Deep Lie (39 page)

“Hard right rudder,” Helder said, and the sub came around.

“Hold that course,” he said, when the island and its beach appeared, dead ahead.

“Prepare to surface.” he called out.

“Surface.”

Helder glanced at the depth sounder. The bottom was rising under them. He left the periscope and climbed a ladder to a point just under the main hatch. As the sub broke water, he cranked the pressure handle, then heaved open the hatch. Water spilled down on him and on Kolchak, who was on the ladder immediately under him. Helder climbed the remaining rungs and emerged into the conning tower, at the top of the sub’s sail.

Quickly, he confirmed his position and his course. The island and its beach lay dead ahead, and close. He wrenched the cover of the conning tower squawk box.

“Hold your course; full ahead!” he shouted. A tinny voice confirmed his order. Helder glanced at Kolchak; the political officer was staring straight ahead, wide-eyed. The island was rushing toward them, now, as the sub gained speed. She could do eighteen knots on the surface, but they hadn’t the distance to gain that speed before grounding. Helder shouted into the squawk box “All hands to collision stations!”

He grabbed the railing in front of him and braced his shoulder against the bulkhead. He couldn’t help laughing;

Kolchak had dropped to the conning tower sole and had his back braced against the bulkhead. Not a bad idea, Helder thought, but it was too late to change positions, and, anyway, he wanted to watch. He had spent his career avoiding putting subs aground, and now that he was about to do it, he wanted to see everything. There was a brief thud and a buck as the sub touched a shallow place, then forged on, still picking up speed. Then the sub struck sand and lurched. Helder clenched his teeth and waited for a hard impact, but it never came. The sub continued forward, though in contact with the sandy bottom, then, with one long groan and shake drove herself to a halt. There was one massive lurch; Helder was pressed forward into the bulkhead, then thrown backwards as the vessel came to a halt. He recovered, then grabbed the squawk box

“Stop engines!” he yelled.

Then everything went quiet. There was utter peace in the conning tower. Kolchak struggled to his feet and stood next to Helder. The second and third officers asked permission, then came up into the sail. Helder looked around him. There was a house down the beach about a quarter of a mile, but no sign of anybody. Then, as he watched, a yacht of about thirty feet came sailing from behind the point at the western end of the island, about a mile away.

Helder picked up his binoculars. The helmsman was shouting something to whoever was below. A young man and woman spilled into the cockpit and. following the helmsman’s pointing arm. gaped at the stranded sub. The young man dived back below.

Helder raised the binoculars slightly: at the top of the mast. he could see a VHP antenna. It wouldn’t be long, now. Then Helder looked back toward the house. A man was walking down the beach from that direction, wearing pajamas and a dressing gown. He stopped at the water’s edge. no more than fifty yards away. cupped his hands and shouted, in Swedish.

“Good morning’” Helder took a megaphone from the third officer.

“Good morning.” he called back. This was ridiculous.

“Do you need assistance?” the man shouted.

“Should I call someone for you?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Helder called back.

“It might be best if you went back to your house; I think there will be a lot of boats here soon.”

The man stood, looking, for a moment, then nodded, and started back toward the house.

Helder reached for the squawk box

“Sparks.” he said.

“Yes. sir?” a voice came back.

“Send WHALE.” RULE got off the plane in Stockholm feeling worn and a bit hung over. She endured the line in immigration a couple of places behind a tall, slender American woman of about forty-five, with a loud laugh, who held up things for a moment by flirting with the Immigration officer.

The luggage came quickly, and she headed through the nothing-to-declare exit at customs, still behind the American woman. Then, as she came through some swinging doors into the main terminal, she stopped, and she was suddenly afraid. A few yards in front of her, a man in a dark suit and a chauffeur’s cap, one of a number of such men, was holding up a hand-lettered sign with two words written on it, K1RKLAND and RULE.

She would not have been terribly surprised if Carlsson had sent a car for her, since she had been introduced by a United States senator, but the only name Carlsson had for her was Kirkland. He could not, from what Senator Can- had said to him on the phone, have known her real name.

No one in Sweden, in fact, not a soul, knew that anybody named Rule was arriving, and it was not a common name.

Her passport and ticket were in the name of Callaway, her maiden name. She had never bothered to get a new passport after she was married.

To Rule’s surprise, the tall American woman walked straight up to the chauffeur and said, in a loud voice, “Hi, my name’s Eleanor Kirkland. You looking for me?” The man nodded and took her bags. Rule watched them disappear around a corner. Baffled, she went to the foreign currency window and exchanged some dollars for kroner, something she hadn’t had time to do in New York. She had just finished the transaction when there was a piercing scream from across the terminal.

Rule looked up from her purse to see a chunky woman in a smock standing a few yards down the corridor, in the act of being hysterical. She was screaming something in Swedish and pointing around the corner. Rule, in company with a dozen other curious people, was drawn to where she was standing. Around the corner, the door to a maintenance closet was open. Inside, on the floor, amidst a great deal of blood, lay the American woman. Her throat had been opened with something sharp.

Rule backed away through the crowd, then turned and headed for the outside doors and a taxi stand, trying not to scream herself. She tried to stay calm through a two minute wait for a taxi, then got into one and said.

“Grand Hotel, please.”

The cab pulled away.

“You are English?” the driver asked, pleasantly She jerked her head up and found his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was young, blonde, bland looking everything an American expected from a Swede.

He was watching her carefully in the mirror “Yes.” she said.

