Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  The mate was watching the radar screen.

  “Anything there?” asked Jones.

  “No, Comrade, there is nothing within twenty miles of us. Only the Skori over there.”

  Jones looked through the port side windows. The destroyer was still keeping in station about a mile away.

  “Good.” He moved over to the chart table. “You are familiar with the course we are taking?”

  “Yes, Comrade.”

  “Show me on these charts.”

  Kubychev spent half an hour explaining the course in detail and answering questions put to him by Jones.

  By the time he had finished it was 7.45 a.m., and the bell sounded.

  “What does that bell mean?” asked the Welshman.

  “The bell is always struck fifteen minutes before the end of each watch.”

  “I see.” Jones was staring forward at the armed guard who was standing in front of the entrance to the forepeak. “Those guards, do they work normal watches?”

  “Yes, Comrade.”

  “The American crew are in the forepeak, aren’t they?”

  “Yes … all except the officers.”

  “And do you consider that one guard is enough for them, Kubychev?”

  “Yes. The steel door is padlocked, it is in view from here at all times, and there is no other entrance.”

  “Portholes?”

  “None, Comrade.”

  “That seems satisfactory,” said Jones. He turned to the guard. “Get that American officer out of the chart room. I think it’s time I questioned him.”

  The guard unlocked the door, kicked it open and sprang back, Sten-gun at the ready.

  Dingle, his face still bloody from the treatment Gorki had given it, strolled out.

  Jones was about to speak when Kubychev shouted: “The Skori, Comrade. She’s coming in closer.”

  The Welshman turned. “Give me your glasses.” The mate handed over his binocular, and Jones studied the destroyer. It was racing towards the Vologda, whooping joyfully in the way that destroyers will. Then, less than a cable away, she slewed round to run parallel with the merchant ship once more. The siren was still whoop-whooping, and the warship’s entire complement of officers and men seemed to be lining the rails.

  The door behind Jones banged shut as Gorki, bleary-eyed, arrived back on the bridge to find out what all the noise was about. Then the cheers of the Skori’s crew could be heard echoing over the water, replacing the blare of the siren.

  Gorki spoke: “As the commander of this operation, Comrade, they will be expecting you to go out to acknowledge their salute.” The disappointment in his voice was plain. Clearly, Gorki thought he should be the one to go out and take a bow.

  Jones nodded. He walked out on to the wing of the bridge and raised his arm in salute. As he did so, the Vologda’s siren boomed out, and the Russian crew, who were by now all standing at the rails, cheered back at the destroyer.

  With a final whoop-whoop, the Skori seemed to leap forward. She turned and moved rapidly away.

  It was all very touching — and Jones didn’t dare glance in Dingle’s direction as he limped back into the wheelhouse. A few Russian eyebrows would have been raised if he laughed.

  Eight bells struck and there was a flurry of activity on the bridge as the helmsman, lookouts and guard were relieved. Kubychev handed over the watch to the second officer, a young moody-looking man called Lubicz. He told Jones later that he was a Pole whose parents had moved to Russia after the war. His father was a Party official.

  Kubychev marked up the ship’s log. Jones noticed that it was the original log of the genuine Vologda. Entries showing a voyage north-about the British Isles had been faked, but now they were correct; normal, routine entries which, of course, did not mention the encounter with the submarine and Jones’s arrival.

  With the departure of Kubychev, the previous orderly calm returned to the bridge.

  Jones signalled to the new guard. “Take the prisoner down to my cabin. I want to question him.”

  “Which is your cabin, sir?”

  “The captain’s. But search him first.”

  Dingle was searched thoroughly by Lubicz, but nothing was found. The guard prodded the British agent in the back with the Sten-gun and the two men left the bridge.

  “I’ll go and finish my sleep,” said Gorki. “Call me if anything happens,” he told the officer of the watch. “I shall be in the chief engineer’s berth,” he added heavily.

  Dingle and Gorki left the wheelhouse together.

  “Send someone to my cabin with a substantial meal for two,” said Jones. “I didn’t eat too well earlier this morning. I’ll share breakfast with the American. We’ll see what sort of co-operation a little kindness can buy … first.” He smiled cruelly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Deep in thought, Dingle was lying on the bunk in the captain’s spacious cabin. Smoke spiralled up lazily from a forgotten cigarette held in his left hand, which was hanging over the side of the bunk, almost touching the floor. He jerked upright, smothering a curse, as the cigarette burned down and the red-hot ash stung his fingers. Flicking the offending butt into the wash basin, he swung his legs to the floor and sat facing Jones. The SS(O)S agent had reached a decision.

  “I’m sorry, Glyn,” he said. “I don’t think your plan will work.”

  Jones, stretched out on a couch which was fixed to the opposite wall, opened one eye.

  “Why not?”

  “Several reasons. You say we’re due to reach the narrow part of the channel between Denmark and Sweden at about eight o’clock.”

  “Yes. If we had control of the ship we could run for either Halsingborg in Sweden, or Helsingor in Denmark … ”

  Dingle shook his head.

