The Valkyrie Project, page 7
Jahn lit a cigarette in a sailor’s way against the wind and leaned farther over the rail, delighted with the scene before him. The NATO flotilla, most of them frigates, were flying the flags of the United States, Britain, Canada, West Germany, Portugal, the Netherlands, and Norway. This was a friendly visit, but they were being greeted rudely. An anti-NATO mob had gathered at quayside, just as Erikisson had ordered, and were raising noisy hell, with a great deal of shouting, swearing, and fist shaking. Some carried signs. One youth brandished a wooden horse’s head on a pole, a medieval Icelandic means of inflicting a curse.
The young crew members guarding the gangway of the nearest NATO ship looked frightened, as they should have. The ship was the British frigate Bacchus, in the Icelandic view, one of the great villains of the 1976 cod war. Only the British would send the Bacchus to Iceland on a goodwill cruise. The Soviets were a lucky gang, and they were most fortunate of all in their adversaries.
A line of policemen came running down the quay, separating the protesters from the ship like a knife. The crowd became noisier and more agitated for a moment, then quieted and thinned as those in the rear began to drift away. The point had been made; the ship cursed. Newspaper photographers had captured much of it.
Jahn picked up his duffel from the deck and, shouldering it, left the trawler and joined the last of the demonstraters as the crowd dispersed into the streets. He trailed along behind them for a block and then slipped into a sailors’ bar, a hot, smoky place filled with foreign seamen. He swilled a glass of vodka with the relish of any sailor just off his boat, ordered and drank a second, then wandered off into the town. He spent a sailor’s day, even to leering from beneath his lowered watch cap at Icelandic girls. At dusk, he went to a cinema and took a seat in the rear, removing his hat and heavy jacket and wadding them into his duffel. Exchanging his fisherman’s boots for a pair of shoes, he left the theater midway through the not-very-good American movie, looking like just another man in a business suit—Rozkowski, the Polish engineer. It was dark and he was not followed. If he had been, there would be nothing at all suspicious about Mr. Rozkowski’s dropping by the Polish embassy. He worked, after all, for a state-owned company.
Yuri Gorushchenko had arrived early and was waiting in the basement room, which he had filled with the smoke from his foul Turkish cigarettes. Like many Soviet diplomats, Gorushchenko affected the best Western clothing he could afford, and other capitalist habits, but he would not abandon those awful cigarettes. He had a narrow, rather un-Russian face. He was by far the smartest Russian in Iceland, which was fitting, for he was the ambassador.
“Reykjavik is full of NATO sailors,” said Jahn, seating himself across the table from Gorushchenko. The room was dimly lit.
“Seventeen hundred officers and crew,” said the Russian. He had a raspy, unpleasant voice.
“It makes it easier to move about,” Jahn said.
Without a word, Gorushchenko took an Icelandic newspaper from his lap and dropped it on the table in front of Jahn. The German did not read Icelandic well, but there were pictures on the front page of Krog, and the girl he had killed. She was more attractive than he remembered. “You glory in your efficiency,” Gorushchenko said sarcastically.
“I was surprised by the girl,” Jahn said. He lifted his eyes to look into Gorushchenko’s. “Surveillance said nothing about any girl. I did what was necessary.”
“Krog is alive?”
“I presume. I never saw him.”
Jahn lit a cigarette of his own.
“And we do not know what he knows?”
“As far as I can determine,” Jahn said, “he knows that Erikisson has agreed to the aluminum plant. There’s no reason to believe he learned anything more than that.”
“And we do not know what he has told the Americans?”
“You tell me, Herr Botschafter,” Jahn said, knowing how much Gorushchenko disliked the German language. “I’ve been at sea. What does our American friend say?”
“Our friend says they are very unhappy about this murder in Washington, but they have done nothing. Here, the Americans have been quiet. The British have been quiet. Everyone has been quiet. Everyone has been going to parties for these NATO ships. Even I have gone to one. Next they will be giving me a tour of the air base at Keflavik.”
