Sea Leopard

by Craig Thomas

  "But why and how would Lloyd have allowed him on board?" Aubrey asked in exasperation. He was baffled and plagued by the murky high-resolution and light-intensified photographs transmitted from the Nimrod. Clark seemed to be reading tea leaves. The whole matter seemed like a fairy tale.

  "He wouldn't need to —"

  "The escape hatches," Copeland blurted out. "After Phaeton went down a couple of years ago, all the hatches had to open two-way. They'd know that, dammit!"

  "Exactly," Clark said drily. "Ardenyev would have let himself in."

  "Eastoe reports a change in position of Proteus."

  "Lloyd trying to get rid of his guests," Clark commented acidly. "Someone's in there, you can bet on it."

  "Then none of our messages got through?" Aubrey asked forlornly. “Leopard” will not have been destroyed."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Clark — what will they do now, for heaven's sake?" Aubrey's eye rested on Giles Pyott's expressionless face with a glance of pure malevolence. Pyott's implacability refuted the accusation of the gaze. Clark cleared his throat, breaking the tension between the soldier and the intelligence agent. Aubrey shrugged.

  "Raise her — depending on the damage, or simply take what they want down there. The situation's complicated by the fact that “Leopard” isn't operational at present. I guess they'll raise her and tow her into port."

  "What?" Pyott asked in disbelief. "That would be piracy. The international repercussions would be — enormous."

  "You'd declare war?" Clark asked ironically.

  "Don't be stupid."

  "Then the shit hitting the fan will have been worth it. What will you do? All of you. You won't go to war, we won't go to war on your behalf, you won't tell anyone because it's all too embarrassing — so nothing will happen. “Leopard” will belong to both sides or to none. That'll be the only outcome."

  "What can we do, Clark?" Aubrey demanded with the impatient emphasis of a frustrated child on a wet day. He was almost shaking with rage and frustration.

  "You" ve been outboxed, Mr. Aubrey."

  "Don't be so damned American," Pyott drawled. "So insufferably smug and patronising."

  "Sorry, Colonel Pyott," Clark apologised. He could not mask his grin completely, even though he sensed the gravity of the situation as completely as anyone else in the room beneath the Admiralty. It was so — so caricatured, this panic in the dovecote. The new shiny toy was missing. There was an absence of concern for the crew of the Proteus that Clark resented on their behalf, even in Aubrey. He also felt, and admitted, a sneaking admiration for the man he felt must have masterminded the boarding of the submarine, Valery Ardenyev. He could remember the man's face and build now, and he could entirely believe in the Russian's ability to successfully surprise and overcome a crew of over one hundred.

  Everything depended upon the degree to which Proteus was damaged. The nearest NATO units were twenty hours" sailing from the present position of the submarine, except for certain small Norwegian units which the government in Oslo would not deploy in the Barents Sea. They could watch, by radar, sonar and aircraft, but they could not intervene. If it took more than twenty hours to raise and tow the Proteus, then the full five acts of the disaster might not be performed. Unless Ardenyev and his men simply unplugged "Leopard" and took it away with them. Clark was inclined to doubt this. The Russians would preserve, at some effort, the bland, apologetic face they had begun to present via the Soviet Ambassador in London.

  "Can we rescue it — them?" Aubrey asked. "Can we get out of the elephant trap that has been dug for us?" he insisted, worrying at the insuperable problem as at a bone. There had to be some hope within the situation, surely?

  "Rescue?" Copeland blurted in disbelief.

  "I can't see how," Clark said more carefully as Aubrey glared at the young Royal Navy officer. The map-board loomed over them all, all its lights gleaming and unmoving, except for the plotted course of the Nimrod on-station as it was updated every few minutes. A fly buzzing above the scene, a carrion bird over a kill.

  "I don't see why they need to raise the sub," Pyott said. They're interested in only one thing, surely?"

  "Ardenyev's done maybe a half-dozen of these rescues on Russian boats in his career. Board and raise operations. He's an expert at it. They needed him to get on board, sure — but they maybe want his expertise at raising boats, too."

