Snow Wolf (41 page)

"There's not much in there, but what
little there is makes for interesting reading."

"There was even less on this
American, Stanski, the one they call the Wolf. And as you probably noticed,
there were a couple of pages missing from his file, if the page numbers were
properly sequenced."

"I wonder why?"

"Probably classified."

"But it's usual that an investigator
be given access to all information for the case he's working on. Why leave out
just two pages?"

"When has Beria ever been known to
tell everything? He'd only tell us what we need to know. Still, I agree, it's
odd." Pasha said, "It's a pity about the woman. She's obviously had a
difficult time. She must have been pretty desperate to escape the Gulag. The
photographs won't be much help. The woman's must have been taken after she was
arrested. She looks scrawny and her hair's cropped short. And this one of
Stanski was taken from a distance. The shot's too fuzzy to be of real use.
Besides, a man like that will know how to alter his appearance, and they'll
both probably have enough false documents to paper the walls."

Lukin nodded. "The First Directorate
kept the file on him. His background seems to be something of a mystery. But
they know he speaks fluent Russian and suspect he had a military background.
They seem to think he was responsible for the deaths of at least half a dozen
senior KGB and military officers, including Colonel Grenady Kraskin in Berlin a
couple of months back."

Pasha almost smiled. "He sounds
formidable. But Kraskin was one evil bastard I wasn't sorry to see go."

"I'd watch your tongue, Pasha.
Especially where Beria is involved."

"You think Beria's right about these
two trying to kill our lord and master? That the Americans would really send
this Wolf to try to kill Stalin?"

"It's possible." Lukin paused.
"Did you ever hear of a Colonel Romulka on Beria's staff" Pasha
raised his eyebrows and said, "Colonel Nikita Romulka?"

"I didn't hear his first name."

"Then I'll give you a description. A
big ugly bastard with half his left ear missing. A face that looks like it
caught fire and they tried to beat out the flames with a shovel."

Lukin smiled faintly. "Sounds like
him."

"From what I heard, he's one of
Beria's henchmen, with special responsibility for security affairs in the
Gulags. Why?"

"He's working with us. It seems he
has a special interest in the case. Beria wants him to liaise with us."

Pasha stood and said bluntly, "That
kind of help you can do without. Romulka's just a vicious thug. I heard Beria
Sometimes uses him for the really dirty work, like torture and rape, to extract
confessions from special-category prisoners. A word of advice, Yuri. Don't
cross swords with Romulka. He's dangerous, and he never forgives or forgets.
And he'll suck your eyeballs out like grapes if the mood takes him."

"I'll try and keep that in
mind." Lukin scratched his head absently. "You know what really
bothers me?"

"What?"

"Why did Beria pick me? It's been a
long time since I did this kind of work."

Pasha grinned. "He picked you
because you were the best tracker the directorate had. You ran down every top
Abwehr agent the Nazis sent at us. There were three names everyone in the
department knew in those days. Guzovsky, Makorov and Lukin."

Lukin shook his head dismissively.
"A long time ago, Pasha, or maybe it just seems like it. I'm just a
policeman now. And frankly, I'd rather stay that way."

"It seems you don't have much
choice. Besides, you're being modest and you know it."

Lukin looked down at his false hand.
"Maybe I've earned the right to be."

"Because some German girl shoots
your hand off with a machine-pistol?"

"I stood there and let it
happen."

"A temporary lapse of judgment. You
should have shot her first but you couldn't. Personally, I've never killed a
woman in my life, even during the war, and I don't think I ever could, but it
was you or her. You hesitated because it was a woman and it cost you half a
limb. It could have cost you your life if someone else hadn't shot her."

"Perhaps, but why didn't Beria pick
Guzovsky or Makorov?"

Pasha poured another drink for himself
and topped up Lukin's glass.