He smiled. Jahn smiled. Suddenly, Gorushchenko raised his arm above his head and then slammed his fist down on the newspaper. “This Krog should be dead!” he shouted.
Jahn glared at him sullenly.
“He will be soon enough,” he said.
“‘Soon enough’ is not soon enough!” Gorushchenko said, nearly bellowing. “There is the election!”
He paused to catch his breath, then inhaled from his squat cigarette, exhaling a malodorous cloud that lingered almost motionless in front of his face. Gorushchenko then leaned into the cloud, lecturing Jahn as though he were an imbecile. “Krog could make Erikisson change his mind,” he said, this time in a heavy whisper. “Krog has followers of his own. He has friends. This is a small country. Who knows what he might be able to do, what he might be able to tell the Americans? Who knows what he might be able to figure out for himself?”
He leaned even closer. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. “Colonel,” he said. “Emil. We have both been involved in extraordinary endeavors, in events of the greatest consequence. This is such a simple matter. How can you allow one dumb Icelander to put it all in jeopardy?”
“I’ll have my people in place,” Jahn said. “Even if he is captured by the Icelandic police, it will be easy to kill him.”
“It was easy to kill him in his little east coast cabin, Colonel.”
“Gospodin Ambassador,” Jahn said. “The man is being hunted down as a murderer. He’s likely to be shot on sight. Anything he has to say will be disregarded. His effect on the election will be nil. He is neutralized, believe me!”
Gorushchenko pursed his lips and nodded, though not necessarily in agreement. He rose, stretched, and went slowly to a file cabinet in the corner, talking all the while.
“I should not be concerned,” he said. “It was not my decision to bring you into this. Now that you have been, our responsibilities are clearly delineated. I am responsible for the political problem and you are responsible for the security problem. Krog was a political problem, but now he is a security problem.”
He took a bottle of vodka from the file drawer, filled two small dusty glasses, and brought them to the table.
“I wish you luck,” Gorushchenko said, raising his glass. “I look forward to your success.”
It was not that pleasantly simple. Gorushchenko knew full well the importance of what they were about. If something went wrong, they would both be shoveling dung in Mongolia. Or graves.
“Prosit,” said Jahn, raising his own glass.
Gorushchenko frowned at the word. It was not easy for Jahn being the highest-ranking German in the KGB. It was not easy being any kind of German working with Russians.
Two thousand miles and three time zones distant, in a huge but low-ceilinged underground room, there was another conversation in Russian. The admiral from Murmansk and the KGB general, both just arrived in Moscow, stood circumspectly just inside the door, waiting to be summoned by the group of high-ranking officers busy at the long table at the other end of the room.
“We have your man back in Reykjavik,” said the admiral.
“I know,” said the KGB man. “The embassy sent a signal.”
“Gorushchenko?”
“Yes.”
“How do they get along? I understand your man can be difficult.”
“He is a professional. He’s my best.”
“One of my captains said Gorushchenko seemed unhappy.”
“I do not tell you how to steer your ships, Anatoly.”
The admiral shrugged. “I was in Riga this morning,” he said. “Warmer than here.”
“I was in Paris,” said the general.
The admiral grinned.
“They are so much preoccupied with themselves,” said the general.
A young major, brusque and self-important, approached. “The marshal will see you now,” he said.
The marshal’s expansive peasant face betrayed none of the nervousness one might expect from a man with his colossal responsibilities. He seemed cheerful and contented, as though having just come from a large and good meal.
“Ah, yes,” he said, smiling, as he turned in his chair to greet the two newcomers. “The Valkyrie Project. Our little sideshow.”
“Our principal sideshow,” corrected a party official in civilian clothes seated next to him.
“All goes well with it?” the marshal asked.
The KGB general reached to open the briefcase chained to his wrist, but the marshal halted him with a wave of his hand.
