The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) (13 page)

Avri told them of the mysterious incidents over at Samos. The old man agreed that this seemed more than mishaps but couldn't offer an explanation. Avri didn't mention the antenna.

As the evening took hold of the sky the fisherman's wife went in and prepared the table for dinner. Avri went to the Galatea and brought a bottle of a Rhodes Retsina wine. It was perfect for the occasion, good quality yet popular.

An airplane approached the island, flying way up, popping in and out of the clouds. The Greek looked up curiously, watching intensely as the plane crossed the sky above them. It was a commercial airliner of some sort. Avri could not identify the markings. He didn't care enough to identify it. Just an airplane. The wife came out and stared up too, following her husband's eyes. They talked in Greek about the plane and she went back in.

The dinner was long and relaxed. The wife followed the conversation easily but her participation was limited to nods and smiles. Avri liked her smiles, they were warm and sincere.

The weather was calm and Avri preferred to sleep in the boat. The wife tried to persuade him to use the cot in the living room, but the Greek supported his guest's wishes.

The night was still young and Avri enjoyed a glass of wine at his favorite corner in the cockpit. His thoughts roamed aimlessly before alighting upon the airliner they saw before dinner. That airplane caused a bit of excitement with the Greeks. It must have been a rare sight over the island. This is probably not a regular air route. But then, why should it be? He couldn't bring to mind any destinations that may justify this flight path.

The dinner, the wine and the sky suggested it was a good time to turn in, and so he did.

Felix Dzerzhinsky was having his customary lunch in the executive lounge at the Lubyanka N.K.V.D. headquarters. He kept to himself and ate alone. No one on the staff liked him enough to join his table, and he preferred it this way. He was the head of The Third Directorate (Armed Forces) controlling military counter-intelligence and the political surveillance of the Soviet armed forces. He was feared by all. Nothing good could ever come from associating with him; the best one could hope for was indifference.

A young assistant approached his table, hesitantly and visibly uncomfortable. He was not supposed to be there, the executive lounge was the privilege of the mighty. Dzerzhinsky was surprised by his appearance, but didn't show it. The assistant handed him a message and backed away still facing him, respectfully. Dzerzhinsky gazed at the short note and deliberated for a few short seconds, then downed his half glass of wine and walked briskly back to his office.

Back in the office he found the Third Directorate in a state of uproar. Agents were contacted, operatives were alerted and listening posts were fully manned. Dzerzhinsky and three of his officers were poring over the Slavianka file, page by page. The entire crew of the submarine was meticulously checked for any hint of disloyalty, weakness or subversive attitude. Captain Poliakov's record was of prime interest. Dzerzhinsky had to make sure the accident was just that, an accident. He also had to make certain that no one acted foolishly.

The last communication from the navigation officer was much clearer: the Slavianka had hit a boat, apparently a sailing yacht, and had lost its microwave antenna. Captain Poliakov, believing the antenna to be lodged in the hull, was currently searching for the yacht. On Friday, the navigation officer had thought that they were close to the yacht, and he had assumed that by the next day they may catch up with her.

Dzerzhinsky concluded that the events onboard the Slavianka did not fall within the remit of the K.G.B. as such, and directed his staff that they should inform him of future developments, but take no further action at this time.

Colonel Oleg Chichloshko learned of the accident some thirty minutes later. Someone at the Lubyanka had relayed a message concerning the Slavianka. The message came to his office at the Russian Navy Intelligence Station in Kerch, close to the control post of the Slavianka.

He realized this could serve his plan. This could be the submarine to steal. The Gods intervened in his favor. The submarine had had an accident; now was the time to take advantage of it.

"The Slavianka must not sink the yacht. Repeat – must not sink the yacht. Use only assault team to retrieve Navy equipment". Colonel Chichloshko called his aide, "Send this message to our man on the submarine".

The radio officer onboard the Slavianka, (another concealed agent, only this one working for the Navy Intelligence), received the coded message. Now it was time for action.