  “I’m afraid that’s out. The Director’s orders were specific. We mustn’t involve any other country unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

  Jones sniffed: “Oh yes, he would make it more difficult.”

  “Apart from that,” Dingle continued, “that damned destroyer is bound to stick close going through the narrows, and we’d have a job to shake her off.”

  “We’ll be faced with that little problem anyway, sooner or later,” said Jones gloomily. He brightened: “Do you think the Director will give me a raise in pay when he knows I actually took the salute from a Russian destroyer?”

  Dingle grinned. “You’d better ask him. But make sure I’m not near enough to hear his reply. My eardrums are delicate.”

  He became serious again.

  “My main objection to your idea is that we won’t have time. I don’t think we can even start to try to take over the ship before about eight-thirty tonight.” Jones stared. He sat up.

  “Hell man, that’s … ” he glanced at his watch … “nearly twelve hours from now. What do we do until then? I’ll be bored stiff,” he added sarcastically. “I forgot to bring my knitting.”

  Dingle sighed, patiently.

  “Look, Glyn, this ship is being run by a gang of thugs. They’re well-armed — and they’re fully trained in the use of those arms. We couldn’t hope to take them alone; we’ll need the help of the American crew. Right?”

  Jones nodded. “Right. That’s what … ”

  “But the American crew will be green troops for an affair like this,” Dingle said. “A frontal attack would be of no use. The Americans would be mowed down like hay. Gorki would realize he’d been hoodwinked by you and call on the Skori for assistance … and we would be up the Kattegat without a paddle.”

  “So?”

  “So the only way we can take the ship is by stealth. And for that we’ll need darkness … and careful timing. It will be dark by eight. But the watch changes at that time, so it would be better to let things settle down and start moving at about eight-thirty.”

  “Have you worked out how we do it?” asked Jones.

  “Yes.”

  Dingle explained
his plan, and the two men spent the next half an hour working out the details and the timing.

  When they had finished, Dingle said: “That’s it then. You put that pilot chap, Brook, in the picture. I’ll brief the American officers.”

  “Right,” said Jones. “We’d better get out of here.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Someone might get suspicious if we stay together much longer.”

  Dingle stripped off his thick sweater. He held out his hand.

  “Come on then, man. Give me the hardware.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Jones took off his jacket to reveal two shoulder holsters, one on each side. Each held a .38 automatic. He gave them both to Dingle, who concealed them under the bulky sweater.

  “You’ve got your own gun?”

  Jones put his jacket on and tapped the pocket.

  “In here,” he said.

  The two men stood silently for a few moments. Then Dingle said: “Well, get on with it, man.”

  “Okay, boyo,” said Jones reluctantly. “But I warn you, this is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”

  He smashed his fist into Dingle’s face.

  The Englishman gasped as the wounds inflicted by Gorki were reopened. His face was, once more, covered in blood.

  “The things we do for effect,” he said. “All right, let’s go.”

  Jones crossed to the door, turned the key, and opened it. The guard was standing outside, Sten-gun at the ready.

  “Take this American pig and lock him up with his friends.”

  “Yes, Comrade.”

  The guard was smiling sadistically at Dingle’s bloody face.

  Jones took his own automatic out of his pocket.

  “I’ll come with you, just in case he tries to be a hero. I want to see where the officers are being held anyway, to satisfy myself that the security arrangements are satisfactory.”

  He walked behind Dingle and the guard along passageways and down companionways. As they passed the engineers’ cabins, one of the doors opened. Gorki stepped out and turned to look at Dingle’s face as he passed. He smiled bleakly at Jones.

  “Kindness didn’t work then?”

  “No,” said Jones sourly. “Nor did other methods of … er … persuasion.” He changed the subject. “You haven’t had much sleep.”

  “I don’t need much. I’m just going up to the bridge,” replied Gorki.

  “Come with me first. I want to see the other American prisoners. How many are there?”

  The Russian fell into step with Jones.

  “Twelve,” he said. “Three deck officers — the mate was killed when we took over the ship, and the captain you know about; two scientists; two radio officers; and five engineer officers. And that’s what is puzzling me. I am sure we accounted for all of them. I checked carefully.”

  Jones suddenly felt cold.

  “You must have made a mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes like that.”

  They came to a halt behind Dingle and his escort, who were waiting outside the store room where the American officers were imprisoned.

  Two men were guarding the door. One carried a Sten-gun; the other had a .38 revolver in a holster.

  “Open the door,” snapped Gorki.

  The guard with the Sten-gun stood with the weapon cocked, facing the door. The other man, holding his revolver in his right hand, flattened himself against the wall to the right of the door. Reaching across with his left hand, he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open wide. The door was in the left-hand corner of the store room and, as the door swung open, the man had a clear view of most of the inside of the room.

  Security here was obviously good. Anyone who tried to make a dash through that door would be met by a hail of bullets.

  Jones was impressed. He shifted slightly so that he could see into the store room; and he was appalled by what he saw.

