The Defector (43 page)

“It’s not here,” he said sourly. Harrington stared at him.

“What do you mean? I left it with you before we went on deck!”

“She came back for it,” the barman said.

“I gave it to her.” Harrington started to swear at him and then stopped. Steady, he told himself. Steady. Volkov got your message;

they’ve closed the ship; they can’t get away. They’ll be arrested any minute. But you need that handbag, just in case. And then he paused again, remembering that he hadn’t seen Davina carrying it since she left the bar. He turned back to the surly young Russian.

“Are you quite sure you gave it to the right woman? The one sitting here with me?”

“Quite sure,” came the answer.

“A German woman; she was the one drinking in here with you, Comrade; I gave her back her bag. “

“When?” Harrington demanded.

“About half an hour ago.” The barman turned his back on Harrington and began replacing bottles on the shelf above. Harrington swung round; he hurried outside and towards the bridge. A seaman on duty barred his way. He snapped at him in Russian.

“I must see the captain. Official business.”

“I am sorry. No one is allowed onto the bridge.” Harrington took a deep breath and said, “I am an officer of the KGB.” The seaman stiffened.

“I can’t let you pass without your authority, Comrade.” Harrington didn’t waste time arguing. He said, “You’ll regret obstructing me,” and turned away. He found Davina leaning on the rail where he had left her. Alexei Poliakov had marched straight up to the petty officer standing by the top of the gangway. His expression was grim, and there was an arrogance in his approach that put the petty officer on his guard. Irina was at his heels. He spoke to the man in a low, sharp voice.

“Open the gangway! KGB.” The officer glanced down at the palm opened in front of him and saw the red identity card flick open and shut faster than an eye could blink. He came to attention and saluted. He snapped at the seaman on the left, and they immediately unhooked the chain. Alexei caught Irina by the arm and they reached the quay. The petty officer didn’t watch them; the chain was replaced and he kept his eyes inwards on the ship. No one in his senses queried the holder of the red card, with its shield and crossed swords on the front. At least no one of his rank. And you didn’t peer after them either. You did what you were told and you minded your own business. The holder of the KGB card was the one Soviet citizen to whom the rules never applied.

“Where are Irina and Alexei?” Harrington asked. Davina turned round from the rail.

“I couldn’t find them,” she said. He looked shocked and strange for a moment.

“What do you mean? Where’s your bag?”

“I don’t know,” she said again.

“Why?” The effort he made to keep calm was so great that it showed in the deep breath he took, the deliberate unclenching of his hands.

“I went to get it from the bar, and he said you’d already collected it. Where is it?” She shrugged; she felt extraordinarily brave, reckless. They had got away. She’d seen them disappearing into the crowds on the dock. The handbag, with its ripped-out lining, was floating somewhere out at sea.

“I must have left it behind when I went to the ladies’ loo,” she said.

“I thought you were going to the bridge, to find out what had happened. What’s all the fuss about my bag?”

“No fuss,” he said slowly.

“I couldn’t get on the bridge. Listen, there’s something very important in your bag. I must get it. I put it there for safe keeping.”

I’m sure you did, she taunted him inwardly. And you’ll never guess who used it just now to get off the ship. “I’ll go and look for it,” she said.

“Why don’t you go and look for Irina and Alexei? I won’t be long; meet me back here.” She dawdled on her way to the toilets; she didn’t bother to go inside. She gave herself ten minutes and then went back. He was not at the ship’s rail. She found a deck-chair and sat down; she had cigarettes and matches in the pocket of her dress the pocket where she had hidden his KGB card before she gave it to Alexei. She lit a cigarette and leaned back, closing her eyes. The exhilaration drained out of her, leaving a cold little flutter of fear in its place. Something had certainly happened; some move had been made against them when the passengers were not allowed to leave. There was nothing more she could do but wait. wait for the inevitable. There was no hope of getting to the yacht without Harrington, even if the embargo were not connected with them and was lifted in time. And it wouldn’t be. Tourists were being allowed to come aboard;

there were a lot of them and the process was slow. By now Irina and Poliakov must have reached the yacht marina on foot. It was already too late for her. She sat in the deck-chair as the last of those embarking came on board, and the sun began to set. There was a chill in the air and she shivered. In the restaurant on the second deck the orchestra began to tune up. The dancing would begin quite soon. She got up and went to the rail again; she looked at her watch. The yacht should be well on its way out to sea by now.

unless Harrington had got to the captain and they had been intercepted. She closed her eyes and prayed again, very simply.