  "I must talk to “C” at once," Aubrey remarked. "Our talking is pointless at the moment. We must establish what the Soviet authorities intend."

  Clark shrugged, unoffended that Aubrey doubted his prognosis. His respect for Aubrey had seemed to waver during the past twenty-four hours, like a light revealed and obscured by the movement of clouds. Yet the American, despite the clarity of his own mind, realised he still expected a solution to occur to Aubrey; even a successful solution.

  Aubrey made no distinction of security between himself and the "Chessboard Counter" team, and used one of the battery of telephones in the underground room. Cunningham, he knew, was with the Foreign Secretary, having been summoned to a second meeting with the Soviet Ambassador. He heard Cunningham at the other end of the line within half a minute of placing the call to the Foreign Office.

  "Yes, Kenneth? What news?" Cunningham sounded breathless. Aubrey supposed it stemmed from events rather than exertion.

  "Expert opinion — " Aubrey could not suppress an involuntary glance towards Clark and the tight-knit group around and beneath the map-board — "has it here that the Russians may have boarded Proteus.""

  "Good God, that's outrageous!"

  "The Ambassador hasn't confirmed as much?"

  "He's talking of rescue, of course — but not of boarding. Not directly. Not as yet, that is."

  "How does he explain the incident?"

  There was a chilly chuckle in Cunningham's voice, the laugh of a man succeeding, just, in appreciating a joke against himself. "The captain of the Russian submarine suffered a nervous breakdown. He ordered the firing of the torpedo in question before he could be relieved of his command by the usual heroic young officer, loyal to the Party and the cause of world peace."

  "That is perhaps the unkindest cut of all, that they can get away with such a ridiculous tale, knowing we can do nothing to refute it. And nothing to rescue our submarine."

  "The Foreign Secretary has informed the PM, Kenneth. She's monitoring the situation. Every effort is being made to pressurise the Soviet Union into leaving the area and leaving Proteus to us."

  "And—?"

  "Very little. They insist, absolutely insist, on making amends. For the lunacy of one of their naval officers, as the Ambassador put it."

  "Washington?"

  "The President is gravely concerned — "

  "And will do nothing?"

  "Is prepared to accept the Russian story at face value, for the sake of international tension, despite what his military advisers tell him. I don't think he quite grasps the importance of “Leopard”."

  "I see. We are getting nowhere?"

  "Nowhere. What of this man Quin?"

  "Nothing. The girl is the key. I'm waiting for a report from Hyde."

  "Would it help if we recovered him, at least?"

  "We might then destroy “Leopard”, I suppose."

  "The PM will not risk the lives of the crew," Cunningham warned sternly. "The Foreign Secretary and I were informed of that in the most unequivocal manner."

  "I meant only that we could attempt sabotage, or Lloyd could if Quin was in our hands again."

  "Quite. You don't think “Leopard” had been damaged by Lloyd or his crew?"

  "It is possible, but I think unlikely. None of our signals reached the Proteus.""

  "Very well. Kenneth, I think you'd better come over here at once. You may have to brief the Foreign Secretary before he sees the PM again. Leave Pyott in command there."

  "Very well. In fifteen minutes."

  Aubrey replaced the receiver. The room was quiet with failure. Cla
rk watched him steadily, some of the younger men regarded him with hope. Pyott appeared resigned. It was, he admitted, a complete and utter intelligence disaster — precisely the kind he could not tolerate or accept.

  "Giles," he called, and then thought: where the devil is Hyde?

  Quin beckoned like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. A false, beguiling gleam, perhaps, but he had no other point of reference or hope.

  * * *

  Hyde wished he could call Aubrey from the row of telephones with their huge plastic hair-dryer hoods that he could see through the glass doors of the cafeteria. He was afraid, however, of leaving the girl for a moment. He was afraid of letting her out of his sight for any length of time, however short, and afraid, too, that she was beginning to regret her earlier decision. And he was also wary, treading delicately on the fragile, thin-ice crust of the trust she meagrely afforded him, of reminding her that there were other, more faceless, more powerful people behind him. The kind of people her father had fled from originally.