“English.”

“You stay at the Grand?” he asked.

“No.” she said.

“No, I’m meeting friends there. I’m staying in the country with them.”

“Where’.”” he asked.

“I am from the country, too.”

She searched her mind for the name of some Swedish town and came up dry.

“I can’t remember the name.” she said. finally “Your Swedish names are difficult for me.

How long a drive is it to the hotel?”

“At this time of day. perhaps thirty-Five, forty minutes.”

She laid her head back on the seat and closed her eyes.

He seemed to take the hint. She saw little of the city on the drive. She was cont used and frightened and thought nothing of her surroundings until the taxi stopped.

“What?” she said. sitting straight up.

“Grand Hotel.” the driver said

She jumped as the taxi door opened. A uniformed doorman stood, waiting for her to leave the cab. A man and a woman waited impatiently behind him. She paid the driver and got out. A porter took her bag and led her to the reception desk.

“My name is Katharine Rule,” she said to the receptionist.

“I have a room booked.”

He consulted a card file.

“Yes, Miss Rule, your room is ready. May I have your passport, please?”

She gave it to him, explaining about her name.

“Have I had any telephone calls?” She had booked the room under Rule. She prayed nobody had called.

“Yes,” said the receptionist, taking a slip of paper from a pigeonhole, along with a key.

“A Mr. Lee called from Copenhagen. He will call again later.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved.

“I would be very grateful, in the event that anyone else should call, if you would list my name with the operator as Callaway. My friends here know me by my maiden name.”

“Of course,” the man said, scribbling a note.

“And if anyone should ask for Katharine Rule, please tell them there is no one registered here by that name.”

The man stared at her for a moment, then scribbled again.

“If you wish it, of course, that is what we will say.” He handed her a key.

“You are on the top floor, with a view of the water,” he said.

“I am sorry I don’t have a clerk to take you up at the moment, but if you will kindly take the lift up, then turn right, the room will be a few doors down on your right. I will send a porter up with your luggage shortly.”

“Thank you,” she said. She walked to the elevators.

The door opened and she got on. A man got on behind her, and the doors closed. He was taller than she, with a strong jaw and a muscular build. Blonde again, and bland.

He looked at her and said something in Swedish. She smiled tightly and ignored him.

“I am sorry,” he said in English.

“You are American?”

He had hard, cold eyes.

“English,” she said, and looked away toward where the floor indicator lights were slowly blinking.

“Welcome to Sweden,” he said with a small smile.

Oh, God. please let this thing move faster, she prayed.

She edged a hand behind her as if rubbing her back. The hand rested on the butt of the pistol.

“Thank you.” she said. The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.

“After you,” the man said, making an ushering motion.

She walked quickly out of the elevator and turned right, shooting a glance over her shoulder. The man had turned to the left.

Her heart pounding, she walked down the corridor, looking for her room. The door opened into a vestibule; another door opened into what looked like the living room of a suite. She hadn’t reserved a suite. Then she heard a man’s voice, speaking softly, from the room. She couldn’t make out the language. She checked the key number with the number on the door. This was her room, and a man was in it.

Rule got a firm grip on the pistol, flipped off the safety. took a deep breath, and stepped through the door, the gun held out in front of her with both hands, as she had been trained. Two men were sitting at a table, having breakfast.

“Kate?” one of them said.

“Jesus Christ, Kate!”

“Will!” she cried.

“Appicella!” She was shouting, now.

“Calm yourself,” Appicella commanded.

“And put down that pistol at once.” HELDER looked at his watch, then at the waters about him. It had been three quarters of an hour since he had grounded the sub, and still no vessel had hove into view since he had seen the yacht.

He turned to the exec.

“I’m going below for some coffee,” he said.

“Call me the moment the first naval vessel appears.”

Kolchak, the political officer, gaped at him.

“How can you go below at a time like this? It is desertion of post.”

“Oh, shut up, Kolchak,” Helder said, wearily.

“See if you can’t do your miserable job without opening your yap again.”

Kolchak looked as if he might explode. Helder, for one, didn’t give a damn if he did. Judging from the smirks of the other officers, neither did they. Helder climbed down the companionway ladder, motioned the navigation officer out of his seat, and sat down at the chart table. A cup of coffee materialized beside him.

Helder stared at the large-scale chart before him. Apart from navigating on his two trips into the archipelago, he had never paid much attention to the surrounding territory.

Now, with his finger, he traced the towns and cities scattered among the islands. Stockholm was a very big city, at least a million people, he thought, but there were other places, as well. towns, villages, hamlets. The chart even showed individual houses in the area. Comfortable houses they were: he had seen them through the periscope, and one of them lay only a quarter of a mile from where the sub had grounded. He had talked briefly, comically, with the owner less than an hour before. These people had no idea what he had brought with him to this place. No one on the sub had any idea, either, not even the reptilian Kolchak. Kolchak understood only that an order would be received and another given. Helder understood all too much more.

He had avoided giving too much thought to the invasion, to what it would mean to the Swedish people. He had been swept along in the excitement of his own role, of the heights to which he had ascended, of the luxuries he had been shown, of his future rank and career. Soon the Swedes would be like the Czechs, the Poles, the Hungarians. He winced. Like his own people, the Estonians. His parents had been socialists; they had hated the Germans and welcomed the Russians—at least, at first. He wondered what they would think of his role in all this if they were alive today. No, he didn’t have to wonder; he knew.