Special Dynamic

by Special Dynamic (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s a fill-in, if you wanted one. And if you’re up to it physically. Only temporary, you see — might attract you, little swan to Norway? Did your AW training early on, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sure. But—’

  ‘They’re offering two and a half grand, Ollie. For a month’s free winter sports.’

  AW stood for Arctic Warfare, and AWT — Arctic Warfare Training — was part of the Royal Marine curriculum. Ollie had been through it before he’d joined the SB Squadron. In fact he’d been on two Northern flank deployments in those earlier days. Dark was saying, ‘I dare say you’d have uses for some ready cash, if you’re having to wait for the word on this other thing?’

  There was a pension for his years of service, obviously, but he’d resigned, hadn’t been invalided; there was no other kind of compensation. No certainty he’d get the airline job, and if that fell through it could take a long time to find another. It wasn’t just a matter of finding a job, either: having had the luck to have spent several recent years in employment from which the rewards included something like two hundred per cent job satisfaction, one had high standards now. On the money angle, too, for some years he’d been helping his widowed mother to keep her head above water. So the short answer to Dark’s question was yes, he’d sooner devote the coming weeks to earning than to spending.

  ‘Basic question first, Ollie — how’s the wonky spine? Reckon you’d be OK on skis?’

  ‘No question. I’m as sound as ever.’

  ‘So why the fuck walk out on us?’

  He hesitated. Then: ‘Good question. Nothing relevant to the present discussion, though. OK?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to put your name forward if that wasn‘t straight-up, Ollie.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, I just bloody told you …’ He checked himself: he’d heard Mary laugh, in the bedroom. Deep breath. ‘Listen. The reason I ducked out was a suggestion I should leave the Squadron. That’s all.’

  ‘Well.’ Dark sort of half laughed, too. ‘You haven’t changed, Ollie, have you.’

  He didn’t comment. There was a silence until Dark added, ‘Main thing is, you are fit for a skiing trip.’

  Cross-country skiing, it would be, in Norway. As it happened he’d been thinking of the downhill kind, a cheap package-deal trip to Austria, to kill some of the waiting period. Then Mary had said she couldn’t make it — for various reasons, or rather excuses, adding up to the simple fact she didn’t want to … And whatever this stunt of Dark’s was, it mightn’t be a bad idea to get away for a while, give them both time to think things over. He was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same about him as she had before he’d left the Corps, and that she had some sense of guilt about this, wouldn’t want to admit it although he could understand it and didn’t blame her for any such change of heart. It was less Christian tolerance on his part than pragmatic recognition of the fact he probably had changed — as she would be seeing him now — and that there was no mileage to be got out of busted flushes.

  Two days later, in the MoD main building in Whitehall, Dark led him to a higher floor and along a mile of corridor, into the presence of a civilian called Jarvis who ranked as an Assistant Under Secretary. The PRO then left, saying he’d return when summoned, to take Ollie back to his own department. Visitors weren’t encouraged to wander around this establishment on their own.

  Jarvis was a man in early middle-age. Greying hair, pale complexion, well cut charcoal-grey suit, white shirt and striped tie. His office accommodation made it obvious that the letters AUS equated with VIP. It was a suite of two rooms, one with his desk in it and this other one furnished with a mahogany boardroom table with matching chairs set round it. Jarvis pulled out a chair for his guest, then sat down beside him. Declining the offer of a cigarette, Ollie was treated to a surprise close-up of his own face — blunt, wide jaw, wide-set eyes, the nose that hadn’t set quite straight after an argument with a mainsail boom at the age of fifteen — reflected in the silver box‘s raised lid. From that he glanced up at the contrastingly smooth-looking character who was now lighting a cigarette and asking him through the first exhalation of smoke, ‘I suppose Captain Dark sketched out the basics of our problem?’

  ‘He said some Yank professor needs a minder to escort him through Lappland. I was saying, as we came along, I’d have thought you’d have looked for someone from the MAW cadre.’

