won’t get very far,’ said John, pessimistically. ‘And, besides, there’s always the danger that the computer’s owner may track back, and discover where we’re coming from. And knowing what these customers are like – well.…’
‘Hans’ said calmly, ‘The computer is an IBM 2000, located in the offices of a firm of Danish architects, Klarlund & Christensen. There is an IBM 2000 here, in this office, which is partly why I chose this place to bring you. One of our own people has already had a try at logging on to the Klarlund & Christensen database, but without success. What we are particularly looking for is any information stored by an agent of ours called Nicholas Reed. Well, that was the name under which he was working. We think that perhaps he may have left us some information which will be helpful.’
John looked unhappy. ‘I’m very tired,’ he said. ‘I’m not at all sure I could do it. Not without codes. Not without half of an inkling what the codes might be.’
‘Hans’ looked at his fingernails. ‘We are questioning the Russian lady you brought from Finland with you, Miss Konstantinova. It is possible that she may know something helpful. Not likely, but possible.’
John said, abruptly, ‘You’re not going to hurt her?’
Michael was embarrassed, mostly for himself. He began to see now that right from the moment they had been met by Rufina at Sheremetyevo airport John had taken a fancy to her. Well, they both had. But whereas Michael had been reasonably good-looking and reasonably confident, John had been tongue-tied and bespectacled and clumsy, and unable to compete. Yet, he still cared for her, and he showed it, without shame.
‘Hans’ smiled. His smile was like the slow-burning fuse of a stick of dynamite. ‘We never hurt anybody,’ he said. Then, still smiling, ‘You believe that, don’t you?’
‘I want to call my wife,’ said Michael. Anything to change the subject.
John took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. ‘Well, if you’re going to do that, I might as well take a look at this computer. No point in us both wasting our time.’
Michael looked back at him sharply, but decided that they were both too tired to start arguing; and in any case, there were far more important things to be done.
‘Come,’ said ‘Hans’, and beckoned John through to the office where they kept their main computer terminal. As he went, he pointed to the telephone on the desk. ‘You can use that phone to call your wife. The operator will tell you the code for Britain.’
Michael dialled home, the old Sanderstead number, and waited with a rising feeling of unreality while the phone rang and rang and rang at the other end. At last, it was picked up, and he heard Margaret’s sleepy voice say ‘2551. Who’s speaking, please?’
‘Margaret,’ said Michael, in a rather stilted voice. ‘Margaret, this is Michael. I’m safe.’
‘Michael?’ she said, although she knew it was him. And then she started to cry.
‘Margaret, please don’t cry. I haven’t got long. I’m safe.’
‘Oh, darling, you don’t know how frightened I was. I thought you were dead. I was sure you were dead. And when the Russians started invading Germany… I didn’t think that I would ever see you again. Oh, darling. Are you still in Russia?’
‘No, I’m in Copenhagen. Some people – well, some friends helped to get me out of Russia. John, too. He’s safe. You could call Sonya and let her know. I’m sure she’d appreciate it. How’s Duncan?’
‘Oh, Duncan has missed you like anything. Oh, Michael, I’ve missed you, too. I really thought you were dead. I’m sorry I’m crying. Oh, Michael, I’m so glad to hear from you. When will you be home?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Michael told her, ‘but soon. Very soon. Please don’t worry. The people I’m with now, they’re friends. But I’ve lost my passport, everything, so it may take some time for me to get back into the country. Listen, I’ll call you again as soon as I know anything, I promise.’
‘Do you have to go now?’ Margaret asked him; begged him.
‘I’m sorry, darling. This isn’t my phone. But I promise to call you again just as soon as I can. I mean it.’
Margaret said, ‘This Russian invasion – it won’t affect Britain, will it? They keep saying on the television that it’s perfectly all right, and that we don’t have to worry.’
Michael took a breath. ‘As far as I know, you don’t. It’s all part of some deal that was made between Britain and America and the Soviet Union. I don’t think the Germans are very happy about it; but apparently it’s going to make World War Three a lot less likely. I mean, that’s all I know. I’ve only heard the same kind of news that you have; and I’ll be home soon.’
‘Oh, do hurry, won’t you, darling?’
An odd and mischievous picture came into Michael’s mind: a picture of Rufina standing in front of the mirror at the Rossiya Hotel, naked, her crimson-nippled breasts cupped in her hands, her pubic hair black and shaggy. She was the first girl that Michael had ever known who didn’t shave under her arms. Somehow, that seemed faintly unhygienic and dangerous.
