Shadow Hunter

by Geoffrey Archer

  The sharp tap on the window made her jump in her seat. She didn’t recognize him at first with his short, dark hair, but then came the familiar smile. Trembling, she unlocked the passenger door.

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come,’ he breathed, slipping into the seat beside her, and tossing his small rucksack into the back.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know why I did . . ,’ she stuttered. ‘You look so different with that hair.’

  ‘The change is superficial, my darling,’ he grinned, putting his arm round her. ‘Underneath I’m the same!’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  He pulled a face like a scolded child.

  ‘Nothing’s changed since last week,’ she warned him.

  ‘Except that you said you’d never see me again, and you’re here now.’ There was a twinkle of triumph in his eyes. ‘But we can’t talk here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Someone might come. Were you followed?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. But then, I’m not trained to spot these things,’ she goaded.

  ‘One mile up the road. There’s a parking place at the top of a hill. It’ll be more private. Drive there please, my darling.’

  She noticed his accent had changed. He’d dropped the Swedish lilt.

  ‘All right.’

  At the edge of the road she paused to allow a red Escort into the car park, then she sped off up the hill. Kovalenko kept his eye on the wing mirror, but there was no one following. The lay-by was signposted, and she pulled in behind a clump of bushes. The car park boasted public toilets.

  ‘This isn’t very nice,’ Sara complained.

  He was silent and didn’t look at her.

  ‘I want to know your real name,’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t you know it already? Haven’t they told you?’

  She realized he meant the security men.

  ‘I don’t think they know it.’

  He smiled inwardly. She’d told him some good news.

  ‘You can call me Viktor.’

  It was okay to tell her now.

  ‘I meant what I said in the letter,’ he told her, then added eagerly, ‘Did you like the flowers?’

  ‘Yes.’ She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘They were lovely.’

  ‘They were to say sorry for deceiving you.’

  ‘You admit you’re a spy. That’s an advance; you were still denying it a week ago,’ she answered tartly.

  ‘What did you expect? But it’s different now. You must listen to me, my darling.’

  He edged closer to her, but without touching.

  ‘When we first met it was for one reason only. Not because I’m a spy and your husband . . . I didn’t know anything about that when we met,’ he protested. ‘Believe me. There was nothing in what you told me that was any use to Moscow.’

  Sincerity blazed from his eyes.

  ‘The reason . . , the reason we met was that we both wanted the same thing. Love. Why does a woman go to a restaurant alone? Because she wants a man. Why was I there alone? Because I needed a woman. We were looking for each other. And then you came back to my hotel, and we weren’t just any man and any woman; we were magic!’

  His face lit up and the grin spread from ear to ear. Sara laughed. It moved her when he looked like that; he was like a big child.

  He took hold of her and this time she didn’t resist. He kissed her mouth. Guiltily she sensed the arousal of her body.

  ‘You are such a woman! So loving, so generous! What we have together is too good to lose!’

  She pulled back and shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  This was dangerous. There was a purpose in meeting him again. A deadly purpose.

  ‘I told you what I’m going to do,’ he pressed. ‘I hate my work. I want to stay in England, to prove to you that you can trust me.’

  Sara shook her head again.

  ‘Why did you come here if you don’t believe me?’ he snapped.

  ‘Maybe I do believe you. I don’t know. But the reason I had to see you is that I’m frightened.’

  His eyes softened as if on cue.

  ‘Not of you. Frightened of what’s about to happen,’ she blurted out.

  Viktor slipped his arm round her shoulder. She accepted it.

  ‘Philip – he knows what you are.’

  ‘I know. You told me last week.’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t tell you the way he reacted. He hates you – he hates all Russians. For all sorts of reasons, good and bad. He wants revenge. He’s on an exercise in the Norwegian Sea – I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Of course.’ He began to frown.

