Charles patted his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. ‘He must be,’ he remarked, not altogether sympathetically.
‘Let’s try “Bollman”,’ John suggested, and punched it in. The computer flicked up ‘Security Error – Ready.’
‘Looks as if it’s giving me one last chance,’ John remarked. ‘The trouble is, they rarely give more than three. Even the staff at IBM only get three whacks at their database.’
Charles looked at Michael, and pulled a face. ‘I practically got killed for this, I hope you realize.’
Michael glanced at him; and saw the stress that was lining the corners of his eyes, tautening his mouth. ‘We practically got killed too, if you don’t mind.’
Charles lit a cigarette, blew smoke. ‘I don’t mind, for Christ’s sake. Just tell your friend to get his act together and find out what the hell’s going on here.’
John nervelessly punched in ‘Fink’, the last type of bridge truss that he could think of. A span of three inverted triangles, strengthened with six right-angle triangles. There was a moment’s pause; and then equally nervelessly, the computer printed out all of Nicholas Reed’s personnel file. Age, 31. Salary, 4,800 DKr a month. Address, 27, Istedgade. And then, at the very end of the list, ‘ready’.
‘Ready?’ asked Michael, leaning over John’s shoulder, and peering at the screen. ‘Ready for what?’
‘Ready for another question,’ said John. ‘Whoever stored this program stored something else besides.’
‘But what do we do? If we don’t know what we’re looking for, how can we log on to it?’
John punched in ‘Fink’ again. The computer replied with ‘Security Error – Ready.’
‘Another password,’ said John. ‘But this time, something quite different. He punched in ‘List previous passwords’ but the computer responded with ‘Security Error – Ready.’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Lev, who had been sitting in the background quietly smoking.
‘Well,’ said John, ‘there’s nothing we can do, short of poking and probing around to see if we can get some inkling of what the next password might be.’
‘And how long will that take?’ asked ‘Hans’. ‘That’s presuming that we can do it at all.’
John made a face. ‘Hours, maybe days. Maybe weeks. Maybe never.’
‘Just a minute,’ put in Charles. ‘The last message I got from Peter Seeker – he mentioned something about “the old code”.’
‘The old code?’ asked Michael. ‘What’s the old code?’
‘We had code-names, when we were both working for the CIA together. They were based on old baseball nicknames. I was Sea Lion, after Charley Hall, the pitcher; and Peter was Charlie Hustle, after Pete Rose, who played for the Reds.’
‘Hans’ laid a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Do you think this is worth a try?’
‘We could do worse. It depends on what sort of a hurry you’re in. If it’s wrong, the computer could block us out completely, and refuse to let us back in. It would be safer to try another way around.’
‘You say days, or weeks? We don’t have time,’ ‘Hans’ replied. ‘Tonight the Russians are camped; but tomorrow they will be on the move again. Come on, let’s try it, it’s as good a chance as any other.’
John punched in ‘Charlie Hustle – Run.’
The display screen immediately went blank. ‘Hans’ threw up his hands in despair. ‘Now we have lost it,’ he said.
‘No, no, wait a minute,’ said John. ‘Give it a moment.’
They watched the screen for thirty or forty seconds. Then suddenly the words ‘Found Charlie Hustle’ appeared, with the word ‘Loading’ flashing underneath them.
‘That’s it,’ said Charles, triumphantly. ‘The old code. The old nickname. Damn it, I haven’t seen that name in years.’
Abruptly, the screen began to fill with information. They stared in silent fascination as the extent of Peter Seeker’s knowledge about the Copenhagen agreement was steadily revealed to them.
‘A re-arrangement of political geography was first suggested when Gromyko visited Washington in 1984 to talk to Reagan. In succeeding months the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Soviet Stavka were given the task of working out how this could be done without at any time exposing either side to unacceptable military risk. Eventually, with the co-operation of the United Kingdom, an agreement was drawn up whereby the Soviet Union would take over Scandinavia and the whole of Europe excluding Spain but including Italy. The Soviets were particularly anxious to have Rome within their sphere of influence because of increasing Roman Catholic dissidence within their own borders, and because of the opposition of the Pope to the puppet regime in Poland. In return for Western Europe, the Soviet Union would withdraw all financial and political support from Communist groups in South and Central America and the Caribbean, as well as any Communist cells within the United States and Canada. The Kremlin would also cease supplies of arms and military finance to Middle Eastern and African nations, in particular Libya and Angola.’