"Guzovsky's too old. Sixty-four next
birthday and his eyes are almost gone. And he drinks so much he couldn't track
a fucking elephant in snow. As for Makorov, he's got so lazy and careless I
wouldn't send him out for my shopping."

Lukin smiled. "Still, there are
others more capable. And besides, working directly for Beria has its dangers.
He could have me up against a wall and shot if I fail. And I don't trust
him."

"Who does? Not even Stalin himself,
I hear. The little beady-eyed bastard would scare a ghost. Only you can't
refuse. But if you ask me, he knew what he was doing and picked the best. So
what happens now?"

Lukin thought for a moment. "I'll
need you to stay in Moscow for now and organize an operations room. I'll need
telephones. Lots of telephones. And a telex. Tables, chairs, a couple of beds.
Large- and small-scale maps. A couple of Emkas for transport. Anything you
think we might need. Beria's orders are clear. This Wolf has to be found. And
the woman. With luck, the patrols already in the area may find them, but if
not, it's up to us." Pasha said, "Then God help the poor bastards if
Beria and Romulka get their hands on them, that's all I can say." He
looked over at Lukin and smiled. "And what will the major be doing while
I'm up to my ears in the shitty work?"

"There's a Mig standing by. The duty
officer's going to phone just as soon as the weather improves or anything turns
up I should know about."

As Lukin drained his glass the telephone
rang.

Bylandet Island.

Massey came awake on his back with a
splitting headache. Jesus.

Slowly, the pain and fog washed away. He
opened his eyes and looked about the room. He was in one of the bedrooms of the
island house, the blankets tossed carelessly around him on the bed. He heard
the wind gusting wildly outside and the brightly lit room was bitterly cold. He
remembered the darkened figures bursting in through the front door and the blow
across the back of the neck, but after that, nothing.

Who the hell was it who had struck him?
He got to his feet in a panic and stumbled to the window, ignoring the dizzying
spasms of pain. He pulled back the curtain.

Flakes of snow dashed against the glass
and he saw a blaze of light below. Two black American Fords were parked outside
the house and half a dozen men stood around, rubbing their hands to keep out
the cold. Massey recognized none of them.

Suddenly he heard footsteps climb the
stairs and looked around.

The footsteps halted outside the door.
Massey felt his heart race as the door opened.

Branigan stood there, grim-faced. He wore
an overcoat and scarf and leather gloves. He stepped into the room. "So,
you're back in the land of the living." Massey said hoarsely, "What
the hell's going on, you sonof-a-bitch? You almost killed me."

"I could ask you the same
question."

Massey went to brush past him but
Branigan moved to block his way. "And where do you think you're
going?"

"Downstairs-there's a radio
beacon-landing lights on the ice-"

"If you're thinking about your
friend Saarinen, forget it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dead."

Massey turned white. Branigan looked at
him coldly. "We need to talk."

Tallinn, Estonia.

The Zil army truck jerked to a halt and
Stanski raised himself from the floor and peered out beyond the canvas flap.

They had halted in a narrow alleyway
beside what looked like an ancient inn. Beyond lay a deserted cobbled square.
Shabby, brightly painted medieval houses ringed the square. He guessed they
were in the old town of Tallinn.

Anna sat beside him, and as she dragged
herself up they heard the doors of the front cab open and the sound of feet
hitting the ground and crunching on snow. A moment later the sergeant tore back
the canvas flap. The KGB officer grinned up at them.

"Right, bring your things and follow
me."

Stanski jumped down and he and the
sergeant helped Anna from the truck. They followed the officer down a
foul-smelling alleyway to a door at the side of the inn. The place stank of
stale beer.

The officer brushed snow from his face
and knocked on the door. They heard the sound of metal bolts and then a big,
stoutly built man with a bushy red beard appeared in the open doorway. He wore
a filthy white smock and a cigarette dangled from his bearded lips.