  ‘Well, he’s not doing what he should be doing. He’s ignoring his orders. The Navy’s got no control over him. His submarine’s loaded with mines. They think he’s going to blow up the Russian fleet!’

  Viktor froze. His eyes turned cold; his jaw set like stone.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Philip said something before he sailed,’ she blustered. ‘He was so angry he just blurted it out about the mines. Then, I heard from someone else he’s ignoring his orders.’

  ‘How many mines?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where do they think he’s going exactly?’

  ‘Philip said a name. Poly something, could it be?’

  ‘Poly something?’ He frowned. ‘You came here today to tell me this? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m so afraid of what might happen. Our Navy may not be able to stop him. Someone should be warned. Someone on your side. I don’t want a war to start! If it did, it’d be partly because of you and me! Do you realize that?’

  Viktor stared straight ahead through the windscreen. Instead of laying an inert mine for the Soviet Navy to recover, was Hitchens now going to use them in anger? He must signal Moscow urgently. But first he needed the rest of the information he’d come for.

  ‘I’ll make a deal. I’ll warn Moscow. You must promise me something in return. To speak to your security people, on my behalf, so that I can defect.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Who d’you think could help? Who’ve you spoken to?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘There’s a Mr Black . . .’

  ‘Ah, M15, I think.’

  ‘And Mr Hillier. He’s Foreign Office . . .’

  Sara instantly knew she’d said too much. Viktor had gone very still.

  ‘What have they said about me?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Well, nothing at all, not to me. They just ask questions all the time,’ she stammered.

  ‘Mr Hillier, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He could tell she was lying. What was this all about? Hillier was Secret Intelligence Service, not counter-espionage. Why should he be involved? This message about the mines. Was the SIS behind it? A false story? For what reason?

  ‘Please find out more for me. Your Mr Hillier and Mr Black – I need to discover if they know who I am, and how valuable I could be to them. I need to know if they’ll be sympathetic.’

  ‘I’m not sure they’ll tell . . .’

  ‘Just try,’ he insisted. ‘We can meet again here tomorrow, or the day after. Listen carefully. I’ll phone you each morning. I’ll pretend to be arranging an appointment to mend your TV set. If I need to see you, I’ll suggest a time; if you have news for me, you propose it.’

  He smiled his broad smile at her. For the first time Sara realized he could do it to order. He leaned across to kiss her. Suddenly she felt frightened again.

  ‘I want to go home now,’ she told him.

  ‘Yes, my darling. Return this car to the hotel car park and leave the keys.’

  ‘How will you . . . ?’

  He pointed to where a motorcycle was parked three spaces away. He reached to the back seat, pulled his rucksack onto his knee and extracted a crash helmet.

  ‘I’ll ring you in the morning. And remember – trust me.’

  He pushed open the door and got out. Sara started the
engine. A green Vauxhall parked near the toilets looked vaguely familiar, but she gave it no further thought.

  Viktor Kovalenko pulled the chinstrap tight and swung his leg over the Kawasaki 750cc twin. He flicked the starter button and the twin cylinders burst into life.

  Out on the road he headed back to the main route for Exeter and the north. He worried about the van that followed him to the junction, but relaxed when it turned right for Plymouth.

  He turned left and settled down for the three hour ride to Bristol, checking constantly in his mirror to ensure he was not being shadowed.

  He was oblivious of the helicopter flying two thousand feet above him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Washington DC.

  THE BRIEFING ROOM at the White House simmered with suppressed excitement. The previous evening’s TV news reports from Moscow had stung President John McGuire into calling an extraordinary press conference.

  Over sixty reporters crowded the room; the walls were lined with TV cameras, their operators elbow to elbow. It was hot; already those in the front rows had begun to perspire under the lights.

  President McGuire was a reluctant briefer of the press; he thought it better to say nothing than to risk saying too much. But the sight of the Soviet Bear pretending to be threatened by US F14s, followed by the injured innocence of Admiral Grekov had been too much for him. If America’s own TV networks couldn’t see when they were being manipulated, then it was time someone told them.

