Deep Lie (3 page)

But what impressed him more than anything was the appearance of the young women, wearing uniforms of various Soviet services, who sat at the desks and moved around the room. They were nearly all blonde, all of trim, athletic figure, and there was not a dog in the bunch.

Women in the Soviet military were pretty rough looking sorts, as a rule. Never in the Soviet Union had Helder been in a room which contained so many attractive young women.

A surge of randiness involuntarily swelled inside him. A sight like this after five weeks on a submarine was almost too much.

They passed into a small reception area, and Helder hoped he might be asked to wait there a few minutes, so that he might look at the girls some more, but it was not to be. They barely slowed down as they moved into a large, square, sunlit room. A glass-topped desk lay dead ahead of him, and the wall behind it was mostly covered by two very large, backlit maps. He recognized at a glance that one was a nautical chart of the Baltic, and the other, a map of Sweden.

There was no one at the desk, but his attention was directed to his right, to a group of leather furniture. A naval officer wearing the insignia of Admiral of the Fleet sat in one of the chairs. Helder snapped to and saluted.

“Senior Lieutenant Helder reporting as ordered. Comrade Admiral.”

The admiral leaned forward and snuffed out a cigarette in a large ashtray. “Report to the colonel,” he said.

Helder looked further to his right where, in another chair. sat a man wearing the uniform of a colonel in the marine infantry.

Helder was not surprised by this deference from the admiral. In the Soviet military any appointment has assigned to it a maximum, not a minimum rank, as in Western services, and an officer’s importance is judged not by his rank. but by the appointment he holds. During World War II, Helder knew, it had not been unheard of for a senior lieutenant to command an army division, while the regimental commanders beneath him might be majors or colonels. He saluted again.

“Lieutenant Helder reporting, Comrade Colonel.”

The admiral rose.

“Well, I will leave you to it. Viktor,” he said to the colonel, and made his exit.

The colonel waved a hand, but did not rise as the admiral left. When the admiral had gone, the colonel rose and walked toward Helder. The lieutenant chose the moment to steal a look at him. He looked to be in his early forties, quite tall. trim, fit-looking. He had a high forehead and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair cut considerably better than was usual in the Soviet military. Helder thought he looked like a prosperous Western businessman in a Soviet uniform. The colonel stuck out his hand.

“My name is Majorov; I am very pleased to meet you.

Helder,” he said in perfectly accented British English.

Helder was a little jarred. He had never before been greeted by a new commanding officer in this fashion, let alone in English. Rather cautiously, he shook the colonel’s hand.

“Please sit down,” the colonel said. waving him to a chair.

Everything instilled in Helder by thirteen years of Soviet military training and service resisted this suggestion, and he must have showed it, for the colonel chuckled.

“Please,” he said, “You must begin to get used to our informal ways here.” He waved Helder toward the chair again.

Helder sat down, but he could not immediately bring himself to lean against the back of the chair. “Would you like a drink?” the colonel asked.

“A gin and tonic, perhaps? Please do have a drink.”

“Thank you. Comrade Colonel.” The colonel went to a rosewood cabinet, mixed the drink, and handed it to him.

Helder sipped the drink tentatively. His opinion of the colonel climbed as he noticed that it contained a wedge of bright, green lime. Who was this colonel that he could obtain a lime in Latvia?

The colonel mixed himself a drink and sat down opposite Helder.

“Now,” he said, smiling slightly, “tell me a little about yourself—your background and upbringing.

Please continue to speak English.”

This was something else Helder had never been asked to do before by a commanding officer. It surprised him even more, because there was a thick file on the coffee table between them which he knew must contain every detail of his life since birth. He realized that the colonel probably wanted to hear him speak English.

“Comrade Colonel, my full name is Jan Helder, no middle name; I was born in Tallinn, on the Estonian coast; I am thirty-one years old. I attended, uh, primary and uh, secondary schools in Tallinn, then university in Moscow, where I studied both English and physics. I also speak Swedish, which is commonly spoken on the coast where I grew up. After graduation I requested and was assigned to the Naval College at Leningrad.

Upon graduation I was assigned to the Northern Fleet at Murmansk. After two years of general duties I was accepted for submarine training and upon finishing was assigned to a series of Whiskey and Juliet class boats. I had one year at the Command Academy in Moscow, then returned to the fleet. I served as navigation and executive officer in Juliets, and for the past twenty months I have commanded Whiskey 184, conducting training exercises and reporting on NATO shipping movements in the North Atlantic.”

The colonel nodded.

“Very good, Helder, your American accent is excellent, though a bit stilted. But that will improve as we go along.” The colonel shifted in his seat and sipped his drink.

“Of course, I know all you have just told me, and a great deal more. I know that your parents were both physicians, and that your father was decorated for his resistance against the Nazis, that your mother was also a talented painter. I know that you had a place on the 1976 Olympic sailing team in single-handed Finn dinghies but that you suffered a compound fracture of your left thigh when struck by a taxi in Leningrad and were unable to compete. In fact, as you must have surmised, I know just about everything about you, or you would not be here now.”

“Thank you for your trust. Comrade Colonel,” Helder replied.

The colonel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, you have not yet won my trust, Helder, merely my interest.” He smiled.

“Still, it is a serious interest, and having read your record, I have little doubt that you will do well here.”

“Thank you. Comrade Colonel.”

“Now, Helder, perhaps you would like to know a little about this place and what you will be doing here.” The colonel rose and began to walk idly about the room as he talked.