  The telephones remained at the edge of his eyesight, in the centre of cognition, as he sipped his coffee and watched her eagerly devouring a plate of thin, overcooked steak and mushrooms and chips. For himself, beans on toast had been as much as he could eat. Tension wore at him, devouring appetite as well as energy. Quin was somewhere in the north of England — the girl had said nothing more than that, and he refrained from pumping her further for fear of recreating the drama of obsessive suspicion in her mind. He behaved, as far as he was able, as a driver who was giving her a lift north. The adrenalin refused to slow in his veins. He was nervous of pursuit — though he had seen no evidence of it — and he was suffering the stimulant effects of their escape from Petrunin.

  "How's the tour going?" he asked conversationally.

  She looked at him, a forkful of chips poised at her lips, which were shiny with eating. Her face was amused, and somehow obscurely contemptuous.

  "I didn't have time to notice."

  Hyde shrugged. "I thought you might have heard. I hope they do well."

  "You expect me to believe that's all that's on your mind — the profits of an over-thirties rock band?" she sneered, chewing on the mouthful of chips, already slicing again at the thin steak. The cafeteria of the motorway service station was early-hours quiet around them. One or two lorry drivers wading through mountainous plates of food, a carload of caravanners avoiding the traffic of the day by travelling by night, smuggling their way to their holiday destination, the two waitresses leaning at the cash register, grumbling. Just south of Lancaster. Hyde hoped that Quin was somewhere in the Lake District. The sooner he got to him, the better.

  He shrugged. "No, I don't think you're that stupid. Just filling in time, trying to lull you into a false sense of security." He grinned in what he hoped was an unsuspicious, engaging manner.

  She studied him narrowly. Her plate was empty. "You're odd," she said eventually. "And too bloody clever by half. Don't pull the dumb ocker stunt with me."

  She was still in control of their situation, leading him by the hand to her father, only because her father had agreed. She would tell him nothing until the last minute, to retain control.

  "Thank you. Tell me, why did your father up and away like that? He wasn't really frightened of us, was he?"

  She screwed her face up in thought, then released the skin into clear, youthful planes and curves again. With a bit of make-up, Hyde thought, she wouldn't look bad. They all wear a sneer these days.

  "He was frightened of them — people like the ones tonight," she said. "And he didn't believe people like you —" An old and easy emphasis lay on the words like a mist. Pigs, Fascists, cops, the fuzz. The necessary vocabulary of her age and her education. The silence after the emphatic last word was strained, and she looked down, suddenly younger, more easily embarrassed.

  "I see," he said. "We would have looked after him, you know."

  "No you wouldn't!" she snapped, looking up again. "They watched him all the time. Your people took time off for meals, and the pub, and to go for a piss — they didn't! They were there all the time. Dad said there were a hundred times he could have been kidnapped while your lot weren't there or weren't looking!" She was leaning forward, whispering intently, a breathy shout. "You wouldn't have taken care of him — he took care of himself."

  "I agree we're not as efficient as the KGB," Hyde said evenly. "But he wasn't in any real danger." Immediately, he was sorry he had uttered the words. The girl's features were rich in contempt, and he had no business defending the DS. Quin had been right, in a way. The KGB might have lifted him, any time. "Sorry," he added. "No doubt he was right. Sloppy buggers, some of them." Her face relaxed. "But he's safe now?" Her eyes narrowed, and he added: "Do you want coffee?" She shook her head.

  "You?"

  "No." He hesitated, then said, "Look, you have to trust me. No, I don't mean because you realise I'm trying to save you and your old man from the baddies — you have to believe I can do it. I'm not tooling around Britain waiting for you to make up your mind."

  She thought for a moment, then said, "You'll have to turn off the motorway at the exit for Kendal." She watched his face, and he suppressed any sign of satisfaction.

  It was the importance of it, he decided. That explained her almost fanatical care for her father. She was the key, even to herself. Importantly useful for the first time in her parents" lives. Crucial to her father's safety. She clung to her role as much as she clung to her father. "Ready? Let's go, then."