“I have seen all that,” the marshal said. “Very impressive. Very impressive. The Premier himself was very impressed with it. Just tell me, all goes well?”
“All goes well, Gospodin Marshal.”
“And you, Admiral?” said the marshal, turning his chair a little further to look as carefully into the naval officer’s face as he had the general’s.
“The project is launched, Gospodin Marshal,” the admiral said. “All is on schedule. The Valkyries will soon be flying.”
The marshal looked from one to another, his eyes almost merry. Frantic teletypes could be heard in a corner of the room.
“If this fails,” the marshal said, “all is not lost. We may consider everything else …” he waved his palm up over the table “… an exercise, a drill.”
The merriment abruptly vanished from his eyes, replaced by a dark scowl. “But, of course,” he said, “we do not want this to fail.”
“No, Gospodin Marshal,” said the general.
“We do not in any way want this to fail,” repeated the marshal.
“No, Gospodin Marshal,” said the general and admiral together.
“We shall talk again soon,” said the marshal, and with that he turned back to the computer projections spread out on the table. On his way out, the KGB general glanced at the huge, brightly lit wall map. Iceland seemed so far out of the way. Sideshow.
Elisabet Bjornsdottir slipped off her robe and stepped naked into the tub in her small bathroom. Hers was an old-fashioned apartment and the tub had been built in the old-fashioned way, square and very deep, with a ledge to sit on. Her long legs were cramped, but there was compensation in that the steaming hot water came to her shoulders. She leaned her head back against the wall tiles and closed her eyes. These fifteen minutes every morning were the most relaxing part of her day.
This one was starting earlier than expected. It would last long, and end for her in the United States. One of the other hostesses had taken ill, and they had called Elisabet at five in the morning to ask whether she would take the girl’s place. She agreed, not happily but without much protest. Her plans for the evening had been ruined anyway. She was to have had dinner with Magnus Andersson, but he had been called back to the east coast because of that horrible murder. Her plans had been serious, fantasized to the happiest ultimate conclusion. It was the second time that week that such hopes had been upset by this wretched crime. She had viewed the murderer with disgust. Now she was beginning to hate him.
It was difficult for Elisabet to explain, even to herself, her attraction to this dark, brooding policeman. The first time she had met Magnus she had thought him bookish and somewhat rude. At the Arnasons’ dinner party, however, he surprised her by saying something wonderfully wry, and, drawing him out, she found him to be a quite warm and gentle person behind his policeman’s brusque façade. Rather than cold, he was shy and rather sad. If he was bookish, he loved poetry—and had read and admired her poetry.
She eased her body deeper into the tub until the water rose nearly to her chin. A sudden rain shower was rattling against the window.
Magnus was a quintessentially Icelandic man. As she grew older, Elisabet came increasingly to value that. Because of her travels, she had dated men from many other countries. Now they tired her, especially Germans and Americans. The harbor was full of foreign trawlers, freighters, and navy ships, and the streets of Reykjavik were consequently full of foreign sailors. One of them, a tall lout who smelled of fish and liquor and wore his watch cap pulled down so far it seemed a medieval helmet, had jostled her on a narrow sidewalk and tried to fondle her bottom.
The thought of that made her shiver despite the steamy heat of the bath. Flying to America might prove to be a good idea. The flight was not to New York or Chicago, as she had feared, but to Icelandair’s newest destination: Baltimore-Washington International. Her friend Sonja, who had given up her job as an air hostess to marry an Icelandic-American lawyer named Peterson, lived in Baltimore, and Elisabet occasionally visited her. She thought she might do so again. Icelanders were welcome at any time of the day or night at the Peterson house.
Elisabet opened her eyes. With them closed, she kept seeing that groping sailor with the thin pink face.
