Men of War (2013) (29 page)

Physical
changes! The impact of his conclusion struck him like a hammer.
Physical
changes!
Something had altered the history and the consequences extended to these real
and tangible objects, winking out of existence for the barest fraction of a
quantum second, and then winking back to the here and now again, but different,
subtly changed, altered by something that had happened in the past. It was
astounding! The form and appearance of the whole seemed unchanged, but the
devil was in the details…Was his book spared because it had come from another
world, another complete version of the universe itself? It was mind-boggling!

Then
he thought about the hours he had spent talking with Karpov and Volsky about
their strange dilemma. They had worried about Orlov, fretted that he would
wreak havoc on the history if he indeed survived. But Fedorov had come to the
conclusion that whatever Orlov had done, it was now a finished and permanent
new fact. Surely the man was dead long ago, and his legacy would have hardened
like concrete in the matrix of time and life. The history would have calcified
again and it could be read, if he could simply do the research on information
he might find here in this new world.

But
the discovery that Operation Agreement had suddenly been stricken from the
rolls of time, and that the volume where he read it had physically changed to
reflect that, had shaken him severely. Now he realized what had happened to the
records of those thirty-six dead men in Moscow’s archives. Dead men tell no
tales…and now he knew his guess had been correct—these men had never been born.
Time found a way to neatly expunge them from her ledgers, and then every last
trace of their existence had quietly vanished as well!

Another
thought struck him, even more unsettling as he realized it. The book had
changed, and yet he still remembered the old passage. He recalled himself
reading and highlighting the text as easily as he might summon up a memory of
that last confrontation between Karpov and Kapustin in the sick bay. If
something as solid and tangible as this book could change on a whim of fate,
then why could he still remember the old text? It was most disturbing. And if a
book could be edited by the hand of fate overnight, then might
people
also simply disappear—vanish from one moment to the next, as if they had never
been there?

Then
he remembered the two missing names on the duty rosters that morning. All hands
were present and accounted for except two—Yolkin and Markov. They were gone and
listed as AWOL. Yolkin had been in the city picking up supplies for the
quartermaster, and Martinov had complained that he had not returned. Markov was
over at the Primorskiy Engineering Center, but reported missing, though Fedorov
had not learned the details of that incident. Then his train of thought was
suddenly derailed by footsteps in the hallway outside the dining room, and the
door swung open.

“There
you are, Captain. I’ve been needing to speak with you. The Admiral has gone up
to Naval Headquarters at Fokino and something very odd has just happened.”

It
was Chief Engineer Dobrynin.

Part VIII

The
Mission

“A
small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their
mission can alter the course of history.”

—
Mahatma
Ghandi

Chapter 22

“What
do you mean he got clean away? They had him deep inside the Rock!” Admiral
Tovey was not happy.

“He
was to have been on the Hudson out of Gibraltar last night, sir. The normal dispatches
came in alright, but there were no other passengers.” Sergeant Williams seemed
a bit flustered, as any bringer of bad news would before the Admiral at a
moment like this.

“Well
what does MI6 have to say about it?”

“They’ve
looked into the matter, sir, and come round to think he must have been helped
from the inside. A corporal on the watch saw a small boat on the northeast
shore about that time. He took it to be a fishing boat, as the men on the aft
deck were trying to sort out their nets. But it looks rather suspicious given
his absence now.”

Tovey
took that in, saying nothing. Yes, hindsight was always perfect. It should have
looked suspicious while the man was getting away, but the Admiral decided he
would certainly not be discussing this with a Marine Sergeant. One thought
quickly led to another in his mind. The east shore… If he got out that way,
then that boat probably met up with a steamer. There was a lot of traffic in
the Med near Gibraltar. Which one?

“Thank
you, Sergeant. That will be all.”