  That they’d have picked one of the Mountain and Arctic Warfare specialists, he meant. They were the real experts, far more so than the ordinary run of Arctic-trained men like himself. Jarvis agreed: ‘That was the intention, and we did indeed look for one, but it seems they’re few and far between. It does have to be an ex-Marine, of course.’

  Because it was a civilian expedition: obviously they’d hire a civvie. Royals who were still serving wouldn’t be available anyway. That figured, but he thought this high-level MoD involvement did not. It didn’t yet, anyway. Smoke trickled from Jarvis’ nostrils, and Ollie noticed his fingers were stained with nicotine. He was explaining, ‘The American — the main one, actually there are two in the party — is a professor of social anthropology, by name Carl Sutherland. If you’d made any study of Lapps or Lappland you’d have heard of him through the book he published a few years ago. He’s a lecturer at Harvard. Middle forties. His aim is to update his book, revise and expand it to cover the present political, politico-social situation, of which we’ve been hearing bits and pieces lately. His previous fieldwork was all done in the summer, when the nomadic, reindeer-herding Lapps are at the coast or on the islands, and he wants this winter trip now so as to see them in their up-country quarters.’ Jarvis shrugged. ‘Apparently they retire to the highlands, inland, when the snow comes. God knows why… But Sutherland is being given some financial assistance from the State Department and we’ve been brought into it by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There happens to be some special interest in Lappland, you see. Result of recent disturbances?’

  ‘The air disaster at Tromsø.’

  ‘Yes. The bomb in that plane was almost certainly put there by a Lapp, we’re told. Oslo’s been trying to play it all down, but — well, they’ve had some Lapps in for questioning, as you’ll have read. But then Murmansk too?’

  Within a few days of the Tromsø air crash there’d been Tass reports that a bomb had exploded outside a government building in that northern Soviet city, killing one passerby and blowing out a lot of windows. A very unusual incident: at least, highly unusual for news of such anti-Soviet activism to have been allowed out by the Soviet censors.

  ‘Have they pinned that on Lapps?’

  ‘So we’re informed. They’re also taking it seriously enough to be deploying MVD troops close to the Norwegian border in the Kirkenes area to counter any trouble that might develop there. The Soviet border commissioner called a meeting with his Norwegian opposite number a few days ago, to explain what they were doing in case it might look like something more sinister. Border cooperation is very close and circumspect, you know, up there. They’re careful not to make each other nervous.’

  ‘I’d forgotten there were Lapps on the Soviet side of the border.’

  ‘Kola Peninsula.’ Jarvis gestured towards a wall map. ‘Reindeer farming there was collectivised just after the Bolshevik revolution. You’d have thought they’d have been dutiful commie citizens by now, wouldn’t you… But coming back to the wider picture, Lyle — Sweden too, the riots in Norrbotten?’

  ‘Yes, of course…’

  There’d been damage to property but no deaths in the Swedish riots. But from the Norwegian air disaster, a Douglas DC9 that had disintegrated in a fireball only minutes before it had been due to land at Tromsø, there’d been no survivors.

  ‘We’ve had rumours of funny goings on in Finland, too. Not that Helsinki’s telling us anything — and it may be no more than rumour. Flare-ups like this have been known before, haven’t they, a group in one area following another lot’s lead for no obvious reason. But the Norwegians are
rather concerned, now. They have no positive evidence of any general problem, but — well, they do a great deal for their Lapp population — schools, housing, encouragement of the language, training for non-Lapp-type jobs, and so on. Despite which, they’ve had their difficulties, over the years. It’s a complex issue dating from when God was a boy, but basically the Lapps feel they’re second-class citizens — which they are not, incidentally, they have full political and social rights. And of restrictions interfering with their old, traditional lifestyle. Modern technological developments — hydro-electrical schemes or oil pipelines cutting ancient migration routes, for instance. But whatever the nuts and bolts of it, it’s of interest to us — to NATO and to the West in general — because of the immense strategic importance of that Northern flank.’

  Ollie nodded.

