Trophy (34 page)

The perfect summer weather continued. On the 6th of September Thurson again found himself in the minister’s office. Buntline was not in attendance.

“We’ve got the date,” the minister said, “and the flight plan. You may now tell Jason.”

“And the selected crews?”

“No change. They are to be told nothing.”

“With respect, Minister, I think they deserve some warning of what may be in store. If this defector is detected, he is bound to be pursued. In which case, our crews may become involved in a shooting match. At least, allow us to warn them just before take-off. That way security will be maintained, if that aspect worries you … though I must say none of our crews are security risks. They would not be at November One if they were.”

The minister was shaking his head. “I cannot agree to your telling the crews. They are simply to know they will be carrying out an extended combat air patrol in the specified area. And before you object, Air Vice-Marshal, let me remind you that the Palmer and Ferris crash is very much in people’s minds. You need some points to keep the wolves at bay. The entire November project is in serious danger. This mission may just be what we all need. It would not do to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Thurson, well aware of the political situation,
forced himself to stifle any further protest. “Very well, Minister,” he agreed. “I just hope this particular gift horse doesn’t bite us.”

Kukarev sat in his room, studying weather reports for the general region of the Kola Peninsula. Such work was part of his established pattern and anyone choosing to look in on him would have found nothing to cause suspicion. He was well-known for his attention to detail, and an interest in the weather conditions came into that category. It helped to promote the image of a dedicated operational test pilot.

The weather for the next four days, he was pleased to discover, was as favorable as it was likely to be in early September. He hoped it would hold. His departure was fixed for the 10th. There was no way now that he could change it. He had given the details to Sergei Stolybin the previous weekend in Moscow, using a legitimate two-day break for the purpose. Stolybin had promised to arrange the rendezvous with a British tanker. If not …

Kukarev shrugged imperceptibly as he considered the implications. He would be making the first part of his flight at low level and therefore highly expensive in fuel. If the tanker did not make the rendezvous, it would be the Norwegian Sea for him … provided no pursuers got him first. Even in summer, the Norwegian Sea was not the place to go swimming in. An immersion suit would have helped a little, but he would not be wearing one. It would not be
expected of him, since his officially-cleared flight would not be over water.

He thought of the sailors who had perished after the submarine accident in April, in that very area. He hoped he would not be joining them.

There was a knock on his door. He made no attempt to conceal what he was doing.

“Come,” he said.

Captain Zitkin put his head hesitantly into the room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Comrade Major.”

“No, no you’re not,” Kukarev lied pleasantly. “I’m just going over the weather reports.”

Zitkin entered and closed the door softly behind him. “Thank you, Comrade Major.” His smile was ingratiating. “I know how conscientious you are … everybody does, but I wondered … as you’re about to leave us, did you have a chance to speak with your friend in Moscow?”

Nothing escaped Zitkin, Kukarev thought with distaste.

“I did, as a matter of fact,” he answered. They had spoken, certainly, but of far more interesting matters than an incompetent
Zampolit
captain. “He will be in touch. He knows who you are now and I spoke very highly of your abilities.”

“The Comrade Major is very generous.”

“It was nothing. Very simple to do.”

Zitkin eyed the print-outs on Kukarev’s desk. “So you’ll be leaving us on the 10th?”

“Those are my orders.”

“To another base in the area?”

“You know I cannot reveal such information, Captain.” Kukarev put military firmness into his voice. In fact a
Zampolit
had access to the highestgrade material, but his eyes held Zitkin’s until the other backed down.

“My … my mistake, Comrade Major.”

“Yes indeed, Captain. No more questions about my movements. That could be a very serious offense.”

“Of course, of course,” Zitkin said hastily. “My apologies.”

“I shall forget this lapse, and we shall say no more about it.”

Kukarev nodded at him and he went out, again shutting the door softly behind him.