“Sir!”
The Sergeant saluted smartly, spun about and beat a hasty retreat. Tovey sat at
his desk, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities. The thought that this man had
help from the inside was most unsettling. He made a note to check on anyone who
might have had even passing contact with the prisoner during the time he was
interrogated. His immediate problem was much more pressing. Where was this man
going? Reports indicated he had originally been picked up heading west into the
Atlantic. The steamer
Duero
was bound for Cadiz, yet the story was that
this man had originally boarded the ship in Cartagena.

That
thought triggered a memory, and he opened his bottom desk drawer with the key,
slowly removing a thin file marked ‘Most Secret.’ There he read again the
account of coast watchers near Cartagena who had reported a strange incident in
the skies there on the evening of 13 August. They claimed to see contrails in
the sky, five thin columns of smoke scoring their way through the clouds and
exploding. Wreckage of an aircraft was spotted falling into the sea, and a
parachute. The account gave him the shivers, for it was all too reminiscent of
those infernal rockets that had been used by the enemy ship. But what were they
shooting at? It could have been a plane that had strayed too near
Geronimo’s
course as it headed south that evening toward that fateful rendezvous with
Syfret’s
Force Z, but there was no report of any losses
that day. Perhaps it was a Spanish plane. The incident was right astride this
mysterious ship’s route of approach to Gibraltar. It was very strange.

Here
was a Russian, a man named Orlov wearing what looked to be a naval officer’s
jacket, carrying a strange custom made pistol with an odd light attached to it,
and harboring these ear plugs that seemed to be some sort of advanced wireless
device. Supposing he came from
Geronimo
, the man boards a ship heading
west…But why? What would he be about? Could there be some mission he was
undertaking in Spain? Then a dark thought occurred to him. Perhaps this man had
been trying to communicate with other Russian agents and operatives in Spain waiting
for him at Cadiz. He made a mental note to have Fleming’s boys have a look at
that city to see what they might turn up.

Then
again, if this fishing boat did indeed rendezvous with a merchant ship, it
might have been heading east. Fishing boats were not permitted in the main
shipping channels of the strait. He decided to have a list of all commercial
traffic anywhere near Gibraltar yesterday—names, registry, destinations. That
would allow him to possibly get men into each and every port of call along
those routes, and he hoped there hadn’t been a convoy through the straits that
day so his job would be a little easier. If this man was heading east, where
would he go? Any Russian heading east, would have to be heading for Istanbul if
he had any hope of getting back to Russia. Yes, that made sense. From Istanbul
he could easily cross the Black Sea and link up with Soviet authorities
anywhere along the Georgian coast.

Then
his mind turned to the strange accounts that had surrounded this interrogation.
Fortunately the transcript of the entire interview had arrived with the regular
dispatches. He read it through, curious as to what the strange scope might have
been on the pistol, the odd flashlight as the prisoner called it. This business
about the wireless earplugs was also quite interesting. And who was this
Svetlana?

The
more he thought about the matter, more he came to conclude that this man might
indeed have been off the ship the Royal Navy had been chasing for the last
year. He might have been a pearl dropped here by
Geronimo
, trying to
make contact with the Soviets of this day and age…buy why? Couldn’t they simply
use the radio? Not without us hearing about it, I suppose. Was Svetlana his
contact? That thought set his mind racing even further ahead, because if this
assumption were proved true, the man could be a deliberate agent, and the
information he might provide the Soviets could profoundly affect the outcome of
the war, and so very much more.

Intruders,
he thought. The Watch had found what looked to be the first possible case of a
man at large who clearly did not seem to be what he claimed, and with marks and
effects on him that led Tovey’s mind back to that fateful hour on Las
Palomas
Island where he had faced the commander of the ship
they had come to call
Geronimo
, eye to eye, astounded to find he was
Russian! It was now a standing order that any Russian operative found in
England and the kingdom’s domains was to be closely watched by British
Intelligence services. Tovey did not know it yet, except perhaps on some deep
inner level of his mind, but the Cold War was already beginning in these
suspicions and the orders that followed them. The reluctant allies, strange
bedfellows as he thought of England and Russia, were now set at odds by this
incident.

