by Stuart Woods
“And?”
“He was impressed, I think, but cautious. He wouldn’t go to the president, but he put me in touch with a man named Sven Carlsson, who’s high up at the ministry of defense here. I’m hoping I can convince him to go to his minister and maybe the prime minister. Emilio, where is this material you stole from Majorov’s computer?”
“In my pocket,” Appicella replied, “but we’ll have to find an IBM computer in order to be able to read it. I know a fellow at computer shop in Stockholm where we might be successful.” He looked at his watch. “He will be open at ten. Have your breakfast, then we’ll go to see him. I think what I have brought will help to convince this fellow at the ministry. I may be able to get you a great deal more. We’ll see.”
“Fine,” she said.
“Listen, Kate,” Will broke in. “You’re reacting oddly to all this. I would have thought you’d be extremely happy to get what Emilio has brought you.”
“Oh, Will, I am happy about that, but I haven’t told you everything.” She told him what had happened at the airport earlier that morning.
“And you think he was waiting for you?” Will asked.
“I haven’t the slightest doubt he was waiting for me. No one in Stockholm, except you, knew that anyone named Rule would be here. Don’t you see what that means?”
“It means somebody found out, I guess.”
“Exactly. And they found out from somebody in Washington.”
“Who knew you were coming?”
“I’m not sure, any more; I’ve no way of knowing who’s talking to whom. The point is, somebody wanted very badly for me not to reach Carlsson.”
“You got any idea who?”
Rule explained about Snowflower. “It was Simon’s operation. He’s terrified that it will come to light. He’s trying to force me out of the Agency.”
“But Jesus, Kate, he wouldn’t resort to killing you to get you out of the agency, would he?”
She shook her head. “No, at least not for any personal reason.”
“What other reason could he have?”
“Well, there’s Snowflower. He certainly doesn’t want any light thrown on that. But Simon wouldn’t kill me to save his career. Not his career with the Company, anyway.”
Appicella spoke up. “I think maybe something is rotten in Denmark.”
“I was just thinking back,” Rule said. “When Simon was head of the Rome station—that’s when we met, you’ll recall—he was friendly with one of the Soviets in their embassy. They did quite a lot of drinking together. It isn’t all that unusual in the field; if one of our people can cultivate one of their people, sometimes we can turn him.”
“Or the other way around,” Will said, slowly.
There was a knock at the door. A waiter wheeled in a tray and bustled about, setting it up. He switched on the television. “You have not seen the excitement?” he asked. “Look.”
Rule, Lee, and Appicella stared at the television set. The shot was from a helicopter. In the upper right-hand corner, a Soviet Whiskey class submarine sat, immobile. The remainder of the screen was filled with a variety of Swedish naval vessels.
“None of us speaks Swedish,” Rule said to the waiter. “Where is this happening?”
“It is a little island in the archipelago, called Hoggarn. Only about seven or eight kilometers from Stockholm.” He went to the desk and got a tourist’s map of Sweden. “It is just about here,” he said, pointing. “The submarine has been there since early this morning.” He left them staring at the map.
“Well,” Rule said, finally, “it’s starting.”
51
TRINA RAGULIN reported to work for the first time in a week. The bruises on her face had faded to the point where a little makeup would cover them, and the bruises on other parts of her body were better, too. She could walk without pain.
She was sent to a building in the headquarters complex that she had never before visited. When she entered the building, she found it was one large room, a sort of theater, with wide tiers holding desks with telephones and computer terminals, and they all faced a wall filled with three large screens. The center screen contained a huge map of the entire Baltic area, and there were dozens of markings scattered over it, in Sweden and in Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, apparently designating different sorts of military units—air, armor, ships, submarines, and troops. She was surprised to see that one of the symbols for a Soviet submarine was placed in the Stockholm Archipelago, only a few kilometers from the city itself. In the center of the room, at a desk which was clean except for a black telephone console with many buttons and a single, white instrument, sat Majorov.
