“You thought you might end up there,” Rossky said. “Is it nice?”
“Very,” said Valya. “I watched two people getting ready for a trip on the gulf. ”
She’d said “on” the gulf and not “in” it, Orlov noted. That was significant. They were traveling on the surface and not by submarine.
“They’re going to sea in the dark?” Rossky asked.
‘Yes,” said Valya. “A curious time to travel, but they are in a very fast boat and seem to know what they’re doing. Besides, Uncle, I suspect they want to watch the sunrise from somewhere beautiful. A man and a woman-very romantic, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” Rossky said. “Precious, I don’t want you out so late-why don’t you go home and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I will,” she said. “Have a good night.”
A pensive Orlov handed the earphones back to the operator and thanked him while Rossky doffed his own set. The Colonel’s expression was tense as he followed the General to his office. Though the message could read by anyone in the command center, Orlov didn’t t want their options discussed openly. Moles could be anywhere.
“They are audacious,” Rossky said angrily when the door was shut, “coming in by boat.”
“It’s our fault for not taking the Finns more seriously,” Orlov said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “The question is, do we want these two to come in or stop them in the gulf?”
“Set foot on Russia?” Rossky said. “Never. We watch them by satellite and stop them the moment they enter Russian waters.” He was staring past Orlov as though he were thinking aloud and not addressing a superior officer. “Standard operating procedure would be to drop mines from fishing boats, but I wouldn’t want to tweak Minister Niskanen’s nose so openly. No,” he went on, “I’ll have the Navy send the radio-controlled mini-sub from the Sea Terminal on Gogland Island. A collision … we report losses of our own, blame it on the Finns.”
“Standard operating procedure,” Orlov said. “But I repeat. What if we allow them to come in?”
Rossky’s eyes returned to the General. They were no longer enthusiastic, but glazed with anger. “General, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Is it your intention, sir, to stop me at every turn?”
“Yes,” Orlov admitted, “where your tactics and ideas run counter to the mandate of this Center. Our mission is to gather intelligence. Killing these two operatives and crippling Niskanen’s ability to send in other enemies doesn’t do that. More agents will follow these two, if not from Finland then perhaps through Turkey or Poland. How thin can we spread our resources tracking them? Wouldn’t it be better to know more about how they operate and to try and get them to work for us?”
While Orlov spoke, Rossky’s expression had shaded from annoyance to anger. When the General was finished, his deputy hooked back a sleeve and looked at his watch. “The agents apparently hope to arrive before sunup, which will be in a little over four hours. You’d best give me your decision very soon.”
“I need to know what resources you can spare to watch them,” Orlov said as his phone beeped, “and whether the man Pogodin caught in Moscow can help us.” He reached behind himself and put the phone on speaker in an effort to mollify Rossky. If the Colonel was grateful, he didn’t show it. “Yes?” Orlov said.
“Sir, it’s Zilash. Nearly ninety minutes ago, we picked up a rather odd communication from Washington.”
“In what way odd?” Orlov asked.
“It was a heavily scrambled message to an aircraft flying from Berlin to Helsinki,” said Zilash. “Corporal Ivashin ordered satellite reconnaissance of the aircraft. Though the flight path took it under heavy cloud cover-intentionally, it appears-we were able to get a couple of good looks at it through breaks. The aircraft is an II-76T.”
Orlov and Rossky exchanged glances. For the moment, their feud was forgotten.
“Where is the plane now?” Orlov asked.
“On the ground in Helsinki, sir.”
Rossky leaned forward. “Zilash, were you able to see a number?”
“No, Colonel, but it’s an II-76T-we’re sure of that.”
“A lot of planes are being shifted around,” Orlov said to Rossky. “Someone might be using the opportunity to defect.”
“Two other possibilities come to mind,” Rossky said. “The team Valya has been watching may be a feint to draw our attention from some other mission, or the U.S. is running two entirely different operations from Finland.”
Orlov agreed. “We’ll know more when we see where the II-76T is headed,” he said. “Zilash-keep following the plane and let me know the instant you have anything else.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Orlov punched off the speaker, Rossky took a step toward him. “General-”
Orlov looked up. “Yes?”
“If the plane enters Russian airspace, the Air Force will want to bring it down, the way they did that Korean Airlines jet. They should be alerted.”
“I agree,” said Orlov, “though with a wall of radar and other early-waming devices, it would be suicidal to try.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, yes,” said Rossky. “But with the heavy increase in military air traffic over the past few days, it wouldn’t surprise me if the plane simply tried to slip in and lose itself somewhere.”
“Point well taken,” Orlov said.
“And the boat?” Rossky asked. “We’re obliged to inform the Navy
“I know what we’re required to do,” Orlov cut in. “But that one is mine, Colonel. Let them land, watch them, and tell me exactly what they’re up to.”
Rossky’s jaw shifted. “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting without enthusiasm.
“And Colonel?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do your best to ensure that nothing happens to the crew. Your very best. I don’t want to lose any more foreign agents.”
“I always do my best, sir,” Rossky said as he saluted again and left the office.
THIRTY-SIX
Tuesday, 12:26 A.M., Helsinki
The South Harbor district of Helsinki is famous not just for the crowded market square that adjoins thee Pressidential Palace, but for the boat rides which leave for Suomenlinna Island several times a day. Nestled at the entrance to the harbor, this imposing “Gibraltar of the North” is home to an open-air theater, a military museum, and an imposing eighteenth-century castle. Adjacent Seurasaari Island is connected to the mainland by bridge and is the site of the Olympic Stadium, which hosted the 1952 games.
At night, the landmarks are dark silhouettes against the darker skies. Had they been visible, Peggy James still would not have seen them. Major Aho had given her an automobile and explicit directions. Fifteen minutes after he’d gone to the airport with two decoys in his command, she’d driven herself and Private George to the harbor and the cruiser that would take them to Kotka and the mini-sub. She had no time nor interest in sight-seeing. She had just one thing on her mind-getting into St. Petersburg. What mattered most was finishing the job Keith Fields-Hutton had started. Finding and killing the person or persons responsible for his death was not as high a priority, though she was prepared to do so if the opportunity presented itself.
The cruiser was a sleek Larson Cabrio 280, and after the password and response had been given the duo boarded the twenty-eight footer. Carefully placing her own backpack on the floor between her feet in the athwartship berth, Peggy sat beside George as the boat spun into the night. The operatives spent the bulk of the ninety-ntinute trip reviewing the maps of the Hermitage and the terrain between their landing point and the museum. The plan she had worked out with Major Aho before George’s arrival was for the mini-sub to let them out in a rubber raft near the Southern Coastal Park, a short bus ride from their target. In a way, she preferred this masquerade to a wetsuit-type operation at night. Foreign authorities were more inclined to believe cover stories about daylight operations, since most operatives weren’t reckless enough to try them.
The mini-sub was berthed in a windowless shed on the gulf. She would have preferred to fly, dropping rubber boats and parachuting just outside the target zone. But night dives into icy-cold waters were too risky. If she or Private George landed too far from the boat, they could die of hypothermia before it reached them. Besides, the jump might damage her delicate equipment, and it was imperative that that not happen.
After producing their photos, the agents were admitted by a young man dressed in a dark blue sweater and trousers. He had a square face and deeply cleft chin. His blond hair was cut almost to the scalp. He shut the door quickly behind them. A second man stepped from the shadows. He flicked on a flashlight and held a gun on the pair. Peggy shielded her eyes from the glare as the first man compared the photographs to the copies of the shots she’d faxed over bearing the Palace’s ID number on top.