The
next day he had his report on shipping traffic in hand, and checked off one
after another, until he had narrowed down the possible rendezvous targets to
three. He considered what to do, then picked up the phone.

“Secure
line,” he said waiting for confirmation. “Get me Room 39 please. Desk 17F.” He
wanted to speak with Fleming over at 30 Commando. Yes, he thought. This was
coming down to some real cloak and dagger work, and he now realized he needed
reliable men who were trained in these unpleasantries. The voice on the line
was curt and to the point.

“Seventeen
F. What is it?”

“Admiral
Jack Tovey here, Seventeen. I want to know if we might be able to get some men
east to Istanbul and have a look at a certain ship—a merchant ship bound for
that port as we speak.”

There
was a brief pause before the voice on the line continued.
“Might I know the
details, sir?”

Tovey
explained what he was after, and Fleming suggested the obvious—why not get a
fast destroyer out after this ship?

“The
thought did cross my mind, Seventeen, but I think I’d like to handle this with
a little more subtlety.” If he sent a destroyer to intercept a neutral Turkish
ship there would be questions, reports, documents, and perhaps even a formal
protest from the Turks, not to mention the added risk that the ship would then
be suspect in the enemy’s eyes as well.

“Well
sir,”
came the voice.
“We’ve some good men in Alexandria with nothing on
their duty roster now that they were unable to come to any agreement in that
last meeting”
Tovey noted how Fleming adroitly referenced the cancelation
of Operation Agreement and the planned raid on Tobruk.

“Splendid.
You pick the men, Seventeen. And here’s what I’d like you to do.”

* * *

When
the call came in to Captain John Haselden at General Staff Headquarters days
later he didn’t really know what to make of it. He and his men had been sitting
on their thumbs in the heat of the desert, wondering what had come over the
planners back in England. First they tee up a big operation for Tobruk, and
then, just as suddenly, it is summarily canceled.

Haselden
was a lean, competent man, just shy of forty, and with long years of experience
in the desert. In fact, he had been born right there in Alexandria, the son of
Henry Ernest Haselden and his Italian wife Maria
Cazzani
.
Before the war he had worked in the cotton trade industry, supervising commerce
and becoming fluent in Arabic, French, Italian and English. Like every man his
age he entered the service when war came, signing on as a British liaison
officer with the Libyan air force and then working directly for the General
Staff of the Middle east where his language facility was put to good use.

His
specialty soon became commando operations, and he was posted to the 8th Army HQ
to serve as liaison with the Long Range Desert Group. In this capacity he
participated in a number of operations, including Operation Flipper, the raid
on Rommel’s headquarters in an ill fated attempt to capture the man hundreds of
miles behind the front. Rommel wasn’t there, and when he learned of the
operation he was irritated to think the British would believe he commanded from
the rear.

When
the new raid was announced for Tobruk, he was eager to get in the thick of
things again, and just as disappointed to learn it had been called off. If he
had known that he was one of the many men who were slated to die in that raid,
perhaps he would not have complained so loudly. He had no idea that he was now
living his second life, a new lease signed by the hand of Mother Time that
would see him drawn into the ever thickening web of intrigue spinning from the
spidery back of fate itself.

What
in bloody hell is this about, he thought? First the whole bloody raid is
knocked off, now this! Someone has a real imagination back in Whitehall, does
he? First we were to get up a crew and fly cross the whole of Turkey in the
dark on a pinch operation—all the way to Istanbul. Don’t we already have people
in Istanbul? Of course we have. They were supposed to find this man, keep their
finger in his backside, and get him to a safe house before we flew in. Two days
later word comes down that the ship this man is on was met by a Russian trawler
and he slipped clean away, out into the Black Sea like a whisper of fog.