The officer smiled and said in Russian,
"Your guests arrived on time, Toomas. Got a bit of a shock when they saw
the uniforms. Good job we found them before the army did. Those bastards are
swarming all over the place." The officer jerked his thumb at Stanski.
"For a moment there I thought our friend here was one of them."

The innkeeper wiped his hands on his
smock and grinned. His teeth were stained yellow and his red beard hid half his
face.

"You'd better not hang around, Erik.
Get that truck back to the barracks immediately."

The officer nodded and was gone, and they
heard the Zil start up and move out from the alleyway.

The innkeeper ushered them into a
hallway. When he had closed and locked the door he shook their hands.

"My name is Toomas Gorev. Welcome to
Estonia, my friends. I take it everything went well with the drop despite the
lousy weather?" Stanski said, "Apart from the shock of having the KGB
waiting for us, reasonably good."

The innkeeper grinned. "A necessary
change of plan, I'm afraid. Some shit of a Russian general decided to put the
army on maneuvers at the last minute. Two divisions are moving south toward the
coast for the next couple of nights. The area you landed in was smack right in
the middle of their route. Using the army truck was the only way our resistance
could pick you up. But don't worry, you're safe now." Stanski said,
"There's a problem. I buried some belongings back in the woods."

Gorev shook his head. "Then I'm
afraid you'll have to leave them there. For the next few days there's going to
be too much military activity in those parts. It would be more trouble than
it's worth."

He gestured toward an open door at the
end of the hall, a shabby kitchen beyond. Dried fish and moldy-looking slabs of
meat hung from hooks.

"In Estonia, we have a saying. Never
welcome a guest without offering liquid refreshment. Come, I have a bottle of
vodka opened. I'm sure you both need warming after dropping through that filthy
storm."

The staff car turned into the main square
of Tondy barracks just after 3 A.M. and ground to a halt.

As Lukin climbed out tiredly he looked
around him and shivered. The snow had lightened but the early morning air was
ice cold. The old barracks had once belonged to the Tsar's cavalry, its red
brickwork faded and crumbling, but now it served as Red Army Headquarters in
Tallinn. There was a captain waiting at a barrack door.

He saluted. "Captain Oleg Kaman. I
was ordered to be at your service, sir."

"Carry on."

The captain led Lukin up a stone
stairwell to an office on the third floor. The room overlooked a broad square
and was barely furnished; just a desk and a couple of hardwood chairs and a
rusting filing cabinet set against one wall. A map of the Baltic states and
Estonia hung on another. A red-colored folder lay on the desk, and when the
captain had taken Lukin's overcoat he said, "Some tea or coffee,
Major?"

Lukin shook his head. "Perhaps
later. You're familiar with Tallinn, Captain?"

"My father comes from these parts
and I've been stationed here for five years. My commander was called away to
supervise winter maneuvers and sends his regrets."

"Good. You have a progress report
ready for me?"

:,Yes, sir."

"Then proceed."

Lukin sat back tiredly in the chair. In
Moscow there had just been time for a quick phone call to his wife before a Zil
had sped him away to the airport. The Mig had lifted off during a lull in the
snow but the flight had taken half an hour longer than expected as the pilot
tried to avoid the worst of the weather, Lukin cramped in the rear cockpit
seat. The visibility at Tallinn airport was dangerously bad and the landing had
been frightening, the lights of the runway only visible for the last one
hundred meters.

Now Lukin looked up and saw Kaman stare
at him.

Lukin said, "Well?"

"I'm sorry, Major. You seemed
distracted."

Lukin's stump itched in the cold and he
scratched his arm. "It's been a tiring night. Give me your report."

The captain picked up the folder from the
desk and opened it. He cleared his throat. "So far, what we know is that
at approximately nine P.M. local time a Mig 15P all-weather fighter on coastal
patrol disappeared. The aircraft was being tracked here in Tallinn, from the
radio tower in St. Olaus's Church near Pikk Street, but because of bad weather
only intermittent contact was made."