“I command here and… elsewhere. This is a SPETSNAZ installation, but perhaps you had already realized that.”

Helder had not realized it, although there had been clues aplenty, and a dual twinge of excitement and fear jolted him. SPETSNAZ, the naval special forces, was a closely guarded secret, even within the Soviet navy. All Helder knew about it was that it was an elite force, drawn from the finest examples of Soviet youth, scholastically and athletically, both men and women. Rumor had it that they were trained to do all sorts of dirty work, and that, although the service was, in theory, an arm of the navy. control of it was exercised, at least in part, by the KGB.

Majorov went on.

“Each of the four fleets. Northern, Pacific, Baltic, and Black Sea, of course, has its own diversionary SPETSNAZ subunits, but here, in Liepaja. we are a special brigade, made up of personnel drawn from subunits in all the fleets.” Majorov leaned forward.

“What we are here, one might say, is the creme de la creme de la creme of all the SPETSNAZ subunits.”

Helder was impressed and tried to look it.

“Your transfer here does not mean that you are now SPETSNAZ.” Majorov continued.

“You are still carried on the rolls of the northern submarine fleet, although for some hours, now. you have been carried as a captain, third grade. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Comrade Colonel.” Helder was nearly overwhelmed. The position of submarine commander carried a maximum rank of captain first grade, and he had already been too long in grade as a senior lieutenant. Now he had skipped a rank; captain third grade was the equivalent of full commander in western navies. He had caught up and surpassed nearly all of his classmates in a single promotion. Not only that, but he had been given the promotion at the beginning of his assignment, which was unheard of.

“You are also listed as a division commander,” Majorov said.

Holder’s heart went wild. A division meant nuclear subs. Diesels were grouped in brigades.

“But we will not use rank here. nor will we address each other as ‘comrade.”

” Majorov said.

“You may continue to address me as ‘colonel’ and as ‘sir.” but all others you will address by surname. When you get to know your fellow officers well enough to address them by their first names, you will not employ the patronymic. I hope that is clear; it is very important.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“About two thirds of your colleagues here speak Swedish and English, as you do; the remainder speak only English and, perhaps, another European language. You will conduct all your training and personal conversations in English, except in those few cases where our instructors speak only Russian. It is most important that you continue to refine the American character of your English. With that end in mind. you will find a television receiver in your quarters which broadcasts American programs.” Majorov smiled wryly.

“I know that your training and resolve as a

Soviet citizen will prevent you from becomimg corrupted by this unaccustomed and entirely decadent influence.”

Helder smiled back. “Of course, sir.”

“You will be issued naval, army, and marine infantry uniforms. Please alternate your dress among these. This is mostly for the benefit of the locals in Liepaja, who have been told that this is an interservice sports training facility.

You will also be issued civilian clothing of Western manufacture.

Please wear this when you are off duty. You need to become used to it, and it needs to become worn.”

Majorov raised a cautionary finger.

“You will not leave this installation under any circumstances during your training.

If you wish to sail, you will not leave the saltwater lake adjacent to the base nor land anywhere except at the base marina. You will have no contact whatever with the outside. If you should die, you will be buried here. This is your home until your assignment is completed.”

Majorov rose.

“Well, that’s about it for now. I want you to take a few days to acclimate yourself; think of it as leave. I trust you will not find your stay here too confining.

The officers training here have a nickname for the place: they call it “Malibu,” after an apparently very attractive place in California.” He smiled.

“I rather like that.

There is much to divert you here, not the least of which is the group of young women who serve as support personnel.

One of them will now take you to your quarters and explain the various facilities of the base.”

“Thank you, sir,” Helder said.

“I assure you of my very best performance.” It occurred to him that he had not been given the slightest idea what duties he was to perform, and it didn’t seem a good idea to ask.

Majorov smiled and put a hand on Holder’s shoulder.

“I am sure you will do very well, and when the going gets tough in your training, remember that the maximum rank of a division commander is, of course, contra-admiral. If you succeed in the work here, and if the work itself succeeds, I promise you the achievement of maximum rank faster than you ever dreamed possible, and I will not exclude the possibility of flotilla commander.” Majorov gazed at him intently.

“What I am talking about, Helder, is the classical circumstance that gives an outstanding officer the chance of a lifetime to make his whole career.”

Helder blinked. The classical circumstance which created that sort of opportunity was war.

He left the office and followed the same blonde sergeant out of the building and across a grassy lawn to a long, low building with many doors. She led him to one, opened it, and stood back for him to enter. Helder had never seen anything like it. The room was about fifteen feet square.

One wall contained a built-in wardrobe, bookcases, and a desk. There was a comfortable-looking, leather chair, a reading lamp, and a Bang & Olafson television set with a small black box on top. A door led to a private, tiled bathroom. The curtains and bedcover were of a bright.

Scandinavian fabric. On the desk were copies of Time, Newsweek, and The International Herald Tribune, only two days old. But of all the things in the room, Helder was most impressed by the bed. He had never slept in a double bed, except in a hotel or a whorehouse.

“Let me show you how the television works,” the girl said, picking up a remote control box from the bedside table. She switched it on and rapidly began changing channels.

“You get the same television here as you would in New York,” she said, “although there’s a seven-hour time difference. It’s pirated from an American satellite.

There are the three major networks, four movie channels, sports, cartoons, transmissions from the American House of Representatives—altogether, fifty-four channels. There’s a TV Guide magazine to help you figure it out.”