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I’ll hurry. Give my love to Duncan. Tell him I miss him.’
At that moment, the office door opened and a fiftyish man in a crumpled linen suit walked in; unshaven; with bruised cheekbones; and demanded, ‘Where’s “Hans”?’
‘I’m on the phone,’ said Michael.
‘I can see that,’ the man retorted, in a dry American accent.
‘Darling, I’ll have to go,’ Michael told Margaret. ‘Please believe me – I’m going to do everything I can to get home as soon as possible. Wednesday at the latest.’
He put down the phone. The American stepped into the middle of the room, and looked around him, with his hands on his hips, and his middle-aged spread bulging over his waistband. ‘The way things are going, I don’t think any of us are going to get home, either now or ever.’
‘You’re looking for “Hans”?’ said Michael, edgily.
The American nodded, and then held out his hand. ‘Charles Krogh.’
Michael shook his hand, and said, ‘Michael Townsend.’
‘You know this crowd?’ Charles asked.
‘Lamprey? Well, yes. They rescued me from Russia.’
Charles said, ‘That figures. They do things like that. They’re very – what do you call it? Iconoclastic.’
He hesitated for a moment, and then he said, ‘Breakers of icons. The world has always badly needed people like that.’
Then he frowned at Michael, and added, ‘Why did the Russians want anybody like you?’
Twenty-Six
John said, ‘This is it. The Klarlund & Christensen computer.’
On the screen in front of him, the green words hovered, ‘Klarlund & Christensen IBM 2000 ready,’ with a flashing cursor. John had contacted the computer through the telephone modem connected to his own IBM keyboard; although he was still faced with the task of penetrating the database relating to Nicholas Reed. He punched in, ‘Personnel File – Nicholas Reed’ but the computer flicked back with ‘Security Error – Ready.’
Charles came into the office, closely followed by Michael. He shook hands with ‘Hans’, and nodded towards John. ‘Is this your computer expert? How’s he getting on?’
‘Well, he has just started,’ explained ‘Hans’. ‘The data we are looking for will be well concealed by passwords and codes.’
John sat back. The flashing green letters on the computer screen were reflected in his glasses. ‘We’re lucky,’ he said, ‘the computer’s giving me another try at keying the right password. Some high-security computers only give you one shot, and if you fluff that, even if you mistype, then they close down on you and won’t let you in for anything.’
‘How can you possibly find out the password?’ asked Charles.
‘Logic,’ said John, and punched in, ‘Run all redundant passwords.’ There was a moment’s pause, and then the comput
er printed out three defunct passwords, no longer secure. ‘Whipple. Pratt. Howe.’
‘Well, well,’ said John, taking off his glasses. ‘Just the kind of code you would have expected from a firm of architects.’
Charles said, ‘What’s this – Whipple, Pratt, Howe?’
‘My dear chap,’ John beamed, turning around in his chair. ‘Whipple, Pratt, and Howe are all varieties of truss.’
‘Truss?’ Charles demanded. ‘You mean surgical truss?’
Tired as he was, Michael couldn’t stop himself from laughing. John said, petulantly, ‘Constructional truss, for bridges.’
‘All right,’ Charles acceded. ‘But what purpose is it going to serve knowing what all the old passwords were?’
‘In this case,’ said John, ‘it might do us rather a lot of good.’
‘Rather a lot of good,’ Charles mimicked, sarcastically, in a British accent. ‘Listen, expert, why should this computer have told us what all the old passwords were, anyway? Aren’t they just erased, when they change them?’
‘Not always,’ said John. ‘Quite a few companies use a cycle of ten or a dozen passwords, and store the passwords that they don’t happen to be using at any particular moment in the computer’s memory. All they have to do to change the password is to key “change password” and the computer automatically selects the next one. This is very low security; but good enough for most ordinary companies, who don’t have anything very vital to conceal.’
Michael said quietly, ‘What are you going to do now?’
John shrugged. ‘As far as I remember it, there are only five main nineteenth-century bridge trusses. Five, or perhaps six. If that’s what they’ve chosen, then today’s password must be one of two or three remaining types of truss.’
Charles shook his head. ‘This is unbelievable. Bridge trusses. Who the hell knows about bridge trusses? I didn’t even know bridges had trusses.’
Michael said, ‘John – well, he’s interested in that kind of thing. You know, engineering, electronics. Anything technical. He’s quite a genius, in his own quiet way.’
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