The terms of the agreement, even when summarized by Peter Seeker, ran into thousands and thousands of words. Charles was staggered by the complexity and the detail of it. It included fresh negotiations on fishing rights, fresh limits on international and territorial waters, exchange rates and banking agreements, trade and tariff arrangements, and precise definitions of civil rights within the area which would be described as ‘Soviet Europe’.
‘How did he get hold of all this stuff?’ asked Michael, in amazement.
‘He was a good agent,’ said Charles, lighting a cigarette. The room was beginning to grow dense with smoke now, and John had to take out his handkerchief and dab at his eyes.
At the very end of the summary, however, there was a terse paragraph which startled all of them. A line was left blank, and then the cursor rushed out the words, ‘There has been a further secret negotiation between the United States delegates and the Soviet delegates only. The Soviet delegates were deeply concerned about the United Kingdom becoming a kind of “Cuba in reverse”, and a continuing threat to their security. After several days of talks, the Soviets were persuaded to dismantle their naval base at Spitsbergen and to curtail submarine activity in the Atlantic, in exchange for which they will be allowed completely to take over the United Kingdom. This is to be done without informing the British Government, although I understand that Communist-subversive elements within Britain will be given advance warning so that they can disrupt the movement of troops and generally sabotage Britain’s defensive systems. The United States of course will withdraw all cruise-missile warheads and at the eleventh hour evacuate all USAF bases. In the event of—’ and there the print-out ended.
They stood silent for a long time, staring at the screen. John said, ‘He must have been interrupted. I expect that he was going to send the whole message to you over the phone, but he didn’t get the chance to key the telephone modem instructions.’
Michael said, in a constricted, shocked voice, ‘The Russians are going to invade England, too. I can’t believe it.’
‘You can believe it all right,’ said Charles, dryly. ‘Peter wasn’t the kind of guy who makes things up.’
‘Hans’ smoothed back his hair. ‘It seems that we have come across the greatest double-cross ever perpetrated, doesn’t it?’
‘I have to call Margaret,’ said Michael. He went back to the main office, and picked up the phone. John switched off the IBM terminal and came after him. ‘After you,’ he said. ‘I want to warn Sonya. And my mother, of course.’
Michael dialled the number. There was a long pause, and then a continuous whining noise. He dialled again. Another pause, another whining noise. He tried dialling the operator.
‘Excuse me. I’m trying to get through to a number in England.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the operator told him. ‘All international lines have been disconnected because of the emergency. No calls out of Denmark are being permitted for the time being.’
<
br /> ‘But I called England only half an hour ago.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. No international calls are now permitted.’
‘But this is essential! It’s an emergency!’
‘The lines are disconnected, sir. There is no way that I could place the call for you, even if I wanted to.’
‘What about telegrams?’ Michael demanded.
‘I’m sorry. We are handling no international messages, telegrams or telex.’
‘Then what can I do?’
‘You will have to wait, sir. Again, I’m very sorry.’
Michael hung up. ‘No joy?’ John asked him, and he shook his head. ‘They won’t handle any international calls at all.’
‘Hans’ came in, and stood watching them with his arms folded. ‘What will you do, then?’
‘I don’t see that I have any choice. I’m going to have to fly back to England right away. That’s if you can arrange it for me.’
‘Hans’ said, ‘We can’t take you privately, I’m afraid. But we will see what we can fix up with SAS. Give me some time.’
The girl called Krysta brought in a large tray crowded with mugs of hot black coffee. They sat down in the office together, Michael and John and Lev and Charles, all tired, all tense, all feeling the effects of having at last discovered what was happening all across Europe, too late. They had a deep sense of frustration; a deeper sense of fear; and yet somehow their discovery of Peter Seeker’s report had come as an anti-climax, too.
