Target 5 (9 page)

It was pure reflex - his arm crooked, got a hold on the
rock. The brief anchor point merely served as a fulcrum to
shoot him over the drop. His prone body swivelled to the left, went over the brink. His left hand felt a projection on
the rock, his gloved fingers closed, held on. The weight of
his body, the momentum, nearly tore his arm off, or so it
felt. Then he was still, hanging over the drop,
held by only
one hand, one curved arm, his body suspended in space.

Below he caught a brief glimpse of nothing, of the sheer
ice cliff going down and down, at the bottom the splay of
the glacier, huge spiked ice pinnacles. He made himself look
up, concentrated his remaining energy on holding on, on levering himself back up over the brink. He wrapped his
right arm round the boulder, felt his exploring fingers con
tact his other hand. He clamped one hand over the other. Only then did he look up the glacier past the boulder.
Tillotson was coming down the glacier.

It was terribly silent - except for the crunch of spiked
boots driving into the ice. Beaumont's face twisted:
Tillotson was wearing crampon boots, which made his
descent much safer. Where the devil had he got hold of
them? He must have had the boots ready in the jeep, must
have planned his departure from Thule even before the
Boeing 707 had landed. And it was going to take the
American less than half a minute to reach him. Too late to try and clamber back over the edge. Beaumont was having
trouble with his vision now - the oncoming Tillotson looked
like two men. Beaumont blinked. The vision dissolved into
one man, a man with a knife in his right hand. Tillotson was
very close when Beaumont's head flopped, when his right
hand lost its grip.

Beaumont's right arm went limp, flopped out of sight behind the boulder. The strain on his left arm was appalling, almost unbearable, and under the parka his clothes were clammy with sweat. Tillotson paused about three feet from the boulder, decided he couldn't reach with the knife. Taking two more careful paces, he lowered himself to a sitting position behind the rock, raised his right foot, aimed the crampon spikes at the Englishman's left hand. The spikes were half an inch long, rimmed with ice from the glacier. He lunged to spike the gloved hand.

As he drove the boot down hard Beaumont's right hand
whipped up over the boulder, locked round Tillotson's
ankle, heaved savagely sideways. The spikes grazed Beau
mont's other hand as Tillotson lost his balance. He started
sliding. His body skidded round the far side of the boulder, his hands flailed desperately for something to grip on. His fingers clutched the boulder, gained a hold, and he thought he had saved himself. Beaumont's right hand struck again,
struck this time as a clubbed fist, smashing down with
brutal force on the bridge of the American's nose. Tillotson yelped, lost his grip, went over. The scream travelled back
up the icefall, a long-drawn-out scream which ended
abruptly. Beaumont began hauling himself back over the
edge.

He collapsed when he reached the far side of the boulder,
still conscious but hardly able to move as he propped himself against the rock and massaged his left arm slowly.
Clambering to his knees, he peered over the boulder into
the depths. Tillotson had died in a macabre way - his body was perched at the summit of one of the numerous ice pinnacles, speared through his middle.

'You can fly us back, Sam.'

Beaumont sagged in the observer's seat as Grayson
watched him. 'He did have a radio transmitter,' he went on,
'a pretty powerful one. Made by Radio Corporation of
America, of course, in case anyone found it. Not that it was
likely - he had it hidden in an Eskimo grave and no one goes
poking about in that. We'd better get started,' he added.
'Vandenberg can send someone to collect the transmitter.'

'Had he transmitted?' Grayson asked.

'He transmitted something, I'm sure. He may not have
had all that much time, the message could have been
garbled - he must have encoded it before he left Thule.'

'Probably we'll never
know.'

Beaumont looked at Grayson. 'Probably we will know -
when the Russian security people are waiting,to meet us out
on the ice.'

Saturday, 19 February

'I know why Winthrop came to Leningrad. I can see clear
down to the bottom of your large empty hole, Kramer!'

At eight o'clock on Saturday night - eight hours before Michael Gorov planned to escape from North Pole 17 -
Papanin was still in his office. The room was like an inferno,
the green-tiled stove was roasting the office - and its occu
pants. The Siberian loved extremes of temperature, had
loved them since his childhood in Omsk when the terrible
winter cold stimulated him while it obliterated everyone
else, but then he had also luxuriated in the warmth of Siberian stoves when he came indoors. Kramer, on the
other hand, was gasping for air.

'I don't see why you're suddenly interested in Michael Gorov,' he said hoarsely. 'Why should he be mixed up in this Jewish business?'

'Like the rest of them, you'll see it next year. That's why
I'm sitting in this chair - because I can see things before
they happen.' Papanin leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his neck. 'It was the shipping list which tipped me off.'

'You mean the deputy mate, Peter Gorov?'