  The prisoners were sitting on the floor, leaning against the walls. They were all pale; some looked really ill. But it was their defeated look that really shocked the Welshman. They were past caring; men without hope.

  Then the smell hit Jones. The smell of too many men confined for too long in too small a space. He didn’t allow the disgust he was feeling to show.

  “Good,” he complimented Gorki. “Your security arrangements are quite adequate.”

  He jerked his head towards Dingle, and said to the guard: “Put this man in with them.”

  But Gorki stepped forward to the doorway. There was nothing to fear from those twelve listless men.

  “Which of you is the third engineer?” he shouted.

  Jones saw Dingle stiffen.

  Twelve faces stared back dully at Gorki.

  “Answer me.”

  A stocky man with grizzled hair, older than the rest, spoke.

  “Grant’s the third.”

  “Which of you is Grant?” asked Gorki sharply.

  Dingle suddenly called out: “Okay, Grant, you can come clean. They’ve caught me.”

  Gorki swung round furiously and hit Dingle in the face, making the blood flow once more.

  “Shut up,” he shouted.

  Interest began to flicker in at least half-a-dozen of those twelve faces; the spark of life was showing in their eyes.

  “I’m Grant.”

  A big-boned young man with short, fair hair hauled himself weakly to his feet.

  Gorki pulled Dingle in front of him.

  “Do you know this man?”

  Dingle and Grant stared at each other. The Englishman’s battered face grinned, painfully, and his eyelid drooped in a wink.

  “Okay, Grant buddy, you can tell him who I … ”

  Dingle’s speech was cut short as the back of Gorki’s hand smashed, once more, into his face.

  The man with the grizzled hair spoke again. The spark of life in his eyes had been fanned into a flame now; and they were intelligent eyes.

  “He’s a supernumerary officer.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” flared Gorki.

  “Well I’m telling you,” replied the other quietly. “I ought to know, I’m the chief engineer.”

  “I’m asking you for the last time, Grant,” shouted the Russian. “Do you know this man?”

  “Sure,” drawled the young American. He didn’t know what the idea was, but he knew he must back up his chief. “Like the man says, he’s a supernumerary.”

  “His name?”

  “Pope.” Grant said the first name that entered his head.

  “And why is he sailing in this ship?”

  Grant thought back to a previous voyage, when they had carried an extra officer.

  “He’s sailing to Hamburg with us to join one of our other ships, the Yellow Rose. Her third engineer’s been taken ill. Pope’s the replacement.”

  Gorki pushed Dingle violently into the room.

  “Lock the door,” he ordered the guard. His face was purple with anger.

  “I don’t believe them,” he said shortly to Jones. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  Jones didn’t reply. The two men walked together, silently, back to the bridge.

  *

  The Vologda was rolling heavily in the sea which was being whipped up by a force eight wind. The bridge clock gave the time as eleven. Gorki was fully occupied, supervising the change in course, and new figures were being chalked on the board for the quartermaster.

  The new course was swinging the ship southwards — from the Skager Rak into the Kattegat. The Skaw, the north-eastern tip of Denmark, was somewhere off to the right; but the low cloud and rain squalls keeping visibility down to three miles, there was no land to be seen.

  The Skori, too, was out of sight. The blip on the radar screen showed that she was just over five miles away, ahead of the Vologda and slightly to port.

  The destroyer captain’s decision to keep watch from a discreet distance was
a relief to Jones. If the Skori kept away, it would make things that much easier when the time came to try to retake the Vologda.

  But Jones was worried. He knew that Gorki’s mind, once he had finished with the business of navigation, would return to the question of Dingle. Gorki was no fool. There was a distinct danger that he would put two and two together — and come up with the right answer.

  And Jones was tired; desperately tired. It was barely sixteen hours since he and Dingle had left the Director’s office in London. In that time they had made a parachute drop into the sea, taken a trip in a submarine, and boarded a ship controlled by a Russian K.G.B. man. The strain of bluffing Gorki had been enormous; and now the strain was beginning to tell, as Jones had known it would. That was why he had favoured an early attempt to take the ship.

  With the change of course, the motion of the ship became more uncomfortable. Heavy seas were breaking over the bow, and the guard on duty at the entrance to the forepeak was getting very wet.

  As Jones leaned against the rear wall of the wheel-house for support, a new worry began to nag at his aching head. Would those men, whose prison Dingle was now sharing, be fit enough to seize the ship? Some of them seemed hardly capable of standing. And what of the seamen packed into the forepeak? They were quite likely to be in an even more sorry state. At least, he thought, the pilot, Brook, should be fresh. He had retired to the cabin he had been given soon after finishing his early breakfast.

  Jones called to Gorki: “Are you going to be busy here for much longer?”

  The Russian walked across to him.

  “The wind doesn’t seem to be getting any stronger at the moment, but I might as well stay here until the next watch takes over at noon. Then as soon as they have settled down I intend to … ”

  “As soon as you are free,” the Welshman interrupted, “I want you to report to me in my cabin. I’ll order lunch to be sent there for both of us at twelve-thirty. There are some important matters I want to discuss with you.”