The Daleth Effect Page 4

  As it subsided the groans and cries went up, and the shouts were echoed aboard the ship.

  “Over here, my God, it’s the admiral!”

  “Don’t touch him—that leg’s broken at least, maybe worse.”

  “Get off me… !”

  “Someone call an ambulance, this man’s hurt!”

  Heavy boots hammered on the stone as the guards ran up: someone was shouting into a police radio. Aboard the Isbjorn there was the clang of metal as she wallowed back and forth, and her captain’s voice could be clearly heard above the others.

  “Taking water aft—the wooden plugs, you fools—when I get my hands on the people who did this!”

  The ear-hurting bahh-boo of police cars grew louder, and in the distance there was the rapid clanging of ambulance bells. Headlights raced down the length of the quay as water ran from its edge in a hundred tiny waterfalls.

  Ove was dazed, washed against the wall, soaked to the skin and tangled in the wire from the telephone. He pushed himself to a sitting position, back against the rough stone, looking at the frantic scene of shouting men with the Isbjorn still rocking in the background. He was shocked by the suddenness of disaster, the wounded, possibly dead men near him. This was terrible; it should not have happened.

  At the same time he was filled with such a rising feeling of exultation that he almost shouted aloud. It worked! They had done it! The Daleth effect was as Arnie had predicted it would be.

  There was something new in the world, something that had never existed before this night, and from this moment onward the world would never be the same again. He smiled into the darkness, unaware of the blood that was running down his chin, and of the fact that four of his front teeth had been knocked out.

  * * *

  Snow still drove past spasmodically, first dropping a sheet of obscurity and then lifting it for a tantalizing glimpse. The man on the other side of the channel of the Yderhavn cursed to himself in a continuous guttural monotone. This was the best he could do with such short notice, and it was just not good enough.

  He was on the roof of a warehouse, just across the half-mile-wide channel from the Langelinie quay. This area was almost completely deserted after dark, and he had had no trouble avoiding the few night watchmen and police who came by. His glasses were good, the best Zeiss-Ikon 200 mm wide-field night glasses, but they could see nothing if nothing was there. The snow had started soon after the official cars had pulled up on the quay and had been drifting by ever since.

  The cars were what had aroused his interest, the high-level activity so late at night, the concerted motion of a number of military people that he kept under observation. What it meant he had no idea. They had gone to that damned quay, in the dead of night in a snowstorm, to stand and look at a filthy scow of a coal-burning icebreaker. He cursed again and spat into the darkness, an ugly man, uglier now in his anger, with a tight mouth, round head, bullet neck, and thin gray hair cropped so short it might have been shaved.

  What were these thick and stupid Danes up to? Something had happened; there had been an accident docking ,, the ship perhaps, men had been knocked down. There had been a disturbance in the water. But there had been no sound of an explosion. Now there was plenty of excitement, ambulances and police cars coming from all sides. Whatever had happened had happened; there would be nothing else of importance to be seen here tonight. He cursed again as he rose, chilled, his knees stiff and cracking with the effort.

  Something had happened, that was certain. And he was damned well going to find out what it was. That was what he was paid to do and that was what he enjoyed doing.

  The ambulances clanged away, and it would have taken a keen eye in the darkness to see that the icebreaker now rode lower in the water.

  5

  “Not much of a view,” Bob Baxter admitted, “but it’s one that I find inspiring in a way. It’s kind of hard for me to forget my job when I look out of this window.”

  Baxter was a thin, gangling man who seemed to fold at the joints like a carpenter’s rule. His face was bland, instantly forgettable, and its most memorable feature was the thick, black-framed glasses that he wore. Without them you might not recognize him. Which was perhaps why he wore them. He slumped when he sat, deep in the swivel chair behind the desk, pointing out of the window with a freshly sharpened, yellow HB pencil stamped PROPERTY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT.

  The only other man in the small office sat, bolt upright, on the front half of his chair and nodded stiffly. This was not the first time he had heard about the view. He was a solid, ugly man with tight-clamped lips and a very round head only partially covered with a stubble of gray hair. The name he was known by was Horst Schmidt, which is just as much a hotel register name as is John Smith.

  “Peaceful in a way,” Baxter said, jabbing the point of the pencil at the white stones and green trees. “Nothing more peaceful than a graveyard I guess. And do you know what that building with the fancy roof is, right on the other side of the graveyard?”

  “The Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” His English was accented but good, with a marked tendency to roll the Rs deep in the throat.

  “Pretty symbolic that.” Baxter swung about and dropped the pencil back onto his desk. “The American embassy being right across this graveyard from the Russian embassy. Gives you something to think about. What have you found out about that trouble the other night down by the waterfront?”

  “It has not been easy, Mr. Baxter. Everyone is being very close-mouthed.” Schmidt reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, holding it at arm’s length and squinting to read it. “This is the list of the people hospitalized with injuries, all of them admitted at roughly the same time. They are—”

  “I’ll make a xerox of that list so you can skip the details. Can you just give me a summary now?”