Kukarev stared at the closed door for some moments, a slight frown on his brow; then he returned to the weather reports. Zitkin, he decided, was corrupt enough to go far, despite the so-called spirit of reform. Zitkin’s kind would be fighting back, and the resultant discontent could well give the hardliners an excuse to start all manner of unpleasant adventures. When there’s trouble at home, find a war; any war. History was littered with precedents. The current unrest in the republics served to confirm that lesson.

From where he sat, Kukarev could see the tree-line at the far end of the main runway. Beyond that,
just under 200 kilometers to the north, was the Barents Sea; the gateway out, after his planned feint to the south.

A war to cover up unrest at home could well destroy the Motherland. He knew there were people around mad enough to do it. The same kind who had destroyed his father.

He stared at the distant treeline. He had no regrets.

At the Schloss Hohendorf, Anne-Marie looked out of her mother-in-law’s window, down the long, tree-lined drive. She had turned up unexpectedly the day before, and had been given a less than warm welcome. It should not have surprised her, but being the person she was, it did.

What do they want of me? she now thought. I am not a good military hausfrau. I never will be. All in all, Anne-Marie decided, coming to the Schloss had not been a good idea.

If she had not been feeling so ill at ease, she would not have wandered listlessly into the countess’s private apartment. Anne-Marie turned from the window and in doing so, her eyes fell casually upon a loose pile of letters on the dressing table. Idle curiosity took her to the table where one of the letters held her attention. She recognised her husband’s writing. She stared at it and perhaps, if she had been feeling less resentful, she would have turned away: but she chose to read it instead, and
the damage was done. They were not the kind of words she wanted to read.

“I must tell you about someone wonderful I’ve met” the letter began. “I know you’ll like her.”

Anne-Marie felt the heat of anger building behind her eyes. She read on, turned the page. Finally she replaced the letter with a steely calm. The anger behind her eyes was building into an all-consuming rage. If Axel wanted to dally with a trollop, that was fine; but to tell his mother all about her—that was something else altogether. How dare he humiliate her so?

She left the bedroom and went straight to her own. She was Axel’s wife. No woman was going to usurp her. She picked up the telephone and dialed a Munich number.

“This is the Baroness von Wietze-Hohendorf,” she said into it when the call was answered. “I want the company Citation at Greven within the next two hours.” Greven was the Munster/Osnabruck airport, less than 30 kilometers away. “Call me here at the Schloss Hohendorf when it’s airborne. I want Herr Linden to fly it. No. No one else. What? No. I expect him to be available.” She hung up and began to pack.

Corporal Neve watched as the hired BMW coupe approached his barrier. Ever since the trouble with the people in the van early in the summer, he had
viewed all unfamiliar vehicles with the suspicions of a guard dog. The car stopped.

His interest perked up as the tall, elegant blonde got out. He knew she was trouble as soon as he saw the expression on her face. Why did he always get them? After the business with the van, a young woman journalist had tried to pass herself off as a fiancée of one of the pilots. He wondered what the blonde’s story would be.

Anne-Marie looked him up and down. “I am the Baroness von Wietze-Hohendorf,” she announced in English. “The wife of one of your pilots. I wish to see him.”

Neve restrained himself. What next, he thought.

“You must first register at the guardroom, madam.”

She stared at the chevrons on his sleeve. “You are a corporal?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Very well, Corporal. I have come a long way to see my husband. He is a Kapitän Leutnant. I want to see him. You will either let me in, or get someone who can.”

Bullying Corporal Neve was the very worst way to get his co-operation. He could be stubborn enough to make a mule seem a model of helpfulness.

“If madam would please check in, I shall call to see if Mr. Hohendorf does in fact have a wife.”

Anne-Marie glared insolently at him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, madam,” Neve answered patiently. “This is a military establishment. It is my duty to ensure all visitors are properly registered.”

As he spoke, another civilian car drew up. Neve peered in at the driver who showed an ID. He raised the barrier. The car had to maneuver its way round the BMW. Neve lowered the barrier once more.

“Please move your car over to the side of the road, madam. Large vehicles come through here all the time. It could suffer some damage.”

