Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

  The Politburo members were as rapt as Helder, turning the pages of their summaries as the slides changed.

  “Comrades, you will recall that Sweden claims a trained reserve force of eight hundred thousand, which can be mobilized in thirty-six hours. Their standing forces number less than ten percent of that number, and among our first objectives will be those associated with first, preventing a call-up of these forces, and second, depriving any who are called up of organization, arms and ammunition. There are hundreds of weapons caches located about the country, the locations of which are displayed on the right-hand screen, eighty-one percent of these will be secured either before or within the first twelve hours of our operation, and the remainder shortly afterwards.”

  A voice rose from the darkness. “How have you obtained such detailed plans of the Swedish defenses?”

  “Comrade,” Majorov responded, “I can now reveal what has, up to this moment, been known only on a strict, need-to-know basis, that we have had, for some time, an operative high in the Swedish government. His code name is Seal, and he has been able to supply us with virtually the entire defense plans of the country. Those plans are what you see on the screens before you, the location of every coastal gun emplacement, every reserve weapons cache, every emergency radio station, every aircraft, tank, and missile installation, and every fuel reserve depot in the country. No invader in the history of modern military operations has ever been so well informed.”

  There was total silence in the room.

  “As I said earlier,” Majorov said, “at zero hour, we will already have in Sweden some eighty-two hundred crack SPETSNAZ troops, who will have infiltrated in night amphibious landings, and by such conventional means as commercial airline flights and the Helsinki—Stockholm ferries. By zero plus twenty-four hours, we expect to have one hundred eighteen thousand troops in the country. Our principal means of conveyance will be our new fleet of WIGS, our wing-in-ground-effect aircraft. I am pleased to tell you that we now have twenty-two of these superb troop carriers available, each capable of ferrying five hundred troops from our eastern Baltic bases at wave-top altitudes, in less than half an hour’s flying time along corridors scrubbed clean of air cover, surface-to air missiles, and coastal antiaircraft emplacements. They will land at airfields and on stretches of roadway previously secured by our advance parties, supported by amphibious forces landed from troop-carrying submarines.”

  “What provisions are you making for the effects of casualties?” someone asked.

  “Since we intend operating only in conditions of complete surprise, we anticipate a very low casualty rate. However, even allowing for a worst-case casualty rate of twenty percent in every unit, we would expect to have secured eighty-four percent of our primary objectives before zero plus twenty-four hours. Well before that time, we will be landing troops in conventional air transports at secured airfields in Sweden.”

  For another hour, Majorov ran through summaries of troop movements, supplies, communications, and other logistics. Then, at a signal from him, the curtains were opened, and sunlight once again flooded the room.

  “Comrades,” Majorov said, “you have been very patient, and I have only one other brief aspect of our planning on which to make a final report. Our accelerated Swedish studies program in our universities and KGB training establishments have produced a hard core of some twelve hundred men and women who are fluent in the Swedish language, and who have been intensively trained in the administration of the Swedish civil services, both at the national and municipal levels. Within twenty-four hours of the consolidation of our military position, there will be Soviet administrators overseeing the operation of every essential government service and state-owned industry. There will be Soviet editors supervising the content of the radio and television services and the national and local newspapers and magazines. The plan is to be very light-handed in this supervision, since the Swedes are such good administrators, anyway. The editorial content of the news services will be allowed to remain as much as possible as before; we will interest ourselves only in news of the Soviet participation in Swedish society.

  “We expect to resume international flights to and from Sweden within seven days of taking control, and many Swedes, especially those connected with export sales, will be allowed to travel much as before. We believe that reasonably free travel by a large number of Swedish citizens will help to assuage fears of domination, and we want to encourage whatever flow of foreign currency into the country that we can. But I don’t want to go into detail, now. Tomorrow, we will have a full-scale presentation by the KGB of our plans for Swedish life in a post-invasion society. I think you will find it fascinating. If there are no questions …?”

  “Viktor Sergeivich,” a voice said, and from the movement of every head and body, Helder knew it was that of the Chairman, “we have heard you mention worst-case casualty estimates; we do not wish to hear of worst-case estimates. We have made our position very clear on this operation from the very beginning of its planning, during the tenureship of our beloved Yuri Andropov: unless this invasion can be conducted with total surprise and without any general mobilization order from the Swedish government, it will not be conducted at all. We have carefully calculated the political liabilities of this affair, and they are monumental, even in the best of circumstances. But if the Swedes are alerted even minutes before the operation begins, if they are able to broadcast a mobilization order, then we are immediately faced with the prospect of hot and bloody resistance, and a holocaust of world opinion. I will not preside over the humiliation of the Soviet State in such circumstances, and I tell you once again, in the presence of these comrades, that the final order to invade will come only from me, when I am satisfied that we can move with total confidence of absolute surprise. Is that clearly understood?”