  “Of course. One admiral, one major general, one colonel, one other rank, one high-ranking member of the Ministry of State. Five individuals in all. I have good reason to believe that an unidentified number of other individuals were treated for bruises and dismissed. Among these numbered members of the Air Force.”

  “Very good. Most efficient.”

  “It was not easy. Military hospital records are hard to come by. There were expenses…”

  “Just submit your gyp sheet. You’ll be paid, no fear. Now the sixty-four-dollar question, if I may say so myself, is what caused all these injuries?”

  “That is difficult to determine, you must realize. There is a ship involved, the Isbjorn, an icebreaker.”

  “That is not what I would call startling news, since we have known it since the first day.” Baxter frowned slightly and pushed the handful of sharpened pencils into a neat row on the unmarked green blotter before him. The only other item on the desk was a folding, leather-type plastic frame containing the picture of a round-faced, smiling woman holding two equally moon-faced, but surly, children. “There must be more.”

  “There is, sir. The Isbjorn has been towed across to the Naval shipyard in Christianshavn where it is being repaired. It appears to have suffered some sort of hull damage, possibly through collision. I have been able to determine that whatever is responsible for the damage to the ship also injured the men. Getting this bit of information alone has been immensely difficult because of the security curtain that has been clamped down on the entire affair. This is enough to lead me to believe that something very important is going on.”

  “I believe the same thing, Horst, the same thing.” Baxter’s eyes unfocused in thought and his fingers touched one of the pencils, picked it up, carried it to his mouth where he gnawed lightly at it. “This appears to be a big thing for the Danes, all the military involved, their state department, even a damned icebreaker. And that icebreaker makes me think of ice and ice makes me think of Russia and I would like to know just what the hell is going on.”

  “You haven’t then…” Horst smiled a completely unhumorous grin th
at revealed a badly matched collection of yellow teeth, steel teeth, even the unexpected luxury of a gold tooth. “That is, I mean, there should be some information through NATO, should there not?”

  “Which is none of your damn business whether there is or not.” Baxter frowned at the dented, spit-damp end of the pencil, then threw it into the wastebasket. “You are here to supply information to me, not the other way around. Though you might as well know that officially nothing has ever happened and no one is going to say one damned word to us about it.” Under the cover of the desk he wiped his damp fingertips on his pants leg.

  “That is very disloyal of them,” Horst said with complete lack of emotion. “After all that your country has done for them.”

  “You can say that again.” Baxter glanced quickly at his wrist watch. It was gold and contained an extraordinary number of hands and buttons. “You can give me a report in a week. Same day, same time. You should be able to find out something more by then.”

  Schmidt passed over the piece of paper with the names.

  “You said that you wished to photocopy this. And there is the matter of…” He had his hand out, palm up, and he smiled quickly before lowering it.

  “Money. Come right out and say it, Horst. Money. Nothing to be ashamed of. We all work for money, that’s what keeps the wheels turning. I’ll be right back.”

  Baxter took the paper and went through the connecting door to the next office. Schmidt sat, unmoving, while he waited, showing no interest in the desk or the filing cabinet against the wall. He yawned once, widely, then belched, smacking his lips afterward with a dissatisfied expression. He took two white tablets from a plastic box in his pocket and chewed on them. Baxter returned and gave him back the sheet of paper and a long, unmarked envelope. Schmidt slipped them both into his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to count it?” asked Baxter.

  “You are a man of honor.” He stood up, every inch the middle-class middle-European in his wide-lapeled dark blue suit, heavy black shoes, wide-cut trousers with cuffs big enough to swallow his feet. Baxter’s eyebrows raised up, above the black frames of his glasses, but he said nothing. Schmidt took his coat and scarf from the stand in the corner, both as dark and coarse of texture as the wide-brimmed hat. He left without another word, using the door that opened into the gray and featureless hall. There was no nameplate on the outside of the door, just the number 117. Instead of turning into the lobby, he continued along the hallway, then down a flight of stairs to the United States Information Service Library. There, without looking at the titles, he took two books from the shelf nearest the door. While they were being checked out he shrugged into his coat. When he emerged into Oster-brogade a few minutes later he walked close behind another man who was also carrying books. The other turned right, but he turned left, and walked stolidly past Garnisons churchyard and on to the Osterport subway station.

  Inside the station he made use of almost all of the facilities, one after another. He bought a newspaper at the kiosk by the entrance, turning about and looking over the top of it to see who came in after him. He went to the toilet at the far end. He checked the books and the newspaper into an automat locker and pocketed the key. He went down one staircase to the trains and, although it was against the law to cross the tracks, managed to come up some time later by way of a different staircase. This appeared to be thirsty work and he finally had a glass of draft Carlsberg from the luncheonette, standing up and drinking it at one of the chest-high tables. All of these actions appeared to have accomplished what they had been designed to do because, after wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand, he emerged from the rear entrance of the station and walked briskly down Ostbanegade, next to the tracks where they emerged from the tunnel into the watery winter sunshine. At the first corner he turned left and walked down along the other side of the churchyard. He was alone in the street.

  When he was positive of this he turned about smartly and walked through the open, high wrought-iron gates and into the Soviet embassy.

