Snow Wolf (36 page)

"There's a Couple of important
things you left out. Like the fact that half of the agents parachuted onto
Russian soil are caught within forty-eight hours because they injure themselves
when they drop, or else the radar picks up the flight. And that most of the
boys in the air who bought it during the war weren't shot down by the enemy,
but died because of your bad weather."

Saarinen eased himself into a chair.
"I've done this particular route maybe half a dozen times and each time it
gets more difficult. The Russians are making their air defenses tighter and
tighter and the new Mig fighters don't help the likes of' me. I only made it
Sound easy for her sake. As for our chances, cloud cover is our one real hope,
despite the obvious dangers if the weather turns really nasty, but I can vouch
for that little aircraft Out there, mechanically and structurally. If the cloud
stays in our favor, I'd almost guarantee you'll at least make the drop. If not
..." Saarinen grinned and shrugged. "We may get blown out of the
sky."

"Did anyone ever mention you've got
a total disregard for life and death?"

Saarinen laughed. "All the time. It
comes from having looked the grim reaper in the eye too many times and found
out it's not such a big deal. Before '39 I was studying English at Helsinki
University, then the war came and the first time I flew into battle I was
bitten by the bug. After that I couldn't get enough jeopardy and excitement.
You realize everything else lacks a certain dangerous edge. But after the
shooting died down and it was all over, you know you're just living on borrowed
time anyway, so you keep sailing close to the wind just for the hell of it. If
I'm not mistaken, you have the same look about you yourself'. What was it Kant
said "That steely unmistaken look in a man's eyes that tells its tale of
war, and death the grim reaper too often faced.'

Stanski smiled. "So what about the
radar on the other side?"

"Like I said, if the weather's on
our side it shouldn't bother us."

Saarinen shook his head. "It's not
all black, just shades of gray. But I told you, I'm lucky. I also speak fluent
Russian. So even if their air traffic control calls us up, I can try and bluff'
my way through."

"A man of many parts."

Saarinen grinned and tapped his wooden
leg. "Not all of them good, I'm afraid."

Helsinki.

The wheels of the US Air Force B-47
Stratojet bit the icy runway with a squeal as they touched down at Helsinki's
Maimi airport in a flurry of light hail at exactly 6 P.m. Karl Branigan was
exhausted after the long and turbulent flight from NVASHIJIGTON, a journey of
almost ten hours and over four thousand miles, an experience he had never
before endured and never wished to repeat again.

Twenty minutes later his car drove up
into Kaivopuisto Park, the city's diplomatic belt, and came to a halt outside
the American Embassy compound. Two immaculately uniformed Marines on the gate
checked the passengers before raising the barrier and allowing the car through.

As the Ford drew up at the front entrance
to the embassy, a tired-looking Branigan stepped out, turning up his coat
collar against the cold. A tall, lean man with tanned skin came out of the
double oak doors, an anxious younger official at his side.

"Mr. Branigan'? I'm Douglas
Canning," the man said in a Texan drawl as he offered his hand. "My
secretary here is already looking after your men, but if you'll come this way,
the Ambassador is waiting to meet you."

Branigan grunted a reply and followed
Canning as he led the way inside.

The small garden at the front of the
embassy compound was deserted in the Baltic darkness. The grim-faced Ambassador
stood at the window looking down at the scene. frowning.

He had finished reading the one page
letter Branigan had presented him, signed by Alien Dulles, studying it silently
before handing it to Canning, his face blank.

Canning finally looked over at the
Ambassador. "Sir, would you care to respond?"

The Ambassador looked around. His
thinning gray hair was groomed neatly, but the distinguished look on his face
was momentarily lost to astonishment as he stared back at his visitor.

"First, let me get this right, Mr.
Branigan. You want to locate a certain three people in Finland who are engaged
in a covert operation, and apprehend them as a matter of urgency. If
apprehension is not possible you want to stop their mission, even if it means
their deaths. And you want my help in this."

Branigan's face was drawn and had an
unmistakable five o'clock shadow, his limbs still aching and tense after the
cramped tlight, and he didn't feel like playing the diplomat.

"That's correct," he said
briskly, almost forgetting who he was talking to, and added, "Mr.
Ambassador, sir."

"And I'm not permitted to ask what
the exact nature of this operation is that these people are intent on carrying
out?"

Branigan shook his head and said bluntly,
"You read the letter from Mr. Dulles. That's the exact position and all
you need to know. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't ask me any further
questions in that regard."

The Ambassador's face registered his
annoyance at the disrespect, but he carried on.

"But you're requesting I put my
entire embassy staff at your disposal, if necessary, in the pursuance of this
matter. You also want my personal intervention at the highest Lebel in Finland,
to request that their air force prevent these people leaving Finnish airspace.
Shoot them down if they're airborne."

"Correct."

"Mr. Branigan, I would suggest this
is all somewhat without precedent."

There was a look of frustration on the
Ambassador's face. "So what in damnation is going on here?"

Branigan looked pointedly at his watch.
"You'll have to address that question to Mr. Dulles, not me. I've simply
got a job to do and quickly. Time's ticking away. So, can I rely on your
help?"

The Ambassador came back behind his desk
and sat down. "Mr. Branigan, quite frankly, I find this matter not only
lacking in protocol, but rather disturbing. What do you think, Canning?"

Canning hesitated. "Everything we've
been asked is really rather impractical. Perhaps we ought to contact Mr. Dulles
ourselves to discuss this further?"

Branigan shook his head impatiently.
"Not possible. My orders say no telephone contact with CIA Headquarters
from Helsinki right now. As you've gathered, the nature of this mission is
extremely, and I repeat extremely, sensitive and covert."