  ‘In summary, then — if anything was likely to happen that could destabilise the area, we’d want to know about it before it happened. That’s why the Americans are supporting Sutherland’s effort now. I hear the Norwegians are also sending a representative along, someone from their Department of Lapp Affairs, whatever they call it. I don’t speak Norwegian — do you?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘But it was our own idea that we might provide an escort — ‘minder’ as you called it.’ Jarvis slid spectacles on to his nose; steely light from across the Thames flashed on the lenses as he glanced down, opening a buff-coloured file. ‘Do you want to take it on?’

  ‘I do have about six weeks with nothing much to do.’

  ‘Yes. Dark explained your situation. And despite the recent accident you’re sure you’re up to it physically?’

  ‘Well, I do a hundred press-ups every morning, I’ve been playing squash—’

  ‘I’m sure’ — Jarvis reached to stub out his cigarette — ‘that you know better than I can what sort of exertions might be called for. If you say you can handle it—’

  ‘I can. I promise you.’

  ‘All right. Then let’s get on with this.’ He’d opened the file. ‘Sutherland and his assistant, whose name is…’ Checking… ‘Gus Stenberg. They’re both described as competent skiers, and they’ve been through some course of survival training. You’d be expected to meet them in Alta in about a week. Rather short notice, but there we are.’

  ‘As long as transport’s available—’

  ‘Oh, we’ll get you there. That’s to be our own contribution. But Dark’s the man for you to see, on all such details. The Americans are already on their way — by ship to south Norway, then coastal steamer from Bergen to — oh, Tromsø, I think. Sutherland doesn’t like flying. He was here last week, if we’d had you then you could have travelled with them.’ Jarvis spread his hands: ‘You’d have thought it would be easy to find a suitably qualified candidate for this job. I thought it would be. But until Dark produced you it was beginning to look hopeless. I suppose you’re either a serving Royal Marine or you’re out of that and into some good civilian job. Case of first-class material always in demand, eh?’

  Flattery. Ollie waited.

  ‘Well.’ Fingering papers in the file. ‘As I’ve said, Captain Dark will fill you in on detail. If there was any problem with transport I suppose you could get yourself there and claim reimbursement later. Any special equipment, ditto.’

  ‘I’ve got most of what I’d need. But you mean—’

  ‘I mean, refer to Dark. But — wider aspects now, Lyle. And this is between ourselves now. I have to explain that your value to us in this expedition will be less as escort, obliging the Americans, than as an observer. We’d like to have our own eyes and ears on the situation up there, you see.’

  ‘Although I’ll be on their payroll?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do the job they’re hiring you for?’

  That was an answer, apparently…

  ‘Will they know I’m reporting back to you?’

  ‘No reason they shouldn’t, but Sutherland himself is — well, somewhat typical of his kind. He has what he’d call a “liberal” outlook. His book argued the Lapp case, supported their grievances — which to describe briefly one might say are the sort of thing one used to hear of in connection with Red Indians. There’s a tie-up there, too, Red Indians and Eskimos see themselves as in the same boat. They and the Lapps from all the Scandinavian countries get together in some kind of world conference to chew over mutual problems. And a few years ago, after a Norwegian Lapp had tried to blow up a bridge — near Alta, I think it was — he got away across the Atlantic and some Indian tribe took care of him. Then he was extradited. He’d blown his hand off, or part of it, hadn‘t damaged the bridge at all — and I’m told that’s typical, that they’ve never been martially inclined. Although apparently it was a Lapp who planted the bomb in that plane.

  ‘But my point is, Sutherland would have taken that man’s side. Which, incidentally, is why he stands some chance of getting to the roots of whatever’s happening. He’s very much persona grata with politically-minded Lapps, because of his book. Which may explain to you the interest we have in this expedition: he may get somewhere where others would not. The Norwegians have suddenly caught on to this, too. But at the same time, paradoxically, he’s not the sort of man one would rely on from other points of view. I’m not saying that if he hit on some real threat to the area’s security he’d keep it to himself — one hopes he wouldn’t — but on the other hand this is the north of Norway we’re talking about, where our interests are quite vital and a Soviet land grab’s been on the cards for decades…’ He paused again. ‘You know all about that, of course. And we’ve said all that needs to be said about Carl Sutherland. We’re left with his assistant, Stenberg, and he’s rather different — apart from being a lot younger, of course.’ Jarvis found the page in his notes. ‘Stenberg, August, name usually abbreviated to “Gus”. Age twenty-seven. Engaged in post-graduate studies in anthropology. But he’s also an athlete, a valued player on the Harvard ball team.’

