Deep Lie

by Stuart Woods

  45

  HELDER took the Whiskey boat out of Liepaja submerged and set a course north to intercept the Helsinki-Stockholm ferry. Some of his crew were familiar from the Juliet mothersub on his previous mission, one officer was not.

  “My name is Kolchak,” the man said. He did not offer his hand. “I am assigned as political officer.” He was taller than Helder and thin, with a bland, gray face, the sort of face that was difficult to read.

  “Kolchak,” Helder said, nodding. He was surprised to find the man aboard. One of Malibu’s features had been the remarkable and complete lack of political officers. Every military unit in the Soviet armed forces had a political officer, who reported not to the unit’s commander, but to his Party superiors. Political officers were a pain in the ass and were despised by every military commander, and Helder was no exception. Why, after all this time, had Majorov saddled him with a Party hack?

  “My instructions are to remain with you at all times during this operation,” Kolchak said.

  “I see,” Helder said. “Why are you armed aboard my ship?” he asked, nodding at the pistol in the shoulder holster visible under Kolchak’s bridge jacket.

  “I am instructed to be armed,” Kolchak replied.

  Majorov obviously intended to see that Helder carried out his mission. Helder had little doubt that, if he varied from Majorov’s orders, Kolchak had been instructed to shoot him and complete the mission himself. Helder was in no mood for a political officer. If he completed his mission, he would be beyond the reach of such people; if he didn’t complete it, he’d be dead. “Fine,” said Helder. “Carry out your instructions, but stay out of my way. See that I don’t bump into you as I move about my ship.”

  Kolchak blinked. He obviously was not accustomed to being addressed in this manner by military commanders. “What is your course?” he asked.

  “You worry about Party doctrine,” Helder snapped. “I’ll worry about the course.” He pushed past Kolchak and went to the communications shack. The radio operator, in his tiny alcove, didn’t bother to rise, since he couldn’t. “Sparks,” Helder said, “In certain circumstances you may be required to transmit a sonar signal on this frequency,” he handed the operator the card Majorov had given him.

  “Yes, sir,” the radio operator replied, glancing at the card. “I have been told of this and of the special receiver, but I have not been told the codes.”

  “I have the codes,” Helder said. “You are to transmit on my order alone, as long as I am alive. Do you understand this?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder at Kolchak and smiled. “Yes, Captain, I understand. Only on your order.”

  Helder clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.” He walked aft to where two young men, the helmsman and the planesman, sat before two large wheels, watching dials before them. “Helmsman, have you been told that we will follow the Helsinki-Stockholm ferry into the archipelago?”

  “Yes, sir. I was at the helm during your last mission, Captain. I know the drill. The planesman, too.”

  “Good.” Helder motioned for the officers to gather round the chart table, then he explained the mission in detail to them. “Any questions?” he asked.

  No one spoke. Kolchak started to say something but stopped himself.

  “Good, let’s get on with it, then.”

  The sub continued north through the afternoon, staying in Soviet waters until they were past the Estonian island of Hiiumaa, nearly into the Gulf of Finland. At their rendezvous point with the ferry, Helder slowed the sub and used the periscope frequently, until he had the large ship in his sights. Issuing commands in a calm, quiet voice, he brought the sub into the ferry’s wake, then closed slowly on it until the noises of the submarine would be indistinguishable from those of the ferry.

  “Number one,” he said to the executive officer, “take the conn; I’m going to my cabin for a while. The ferry will slow to six knots when it enters the archipelago. See you don’t stick this sub up her ass. Call me if anything even slightly unusual occurs.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the man said.

  Helder stopped for a moment and studied the chart again, memorizing its every feature. With his finger, he traced the straight line from where he would ground the sub to where the navigation buoy lay on the seabed. He looked at the area surrounding the buoy. Stockholm lay five kilometers to the west, and the lowlying islands of the archipelago surrounded the site. The buoy was landlocked, except for the relatively narrow channel through which he had taken the minisub. Helder went back to the captain’s cabin, pulled the curtain shut and stretched out on the bunk.