Colonel Chichloshko had to send yet another message before he left for Ankara and the Aegean arena. This one he ciphered by himself. He had this little brown notebook with a special code he had set up with each of his operators. He devised this system some four years ago, yet it was the first time he had used it. This one was intended for Alex Karlikov, Communication officer, yet another Naval Intelligence informer, a stukatch onboard the Slavianka, the Naval Intelligence secret operative. It was blunt and concise: "SINK THE SLAVIANA. SAVE THE CREW".

* * * * *

George Price was pretty bored at his desk in the American Consulate in Ankara. The official title was rather long – Second Deputy Commercial Attaché. He looked a bit too well shaped for a clerk, but well befitting a former US Marine Captain. His desk duty in Turkey commenced some two years ago as part of his rehabilitation program following a very horrid experience deep in the mountains of Honduras.

It was two hours to lunch, after which he planned to stroll through the old market in search of a lampshade suitable for the dining area of his apartment. The phone rang and he picked it up unhurriedly. Not many people called his extension, and those that did, rarely had anything urgent to discuss. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He had talked to the owner of this voice before but couldn't place the time or place.

"I have a talk".

There was only one man who spoke like this.

He carried the telephone with him to the far corner of the balcony, the noisy street below preventing anyone from eavesdropping.

"Hello, glad to hear your voice again. How are you, my friend?"

"Hi, I am fine, and how are you?" No names were mentioned, but the greetings were genuine.

"I like we meet," said the voice from the past.

"Good, just say where and when".

"The same hour, same place".

The last time he met comrade Oleg Chichloshko was over a year ago. He was assigned to Drupa – the world printing industry exhibition which is held once every 4 years in Düsseldorf, Germany. His job was to be there. Just to be there. He thought it was funny, odd, ridiculous. The only thing he knew about printing, was reading it. That qualified him for absolutely nothing. But orders were orders, so, there he was, in Düsseldorf, Germany.

"Just hang around," he was told, "in case we, or anybody else, may need you". He didn't argue and just lounged about, wandering aimlessly from stall to stall.

It was the third day of this colossal exhibition that made his trip worthwhile. Well, sort of. It was about six o'clock in the evening and he figured he had enough of Guttenberg for the day. He boarded the tram to the hotel. The man behind him was the last one to get on the car as it rolled away. He sat next to Price and immediately began to talk. He didn't bother with introductions, nor did he feel the need for any small talk.

"I like we talk," he said with a heavy Russian accent.

Price couldn't hide his surprise, neither did he try.

"I am listening". He didn't turn to the speaker since the stranger was staring directly ahead as he talked. It was something like a Second World War spy movie.

Neither said anything for the next two stops. The tram progressed into the old section of the town, one of those twilight zones where industry commerce and dwellings exist side by side. Not a slum, just a leftover of a few decades ago. The stranger nodded towards the door as the tram slowed for the next stop. Price followed the man off the car, across the street and into the store. It was a grocery store-restaurant-bar combination, not empty but definitely not crowded. He followed the man to a small table and ordered a tall espresso. The stranger asked for a bottle of beer.

"I am Oleg Chichloshko," he introduced himself with not a hint of a smile.

"George Price". The man is tense as a violin string, he thought to himself.

"Yes. I know who you are. I choose you. Right?"

So. This is the sort of thing I was hanging around for
.

"And what can I do for you Mr. Chochlasky?"

"It is Chichloshko, but call me Oleg. It is much easier".

Price thought he detected a hint of a smile, a very faint one.

"I am an officer with the Russian Intelligence. The Russian Navy Intelligence". His words came hard, like a well-rehearsed phrase.

"I need an American partner. You are a US Marine Captain. You will make a good one. Will you be my ally?"

"Ally for what? What are we talking about?"

The coffee and beer arrived and they both took a moment to think things through.

"The USSR is not going to last much longer. Five years, not more than ten". Oleg sipped his beer straight from the bottle. "Intelligence officers may have very short lives after that, or very miserable ones". His English was much better then he made Price believe at the beginning.

"I need to plan ahead. You are the pivot of my plan, if this is OK with you, George."