Charles said to Michael, ‘You got a family? Kids?’
‘One boy.’
‘Well, that’s where you’ll want to be, isn’t it? Back in England, taking care of your boy.’
Michael slowly rubbed his hands together. ‘How do you fit into all this? Are you one of them? Lamprey?’
‘I used to work for Uncle Sam, quite a few years back. This is supposed to be my peaceful retirement. But, well, I have personal reasons for being involved. Those Russians iced some friends of mine. Peter Seeker was one. A Danish guy named Jeppe Rifbjerg was another. Roger, he was a dancer of sorts. Then there was – somebody very close to me.’
He took a deep drag at his cigarette, and blew out a thin, long stream of smoke. ‘The end of the world, you know, that’s only a definition.’
In the other room, they could hear ‘Hans’ talking on the phone. Then there was a quick knock at the office door, and the girl called Krysta came back in. ‘Inge is here,’ she told Lev.
‘Inge Schültz?’ said Lev, getting up from his chair. ‘Well, at last I shall have the pleasure. I have spoken to her on the telephone before, but never met her in person. Is she alone?’
‘No, she has the Russian with her.’
‘The Russian? You mean Nikolai?’
‘No, the Russian marshal, Golovanov.’
Lev whistled. ‘She brought Golovanov here, to Copenhagen? She’s here now? This is astonishing! Show her in! ‘Hans’, come off that phone. Inge Schültz is here with Marshal Golovanov!’
Inge came in first. She was wearing a black beret, dark-tinted Reactolite glasses, and a black belted summer raincoat, Charles stood up, and watched her in fascination as she stalked across the office, tugging off her black kid gloves. She left behind her a waft of Balmain.
Behind her, dressed in a grey raincoat that fitted him across the shoulders but which was four or five inches too long for him, came Marshal Golovanov, looking disgruntled and tired. He was closely followed by a young man with both his front incisors missing, a sagging corduroy jacket, and an UZI machine-gun.
‘Hans’ came out of the inner office. He laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, and said, ‘No success with a flight for you just at the moment, my friend. You may have to be patient. All international flights at Kastrup airport are grounded. Every airline. My friend at SAS says they have been ordered to stay where they are by both the Americans and the Soviet Union, for the safety of their passengers.’
‘What about a boat?’ asked Michael. ‘Is there any chance of getting a boat? Damn it. I’ll drive all the way, if I have to.’
Golovanov asked Inge in Swedish what Michael was talking about. Inge told him, and he replied emphatically, ‘All boats attempting to leave the European coast are going to be turned back by the Baltic Fleet. They will not be fired upon, just turned back. Of course they will be sunk if they refuse to do so. And as for driving, well, that would be impossible. The roads are completely blocked with military traffic, as well as refugees.’
‘Hans’ crossed the office and kissed Inge on both cheeks. ‘How are you, my dear? You did well to bring this fish in.’
‘More of a bear than a fish,’ said Inge, with that Arctic smile of hers. ‘An angry bear, too. He says I betrayed him. He says I used his body and then stole what was inside his mind.’
‘Well, well,’ said ‘Hans’, walking around Golovanov with his hands on his hips, and grinning at him. ‘A real life Hero of the Soviet Union. Zdrastvuytye, marshal.’
Golovanov said nothing. ‘Hans’ asked Inge, ‘Doesn’t he speak?’
Golovanov grumbled, ‘Mne nuzhen perevodchik.’
Inge smiled. ‘He is being rude about your Russian, I’m afraid. He says he needs an interpreter.’
Charles came over and looked Golovanov up and down. ‘Tell him I’m an American,’ he asked Inge. ‘Tell him I’ve heard a lot about him. Tell him I used to work for the CIA. As far as the CIA is concerned, he’s quite a character. A bol’shoy sir.’
‘Who is this?’ Inge asked ‘Hans’.
‘Ah, I must introduce you,’ said ‘Hans’. ‘This is Mr Charles Krogh. He has somehow become entangled in this affair. He has helped us immeasurably tonight.’