“We have the Swedish television transmission,” someone called to Majorov.
“Put it on screen three,” Majorov replied.
An image appeared on the right-hand screen, and to Ragulin’s astonishment, it was of Jan Helder. He was being photographed from a distance, standing in the conning tower of a submarine. There were other men with him, but she did not recognize them. Then the screen changed, and she was watching an aerial view of a large area. The submarine was prominent, and it was surrounded by a number of other vessels.
“Trina!” Majorov’s secretary called to her. “Man the galley, there, in the center. Keep coffee and food coming to whoever wants it.”
She went to a free-standing galley area placed in the center of the theater, toward the rear, and made herself busy. She had known about plans for the invasion, since she had been working at headquarters for more than a year, and even though she had not worked for a week, she had known from Helder that it was about to go. Still, she was rattled by the idea that it was really happening, and stunned to find Helder at the center of it. She took a tray to Majorov’s desk.
“Thank you, Ragulin,” he said, smoothly, smiling at her. “Glad to see you back. I hope you had a nice rest.”
‘Yes, thank you,” she managed to say through her anger. The bastard. He had nearly put her into hospital.
Jones was at a desk next to Majorov’s. “Colonel,” he called, “we have a report from Stockholm. The woman, Kirkland, was intercepted at the airport and liquidated.”
“Excellent,” Majorov said, smiling broadly. “My compliments to Ferret in the next transmission to him.” He laughed. “Well, no, perhaps not. They were once rather close; we don’t want to upset him, do we?” The white phone on his desk rang; its tone was distinctive, and instantly, the room became hushed. Majorov picked up the phone. “This is Majorov,” he said.
There was a pause while he listened. “Yes, Comrade Chairman,” he replied. “We are at FOX, now. Helder is refusing all cooperation; he is speaking-to them only in Russian. We are holding at the moment, waiting for WIG units in Estonia and Poland to report back, and for confirmations from SPETSNAZ units in Sweden to signal that they are in position. I estimate conditions will be ideal to go very soon.” He smiled. “Yes, indeed, Comrade, thank you.” He hung up and said to the room at large, “The First Secretary of the Party sends his regards to you all.”
There was an excited murmur in the theater. Ragulin continued on her rounds with food and coffee. Suddenly, there was a chorus of shouts. She looked up at the screen receiving Swedish television. A larger ship, a destroyer, was steaming into the fleet surrounding the submarine. There was scattered applause in the room.
“Well, well” Majorov called out. “They’re getting serious. Let’s see how long it will be, now, before somebody fires a round, eh?”
Ragulin stared at the colonel. So that was why Jan’s submarine was where it was; Majorov was using him to provoke the Swedes. She stared at the image on the screen. What would become of her if Jan were killed? Without his protection, she would be back in Majorov’s stable, an animal to be regularly used and abused. And sooner or later, she knew, Majorov would kill her. And he would enjoy doing it. She finished her rounds and stationed herself at the galley, from which she had an excellent view of everything and could easily
overhear Majorov’s conversation.
“Has there been any sighting of Appicella or Lee?” Majorov asked Jones.
“No, sir,” Jones replied. “Perhaps they have not gone to Stockholm at all.”
“Perhaps not,” Majorov replied, “but we will take no chances. I want a watch kept on the American embassy and the Ministry of Defense until we jump off.”
“Group One still has watchers at both places, sir. I have not recalled them.”
“I want them killed on sight,” Majorov said. “We are at too late a stage to worry about manners on the streets of Stockholm.”
52
RULE waited impatiently. She, Appicella, and Will were in the cramped service department of a computer shop near the center of Stockholm. Appicella and the shop owner, a man named Rolf, were lifting a new computer from a box and setting it on the workbench.
“I knew,” Appicella was saying, “that if anyone in Scandinavia had an IBM PC AT, it would be you, Rolf.” He turned to Rule. “Rolf has always run the hottest shop in Europe,” he said.