"Yes Oleg, it is OK with me. I guess. That is, if your plan is not overly crazy."

They tended their drinks again. The dialogue was tense for both of them.

"Actually, there is no immediate plan. I'd like to contact you when there will be."

"All right. And how will you find me, how will you get in touch?"

"I am Intelligence, remember? I know things. You are a low enough rank that no one will suspect our contact to be anything but accidental, meaningless. No offence, but Captain is quite a bit lower than a Colonel, and this is what I am."

Price thought it was wise.
That Colonel is no fool.

"Of course, they don't trust us, especially when we are out of Russia. So I am followed and my meetings are usually watched".

"Well, I am not connected to the C.I.A, but I guess you know what you're doing."

"I'll be in touch," and he got up. "Let's split here," Oleg said, "you take a taxi and I'll walk a while."

"Actually, how do I know you are not just a crank with a crazy story? Like I said, I am not really a spy at all."

"Good George, I expected something like this. Come tomorrow at two o'clock to the city hall. Meet me by the big clock on the tower. You can't miss it."

They met and the big clock was indeed impossible to miss. They didn’t acknowledge each other right away. Price just followed Oleg to a small café at the corner of the building. Oleg chose a tall stool by the bar and ordered a beer. George sat on a stool next to him, casually, and asked for a cappuccino. When Oleg departed one beer later, George was left with a small brown bag, the kind people used to feed corn to the pigeons in the square. He finished his coffee unhurriedly and walked away with the brown bag.

Back at his hotel room, he opened the birdseed bag. Avri dumped the grains on the table and pulled out a folded sheet of white paper which contained a long list of names. American names, in alphabetical order. He looked at the list and waited for an explanation. He knew one would come, eventually.

A few minutes after 10 o'clock that evening, he was phoned by Oleg. "These are names of 250 American operatives working undercover in the USSR. You have it checked. If you conclude I am serious, answer my next call. I know you will answer. Goodbye, my pivot man"

That was the end and nothing had followed until now.

How clever, of course he didn’t mean we should meet at the Düsseldorf city hall clock this time. It was to be here, in Ankara. There must be a big clock at the Ankara city hall.

Price looked at him, warily. "What do you mean steal a submarine? Who can steal a submarine"?

"Listen Price, you did learn that I am not a fool, at least not a total fool. So listen to me".

They boarded a tourist minivan on a regular one-hour excursion around the Turkish capital. There were five more touristy-looking passengers in the van. "They are all my people," Price assured him.

"Well, it seems you have learned a thing or two since Düsseldorf. I like it, my pivot man". His smile had improved, too, since Düsseldorf, but Price preferred not to comment.

"So, Oleg, make me a thief. Tell me, how am I going to steal a submarine? A Russian one I presume," Price grinned.

"OK, look, there is a submarine in trouble. They had a small accident and the Capitan did not report it to his headquarters. He is chasing a boat in the Aegean Sea, an unauthorized, a private, personal chase. I can help you steal that submarine. You choose the way, I'll help you make it happen."

"Seems interesting enough". Price tried to look calm, as if he heard offers like this on a weekly basis. "And why would you offer me such a gift, Oleg?"

"Because I want to defect to Wyoming, USA, in one piece and in full working condition". There was not even a hint of a smile.

"You know I am not authorized for much more than just to listen, but I think it will be a good deal for both sides. A really good deal". Price considered how he should proceed with such a transaction.

It was time to end the tour. As they exited the van, Price asked him "by the way, what kind of a submarine is it?"

"It's the spying kind, electronic intelligence," and he knew he just played the winning ace.

The group of ‘tourists' thanked the driver and tipped him a couple of bucks each. It would exchange for about three million Turkish Liras, but not much in value.

* * * * *

The project bounced around the globe like a ball in a pinball machine, from Ankara to Navy HQ in Suffolk, Virginia, to the CIA in Langley. From Washington DC it rebounded between the Foreign Office and the Oval Office until it was wrapped up and dispatched to the Mossad in Tel-Aviv.

And so, four days after he had left the port of Samos, Danny found himself linked again to Avri and the boat saga.