  “It is most clearly understood, Comrade Chairman,” Majorov said, with considerable humility. “And now, before adjournment, I would like to introduce to you a Soviet naval officer who has just returned from a most important minisubmarine mission in Swedish waters, which you have no doubt been reading about in your intelligence summaries today. Comrades, may I intro duce Captain Second Grade Jan Helder.”

  Helder stood stiffly to attention. To his astonishment, the entire group then stood and roundly applauded him. When they had finished, they remained standing, and the Chairman spoke.

  “Captain,” he said gravely, “on behalf of my colleagues in the Party, I wish to express the deep gratitude of the Soviet nation for your heroic efforts. I know that you, as we, were saddened by the loss of your fellow officer, Captain Lieutenant Sokolov, and I assure you that, at an appropriate time, she will receive the public gratitude of the people.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Chairman,” Helder managed to say.

  The men began to file out of the room behind the Chairman, and Majorov motioned Helder into the waiting room. “Now, Helder, you will proceed back to Malibu by the car and aircraft which brought you here. Rest yourself. I will be back in a couple of days, and we will discuss your further part in this enterprise. You have only begun to win glory, I can promise you. I need hardly tell you that you are to discuss your Swedish mission or today’s meeting with no one.” He shook Helder’s hand, then returned to the conference room.

  In the car on the ride to the airport, Helder examined the leather upholstery and fine appointments of the Zil in minute detail. He was a lover of cars, though he had never owned one. On the plane ride to Liepaja, he slept soundly.

  He arrived at Malibu after midnight, and went straight to his quarters, hoping Trina would be there. He let himself into the room, and groped for the bedside lamp. There was a rustle of sheets.

  “No,” she said, “no lights.”

  He sank to the bed and reached for her. As his arms went around her and brought her close, she gave an involuntary gasp of pain.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Jan,” she whimpered. “I didn’t think you
would be back so soon. I didn’t expect you for at least a couple of days. I just wanted to sleep in your bed.”

  He touched her face and she recoiled with a little cry. “What on earth is the matter?” he asked. “I’m back, Trina.” He found the lamp and switched it on, then stared. One side of her face was badly bruised, and she turned it from him.

  “I didn’t want you to see me this way,” she said. There was another bruise on her bare shoulder.

  He grasped the bedsheet and pulled it away. “My God,” he gasped, “What has happened to you?” There were more bruises, and she tried to cover herself with her hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can’t make love to you. I want to so, but I can’t. I hurt too much.”

  “What happened?” he demanded. “I want to know right now.”

  “It was Majorov,” she said, “and the others.”

  “What?”

  “There was a party two nights ago, and he insisted I come. He said it would cheer me up. There was a general and some of the other girls. I didn’t want to make love to them. They beat me, then Majorov forced me . .. from behind … then the others … oh, Jan, it was horrible,” she sobbed, clinging to him. “I thought it would never end.”

  “Oh, Trina,” he said, holding her gently.

  “I used to like the parties,” she said, trying to stem the sobs. “Then you came here, and they weren’t the same, anymore. Majorov stopped making me come after a while, after he gave me to you, but I think he thought you weren’t coming back from your mission, that it didn’t matter anymore.” She began crying again. “I was so frightened. He killed a girl, once. I heard about it.”

  Helder stroked her hair and tried not to think of what had happened to her, tried to contain the anger growing inside him. He forced it away from him and tried to give all his thoughts to her, but he could not. The mission, the promotion, the Kremlin meeting bled away. All he could think of was her pain and his own betrayal by his benefactor, this monster.

  He held her until she was asleep, but he, himself, did not sleep for hours.

  31

  APPICELLA felt a tingle of excitement the moment he first laid eyes on Malibu. It had been an extremely boring flight on Aeroflot from Vienna to Leningrad, and an even more boring flight to wherever he was, since the second plane had had its windows blacked out. He did not know where he was, but the sea glinted in the distance as the car descended the hill toward what seemed like a town nestled against a lagoon separated from the sea by a narrow strip of land.

  After passing through a heavily guarded main gate, Appicella was surprised by the appearance of the place—it seemed so Western—and he was further surprised and intrigued by three large satellite dish antennas situated on the roof of the low building into which he was being escorted by an extremely comely young woman. He passed through an open work area where other, equally comely young women were working on the terminals he had installed for Firsov in Moscow, then through a reception area and into a handsome office. Firsov came from around a desk with his hand extended.

  “Emilio! How are you? So very good to see you.” “Roy!” Appicella returned the greeting with equal enthusiasm.

  “Come and sit down, I have a lot to tell you,” Firsov said. He mixed them both a drink, then joined Appicella on the sofa. “First of all, I am known here not as Roy, but Viktor, Viktor Majorov. I won’t bore you with the reasons, but I would be grateful if you could make the adjustment.”

  “Of course, Viktor,” Appicella replied. “After all, if Lenin and Stalin could change their names, why not you?”

  Majorov laughed heartily. “Well, now, let me tell you why I needed you so badly at this time.”

  “Please do. My fees being what they are, I certainly don’t want to delay getting down to business.”

