Bloody communists!
Napper had always voted Conservative: there was no mucking about with the Conservatives, they understood class differences and were a bolster to Napper’s position as a petty officer, above the common herd of seaman. With the coms, all were equal, so Napper understood. Why, they even called their admirals Flagmen, just as though they were stokers or supply assistants! Napper recalled the programme for the fleet review back in 1937, for the coronation of King George VI...the USSR had sent along the old 23,000-ton battleship Marat, with a daft-looking bent-back fore funnel that was said to keep the fumes away from the bridge and foretop — anyway, she had carried an admiral, Flagman Ivanov.
For all Napper knew, Flagman Ivanov could be lurking in Archangel...maybe this Ivanov could even have come to the Pompey review as a spy and knew that Napper voted Conservative and never mind the sanctified secrecy of the ballot box.
Napper’s jaws worked like those of an old-age pensioner without teeth. He was getting himself into a panic and that would never do — he was talking bollocks to himself, of course he was. Nevertheless, the awful feeling of doom persisted as the Hardraw Falls crept on arse backwards, as he put it, and came inshore of Cape Kanin, pushing into the White Sea and more ice that cracked and banged and scraped along her sides, making her sound like a drum gone wrong. By this time Napper had a full view of actual Russia for the first time in his life, only a fragment of it, of course, but quite enough.
Slowly, the ship slid on into the White Sea: twelve thousand tons of high explosive, a Nazi agent, a crew showing signs of a cack-handed mutiny, and the continuation of Napper’s own personal problem that was defying his reduced stock of lanolin.
II
‘Ship approaching from ahead! ‘
The shout came down from the lookout in the crow’s nest. Kemp called back, ‘Can you identify?’
‘Looks like an ice-breaker, sir.’
Theakston said, ‘Clearing a channel. We’re going to need it by the look of things.’ By this time they were acting as their own icebreaker, not very effectively since all they had to push with was the stern. To go through ice you needed not only a nice sharp bow but a heavily reinforced one at that, such as the proper icebreaker would have. The Neath, however, had moved ahead of the Hardraw Falls and was doing her best to clear some sort of fairway. Both Theakston and Kemp knew they were only just going to beat the big freeze, the total ice-up of the port — beat it inwards, that was. If there had been a normal turnround they would have beaten it outwards too, most likely, but the damaged bow had put paid to that prospect.
‘Ice-breaker signalling, sir,’ Corrigan reported some minutes later. ‘From British Naval Liaison Officer Archangel to Commodore: “Intend to board. I shall approach your starboard side.”’
‘So BNLO’S come out in person,’ Kemp murmured. ‘I wish us both luck!’ To Corrigan he said ‘Acknowledge.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Cutler, standing in the bridge wing with the Commodore, said, ‘This is where it starts, sir. Von Hagen.’
‘Yes. The interrogation, I imagine, while we go on for Archangel.’
‘And the hand-over...’
Kemp nodded, his face set into hard lines, deep clefts from the corners of his mouth. The dirt had come home to roost, or was about to. It went right against all his principles but, despite his promise to von Hagen, he saw no way out. Perhaps he had been wrong to make that promise, wrong to lift the man’s hopes, but the promise had been only to try his best, nothing more, and he could still do that whatever the abysmal chances of success. In any case, von Hagen was an enemy with, apparently, a record of dirt on his own account. Kemp said. ‘When they come alongside, Cutler, go down and meet BNLO. He’s to be taken to my cabin and he’s not to contact von Hagen in the meantime.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Cutler gave one of his American-style salutes and left the bridge. The Russian vessel was not so far off now; Theakston had passed orders for a ladder to be put over on the starboard side, from the fore well-deck, and Cutler went down to stand by with Amory and four seamen of the ship’s crew, among them Able Seaman Swile. By now the Hardraw Falls had stopped engines so as to make it easier for BNLO to jump for the ladder and climb aboard, and was drifting slowly through the ice under what was left of her sternway.