Inge inclined her head, keeping her pale eyes fixed on Charles. ‘How do you do, Mr Krogh? I regret that American slang does not translate literally into Russian. Marshal Golovanov is not flattered by your attempt to describe him as “a big cheese”.’
‘Hans’ said, ‘Sit down, we’ll have some coffee.’ He turned to the boy with the machine-gun, and said, ‘Niro, stay outside for a while. Let Tomas get some rest. Krysta will bring you some coffee and maybe a sandwich if you’re hungry.’
Inge unbelted her raincoat, and slipped it off. Underneath, she was wearing the same tight leather jeans as before, and a thin grey cotton sweater, under which her large breasts moved in a way which made it obvious that she was wearing no bra. Charles found her quite disturbing. Her face, her body, and the young calculating coldness which he recognized from some of the finest agents he had ever worked with. It was a special flaw in their humanity, a black hole where their emotions should be, an utter lack of sentiment. He crushed out his cigarette, and made a point of sitting beside her on the white leather sofa, as close as possible.
‘Hans’ said to Inge, ‘Translate this for me, will you? Tell the marshal that we have discovered tonight all the details of the agreement reached between the United States, Britain, and the Soviet Union. We know everything. Tell him we also know that the United States and the Soviet Union have agreed between them to sacrifice Britain, too.’
Inge glanced at him, and said quickly, ‘Is this true?’
‘Hans’ nodded back towards the inner office. ‘It was all on the computer. Nicholas Reed found out everything. Unfortunately, he was surprised by the Russians before he could put the information through.’
Inge hesitated, and then told Golovanov what ‘Hans’ had said. Golovanov nodded soberly, and then shrugged. ‘You are, of course, far too late. In fact, you have made matters worse. It was obviously because you kidnapped me that they started Operation Byliny one week early.’
‘What are you going to do with him?’ Charles asked ‘Hans’. ‘The Russians may be advancing slowly, but even so, they’re going to be marching up Vesterbrogade by lunchtime tomorrow. It strikes me that it’s going to be pretty embarrassing to be caught with an abducted Soviet marshal on our hands.’
‘We will kill him,’ said ‘Hans’, matter-of-factly.
>
Charles looked at Golovanov and Golovanov looked back at Charles. In Golovanov’s slitted Slavic eyes, Charles perceived something that he hadn’t seen for years. It was the curious, hair-raising deadness of a man whose spirit has somehow been broken. A man whose pride has deserted him, and left him fearful of every single hour that passes.
‘Who interrogated him?’ he asked ‘Hans’.
‘Hans’ said, ‘Inge. She is one of our best. She has a nose for a man’s special weaknesses.’
‘What the hell did you do to him?’ Charles asked her.
Inge smiled. ‘Do you want me to give you a practical demonstration?’
Charles slowly shook his head. ‘No. I don’t really believe that I do.’
Twenty-Seven
The Soviet Army began to move westwards again at a few minutes after four o’clock on Monday morning. Huge diesel engines coughed, and belched smoke. Wheels and tracks began to grind forward. Many of the main roads had been cleared of civilian traffic during the night, and the tanks of the 1st Guard Tank Army sped all the way through to the outskirts of Dortmund in less than three hours.
Overhead, huge An-22 transports shone in the morning sunlight, ferrying in mobile rocket-launches, troops, spares, and ammunition. Occasionally, a small formation of MiG-21 air-superiority fighters would thunder overhead, turning and climbing before they reached the gradually rolling-back ‘carpet’ of Western air-space. There were hardly any British or American fighters left in Germany now, and Operation Byliny was gathering momentum without any hostile incidents between the Eastern and the Western forces, but the jets flew over to encourage the troops on the ground, and also to give the Soviet Air Force some active part to play in what was now turning into a huge but very routine movement exercise.
Ahead of the advancing army, the fear continued. The roads through France were so crowded with German refugees that the President of France had been forced to order all border-posts to be closed, and guarded. The Channel ports were overflowing with masses and masses of terrified, bewildered people of every Western European nationality; hungry, confused, and betrayed. But no ferries or hovercraft were running to England, and any small private boats which attempted to sail across the Channel were turned back by Soviet destroyers.
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