  The man near the telephone booth in the car park watched them approach the yellow TR7, get in, and drive off down the slip-road to the M6. There was just time for the brief telephone call to Petrunin before they set off in pursuit. Once clear of Manchester and on to the motorway, Hyde had not driven at more than sixty or sixty-five. If he kept to that speed, there would be enough time to catch him before the next exit. He dialled the number, then pressed the coin into the box. Petrunin's voice sounded hollow and distant.

  "I may have some trouble getting away. A slight delay. Keep me informed."

  "Trouble?"

  "No. I must, however, be careful leaving Manchester. I am known by sight. Don't lose them."

  The man left the booth, and ran across the car park to the hired Rover and its two occupants. They were less than a minute behind the yellow TR7.

  * * *

  Lloyd was still angry. The effort to keep his appearance calm, to portray acquiescence to the inevitable, seemed only to make the hidden anger grow, like a damped fire. His father, encouraging the first fire of the autumn by holding the opened copy of The Times across the fireplace in the morning room. He smiled inwardly, and the memory calmed him. His stomach and chest felt less tight and hot. It was worse, of course, when the Russian was there — even when Thurston with his impotent raging and coarse vocabulary was in the same room.

  There was nothing he could do. With his crew confined to their quarters and one guard on the bulkhead door, and his officers similarly confined to the wardroom, three men had held them captive until a relief, augmented guard had arrived from the rescue ship and the damage repair team with their heavy equipment had begun their work on the stern of the Proteus. Ardenyev forced one to admire him, and that rankled like a raging, worsening toothache. The effort of three weary, strained men to drag unconscious bodies through the submarine to monitor the essential, life-supporting systems, to inspect "Leopard", and only then to call for help, surprised him. Enraged him afresh, also.

  There was a knock at his cabin door. Presumably the guard.

  "Yes?"

  Ardenyev was looking tired, yet there was some artificial brightness about his eyes. He was obviously keeping going on stimulants. Lloyd tried to adopt a lofty expression, feeling himself at a disadvantage just because he was lying on his bunk. Yet he could not get up without some admission of subordination. He remained where he lay, hands clasped round his head, eyes on the ceiling.

  "Ah, Captain. I am about to make an
inspection of repairs. I am informed that they are proceeding satisfactorily."

  "Very well, Captain Ardenyev. So kind of you to inform me."

  "Yes, that is irony. I detect it," Ardenyev replied pleasantly. "I learned much of my English in America, as a student. Their use of irony is much broader, of course, than the English — I beg your pardon, the British."

  "You cocky bastard. What the hell are you doing with my ship?"

  "Repairing her, Captain." Ardenyev seemed disappointed that Lloyd had descended to mere insult. "I am sorry for much of what has happened. I am also sorry that you killed three members of my team. I think that your score is higher than mine at the moment, don't you?"

  Lloyd was about to reply angrily, and then he simply shrugged. "Yes. You haven't —?"

  "One body, yes. The youngest man. But that is usually the way, is it not? The others? No doubt they will be awarded posthumous medals. If I deliver your submarine to Pechenga."

  "What happened to the fraternal greetings bullshit?"

  "For public consumption, Captain. That is what our ambassador will be telling your foreign secretary, over and over again. I'm sorry, but your inconvenience will be shortlived and as comfortable as possible. My interest in the affair ends when we dock. Now, if you will excuse me — "

  Lloyd returned his gaze to the ceiling, and Ardenyev went out, closing the door behind him. The guard outside Lloyd's door was stony-faced, and his Kalashnikov was held across his chest, stubby metal butt resting lightly against one hip. Ardenyev nodded to him, and passed into the control room, His own team should have been there, he reminded himself, then wished to quash the reminder immediately. The pills, damned pills, juicing up the emotions, making pain easy and evident and tears prick while they kept you awake —

  They would have a steering crew brought down from the rescue ship once the repairs were complete. Under his command, they would raise the submarine in preparation for towing to Pechenga. Teplov looked up from monitoring the life-support systems, and merely nodded to him. Vanilov was slumped in a chair, his head on his arms next to a passive sonar screen. Teplov was evidently letting him rest.