  Everything was in perfect order, he thought, except that some shadowy fear still gnawed at him, a fear not connected with the ordinary apprehension before a mission. He did not like the feeling, and he tried to trace it origins through the maze of his mind. It was the buoy that bothered him. He had placed it himself, at great risk, and normally, when he had completed a task, the thought of it gave him satisfaction. But now, instead of satisfaction, he felt apprehension. Why? What was his subconscious telling him?

  He dozed off and on, playing with the thought, letting it find its own way through the maze, then his eyes came open, staring. Three questions about the buoy nagged at him; together, they triangulated on a single answer. He dismissed the idea as insane, but when he ran through the process again, he was led to the same place. He had watched and admired Majorov’s determination through all of this, but now, he believed he had underestimated that determination. Helder suddenly knew that Majorov had not the slightest intention of halting the invasion of Sweden, surprise or no surprise. If the Swedes caught on too soon, and the Kremlin tried to back out, Majorov had a means of committing them irrevocably to the invasion, and he, Helder was Majorov’s instrument.

  He remembered the yellow radiation badges worn by the men who had loaded the buoy at Malibu, and now he remembered finding one of those badges in the launching compartment of the Juliet sub. The badge had turned blue. True, Majorov had told him that the buoy was ballasted with spent uranium 235, but that would have been insufficient to irradiate the badge. He had served aboard nuclear subs, and he knew what sort of radiation dose it took to change a badge from yellow to blue.

  He remembered Majorov’s mistake, when he had said the buoy’s antenna was meant to receive satellite transmissions. He had then corrected himself, and said the buoy would send, but a navigational buoy wouldn’t send to a satellite, but to ships in the area equipped to receive. Helder remembered the satellite dishes on the roof of the headquarters building at Malibu. They could transmit signals to a satellite, which could then be received by the buoy. But only after Helder had ordered the sonar transmission that would release the buoy’s antenna and allow it to surface.

  He remembered Majorov’s unwavering determination; he remembered that none of the codes he issued to Helder was associated with aborting the mission. They were on radio shutdown, except for the burst transmission of the WHALE, FOX, and BEAR code words; the sub could receive nothing but the three five-digit number groups. There was no way to recall the Whiskey boat.

  Helder’s conclusion was finally inescapable. The “navigation buoy” was a nuclear device.

  He got up and went back to the navigator’s station again. Motioning the officer out of his seat, he sat down and looked again at the locale around the buoy. The device sat, more or less, in the center of a basin. On the east of the basin was an outlet, the channel through which Helder had piloted the minisub; on the north and south were islands; and to the west lay the city of Stockholm, crossed and recrossed by waterways.

  The bomb wasn’t big; it wouldn’t need to be. Half a kiloton—a kiloton, at the most. When Majorov triggered it from Malibu, after Helder had signaled the release of the antenna, it would release an enormous force in all directions, but since the water surrounding it would yield more easily than the rocky seabed beneath it, most of the force would be transmitted outward and upward. The sea to the east of Stockho
lm would rise, and the outward force would propel a massive wall of water in every direction. To the north and south, the lowlying islands would take the brunt of the wave, though, no doubt, some of it would carry straight across the land to other islands beyond. To the west, Stockholm would be struck by a tidal wave that would rake people, vehicles, and buildings from its streets, then recede, leaving the water-logged skeleton of a beautiful city. No, the bomb would not be very big. Majorov would have calculated the force so that the essential city would be left standing for occupation, even if few of its inhabitants would survive. He would have the place up and running again in no time.

  Then, there was the area to the east of the bomb, the channel down which the sonar transmission would travel. A high bore of water would be shot down that channel like a shell from a cannon, sweeping all before it. Helder’s submarine was before it, directly in its path. It would be picked up from the sandy ground where it rested and flung into hell.

  Helder rested his forehead in his hand and tried to think. Maybe the invasion would go smoothly, as planned; maybe he would never receive the five-digit group 10301. Maybe. But what if it came? What then? If Helder didn’t send the sonar signal, then Kolchak, the political officer, would shoot him and do it himself.