“Dear God. Don’t let it happen. Let them get away.” And when she saw Peter Harrington coming towards her, she knew by the sag of his shoulders and the hesitation in his step that the prayer had long been answered.

“There!” Alexei dragged Irina to a stop.

“There they are look!” There were many yachts moored in the marina; most of them were large motor-cruisers; a few were small, privately owned. East European flags abounded, flying the hammer and sickle alongside out of courtesy to the host port. Rumanian, East German, Hungarian and Polish. There were three Polish vessels; a big ocean-going motor-cruiser, a smaller type with two women enjoying the last of the sunshine; and a small, sleek, single-masted yacht, with three men on board. The Polish flag fluttered in a brisk little breeze blowing in from the sea.

“It must be them,” Alexei insisted.

“Women wouldn’t be on board and that’s a very big boat next to them. It’s that little yacht I’m sure!” They moved closer to the edge of the long jetty; Irina pulled off the bright yellow handkerchief she wore on her head. One of the men on the little yacht was watching the marina, and seemed to be watching them. She shook the little scarf out and waved it in her right hand. Instantly the man in the yacht waved back.

“It is them,” she whispered to Alexei.

“It is…” MacKie was waving at them, grinning; it was a recognition of friends so far as the spectators were concerned. Irina was amazed to hear a voice from the boat shout in Polish.

“Hey there! We thought you weren’t coming jump in the dinghy.” They lowered the little rubber dinghy; one man pulled on the mooring-rope to bring himself and the dinghy alongside the jetty. He held out a hand to Irina Sasanova. He had a brown face and bright brown eyes, white teeth showing in a broad smile.

“Hold tight and step in,” he said in Polish. She caught the hand; the grip was like an iron band, the muscles of his arm swelled under her full weight as he helped to swing her into the dinghy. She swayed and almost lost her balance till he lowered her onto one side of it. He reached out for Alexei Poliakov and helped him down. Then he began to haul on the rope to bring them alongside the yacht. Hands helped them climb aboard; nobody spoke, but to her surprise, MacKie put his arms round her and kissed her on both cheeks. The man in the dinghy was pulling himself back to the jetty. He tied up the dinghy and leapt ashore. The yacht was moored to a bollard; he pulled the rope loop free and threw it into the water. Then he jumped down into the dinghy, cast off and paddled the few yards to the yacht. It was done so quickly and with so little effort, that people on the jetty didn’t have time to offer help. He swung himself up and into the yacht; the dinghy was hoisted aboard, and made fast at the stern. Irina and Alexei were given glasses; there was a brief touching of them, as if they were drinking a toast, and then MacKie nodded to Bob Ferrie and mouthed the words, “Start engine. Raise anchor.” The throbbing sound drowned their whispers. They were asked, in Polish, “Where are the others?” and Irina answered, “They didn’t get away. One of them was a traitor. The other one stayed behind to help us. Don’t wait; she said you must hurry as fast as you can.” She hid her face against Poliakov and began to cry silently, as the anchor was pulled aboard and the yacht swung its sharp prow out to sea. From the moment she had waved her handkerchief until they cut the engine and hoisted sail as they left the harbour, fewer than fifteen minutes had passed. It seemed to her and to Alexei as long as every moment of their lives. Only the crew appeared cheerful and relaxed;

they were laughing and making remarks to each other in what she guessed was English. The one who spoke Polish brought out sweaters for his companions and one each for them.

“It’ll get cold,” he said.

“We’ve got about two hours’ sailing ahead of us. Let’s hope the wind holds. Do you want anything to eat?”

“No thank you,” Alexei said. He pulled Irina closer to him.

“Where are we going?” The man asked a question of the big crewman who had embraced Irina. MacKie nodded.

“You can tell them. No harm in them knowing.”

“We’re going to a pick-up point just outside Bulkina, near the promontory. It’ll be dark by then and we’ll find our sub waiting for us. We’ll be in Midina by tomorrow morning. Sit tight now, we’re getting a really good wind.” He grinned down at the girl and the young man. They looked drawn and exhausted and the girl was still wiping her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he said.