By lunchtime, Commander Richards had taken four calls over the secure phone from Whelan, who had news—and questions. The waterfront protest demonstration had been organized by Communists, Whelan proclaimed. What a surprise. The demonstrations were to continue every day as long as the NATO flotilla was in port, he said; then they would switch to the main gate of the base at Keflavik. How amazing. There were three Russian trawlers in harbor, instead of two like the last time. Was that significant as far as the navy was concerned? Oh yes, it showed a fifty percent increase in trawler dockings. Whelan’s men had put a make on no fewer than three agents from the other side mingling with the NATO crews. Had Richards’ people identified any? Just the usual crowd. The Soviets were not very big on transferring personnel.
Still, Richards had made a point of relaying Whelan’s concerns to his admiral, and, to make doubly sure of his grounds for complacency, he checked again with his sources in the Icelandic Coast Guard and Justice Ministry. They said the same: Except for that murder out on the east coast, no one had reported anything out of the ordinary. All was well.
Richards was less annoyed with Whelan than usual. He was, in fact, in fairly good spirits. The visit by the NATO flotilla had given him a great deal to do—professionally and socially. That night, for example, there was a reception at the British Embassy for the officers of the frigate Bacchus. Richards looked forward to an opportunity to renew his acquaintance with the wife of the British Embassy’s first secretary. She was Danish, formidable in the prow, and apparently fond of fun and games. Iceland being Iceland, there’d be no slipping off down some scented, shadowy garden path. But there were always closets.
On his way to the officers’ mess for lunch, Richards stopped at the situation watch room to learn from the duty roster when Truscott would be coming on shift. He wanted to talk with Truscott—in a careful, casual sort of way. Because of the demonstrations, all enlisted personnel had been confined to base, but Truscott had reportedly been seen in Reykjavik the previous night.
6
Spencer always liked a drink while he packed. He was being extremely careful with liquor now, especially since he would shortly be off on his mission. But it was an old habit and he indulged it, filling a squat glass with Johnnie Walker Red and ice and keeping it nearby on the night table as he worked. His beaten-up old leather shoulder bag could fit with only minimal cramming under the seats of any airline in the world, even Central American ones, yet carried enough clothing to last a week or more without washing. With the ease of years of practice, Spencer fitted in a heavy-duty L. L. Bean rough country outfit, along with a warm tweed suit for the street. As always, he’d wear gray flannels, a blazer, and a turtleneck on the airplane.
He had an axiom. Success at anything, but most particularly the newspaper business, was largely a matter of being a jump ahead. It could be a very short jump, just so long as it was ahead. To lag behind, if only a little, invariably meant trouble, if not failure. At the moment, he was a jump ahead, or he would be once he mailed the heavy package on the night table. It contained two hollowed-out books in which were carefully packed his thoroughly cleaned and checked pistol, and a box of .32 caliber ammunition. No one ever messed with the mails. Postal authorities the world over routinely delivered diamonds, bombs, and the details of revolutionary plots without knowing it. All he needed was a safe address in Reykjavik. He had not asked Laidlaw for one because Laidlaw had made it more than clear he didn’t want Spencer armed.
Spencer had obtained from the Icelandic embassy in Washington a list of knowledgeable people to interview on the thrilling subject of hydroelectric and geothermal power, as well as the names of some helpful types in the Foreign Ministry and one of the local newspapers. If Laidlaw wouldn’t give him any contacts, he’d acquire some of his own. There might even be someone around who remembered him from the cod war.
He wished George Peterson were going with him. It was Peterson who had gotten him interested in Iceland in the first place, when at a Christmas party in 1975 he had suggested the glorious adventure to be had sailing out into the midwinter Atlantic in one of those dinky gunboats to play bumper-tag with Perfidious Albion. Peterson was Spencer’s lawyer. He and his wife, Sonja, had been among his and Chesley’s closest friends. Peterson’s parents had been Icelandic immigrants, his father at one time an important Icelandic horsebreeder. Peterson still had some peculiar sort of business dealings in Iceland. He seemed to have peculiar business dealings all over the world.
