Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

  “But either way, right or wrong, your whole life is going to change forever. Nothing is ever going to be the same again. You might give some thought, also, to what it’s going to do to your friend over at the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

  “He doesn’t know about this … well, not much, anyway.” She shook her head. “Jesus, I’m supposed to meet him in Copenhagen the day after tomorrow. I did get authorization for that trip.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “I need a suggestion, Ed.”

  “Meet the guy. Have a fine old time in Copenhagen. Come back refreshed. In spite of what you may think you’ve deduced, I doubt if anything is about to blow. Even if the Soviets are cooking up what you think they are, there’ll be time to anticipate it.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’ve started the new job. I’m in a position to keep an ear to the ground for you. I’ll have access to stuff that you won’t. I’m also in a position to do something if anything breaks. Leave it with me and go off to Copenhagen with a happy heart. Give me your itinerary, and I’ll call you if anything startling happens. We’ll set up a scrambled line to the embassy there, if necessary.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, Ed. God knows I could use a few days off, and they way Nixon and Simon have got me boxed, I’m probably not going to get anything new, anyway.” She scribbled on a pad. “Here’s the name of our hotel. I’ll leave word there if we move.”

  “Great. I’m glad you’re doing this.”

  She smiled. “I feel better already, knowing you’re backing me up on this.” She wasn’t sure why he was; a week ago, he’d been keeping her at arm’s length. Still, she was grateful for the only help that had been offered her.

  “Now listen,” he said, holding up a finger, “I’m not convinced myself, and I’m sure as hell not about to urge the director to go to the president. But if something else comes in that supports your theory, you have my promise that I’ll pursue it to the hilt. That’s all the backing up I can give you.”

  “That’s all I need, Ed.” They got out of the car, hugged briefly, then made separate entrances into the building. She spent the rest of the day trying to concentrate on routine work.

  40

  OSKAR OSKARSSON squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and spoke to his dead grandson. “There, Ebbe!” he said, pointing, then shook his head. “No, no, it is only a stick, not a periscope.” The big twin outboards on his son’s modern, eight-meter motor cruiser thrummed along at half-throttle, easily propelling the boat at twenty-five knots. Oskarsson knew the boat would do forty at full throttle; he had tried it.

  “Everyone looks, Ebbe,” the old man said. “But we will find it. It is there, and you and I will find it.”

  The waters near his son’s home in the Stockholm Archipelago had been busy these last couple of weeks, first with the Royal Navy’s patrol boats, searching for the minisub, then, after they had given up, with pleasure boats. A rash of periscope spotting broke out after every sighting of a sub, and especially after this most recent sighting, when the navy had been so sure they had the sub bottled up. But as before, nothing had come of it. Somehow, the Russians had managed to elude them again. Since the “Whiskey-on-the-rocks” incident of 1981, none of the submarines had been captured, killed, or even photographed, but everyone knew they were Russian.

  There was no keener periscope spotter among the pleasure boats—nor even in the Royal Navy—than Oskarsson. No man was better motivated. The Russians had taken everything he loved, and he meant to have his revenge. It was good, being out on a boat with Ebbe again. His son didn’t mind the fuel bills he was running up; he even encouraged the old man’s sub hunting. Oskarsson had heard them talking in the kitchen one night, when they thought he was asleep.

  “I don’t care how much it costs,” his son had said to his wife. “It’s the only thing that’s got him out of that chair in his room since Ebbe’s death, it’s the only thing he cares about, and if I can give it to him, I will.”

  Oskarsson had smiled to himself and slept better that night. Then, the next time he had taken the boat out—and he was taking it out every day the weather was decent—Ebbe had been with him, and he had been happy. Or, at least, he would be happy when they finally found a sub, as he knew they would.

  Oskarsson spun the wheel without throttling back and reveled in the boat’s performance as it tracked through the turn. He had never owned a boat like this, a boat this fast. He liked it. He would find a sub in this boat, he and Ebbe, and when he did … well, he was not quite sure, but his son’s double-barreled shotgun rested on the seat beside him. In the end, he would do something.