  ‘Sounds like CIA potential.’

  Jarvis smiled. ‘Because he plays football?’

  ‘Because they wouldn’t be making the investment if they weren’t expecting a return on it and, as you point out, they’d hardly get much mileage out of Sutherland. Stenberg looks like the answer.’

  ‘Logical.’ Jarvis shrugged. ‘Except that as far as I know the interest in all this is purely NATO’s. Another point I should make is that there’s no kind of rivalry involved; anything you told us, we’d pass straight to the Americans. Our interests are identical, are they not… All I’m asking you to keep in mind, Lyle, is that Sutherland may identify himself with Lapp interests to a degree that blinds him to the wider issues. Eh?’

  ‘So there’ll be two of us — me and the ball-player — looking over the egghead’s shoulder.’

  ‘Or three of you.’ Jarvis was lighting another cigarette. ‘Oslo won’t be sending their man along for nothing… And before we leave this subject — if anything cropped up that you felt we’d want to hear about quickly, you could pass it by telephone to a Major Grayling who’s on the staff of COMNON. He’s a Royal Marine, on an exchange posting related to oil-platform security. I’ll give you day and night telephone numbers for him — just in case…’

  COMNON was an acronym for ‘Commander, North Norway’, a Norwegian national headquarters near Bode, subordinate to the joint national and NATO headquarters at Kolsas near Oslo.

  Jarvis said, as their meeting ended and while they waited for Barry Dark to come up and fetch him, ‘I’m told you were in the Special Boat Squadron.’

  Ollie looked at him. Surprised that he would have been told. It wasn’t a thing you advertised, and you never discussed it, not even with other Royals who were not in the Squadron. Presumably Jarvis operated at such a dizzy height that he was privy to every kind of information: but it still didn’t seem to Ollie to be any of his business. He said, ‘I’m a civilian now, anyway.’

  The civil servant’s expression showed a mixture of interest and puzzlement. As
if some other question was forming behind it. And he’d looked a bit surprised, Ollie recalled, when he’d first walked in here and they’d shaken hands; he’d noticed it and then forgotten it, but now he realised it had most likely been Jarvis’ reaction to the fact this ex-SB man was only five foot nine inches tall and not noticeably built like a weight-lifter. People had these odd ideas: Special Boat men, like SAS, performed what seemed to be miracles, therefore should all look like Superman — or worse…

  *

  At Evenes, where the ground temperature was twenty-two degrees below zero, and the hairs in his nostrils froze into prickly bristles as soon as he emerged from the aircraft, transport in the form of a half-ton Land-rover with studded tyres was waiting outside the wooden building of the military terminal to take Ollie and some of the Marine passengers to Elvegardsmoen, where the Commando was quartered. He was sure there’d have been an onward flight within an hour or so to Alta, but the arrangement was that he’d spend the night at Elvegardsmoen and go on by road next day. There was at least one useful dividend: arrangements had been made — or should have been — for a pair of Royal Marine cross-country skis, bindings and poles to be issued to him on temporary loan from the Commando’s quartermaster’s store.

  He sat up front beside the Marine driver, chatting desultorily about the Commando’s current preoccupations and admiring the winter scenery. Towering, snow-covered mountains, fjords with ice around their shores but steaming in the centre, rock-faces laminated with pastel-green ice several feet thick. The road had been scraped clear of loose snow, and the tyres’ studs hammered on a hard-packed, icy underlay over which Norwegian motorists drove at what seemed like about sixty miles per hour without even slowing for the bends. They had studded tyres too, of course, and everyone drove with headlights on, as the law required, even at midday. In fact the daylight was nearly gone by the time they were running up the side of Herjangsfjord, with Narvik’s lights glittering across the dark water: then they were passing through the village of Bjerkvik and swinging left. The driver muttered, ‘Not far now, sir.’