The Ambassador looked over smugly and
made a steeple of his fingers. "Then I'm afraid I'll have to remind you,
sir, that your Mr. Dulles is only Acting CIA Director. His official appointment
doesn't take place in Washington until later today, and he won't be sworn into
office for several more days. For such formidable requests as these, I'll need
higher authority, I'm afraid."

Branigan stood up angrily and grabbed the
letter from Canning, replaced it in his pocket and glared across at both men.

"Now how about we cut out the shit
right here and now. If either of you pair of assholes don't want your balls in
the Washington grinder I-suggest you do as the letter says. And another thing,
I need a senior liaison man here from the Finnish SUPO. Someone who can be
relied on to be completely discreet. And I need every goddamned trustworthy and
available man you can spare. And I want to tell you something else for nothing.
Either you or they breathe a word about this operation to anyone, and I'll
personally see to it the offender gets a bullet in the head."

The Ambassador's face suddenly flushed angry
red at the blatant, unseemly threat and disrespect being shown his high office,
but Branigan ignored it as the telephone on the desk jangled.

The Ambassador glared over in shock
before he grabbed the phone.

"What the hell is it!"

There was a long pause, then the
Ambassador went pale as he flicked a switch to activate the scrambler, and the
first words Branigan heard the Ambassador say were, "Mr. President, we're
doing everything we can."

The dimly lit temporary operations room
in the back office of the east wing of the embassy was thick with sweaty men,
cigarette smoke and the babble of voices. Branigan had a dozen telephones
rigged up and they stood on six trestle tables in the center, a half-dozen
personnel from the embassy huddled around them.

The Finn who stood beside Branigan was
tall but chubbyfaced, his dark hair graying slightly at the sides, and he spoke
perfect English.

Henry Steniund, the Deputy Director of
SUPO, Finnish Counter-intelligence, and a lawyer by profession, stared over at
the bustle of men and equipment with nothing short of amazement.

Finland's security police had its entire
operation housed in a drafty three-story granite office building on Ratakatu
et, and was comprised of ten men, three worn-out Volksgen cars, and a
half-dozen rusting Raleigh bicycles for his best agents. The offices had
nothing like the bustle of this, and it generated a certain excitement in
Steniund that he hadn't experienced since the Germans had left Helsinki.

He had received the call just as he was
leaving the office and had brought the files to the embassy as Branigan
requested. Steniund knew better than to ask too many questions, except the bare
facts, for he knew from the grim look on the face of the CIA man that the
matter was serious indeed and sensitive enough for him to be summoned by the
Director himself. Now he stood beside Branigan as they went through a list of
names.

All were mercenary pilots who risked
their lives flying into Soviet airspace from the Baltic on covert Finnish
military and CIA reconnaissance and agent-dropping missions, an activity
Finland officially denied. Apart from one daring, highly decorated but demented
German ex-Luftwaffe mercenary pilot, with more Russian shrapnel in his head
than brains, all were Finns. Not surprising really, as Steniund's country had
long been an enemy of Russia, and old hatreds and grievances ran as deep as his
country's fear of its powerful neighbor.

Branigan looked on as Stenlund consulted
the list. "What have we got?"

"According to my files, fifteen men
who operate freelance with their own aircraft for either our people or yours.
They're all very capable pilots. Unfortunately, we're talking about places as
far apart as the east coast of Helsinki, near the Soviet border, to Arland
island in the west. A distance of several hundred kilometers."

Branigan ran a hand across the back of
his neck. "Jesus Christ."

Steniund puffed on his pipe and shrugged.
"However, we can eliminate most by assuming the people you're looking for
will want to cross the Baltic in the quickest possible time, and that means the
pilot would possibly have a base within close proximity to Soviet soil. Also,
weather is an important consideration. And right now, the imminent bad weather
we're expecting would favor a drop."

Branigan nodded. "So who are the
likely suspects?"

"Two strong possibilities, seeing as
both have worked for the CIA at one time or another. A man named Hakala who
lives in a small fishing village near Spjutsund. He's got an aircraft hangared
there, a German Fiesier Storch. The second is a man named Saarinen."

"How far is the first?"

"Spjutsund'? About twenty kilometers
east of Helsinki. An hour there and back by car."

"And the other guy?"

"Janne Saarinen." Steiilund
consulted a file. "An excellent pilot. Ex-Luftwaffe. According to our
intelligence reports, he sometimes uses a place at Bylandet Island, thirty
kilometers west of here. Both of them would be based pretty much the same
distance from Tallinn as the crow flies."

"Which would you pick?"
Stenlund shrugged. "Like I said, they're both likely candidates. They're
excellent pilots and, as I understand it, reckless enough to try a crossing in
the type of' weather we're expecting. Branigan hesitated, the tension in the
small room stifling. "OK, we try the nearest. Hak ... ?"

"Hak-ala."

"Him first, then this guy Saarinen.
I'll get us a car."

"As you wish."

Branigan reached for a shoulder-holster
with a Smith and Wesson .38 pistol and buckled it on, then checked the chambers
before slipping the gun back in its holster and turning to beckon several
burly-looking men waiting in the room, who began to check their firearms.
Steniund looked on, alarmed, and when Branigan turned back, said nervously,
"You think there'll be shooting?"

Branigan put on his jacket and overcoat.
"If there is, leave it to me and my men."

Small beads of sweat had already appeared
on Steniund's forehead. "My pleasure. Personally, I never carry a weapon
since the war. Having the Gestapo forever up my nose was quite excitement
enough."

Stenlund stood and tapped out his pipe,
then pulled on his overcoat and glanced over at the clock on the wall. The
hands read exactly 7 P.m.

Bylandet Island.

Stanski sat down at the table and Massey
pulled up a chair. His face was serious as he looked across. "There are a
couple of things I want to make clear, Alex, and they've got to do with
Anna."