  He pointed the boat back up the channel. He would be home, soon. He thought of his son’s house that way, now. There would be hot chocolate and brandy, and tomorrow—tomorrow he and Ebbe would hunt subs again.

  41

  WILL LEE watched from the yacht’s deck as the replacement mast was swung toward his boat by the crane. He and Yuri, who was the English speaker among the crew of workers, caught the end and guided it into the opening in the yacht’s deck, then Lee went below and guided it into the mast step over the keel. Everything was a reasonable fit, although the slightly smaller replacement mast left a gap around it at deck level, which would have to chocked there and at the mast step, then sealed to keep water out.

  The new wire rope, which had been attached at the top of the mast, now had to be cut to the proper length and swaged to the deck fittings of the yacht, then tightened. When it was all done, it was nearly midnight, and Yuri helped Lee bend on the sails. There were only two, a mainsail and a working jib, but with some adjustments to the sheet leads, they were a good enough fit. The boat was sailable again. The propeller had been freed by a diver, too, and the boat was ready. They moved her back to her original berth at the end of the pier, and Yuri and his crew topped up the fuel and water tanks.

  “How far to Copenhagen?” Yuri asked. He looked as if he wished he could come along.

  “If I don’t stop, I guess about two and a half days’ sail, with a decent wind.”

  Yuri looked carefully about him. “Uh, Will … you have magazines?”

  “Sure, Yuri. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” A brief search produced a New Yorker and a Time.

  Yuri looked disappointed. “Ah, Will … you have maybe Playboy?”

  Will thought maybe he had. A search of the berth of his former crew, the Finn, Lars, produced a worn Playboy, an even more worn Swedish girlie magazine, and, what caused even more excitement, a British car magazine.

  “Thank you very much, Will, is good,” Yuri said, stuffing the magazines into his coveralls.

  Will searched the boat for anything else he might give the crew and found some chewing gum, some ballpoint pens, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. All were received with gratitude. “Would you and the fellows like some coffee, Yuri?” Lee asked.

  “No, please. You must go. I have orders you must go on the time the boat ready. But first, you must write for mast.”

  “Write?”

  Yuri made a scribbling motion. He wanted Lee to sign for the equipment he was taking.

  “Sure, Yuri, where do I write?”

  “At bureau.”

  Lee and the four men left the boat and walked back to the boatshed, to a small office at one end. There, Yuri made a neat list, in Russian, of all the gear he was taking. Lee signed the document, then gave Yuri his business card. “Tell your boss, send me a bill here, okay?”

  Yuri smiled broadly, revealing a row of gold teeth. “Okay,” he said. “Now, I take little boat, you follow me.” He strode off down the dock. Lee walked back to the boat, started the engine, and the others cast off his lines. As Lee left the dock, he saw Majorov drive up in his golf cart and stop, watching him. He waved and shouted his thanks; Majorov waved back. Lee felt lucky to be leaving at all. With Yuri leading the way, the yacht made its way to the entrance of the bay, then, with a wave
, Yuri turned back.

  Will set a course of due west, so as to cross the boundary into Swedish waters as soon as possible. From there, he would set a new course, southwest toward Denmark. He steered the boat until he was well clear of the land. When the lights of Liepaja had faded behind him in the half light of the northern night, he set the autopilot and went below to make coffee. He had had little sleep during the past twenty-four hours, and he was going to need coffee. The wave of relief he felt at being out of Latvia was soporific, and he struggled to stay awake while the kettle came to a boil. When it had, he stepped into the hatch for a quick look around the horizon, then made a cup of coffee and sat down at the chart table.

  He finished the coffee, then, in spite of himself, dozed for a while, sitting up at the chart table. There was a small, unaccustomed noise from forward which caused him to open his eyes for a momen. He closed them again, thought, then looked across the cabin, wideeyed. A man he had never seen before stood at the other end of the saloon.