Anne-Marie hated losing to anyone, particularly to those she saw as functionaries. She tried again.

“Suppose I ignore you and walk through?”

“There are armed personnel in the guardroom, madam. You would not get very far.”

Hohendorf was in the simulator section, having just completed another inconclusive air combat session with Selby, when the call came through. He listened disbelievingly, then put the phone down.

Selby saw the expression on his face. “Bad news?”

“From where I am standing … yes. Come with me,” Hohendorf continued. “There is someone I would like you to meet. It might help me and it will certainly help you to understand. First, we must go to the Mess to change.”

Intrigued, Selby followed.

“Whom are we going to meet?” he later asked as they drove towards the main gate.

“My wife. She claims the service police are trying to shoot her. Knowing Anne-Marie, they are probably acting in self defense.”

Anne-Marie watched as Hohendorf climbed out of the Porsche. She was standing by the guardroom window. There was not a single armed person in sight.

How handsome he looked, she thought.

She ran up to him and hugged him. “Oh, Axel!” she exclaimed softly. She kissed him on the lips. “It’s so good to see you! These … these people would not believe me when I told them you are my husband.” She had spoken to him in rapid German. She had seen Selby get out of the car, but only now chose to acknowledge his presence. “And who is this? Introduce me.”

Hohendorf said coldly, and in English: “What are you doing here, Anne-Marie? Why did you not warn me?”

She drew her head back, but still held on to him, pale eyes seeming to dilate. “Axel? This is a strange welcome,” she stubbornly continued in German. “Are you trying to humiliate me before all these people?”

“The humiliation is of your own making,” Hohendorf replied. “You arrive out of the blue after
months of silence; you ignore every letter I have ever sent you and now
this?
What possible reason could you have for coming here?”

“Axel
…” Anne-Marie interrupted in a strained whisper. “Stop. What are you doing? Let us not discuss our private business here. Let us go to your room. All these people are watching.”

“We’re going off the base. You can talk to me, then you can go back to Germany. I see the car is an English one. No doubt it is hired. That means you came by the Citation.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And I suppose Linden flew it over here, like the good lap dog he is. You gave an order, and he jumped.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How dare you …”

“Oh Anne-Marie. You are so predictable.” There was weariness in Hohendorfs voice. He turned to an increasingly embarrassed Selby. “This is Mark Selby,” he said in English.

Anne-Marie stiffened and suddenly released him. “Selby,” she said in a low, hard voice.
“Selby …”

Both Hohendorf and Selby stared in surprise at her.

“You know his name?” Hohendorf demanded.

“It’s her name. Her
damned
name!” she shouted.

Corporal Neve stared at her from his post at the
barrier, and heads poked out of the guardroom windows to look.

She rounded on Selby. “And what is the little harlot to you?”

A shocked Selby heard himself reply stiffly: “My sister.”

“Your sister.” She again turned to her husband. “And you dare introduce this man, this pimp, to
me?”

“Control yourself!” Hohendorf gripped her arm. “Remember who you are, and where you are. You could only have known that name from reading my mother’s letters. Anne-Marie, you have gone beyond the bounds of—”

She wrenched herself free. “Don’t you dare tell me …”

“Get into the car.”

“No!”

“If you cause a disturbance here, Anne-Marie, I can have you forcibly removed. And I promise you I will.”

That seemed to stop her in her tracks. She eyed Corporal Neve, then went to the Porsche, climbed in, and slammed the door shut.

Hohendorf said to Neve: “Thank you for sending for me.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Neve said. There was the barest hint of a smile on his face as he turned away.

“I want to talk to you later,” Selby said to
Hohendorf, then swung on his heel and walked back in the direction of the Mess.

Hohendorf stared at his retreating form for some moments before getting into the Porsche to drive off the base.

Inside the car each of them silently nursed their anger. Hohendorf drove slowly, not allowing his feelings to be vented on the Porsche. Fifteen minutes later he pulled to the side of a narrow road, near a small stream. He climbed out, and walked to the bank. The water flowed peacefully.