  “Look over there,” Majorov said, pointing across the room to a conference table.

  Appicella looked. The Russian had not been kidding when he had called. He had got hold of an IBM PC AT computer. “Well, good for you, Viktor,” he said. “Those things are in short supply; there probably aren’t more than half a dozen of them in Europe, outside the IBM organization.”

  “You said on the phone you had worked with one before,” Majorov said, a little worriedly, Appicella thought.

  “Of course,” he smiled. “I have one of the half-dozen in Europe; I’ve been doing some development work on it.”

  “What do you think of it?” Majorov asked.

  “It’s quite a nice machine—512k of memory in the basic machine, expandable up to two megabytes; a 1.2 megabyte floppy disk drive, and a twenty megabyte hard disk. I’ve put together a board that will make it support twelve terminals, instead of the standard three.”

  “That is exactly what I want,” Majorov said, excitedly. “I want to switch from the CPM-based equipment you put together for us last year to this system, and I want to transfer all the files we have accumulated. Can you do that?”

  “Well, I can get the equipment up and running and expanded with what I have brought with me. Are all the files you want to transfer written with the WordStar word processing program?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then using them after they are transferred should not be a problem.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A few days, if I don’t run into hardware problems. I’ve brought the board with me, but there is still work to be done on it. I assume you have a copy of the operating system and the manuals.”

  “Yes. Can we use our existing terminals with the AT?”

  “Yes, no problem. Where will I work?”

  Majorov led him through a door to an adjoining conference room. “How’s this?”

  “It will be fine. I will need a drawing board and a lighted magnifying glass, in addition to my own toolbox. Please have the AT moved in here, and you will either have to have the terminals moved in here, or, if you want your girls to go on using them as long as possible, I’ll have to run some cabling to the existing central processing unit.”

  “We’ll run the cabling then,” Majorov said. “The girls are quite busy at the moment. Speaking of girls, I assumed you’d like some company this evening.”

  “Indeed, yes,” Appicella smiled. “Tell me, is that little blonde still with you, what was her name, Trina?”

  Majorov frowned. “Yes, but I’m afraid she’s not very well at the moment. What about the girl who brought you in, the tall redhead?”

  “She’s lovely. She’ll do very nicely.”

  “Let’s get you quartered then, and I’ll give you a little tour on the way.”

  Appicella followed Majorov from the building, and they got into an electric golf cart.

  “This place is a sports center, a training facility for various athletes,” Majorov said, steering the cart down the hill. “There are whatever athletic facilities you might like to use, but as I remember, you prefer indoor sports.”

  “You are right, my friend,” Appicella replied.

  “Down there is a small beach, next to the marina, if you’d like a swim. The Baltic is quite pleasant this time of year.” Majorov pointed to a gate across the way, where a guard stood watch. “I’m afraid I must ask you not to wander in that direction. That’s off limits, and the guards are nervous.”

  “Whatever you say. The beach does sound appealing, though.”

  Majorov steered the cart up a paved path, and they came to a small, detached house set in some trees. “This is one of our guest cottages; I think you will find it comfortable.” He produced a piece of paper. “There are restaurants on the grounds,” he said. “This is a little map and a list of the facilities. We’re quite isolated here, so there’s no point in looking for entertainment outside the main gates. Anyway, the guards have instructions to allow no one to leave without a pass. It would be simpler if you stayed on the grounds.” He led the way into a comfortably furnished sitting room, then showed Appicella a small kitchen and bar and a bedroom with a large bed.<
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  Appicella could hear some sort of motor running. “What’s that noise?” he asked.

  “Ah,” Majorov smiled, “that’s coming from the bathroom. Your bags are already here. I’ll have your equipment cases put in your workroom. I’m afraid I can’t dine with you tonight, but you’ll be in good company. In fact, we may see very little of each other while you’re here. I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “That is all right, Viktor, I understand.”

  “Tell Olga if you need anything. She’ll let me know.”

  “Olga?”

  “She’s the noise in the bathroom,” Majorov laughed. “Have a pleasant evening. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.” He let himself out of the cottage.

  Appicella walked into the bedroom and toward the bathroom door, and the noise grew louder. He opened the door and peeked inside. The redhead was sitting in a large Jacuzzi bath, smiling at him.

  “Hello, Olga,” Appicella said, working on his buttons.

  32

  RULE arrived at her desk just before two, to find a memo waiting, asking her to be in the director’s conference room at two o’clock for a meeting of office heads. She arrived breathlessly on the executive floor just in time to turn everyone’s head and interrupt the director as he was about to begin. They were all gathered around the long table, the director standing at the end. At his right hand sat Simon Rule; at his left, Alan Nixon.

  The director had been a big-time tax lawyer in Washington before his former client, the President, had appointed him Director of Central Intelligence. His previous experience in intelligence work had been when he had parachuted into occupied France on a mission for Wild Bill Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services, the World War II predecessor to the CIA, and he had never let anybody forget it.