There was a crunching sound as the ice-breaker moved closer, and great broken floes of ice surged up between the two hulls. From the bridge Kemp saw BNLO as he took him to be — an officer wearing the gold oak-leaved cap of a commander or captain. ‘He’s come with plenty of company,’ he remarked to Theakston. There was an unidentifiable muffled figure and three seamen of the British Navy, armed with rifles and bayonets, plus another rating, obviously a signalman since he was carrying a battery-fed Aldis lamp and two hand flags for sending semaphore. Also waiting their turn to leap for the dangling rope ladder were two uniformed Russians who had the look of the OGPU, and a civilian in a vast fur hat, pulled down low over a dead white face with a slit for a mouth.
‘I don’t like the look of that bugger,’ Kemp said as he looked down from the bridge. Unkindly, he had a hope that the man would miss the ladder and plunge into the cracking ice. But none of them did that; they came over the side behind BNLO and stood in a group in the well-deck as the ice-breaker moved away. Kemp saw Cutler salute BNLO and have a few words with him before turning for’ard and leading the way up the ladder to the central island and on up to the master’s deck. The fur-coated Russian, Kemp noted, was having a good look around as he climbed and for an instant their eyes met. The Russian’s, Kemp thought, were like those of a fish, cold and yet liquid.
A couple of minutes later Cutler came to the bridge.
‘In your cabin, sir. Captain Brigger — BNLO, with a Lieutenant Phipps of the RNVR. And a Russian by the name of I. K. Tarasov.’
‘H’m. What’s his function, Cutler?’
‘He’s a colonel, sir. That’s all BNLO said when he made the introductions. I guess he’s probably secret police. He kind of looks that way.’
‘So I noticed. All right, Cutler, I’ll go down.’
Theakston asked, ‘All clear to move on in, Commodore?’
‘Yes, please. I’d be obliged if you’d let me know immediately if I’m wanted on the bridge, Captain. Never mind BNLO or I. K. Tarasov.’
‘Right you are,’ Theakston said.
Cutler asked, ‘Do you want me with you, sir?’
‘No, thank you, Cutler. If I do need you, I’ll shout up the voice-pipe.’ Feeling oddly and unusually nervous, Kemp clattered down the ladder to the master’s deck and went into the alleyway. He glanced at the armed sentry on von Hagen’s door and then went into his own cabin, outside which the British naval ratings and the uniformed Russians waited in a silent group, making way for the Commodore as he came up.
In Kemp’s cabin, Captain Brigger and Colonel Tarasov were standing waiting with Lieutenant Phipps, now seen to have the Special Branch green cloth between the gold rings of his rank. Kemp shook hands and said, ‘I’d like to know to whom I’m speaking, Captain Brigger. Colonel Tarasov’s function, I refer to.’ Brigger said, ‘He’s a special envoy, Commodore.’
‘From?’
There was a nervous tic in BNLO’S face, a twitch of a beetling eyebrow accompanied by a contraction of the puffy flesh below the right eye. He said, ‘From the Kremlin. From Marshal Stalin, personally.’
Kemp nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’ He faced the Russian. ‘Do you speak English, Colonel Tarasov?’
‘I speak good English, yes.’
‘That makes it easier, then.’
‘You do not speak Russian.’ It was more a statement than a question. Kemp said regretfully he had no Russian; Colonel Tarasov looked down his nose with something of a sneer: the English, his expression seemed to say, were uneducated.
‘Please sit down, gentlemen. Er...you’d like a drink, I expect?’
‘Thank you, vodka,’ Tarasov said.
‘No vodka, I�
��m afraid. Gin?’