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

“What did she say about the others?” MacKie asked him.

“Said one of them was working for the Russians. The other stayed behind and let them get away. She said” she” so it must be a woman. Bloody brave, sir. I wouldn’t fancy being caught by that lot. “

“Nor would I,” MacKie said.

“So let’s keep her running, in case they send something nice and fast in pursuit. The sooner we get inside that sub the better!”

Darkness came upon them quite suddenly; two powerful lights beamed out from the yacht’s prow; they were flying before a strong wind, the spray shooting up on either side of them. Irina huddled inside Alexei’s arm.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.

“I can’t believe we’re going to get away… I keep thinking other, Alexei. If only I could pray to something for her. They’ll shoot her, won’t they?”

“No,” he whispered, comforting her.

“No, they won’t do that. I believe in God, Irina. I’ve been a Christian for a long time. I have been praying for her ever since we left. Shut your eyes my darling, and try to sleep.” After a while he sensed that she had indeed drifted away;

banks of clouds covered the moon; when the wind blew them apart, the moon shone briefly on them, and he could see how wan and exhausted she looked. He couldn’t sleep himself; the little ship was cutting through the seas, but she was pitching and he was feeling sick. As they came in sight of the promontory, guided by the slow flashing of its yellow lighthouse beam, the wind dropped. The yacht was in total darkness, its headlights extinguished whilst they were out at sea. MacKie had the motor started, and they began to move across the steady water, making a wide sweep around the promontory; then the engines cut out, and they used what little wind there was to tack to and fro within the same area. MacKie checked the time; they were only twenty minutes behind schedule. The waiting sub would pick them up on her scanner, and surface. Irina had woken; she sat beside Poliakov in the stern. The crew were silent, maneuvering the little yacht. They didn’t see her surface; the clouds were dense, the blackness impenetrable. They heard the rush and gurgle of the seas as they parted, and a hooded light winked in signal. Ferric uncovered his signal lamp and rapidly acknowledged. The yacht began to move towards the light and the shape of the submarine became apparent, with men moving on her deck. More lights came on, carefully hooded and dimmed against reflection, guiding the yacht close up. The sea was calm and it was possible to launch the dinghy and lower Irina into it, followed by Alexei, who was dizzy with seasickness. The Polish-speaking crewman paddled to the sub’s black sides, threw up a rope which was caught, and caught in turn a flexible ladder. He heaved the Russian girl up with his shoulder under her buttocks, until she was clinging to the ladder, inching her way within reach of the seaman above who grabbed her wrists and pulled her up. Poliakov was more athletic. The spray slapping against the submarine soaked them to the skin. Men shepherded them to the conning-tower and down the open hatch into the belly of the ship. The dinghy went back to the yacht; the wicker basket containing the arms and grenades was loaded in, secured on a rope and hauled aboard the sub. MacKie gave the order to scuttle; Bob Ferric opened the sea-cocks, then both men dived overboard and swam to the parent submarine. They climbed the ladder, joining the Polish-speaking corporal, who was deflating the dinghy.

“Chuck that back in.” The naval commander came up to them.

“Let’s get below and underway.” The dinghy was heaved back into the sea, air hissing from its open tubes. The yacht was settling down by the stern. The SAS commandos didn’t wait to see her go. They scrambled up to the conning-tower and down the hatch. Five minutes later the submarine slid gently below the surface. Inside it, watched by Irina and Alexei Poliakor, the commander shook Fergus MacKie and his men by the hand. The two young Russians were each given cups of very strong sweet tea laced with brandy. They looked at each other, and at the men who had rescued them, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

“They are not on the ship. We have searched everywhere, and there’s no place they could be hiding.” Harrington faced the captain; the captain looked uneasy. He was in a weak position, made weaker still by his delay in seeing what he now knew to be a very senior KGB officer. Radio confirmation of his claim had come in from Moscow, and while the dancers jigged and shuffled under the fairy-lights on deck, his men had searched the ship from the stem to the stern, looking in the smallest possible spaces where a person could hide, and had found no sign of the missing girl and the young man. The petty officer on duty at the gangway stood stiffly in front of them and swore he had not allowed any passengers to disembark. The two seamen said the same. They were dismissed, and outside the captain’s cabin, the petty officer spoke low and briefly to them.