'You'll see down this hole yet.' Papanin regarded the Bait with an unblinking stare. 'If you don't fall head first into it. Do you remember the case of Rachel Levitzer, that Jewish girl who made a run for it last August and fell down a staircase?'

'She broke her neck ...'

'She also broke Michael Gorov's heart. Did you know
that?'

'I heard a rumour . . .'

'It was hushed up - their relationship - because of the
position Michael Gorov occupies. We've been looking for a
grubby little courier bringing in large sums from America -someone who might at any time be searched at the airport
when he comes in. I think they've been cleverer than that
. . .' Papanin paused to give his bombshell maximum
impact. 'I think Michael Gorov, our eminent oceano
grapher, is bringing in the money.'

Kramer was astounded, appalled. He stared back at
Papanin, trying to guess what he was up to, always an im
possible task. 'You can't mean it,' he said eventually. 'Where
would he get the money from?'

'That's the clever part! He spent three years in the Arctic
planning and laying the Catherine system of cables and
sonar buoys along the seabed. He often visited American ice
islands to see what they were up to.' Papanin hammered his huge fist down on the desk. 'And that's when they gave him
the money to bring in - during those visits to American
bases! He's never been searched when he came back - no one would dream of it.'

'But why?' Kramer was bewildered. 'Why would he do
it?'

'That damned Jewish mistress of his persuaded him. He
was going with her for three years before she died - and he's
still doing it, for the sake of her memory or some such lunatic
sentiment!'

'It's fantastic . . .'

'It's logical!' Papanin shouted. 'He met his brother, the deputy mate, Peter, in Kiev this month
while they were
both on leave. Peter comes back here to board his ship - and
on the way he meets this American, Winthrop, in the park. He was passing a verbal message to Winthrop - from his
brother, Michael.'

'We'll have to be careful.' Kramer warned. 'Michael Gorov is a friend of Marshal Grechko.'*

'Grechko is an arrogant hog. If I'm right about Gorov you'll find that Grechko hardly knew him.'

*
Soviet Minister of Defence.

'It's still dangerous . . .'

'Maybe, but there's someone else we can get at - Peter Gorov, a mere seaman. You found out the present position
of the
Girolog?'

'She's five hours' sailing time from Tallinn . . .'

'Send a plane immediately to Tallinn airport to wait for Gorov, Radio the ship's master to sail straight for Tallinn. Five hours to port, half an hour to and from airports at either end, one's hour's flight to here. Peter Gorov should be in ray office in seven hours' time - by three o'clock Sunday morning! What are you hanging about for, Kramer?'

Alone again in his overheated office, Papanin took out his
little pocket chess set and stared at the board. The Siberian,
a man of many talents, was a Soviet grandmaster of chess. In
July he would be in Iceland for the coming Spassky-Fischer
chess match. Officially he would attend as one of Spassky's
advisers; unofficially he would be chief Soviet representative
to keep an eye on security.

Outwardly a flamboyant and extrovert personality, Igor
Papanin had a cold, detached brain which regarded the
whole Arctic as a gigantic chess board. There were Soviet pieces and American pieces on the board and in any con
test of wills you had to get the opening gambit right.
Curiously enough, considering the role Keith Beaumont
was to play in the coming battle of wills, the Siberian was studying the English Opening.

'A message has just come through from Crocodile.'

Kramer reported the news casually when he came back
into the Siberian's office half an hour later, as though it were
of no great importance. 'They are just decoding it,' he
added. He paused as Papanin went on reading the personal file on Michael Gorov.

'Anything else?' Papanin grunted without looking up.

'Who is Crocodile?'

'A person. Identity known only to General Syrtov and
myself.' Having delivered the snub, Papanin looked up. 'I
want to see that message the moment it's decoded.'

It was 9
pm
before Kramer returned with the message.
The
Girolog
had already changed course and was heading
slowly south through the ice for the port of Tallinn. The
plane Kramer had sent was due to land at Tallinn airport
within ten minutes.

In Washington, where they were eight hours behind Leningrad, Dawes and Adams were waiting with growing
impatience for a signal from a man who was dead. In
Greenland, also eight hours behind Leningrad, Beaumont
and Grayson were flying back to Thule from the Humboldt
Glacier. One message - from Winthrop - would never ar
rive. Another signal - from Tillotson - was just being handed
to Papanin.

'They had trouble with it,' Kramer explained. 'It's rather
garbled. The operator says it was transmitted very erratic
ally and he's sure it isn't complete.'

Papanin read the message. 'What a brilliant deduction,'
he commented. He stroked the top of his close-shaven head
while he read the message a second time.
Americans preparing
. . . over polar pack . .. general area Target-5 . .. Beaumont going in over ice to meet target . . . American planes Curtis Field . . .
Beaumont force
...