  Helder kept trying to think, but he could not. He was numb with fear.

  46

  RULE threw her bag into the trunk of her car and darted back into the house. It was starting to rain, and she grabbed a folding umbrella from the stand in the entrance hall. God knew what the weather would be like in Stockholm.

  She drove the two short blocks to Ed Rawls’s little apartment, parked across the street, and grabbed the fat envelope lying on her briefcase. When Rawls answered the door, she thrust the envelope into his hands and said, “Here. This is a copy of everything I’ve got, if something comes up.”

  “You’re off to Copenhagen, then? Good,” he smiled.

  “No, I’m off to Stockholm, Ed. I’ve found a private channel to a man named Carlsson, who’s Head of Chancery at the Swedish Ministry of Defense. I’m seeing him tomorrow, and I hope I can accomplish what I want without raising a ruckus.”

  Rawls looked doubtful. “That’s risky, Katie. You’re contacting a foreign government directly, and short of defecting to the Reds, there’s nothing you could do that would make the Agency madder.”

  “Yes there is; I could go to the Washington Post, which is the other alternative. I don’t want to do that; that’s why I’m taking this chance.”

  “Okay, kid, but you’ll be out there on your own, you know. You’d better not go near the Stockholm station.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of involving them. I’m going to do this in Stockholm, then meet Will Lee in Copenhagen, and come back from my vacation the following week as if nothing had happened. I don’t see what else I can do.”

  Rawls nodded. “Maybe you’re right. In any case, I’ll keep an ear to the ground here for you. Call me and let me know how you do in Stockholm. If you call me at the office, tell them you’re my sister, Trudy.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’ve got a plane to catch. See you.” She kissed him on the cheek and ran for the car. She pulled out of her parking place and started her drive to the airport. The rain came down harder, and it got darker. She switched on her headlights. She was stopped at a traffic light when she saw him, one car back, but not entirely hidden from view, craning his neck to be sure he hadn’t lost her. Shit, what a time for her tail to show up again.

  She glanced at her watch. She had less than an hour before her plane to New York, where she would connect with her SAS flight to Stockholm, not time enough to lose him without letting him know she was being followed. She crossed the Potomac and headed toward National Airport, while he stayed a car or two back. Rule started to get mad.

  At the airport, she whipped into the lower-level parking deck, waited a moment for him to pass her and park a few cars away, then got out of the car, taking her umbrella with her, and walked briskly away. She could hear him hurrying to keep up. The garage was deserted, and that suited her. She kept looking for the right spot, then there it was. She passed the restrooms, then ducked around a corner and waited. He was only seconds behind her. She hefted the umbrella in her hand. In its folded state, it packed its bulk into about a pound of tightly compressed fabric surrounding a steel shaft, soft on the outside, solid on the inside. He walked past where she waited and, bless him, stopped.

  Rule stepped from around the corner, already starting her back swing, and hit him hard at the base of the skull, just the way they’d taught her at Quantico, when she was being trained for the covert service. He made a tiny sound, then his knees sagged and he collapsed in a heap at her feet. She looked quickly around, then grabbed him by his raincoat collar and started dragging him. The mens’ or the ladies’? The ladies’, she decided, praying there was no one in there. She shouldered open the door and looked quickly around. Nobody. She dragged him across the restroom and into one of the booths. Mustering all her strength, she hoisted him onto one of the toilets and leaned him against the wall.

  Quickly, she went through his pockets. The first thing she found was a gun, and not an ordinary one. It was a Hechler and Koch non-ferrous, 9mm automatic, made of stainless steel and alloys, designed to be walked through an airport security system without ringing all the bells. She shoved it in the waistband of her skirt. She ran her hand around behind him, feeling for his wallet, and found a pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt. Jesus, she hadn’t coshed a cop, had she? She popped the handcuffs, pulled his hands behind him and cuffed him to the plumbing. Then she found the wallet.

  Gerald Marvin Bonner, the Virginia driver’s license said. He lived in Alexandria. Then a business card. Federal Bureau of Investigation, it said, G. M. Bonner, Special Agent. Oh, shit, shit shit! Then she found another business card: Gerald M. Bonner, private investigator, ex-FBI. She heaved a great sigh of relief. But why a P.I.? She shook him.