  Neither man spoke for a moment, one shocked, the other uncertain. “Good evening.” the strange man said, in accented English, “I am Emilio Appicella.”

  Lee was still too stunned to speak.

  “You are English?” the man asked.

  “American,” Lee was finally able to say.

  “Good, very good,” the man replied. “I am Italian. I am a spy of your country.”

  “You are what?”

  “I am a spy of the American Central Intelligence Agency,” the man said, as if he had been asked about his work at a dinner party. “I must go to an American embassy, the closest one, please.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Lee said, recovering, “how did you get on this boat?”

  “I have been waiting all day for an opportunity,” Appicella said. “I thought perhaps the Russians would not leave it unguarded, but finally, when you went to the boat building together, I managed to get aboard.” He motioned toward the forepeak. “I hid under the sailbags, there.”

  “Well, look, I can’t take you out of this country, I … what was that you said about the CIA?”

  “I have been spying for some days here at this place for your CIA. Now, you must help me go to an American embassy. You are an American.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, do you have any idea what those people would do to me if they found you aboard this boat?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Appicella replied. “I know a great deal of what this man, Majorov, who runs that place, would not like me to know. I think it is better if I don’t tell you these things, but if they caught up with us, they would never believe I had not told you. You and I would listen to each other’s screams down the halls of Lubyanka prison, I think.”

  Lee stared at the Italian, dumbfounded. “Swell,” he finally managed to say. “What do we do now?”

  “We go to the American Embassy, as I said before,” Appicella said, as if talking to a child. “I am afraid I don’t know exactly where we are. Do you?”

  Lee waved him toward the chart table. “There,” he said. “We’ve just left Liepaja, and we’ve been sailing due west for about an hour.”

  “Mmmm,” Appicella mused. “I think we must go to Stockholm. It looks closer than Copenhagen. Where were you bound?”

  “To Copenhagen, and I still am, but I’d like to get rid of you as soon as possible, I think. Stockholm, is that where you’d like to go?”

  “If you please,” said Appicella. “I wonder if I might go on deck for a moment,” he said, looking queasy. “It was very close under the sailbags.”

  “By all means,” Lee said, earnestly, “and if you have to toss your cookies, for God’s sake, do it over the leeward rail, will you?”

  Appicella hurried past him, climbed into the cockpit, and did as he had been told. “I feel much better, now,” he said, taking deep breaths.

  Lee looked quickly about them. “Well, you can’t stay up here for long,” he said, worriedly. “If we’re spotted by another boat, it’s going to have to look as though I’m alone.”

  Appicella nodded. “Yes, I think I will be comfortable below now. Might I have a glass of milk, please?” He climbed back down the companionway ladder.

  Lee followed him. “I haven’t got any milk left; how about orange juice?”

  Appicella nodded. “If that is all you have.”

  “Listen, uh … what’s your name again?”

  “Appicella, Emilio Appicella,” he replied, extending his hand. “Please call me Emilio.”

  “I’m Will Lee, Emilio,” Lee said, feeling absurd. “Call me Will.”

  “Well, Will, I don’t know quite how you fetched up in Malibu, but I am very glad you did.”

  “Yes, I suppose you must be. What did you call the place?”

  “Malibu, as in California. It’s what the Russians call it.”

  “Have a seat, Emilio.” They both sat down at the saloon table. “How long had you been there?”

  “Only a few days. I came to do a small job for this Majorov, one his people could not do themselves. When I finished, they would not allow me to leave.”

  “What is that place, a college or something?”

  “Perhaps, I do not know everything they do there, and I think it is better that you do not know what I know of it, since I do not know if the CIA would find you trustworthy.” Appicella spread his hands. “Forgive me, it is nothing personal, you understand.”