‘Ah, gin. Very well, gin.’ Tarasov made a face. BNLO and Phipps opted for gin-and-bitters. Kemp pressed his bell and Torrence entered the cabin with a clean cloth over his arm. He took the Commodore’s order, which included whisky, and left the cabin with his usual brisk air, wishing he could linger outside the door after he’d served the drinks, but with such a mob around that wasn’t possible, which was a pity. On the other hand, it was sometimes possible to overhear conversations in his pantry, which wasn’t all that far from Kemp’s cabin. There were interconnecting pipes and ducts that could carry sound, and even though there was interference from the hum of the forced-draught system Torrence’s ears were sharp with much practice.
In the cabin BNLO started the ball rolling, glancing at his wristwatch as he did so. He had the look of a harassed man and one who had a good deal of work to do. ‘You’ll know why we’re here, of course,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Kemp wasn’t going to give him any help, was going to be non-committal, anyway at the start.
‘You’ve had no trouble?’
BNLO obviously meant, trouble with von Hagen. Kemp said, ‘No, no trouble.’ He saw no reason to make anything of the abortive suicide attempt. The episode had been noted in the ship’s log and his own log as Commodore of the convoy and in his view it had nothing to do with BNLO
‘That’s good,’ BNLO said a little lamely. Kemp made a guess that Captain Brigger was as much out of his depth as he was himself: both of them were seamen, not diplomats or Intelligence agents. That would be the province of Lieutenant Phipps of the Navy’s Special Branch — another guess and an obvious one now confirmed as correct by BNLO, who said, ‘Phipps here — he has some questions to put. To von Hagen.’
Tarasov said, ‘In my presence.’
‘We’ve been into that,’ Brigger said, twitching.
‘I am adamant. I have taken note of what you said, Captain Brigger, and I am adamant.’
Brigger showed a line of yellowish teeth, briefly. He said, ‘Like Stalin.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing — I’m sorry. Marshal Stalin is a strong man like you, Colonel Tarasov —’
‘Yes.’
Kemp said, ‘Would someone explain, please?’
‘Yes — I’m sorry, Commodore. Colonel Tarasov wished —’
‘Wishes.’ Tarasov’s narrow, peaked face was shoved forward.
‘Wishes to be present when Phipps — er — talks to von Hagen. However, that’s not in accord with my own orders from the Admiralty, as I have explained. But Colonel Tarasov is — er —’
‘Adamant?’ Kemp asked with the makings of a grin.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s easily settled,’ Kemp said. ‘For now, von Hagen’s in my charge. I’m responsible, and I shall not permit Colonel Tarasov to interview von Hagen at this juncture. I am adamant too.’ He turned to Lieutenant Phipps. ‘He’s all yours. You may go to his cabin, alone.’
There was a tap at the door and Torrence came in with the tray of drinks and glasses.
III
‘A little local difficulty I’d call it,’ Torrence reported a few minutes later to Chief Steward Buckle, whose mind was once again on caviar for the black market. Torrence had contrived to linger a little outside the cabin door, appearing to tap on it but not allowing his knuckles to make contact until he’d heard some of the natter. ‘There’s this Russki bloke, nasty little sod...wants to talk to the Jerry. Kemp, ‘e won’t have it. Got all hoity-toity about it and raised ‘is voice like. Now one of our blokes that come aboard, RNVR officer, ‘e’s in the Jerry’s cabin alone with him.’ Torrence paused. ‘Course, that von Hagen’s an old mate of Kemp’s, we know that.’
‘Can’t fall out with the Russians when you’re in Russia, eh?’ Torrence scratched his head reflectively. ‘Oh, I dunno. They can’t interfere with a British ship. International Law.’
‘In time of war?’
‘Dunno. I expect so, Chief.’
‘You didn’t hear any more?’
Torrence shook his head. ‘No. Did me best, but no luck. Acoustics went off as you might say. Shame, that.’
Buckle went back to his calculations, trying to balance the likely price of caviar in Archangel against what the market back in UK would bear. Trouble was, the bloody Russians would guess what he had in mind and would up the price to reduce his profit margin.
IV
Swile said, ‘Came down from Buckle...the buzz. Makes nasty hearing.’