  6. The Baltic

  “Ja, Ja,” Captain Nils Hansen said into the telephone, “jeg skal nok tale med hende. Tak for det.” He sat, tapping his fingers against the phone while he waited. The man who had identified himself only as Skou stood looking out of the window at the gray, wintry afternoon. There was the distant banshee scream of jets as one of the big planes taxied in from the runway.

  “Hello, Martha,” Nils continued in English. “How is.

  everything? Fine. No, I’m at Kastrup, just set down a little while ago. A nice tail wind out of Athens, brought us in early. And that’s the trouble, I’m going right out again…” He nodded agreement with the voice that rustled in his ear, looking more than a little unhappy.

  “Listen, darling, you are completely correct and I couldn 9t agree more—but there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. The powers that be have willed otherwise. I can’t fly, too many hours, but they can fly me. One of the pilots—a Swede, what else?—is down with appendicitis in Calcutta. I’m going out on the next flight, in fact they are holding it for me right now, and I’ll sleep and get another night’s sleep at the Oberoi Grand, so I’ll be able to take his flight out tomorrow. Right… Nearer forty-eight hours I would say. I am as sorry to miss the dinner as you are and please tell the Overgaards that I am crying because I shall miss her dyresteg and instead of fine Scandinavian venison I shall be eating gut-rotting curries and will suffer for a week. Of course, skat, I’ll miss you too and I’ll make them pay me a bonus and I’ll buy you something nice with it. Yes… okay… good-bye.”

  Nils hung up and looked with open dislike at Skou’s turned back. “I don’t enjoy lying to my wife,” he said.

  “I’m very sorry, Captain Hansen, but it cannot be avoided. A matter of security, you know. Take precautions today and tomorrow takes care of itself.” He looked at his watch. “The Calcutta plane is just leaving, and you are listed as being aboard. You are registered at the Calcutta hotel, though you will not be able to receive phone calls. Everything has been arranged with the utmost detail. The ruse is a necessary but harmless one.”

  “Necessary for what? You appear out of nowhere, take me to this office, show me letters with big names on them requesting my service, including one from my commander in the Air Force Reserve, extract my promise to cooperate, induce me to lie to my wife—but really tell me nothing. What the devil is going on?”

  Skou nodded seriously, looked around the room as if it were lined with countless eavesdropping bugs, and did everything but put his finger to his lips: he radiated secrecy.

  “If I could tell you I would. I cannot. Within a very short time you will know all about it Now—can we leave? I’ll take your bag.”

  Nils grabbed it up before the other could touch it and stood, jamming his uniform cap onto his head. He was six feet four inches tall in stockinged feet: now, in uniform, cap, and belted raincoat, he loomed large enough to fill the small room. Skou opened the door and Nils stamped out after him. They exited through the back door of the operations building where a cab was waiting for them, a Mercedes diesel hammering and throbbing while its engine idled. As soon as they had entered the driver put down his flag and started, without instructions. When they left the airport they turned right, away from Kastrup.

  “That’s interesting,” Nils said, looking out of the window, the scowl now vanished from his face. He could never stay angry very long. “Instead of going to Kobenhavn, and the exciting world beyond, we head south on this little pool table of a potato-growing island. What can we possibly find of interest in this direction?”

  Skou reached over into the front seat and took up a black topcoat and a dark beret. “Would you be so kind as to take off your uniform coat and cap and put these on. I am sure that your trousers will not be identified with an SAS uniform.”

  “Cloak and dagger, by God,” Nils said, struggling out of his coat in the cramped back seat. “I suppose this good and honest cab driver is in on
the whole thing?”

  “Of course.”

  The capacious front seat now yielded up a small suitcase just large enough for the discarded coat and cap. Nils pulled the collar of his new coat up, pulled the beret down over his eyes and buried his big chin in the collar.

  “There, do I look conspiratorial enough now?” He could not stop himself from grinning. Skou did not share his humor.

  “I’ll ask you, please, not to do anything that will draw attention to us. This is a very important matter, I c you that much.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  They rode in silence after that, through a drab landscape of freshly plowed fields waiting for the spring sowing. It was a short drive to the fishing village of Dragor, and Nils looked suspiciously at the old red-brick buildings as they passed. They did not stop, but continued on to the harbor.

  “Sweden?” Nils asked. “Aboard the car ferry?”

  Skou did not trouble himself to answer, and they drove right by the ferry slip to the small harbor. A few pleasure craft were tied up here, including a fair-sized inboard launch.

  “If you will follow me, please,” Skou said, and grabbed Nils’s bag before he could get it himself. He led the way out on the dock, carrying both bags. Nils followed meekly after, wondering just what the hell he was getting into. Skou climbed aboard the launch and put the bags into the cabin, then waved Nils aboard. The man at the wheel appeared to ignore all this, but he did start the engine.

  “I’ll say good-bye, then,” Skou said, “I think it will be most comfortable traveling in the cabin.”

  “Traveling where?”

  Skou left without answering and began to untie the mooring lines. Nils shrugged, then bent over to get through the low cabin door. He dropped onto the bench inside and discovered, tardily because of the dim light that filtered through the small portholes, that he was not alone.