“That is so much bullshit, if you will forgive me,” Rolf said jovially to Rule. “Every time Emilio is in Stockholm, he wanders in here wanting to use my equipment to make money for himself. All I ever get for my trouble is flattery.”
“And an occasional very clever modification,” Appicella said. “I might even have something new for you, if this works the way I expect it to.” He connected the monitor and keyboard to the computer, then connected it to a printer next to it on the workbench.”
“This machine has never been turned on, let alone burned in,” Rolf said, worriedly. “If you screw it up, I won’t get hold of another for months. I’m counting on this as a demonstrator to pull in orders.”
“Fear not,” Appicella said. “By the time I have finished here, it will be not only burned in, but thoroughly checked out by an expert and, perhaps, even enhanced.”
“Oh my God,” said Rolf, rolling his eyes.
Appicella took a blank diskette, pried open its paper flap with a small screwdriver, and removed the disk of mylar plastic from inside. Then he took a penlight from his pocket, unscrewed it, and shook the batteries out onto the bench. With them came another mylar disk. He inserted the mylar into the plastic envelope and taped the envelope shut. “There,” he said. “Now we will see if this piece of plastic has weathered a bit of abuse, plus a seaborne crossing of the Baltic.” He booted the computer, inserted the disk into its floppy drive, and typed something. A list of files came up on the screen. He typed something else, and the printer went into action.
Rule stood and watched, wideeyed, as the document was printed. “Good God, Emilio,” she said, “how did you do this?”
Appicella shrugged. “I simply robbed Majorov’s computer,” he said. “And when this is finished printing, I am going to rape it.”
“Who is Majorov?” Rolf wanted to know. “I thought I knew everybody in the business here.”
“He is in quite another business, my dear Rolf,” Appicella said. “If you will forgive such a liberty in your own place of business, I think my friends would like a bit of privacy. Do you mind?”
Rolf threw up his hands. “Mind? Why should I mind? We won’t get any repair work done this morning, and half a dozen customers will want my head, but what the hell? If I can make Emilio Appicella happy … ”He walked out and closed the door.
“Emilio,” Rule said, reading the document as it was printed, “you should be a full-time spy, you know.” She looked up at him. “What were you talking about, raping his computer?”
“That will take a little longer, I am afraid,” Appicella replied. “I’ll explain when I’ve done it.”
The printer stopped, and Rule began tearing the continuous pages of the document apart. “Look, I’ve got to get over to the ministry and see Carlsson. Emilio, you’ll be working here for a while, right? I think it’s important that you not leave here and go wandering around the city. Majorov has surely missed you by this time, and he can’t be very happy with you.”
“Don’t worry,” Appicella said, “I have plenty to keep me busy while you save Sweden from the Russians.”
“Will,” she said, “I don’t like asking you to take risks, but will you come to the ministry with me? You work for Senator Carr, and you might enhance my credibility with Carlsson.”
“Risk? What risk?”
“I think you ought to consider that there might be people looking for you around Stockholm, even as we speak. They took a swipe at me this morning and hit somebody else instead, so maybe they think I’m dead. On the other hand, if they’ve found out they hit the wrong person, they might still be looking for a woman alone. I think we might be less conspicuous together. They’re probably not looking for a couple.”
“Okay, I’m with you,” he said.
Rule asked Rolf to look up the address of the ministry, and they got a cab in the street.
“Shouldn’t we telephone ahead?” Lee asked.
Rule shook her head. “I don’t trust the telephone right now,” she said.
The cab drove them to what seemed a side street off a small square and stopped in front of an unprepossessing doorway. “This is the address,” the driver said.
“Not very impressive, is it?” Lee said, as they got out of the cab. “I was expecting a sort of Scandinavian Pentagon, I guess.”