‘What was it, then?’
‘Kemp. He’s getting von Hagen in on the Old Pals’ Act, see? And I’ve bin doing a lot of thinking. Putting two and two together. Those Russians that come aboard with the Navy...I reckon they’ve come for the Nazi and Kemp’s not letting him go in case he’s in for a lousy time, which of course he is if the Russians get hold of him. And you know what that means: like I said all along, the bugger comes with us, all the way to UK — right?’
Swile lit a fag and blew a trail of smoke. He was not blind to the obvious fact that the Hardraw Falls would be in Archangel for a full due; but, like Kemp, he believed that most of the crew would go home in another ship leaving ice-free Murmansk, and go home with von Hagen. So his anxieties remained.
‘Don’t see what anyone can do about it.’
‘I’ll be thinking,’ Swile said. ‘If the Nazi can be got out of that cabin, I reckon that’s all we need do. The Russians’ll do the rest. After all, we’re in Russian waters, eh?’ He left the fo’c’sle mess and went out to the fore well-deck. The Hardraw Falls was proceeding inwards through the channel cleared by the Neath and the ice-breaker, which had moved ahead of the British cruiser. Swile had gathered from one of the quartermasters that it was a long haul into Archangel itself, anyway at their current dead slow speed and moving astern. There should be time. Swile brooded: that Nazi had really got on his wick. He wanted to see him suffer and he knew the Russians would make him do that. Swile brooded on the past and what Mosley’s thugs had done to him in London’s East End in those prewar days, brooded on the years he’d spent in prison and the lessons he’d learned whilst inside, lessons not in going straight but in ways of getting even and causing damage to persons in the process. He’d had some tough companions in HM prisons, some tough enemies too, but he’d survived by the strength that had been in his own body and still was.
He looked towards the Russian coastline. The place was iron hard, grey dismal, oppressive — just the place for a Nazi to ponder on past misdeeds in the short time that would be left to him. Swile looked up at the bridge, saw Theakston looking aft from the wing, using his binoculars. That Cutler was with him. No sign of Kemp — he’d still be below, putting in his oar on the Nazi’s behalf. Swile flung his arms about his body: he’d never known such cold. The crunch of the ice as the ship pushed her stern against it had a sound of doom and foreboding and ahead of the two British ships the Russian ice-breaker appeared to have slowed a little as if waiting for the Hardraw Falls to catch up.
SEVENTEEN
I
Lieutenant Phipps was a patient man; he’d learned patience in the corridors of the Foreign Office, the long career corridors that led to power. A prewar diplomat, Phipps had been specially commissioned into the RNVR without having to go through the often lengthy process of being commissioned from the lower deck. Phipps was a valuable man and since entering the Navy had added to his attainments a formidable ability to interrogate. He was a linguist and spoke both German and Russian amongst other languages. And he had an ability to make people trust him. He had a youthful face that belied his maturity and he looked honest: he had a happy smile, which currently he was using on von Hagen.
‘Just a few words,’ he said. ‘You must see there’s no reason why you shouldn’t talk to me in the absence of Colonel Tarasov.’ ‘Before I’m handed over to him.’
‘Well — yes. I admit that’s the idea. Under certain circumstances, that is.’ Phipps paused and held out his cigarette case.
Von Hagen took one and Phipps leaned forward, flicking a light. ‘I think you understand me, don’t you, Colonel von Hagen?’
Von Hagen nodded. ‘Oh yes. If I talk, I’ll not be handed over. Commodore Kemp has already told me that.’
‘Yes, of course. You and he — you knew each other before the war.’
‘Yes, indeed we did.’ There was an inward look in the German’s eyes. ‘They were good times...’
‘But you haven’t told Commodore Kemp anything, have you?’
‘No.’
Phipps smiled. ‘He’s not a good interrogator, is he? Not his line. But it’s mine.’
Convoy North (A John Mason Kemp Thriller) Page 18