  The press spokesman stepped up to the podium.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.’

  There was a scraping of chairs as the reporters stood up; their chatter subsided expectantly.

  ‘Please sit down. And thank you for coming here at such short notice. I have a statement to make, and then I shall be glad to take your questions.’

  The podium in the briefing room had been lowered in height when McGuire took office. He stood just 5 feet 9 inches tall.

  He smoothed the wave of hair on his forehead and took stock of the faces watching him.

  ‘The Soviet Union has accused the United States Navy of aggression. I refute that. Soviet General Secretary and President, Nikolai Savkin, has described the NATO manoeuvres in the Norwegian Sea as provocative. They are not. The Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, Admiral Grekov, asks if the manoeuvres are a preparation for war. The answer is an emphatic NO. And Admiral Grekov. . . .’

  McGuire pulled a sardonic smile. In front of him pens scribbled furiously.

  ‘. . . is a distinguished naval commander, and knows better than to make such an asinine suggestion.

  ‘Let me first deal with what happened yesterday, those pictures on TV last night, showing our fighters intercepting a Soviet warplane, which – it turned out – happened to be carrying an American camera team. The aircraft carrier Eisenhower – on a regular NATO exercise, notified in advance to the Russians – was in international waters, flying aircraft off of its deck. To comply with international safety rules any plane approaching a carrier with a hot deck is warned of the danger, and asked to keep a safe distance.

  ‘The Soviet Bear reconnaissance bomber was asked that yesterday, but refused. In the interests, presumably, of producing the sort of TV pictures screened last night.

  ‘Now, the question of the exercise itself. It’s not provocative. It’s defensive. It happens every two years, and the Soviets have not made a fuss about it before.

  ‘How come it’s defensive? First – and I’ve got to give you some figures here – first, because the Kola Peninsula is home to seventy-five per cent of the Soviets’ submarine-launched nuclear missiles. Over two thousand nuclear warheads, capable of wiping out most of the USA, are installed in submarines operating from the Barents Sea. It is the right and duty of our navy to try to ensure those missiles could never be fired at us.

  ‘Second – the Kola Peninsula provides bases for over eighty per cent of the submarines the Soviets would use to try to sink US ships reinforcing Europe in wartime. Ships that would be laden with US soldiers, airmen and their equipment needed to save Western Europe from a Soviet invasion. It is the right and duty of NATO navies to ensure those reinforcements would not end up at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. And the best way to do that is to stop those Soviet subs from ever getting into the Atlantic.

  ‘Third – if the Soviets were ever to start a war, the north of Norway could be their first objective. The way to stop them invading is air power. That’s why the carrier Eisenhower is in this exercise. To defend a NATO ally.

  ‘Finally, ladies and gentlemen, let me give it to you straight. The United States will never be the one to start a war with the Soviet Union, but if they start one, we will be prepared.

  ‘Now, if you have any questions. . . .’

  Hands shot up in the front row. McGuire pointed to the dark-haired doyen of the White House press corps.

  ‘Yes, Sam.’

  ‘Mr President, is it true that NATO submarines are exercising closer to Soviet home waters than ever before? And if that’s the case, isn’t it open to interpretation as provocative at a time of greater East-West military détente?’

  ‘Now, Sam. You know I can’t talk about where our submarines patrol. I’ve just told you about the threat we face from nuclear missiles. The subs do what they have to do. But the Soviets can’t see our subs – so how can they be provocative.’

  A ripple of polite amusement swept the room. He pointed to another hand.

  ‘Talking of provocation, Mr President, what about the Rostov and the MiGs headed for Cuba?’

  ‘Is that where they’re going?’

  ‘What’re you going to do about it, Mr President?’

  ‘The Soviets haven’t said where they’re sending those fighters. They know our views about changing the military balance around the USA. The MiGs don’t threaten us yet. If they become a threat, then I’ll do something about it.’