Rule didn’t respond. She was busy seeming not to notice a car parked down the street, with the silhouette of a man at the wheel. They went inside and found themselves in a small vestibule, faced with a set of double doors. To their right was a small window at which sat a man in uniform.
“Good morning,” Rule said to the guard. “Would you please tell Mr. Sven Carlsson that Brooke Kirkland of Washington, D.C. is here to see him?”
“And the gentleman’s name?”
“Mr. Lee. Would you say to Mr. Carlsson that he works for Senator Carr?”
“Is he expecting you?” the guard asked.
“Yes, but not necessarily at this hour, and he is not expecting Mr. Lee.”
The man made a telephone call and spoke in rapid Swedish for a few moments, then waited for what seemed a long time. Finally, he hung up. “Someone will be down for you directly,” he said, then went back to his work.
Perhaps three minutes passed, then a woman appeared on the other side of the double doors. There was a buzzing sound, and the doors opened. “Miss Kirkland? Mr. Lee? Would you come with me, please?”
They walked a few yards down a hallway, then took an elevator up a couple of floors. They emerged into a hallway that was a balcony supported by marble columns, overlooking a large work area filled with desks, on the ground floor.
“It looks more like a bank than a ministry,” Lee said.
“It used to be a bank,” the woman replied.
The sounds of the work going on below was a distant murmur, barely penetrating what seemed an unnatural quiet. The woman turned left into an oakpaneled reception room, onto which two sets of double doors opened. She knocked at the doors on her right, then opened them and ushered Rule and Lee into a comfortably furnished office overlooking the square through which they had passed. A man rose from a desk and came around to meet them.
“Miss Kirkland, I believe? I am Sven Carlsson. Senator Carr told me to expect you, but I did not know at what time.” He had quite gray hair over an unlined face, and the combination made his age difficult to guess. Somewhere between thirty-five and fifty, Rule thought. He wore rimless glasses of a modern design.
“Mr. Carlsson, it is very kind of you to see us on such short notice.”
“Please,” he said, motioning them toward a leather sofa across the room.
“How can I be of service?” Carlsson asked, when they had arranged themselves.
“It is we who wish to be of service to you, Mr. Carlsson,” Rule said. “First of all, I should tell you that my name is not Kirkland; the senator and I thought it would be better, in the circumstances, if I u
sed that name.” She produced her identification card. “My name is Katharine Rule, and I am an official of the Central Intelligence Agency of the American government. I am the head of what is known as the Soviet Office, the department charged with analyzing intelligence from the Soviet Union.”
“I see,” Carlsson said, examining the card carefully.
She gestured toward Lee. “This is Mr. Will Lee, who is Counsel to the Senate Intelligence Committee, and who is, as such, an assistant to Senator Carr.”
Will handed Carlsson his own senate identification.
“Mr. Lee,” Carlsson said, “I believe I have heard Senator Carr speak of you when I was in Washington a short time ago.”
“We are here,” Rule said, “because we have important information concerning Swedish defense which has been developed by my department at the Central Intelligence Agency. Because of the shortness of time, and for other reasons too complicated to go into at the moment, I felt I should not wait until this information could be transmitted through normal governmental and diplomatic channels. I went to Senator Carr, and after hearing what I had to say and examining my evidence, he advised me to come directly to Stockholm and present myself to you, in the hope that you would bring this evidence to the immediate attention of the minister of defense and the prime minister.”
“Well, Miss Rule,” Carlsson said, “you have certainly gained my undivided attention. What is it you wish to tell us?”
Rule handed him the document Appicella had stolen from Majorov’s computer. “If you will read the summary at the head of this document, that will explain the essence of what I have to tell you.”
Carlsson quickly read the brief summary, then read it again without expression. He then quickly flipped through the other pages, glancing at the contents. Finally, he looked up at Rule. “I am flabbergasted,” he said. “If you are who you say you are, and not a writer of spy fiction …” He seemed to grope for words. “May I ask the origin of this document?”