  Lee laughed loudly. “You’re forgiven, Emilio, and you’re right, I shouldn’t know about all this. Look, I would take you to Stockholm, but I’ve got a date in Copenhagen, and I’m already going to be a day late. You’re just going to have to put up with my company for about two and a half days.”

  “No, no, that is not possible,” Appicella said with finality. “Do you have a radio?

  “Yes, but the antenna was lost with the original mast. It’s useless.”

  Appicella got up and went to the chart table. He pointed. “This island, Gotland, is it Swedish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then please take me there. I’m sure I can get from there to Stockholm. I must get to the American embassy there at once. In two days, it may be too late.”

  Lee looked at the chart. It was only about seventy-five miles to Ostergarn, on the east coast of Gotland. They might make that by lunchtime tomorrow. He ought to call Kate, too; she would be in Copenhagen first and might worry, and she should be told about his sighting of Majorov. “Oh, well, all right. I’ll drop you in Ostergarn; that looks big enough for some sort of airport. Do you have a passport?”

  “Oh, yes. It won’t have an entry stamp for Sweden, though. Where have you come from?”

  “Finland.”

  “Good, I’ll just say the Finns didn’t stamp it.”

  “Won’t it have an entry stamp for Russia?”

  “No, the Russians don’t stamp your passport. They give you a little visa booklet, instead, and they take it back when you leave the country.”

  “Good, I don’t want to have to explain where I found you.” He thought for a minute. “Maybe Ostergarn isn’t such a bad idea. I’ve got to order a new rig for this boat. They can ship it on to Copenhagen from the factory. You ever done any sailing, Emilio?”

  “Alas, no. But I will do what I can to help.”

  “Well, what you can do right now is go sit in the cockpit and keep a lookout for any boats. We don’t want to bump into anything.”

  Appicella went into the cockpit, and Lee plotted a course for Ostergarn, then went on deck, reset the autopilot, and adjusted the sails. They were moving along nicely in a fresh breeze.

  “Okay, everything’s shipshape. I’m going to get some badly needed sleep. You keep a sharp eye out and call me if you see another boat, okay?”

  “Of course,” Appicella replied. “I will do exactly as you say. And Will …”

  Lee stopped on the companionway ladder. “Yes?”

  “You have probably saved my life, and perhaps, a great many others, too. Thank you v
ery much.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Lee replied. “I take stowaways out of the Soviet Union all the time. Anyway, we’re not in Sweden, yet.”

  “I feel sure we will make it,” Appicella said.

  “I hope you’re right,” Lee said back, then headed for a bunk. He slept the sleep of the ignorant.

  42

  RULE woke up at four in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. She had felt relieved when Ed Rawls had offered to back her up while she was in Copenhagen, but now she was worried again, and worse, guilty. Everything she knew, every instinct, said the Soviets were going to invade Sweden very soon. As cockeyed as that sounded, even in her own thoughts, it was more important than running off to Copenhagen. Come to that, she concluded at six in the morning, it was more important than her career or her privacy. She had a friend who knew Ben Bradlee, at the Washington Post. She picked up the phone and dialed her friend’s number.

  Then, before he could answer, she hung up. There might be a better way. She got out of bed and dug in her handbag for her notebook. She found the number scribbled on a page with a lot of trivia. She’d read that he was an early riser; she hoped so. She dialed the number.

  “Hello.” The voice didn’t sound sleepy.

  “Senator Carr?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Katharine Rule; I’m the head of the Soviet Office in the Directorate of Intelligence of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “Yes, I believe you were at a hearing with Mr. Nixon recently.”

  “Yes, sir, I was. Senator, Will Lee gave me your private number and suggested I call you if it became necessary.”

  “You met Will at the hearing, too?”

  “Uh, no, sir, Will and I . .. have a personal relationship not connected with our work.”

  “I see. How can I help you Miss Rule … excuse me, I believe it’s Mrs. Rule, isn’t it?”

  She could hear the wheels turning in his head. “Yes, sir, I’m divorced from Simon Rule, who is Deputy Director for Operations.”