  ‘What . . . what’ll you do, Mr Pres . . .’

  McGuire cut him short and smiled at a woman from the Washington Post.

  ‘Laura . . .’

  ‘Why do you think Mr Savkin is so concerned about the naval exercise this year?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that.’

  ‘He says we’re being unneccessarily aggressive. Have you given instructions to the Navy to avoid doing anything which the Soviets might interpret as provocative, Mr President?’

  ‘No. The Navy’s doing what it does every two years or so. Normal manoeuvres. No special instructions.’

  ‘But if Mr Savkin’s out to make trouble, some people feel it’d do no harm to hold back a little, Mr President . . .’

  ‘I don’t accept your premise . . .’

  ‘What about the other navies in the exercise? The British, for example. Can you be sure they won’t do something to provoke the Russians?’

  His blue eyes locked onto hers. What did she know? Reynolds had told him the Brits had a submarine gone AWOL. Had she heard it, too?

  ‘Our NATO allies are at least as experienced as us in handling the Soviets,’ was his non-committal reply.

  ‘Last question, ladies and gentlemen,’ the press spokesman called from behind the President’s shoulder.

  ‘Sir, d’you think President Savkin’s trying to deflect attention from the problems he’s having with perestroika?’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s one for him to answer, not me. Thank you, folks. Have a good day.’

  McGuire glanced at the cameras and turned to leave. He knew he’d disappointed them, but he’d had one simple message to put across, and he’d given it them.

  ‘That was one goddam wasted morning!’

  The bored male voice came from somewhere in the middle of the room, loud enough for McGuire to hear. But he didn’t care.

  * * *

  ‘Press conference okay?’ Reynolds asked anxiously, back in ‘the bunker’. Presidents had a habit of being provoked into unwise statements by the media.

&nb
sp; McGuire shaped his thumb and index finger into a bullseye.

  ‘They got what I wanted, not what they wanted.’

  Reynolds grinned, then pulled a folder from his briefcase and spread the contents on the maple-wood table.

  ‘Intelligence agencies have been working nights,’ Reynolds joked, flicking the pages of the files in front of him.

  ‘First the easy bit,’ he continued. ‘Defense Intelligence Agency reports the Rostov’s going slow. Still headed for the Caribbean, but not in any hurry. Still nothing from the satellites that tells us it’s Cuba, but humint sources in Havana say Castro’s pretty happy about something, and he’s not got much else to smile about right now.’

  ‘They threw me a question on the MiGs. Some time I’m going to have to change my line. The question is, when do those fighters become a threat? That’s when I’ll have to say something different.’

  ‘The Pentagon’s working on an options brief. They’ll have it for you tomorrow.’

  Reynolds sounded impatient. He shoved the Rostov file to one side.

  ‘Listen. The CIA’s got something new out of Moscow. This stuff’s hot!’

  ‘Give it to me, Tom.’

  ‘Savkin’s just lost his majority on the Politburo. Only he doesn’t know it yet. The faction that supports his reforms of the economy is now in a minority. Secretly the opposition to Savkin has decided to put the brakes on. They want to freeze prices, reintroduce subsidies on food, and break the link between pay and output. Strikes are spreading like crazy; they reckon it’s the only way to stop them turning into riots.’

  ‘Is that reliable information?’

  ‘Copper-bottomed, the Company says.’

  ‘And how come Savkin doesn’t know what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s one of his closest friends that has changed sides, and he’s still choosing the moment to tell him. But the CIA thinks Savkin’s seen it coming – that’s why he’s been sounding off about “American aggression”. Wants a distraction. Needs one – at any price, John.’

  His final words hung like a thundercloud. Their eyes met, unblinking.

  ‘How far would he go, Tom?’

  ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand dollar question. The Soviet section chief at Langley thinks Savkin wants a shooting-match – a little one – just so long as it’s us that starts it.’