  “Come on, Gerald, wake up, we have to talk,” she said. Bonner drooled from a corner of his mouth. She pinched his cheeks. “Wakey—wakey, Gerry. Speak to me!” Bonner made a little mewing noise. Rule drew back and slapped him hard across the face. “Wake up, you prick!” she shouted at him, “You’re in the ladies’ room!”

  “Which?” Bonner said, suddenly. He opened his eyes and tried to focus.

  Rule slapped him again.

  Now he could focus on her. “What the hell …?” he managed to say.

  “Look at me, Bonner,” she said. “Know who I am?”

  He tried to move and found himself handcuffed. “What is this, lady? What are you doing? I never saw you before in my life.”

  “I’m losing my patience, that’s what I’m doing, and I want some answers.”

  “Go to hell, I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’ll have the cops on you!”

  Rule pulled his gun out of her waistband and worked the action. She stuck the barrel in one of his nostrils and pushed his head back hard against the tile wall. “You know who I am, and you know where I work, don’t you? You know that I can shoot you right now and have an Agency team here in fifteen minutes to pick up the pieces. You’d vanish into thin air.” That was a lie, but he probably didn’t know it.

  “All right, all right,” he said, sounding odd, with his nose blocked that way. “What d’you want?”

  “I want to know who hired you to follow me the last few weeks,” she said, pushing a little harder on the gun.

  “Ow!” he yelled. “Don’t! It was Rule hired me. Your ex-husband.”

  “What?” she yelled. “You’d better do better than that, you little creep!” She shoved the gun a little farther up his nose.

  He yelled again. “No, I swear, it was him, it was Rule, he wanted something on you. He wants your kid!”

  She stopped pushing the gun. So it was Simon. He didn’t want Peter, though, he just wanted some dirt. He wanted to force her out of the Agency. “What have you told him, so far?” sh
e asked Bonner.

  “Not much. Not much to tell. He knows about the boyfriend.”

  “Did you bug my phone?”

  “Yeah. His, too. I didn’t get anything, though. The bugs never worked right.”

  “Okay, so you know about the boyfriend. What else are you looking for? Why are you still following me?”

  “He wants pictures, your ex-husband does.”

  “Pictures of what?”

  “You know. Of you and the boyfriend. In bed.”

  “So you were going to kick the door down, huh? A real artist, you are. So why didn’t you take the pictures?”

  “I never had a chance. Then the guy left town. I didn’t have much else in the way of business, so I kept following you. I thought something might turn up.”

  “You’re a real sweetheart, Bonner. I’ll bet you got canned from the Bureau.”

  He looked away.

  “Well, so long, I’m due at a dinner party on Capitol Hill.”

  He sat up. “Hey, wait a minute! I told you what you wanted to know, so unlock me. The keys are in my watchpocket.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll send somebody to unlock you.” She shut the booth door. “Now, if you’re real quiet, maybe the next lady who comes in here won’t know you’re not a lady.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, please unlock me!” he yelled from behind the door.

  “Have a nice rest,” she called back. “Somebody will come for you soon.” She left the restroom, tossed Bonner’s wallet into a trash can, went back to the car for her bag, and walked to the main terminal, looking for the departures board. She found a San Francisco flight that was leaving in ten minutes, then went to a phone and dialed the Virginia Highway Patrol. “Hello,” she said to the trooper who answered, “this is Detective Sergeant Brooke Kirkland of the San Francisco P.D. I’m out at National Airport, and I just tried to use the ladies’ room in the parking lot, and some guy jumped out of a booth and tried to rape me. I managed to overcome him, though, and I handcuffed him to a toilet. That’s the ladies’ room in A lot, lower level. Yeah, I’ve got to catch a plane home in ten minutes, so I can’t hang around, but I’ll telex you a statement as soon as I check in tomorrow, okay? You can mail me the cuffs.” She hung up before the startled trooper could ask any further questions.