Assignment - Black Viking (11 page)

Traskin spoke with a professorial air. “As much trouble as your Polaris submarines are having on their Arctic patrol stations, Gospodin Durell. The storms raging there are terrifying. This weather in the Baltic is the merest shadow of what is occurring above the Arctic circle. Rumors of this weather are seeping down through Scandinavia and into Moscow, too. But as yet they are only rumors. The people are not too alarmed. But we face a new Ice Age, if it continues. A disaster for all civilized peoples.”

Durell leaned back a little. “Thank you, Colonel. If we’re not honest with each other now, there’s no sense in going on as a team. Even less sense in going on separately and in rivalry with each other.”

Traskin nodded his intelligent head. “I appreciate your attitude.”

Smurov grunted. “But I am in command here, and I make the decisions.”

Durell smiled. “You elected yourself?”

“Those are my orders.”

“But not mine,” Durell said.

Smurov’s big hand made a fist on the table. “One of us must be in command, Cajun.”

“We can form a committee. It’s more democratic.” “But in a military operation of this kind—”

“We don’t know it’s military. We’re after a ship, or sub, that has weather control equipment. One thing that has been overlooked is the continuing disturbances up in the Arctic and across Lapland. Until now, the phenomena that occurred in the Pacific and Africa and the Mediterranean have been of short duration. Experimental, it seems. Now we have a continuous dislocation of weather patterns that seems permanent. We can suggest two reasons for it. Either it is deliberate, or the mechanism has gone out of control and the enemy, whoever they are, have created a monster they can no longer command.”

“We know who the enemy is,” Smurov growled. “Those salt-eared Chinese.”

“Your comrades of the CPR?” Durell pretended mock astonishment. “I am surprised to hear you speak so of your allies.”

Traskin said: “Comrade Colonel Smurov uses a phrase that was common many years ago, in the days of the Czar, when rivalry was usual between Russia and the Chinese.”

“And history has made a full circle?”

Smurov downed his starka with a noisy belch. His flat Tartar’s face was red. “They have a vessel up there. A submarine. We have searched for it, and made two contacts.”

“Yes,” Durell said, admitting nothing.

Smurov’s eyes were wet slits. “They have escaped us so far. But we know their operating area. They are trapped. As a matter of fact, I complained to the committee that our expedition was pure foolishness. We do not need you, Cajun. And we cannot trust you. This cooperation is a ridiculous matter. I begged the military to decide it.”

“The Gulf of Bothnia isn’t Soviet waters.”

“In a matter so grave,” Traskin suggested, “we cannot allow petty sovereign jealousies to delay us.”

“Then why
did
you come to me?” Durell asked. Smurov belched again. “You have this yacht.”

“Not mine, exactly.”

“No matter. It is at your command. And we can all use it. It is a question of stealing up on this submarine under sail, you understand, so no sound detection equipment can warn the enemy of our approach.”

“Under sail? The Gulf is still iced up.”

“The ice went out,” Traskin said. “But now it returns. In a week, it may be impossible. That is why we must work quickly.” He was making every effort to smooth over the quick and irrevocable enmity between Durell and Smurov. “We could use a vessel of our own, of course, but then there is the matter of Professor Peter Gustaffson, who created all this in the first place. We need you, Mr. Durell, to go ashore to his house in Lapland and examine his equipment, to look over anything useful there. Perhaps it will give us a clue as to the method he developed to control the weather. We have made representations to the Swedish government in this matter, but they have refused us, due to their traditional neutrality.”

“Stupid,” Smurov grunted.

“But we understand that you, Mr. Durell, have full authority to investigate that area and, indeed, have been working with the professor’s daughter to that end.” Durell did not tell them he hadn’t gotten far.

“We have reason to believe,” Traskin continued, “that the presence of the weather machine and the sub in that area is not an accident. It is close to Gustaffson’s home, which he shares with his brother Eric, the archaeologist.” Traskin smiled gently. “We do our homework, too, you see.”

Durell stood up. “I don’t see why I need you, then. All I need is Swedish Security to cooperate with me.”

“They will not do so,” Smurov rasped. “Sit down, comrade Cajun. We must not attract attention here. You need us, never fear. And we need you.” The admission was reluctant.

“Tell me how.”

“Swedish Intelligence denies all responsibility for what is happening,” Traskin said. “Perhaps they fear world opinion of their role in this impending catastrophe. Perhaps they rely on their own resources. Whatever the reason, although they assigned Miss Sigrid to work with you, they proceed independently of our efforts. It poses a wasteful rivalry. But that is often the way with international problems.” Traskin shrugged his narrow shoulders. His eyes were fixed urgently on Durell.

“Don’t you suppose,” Durell suggested, “that the Swedes have already checked Gustaffson’s papers and laboratory?”

“Yes, but we wish to see it for ourselves.”

Durell sat down again, blue eyes dark with thought. “A thing as big as a weather modification control system that really works on a scale as huge as Gustaffson’s can change the face of the world. Let’s be honest. Whoever has WMC for themselves can dictate to every man on earth, to every government, to every continent. It can be used for good—or for evil. It can be used selfishly, regardless of the cost to neighbors. Am I correct?”

Both men stared silently at him.

“The Swedes want it. They can claim it for themselves, with some justification, since it was devised by Peter Gustaffson. We want it, too. And the USSR wants it.” Traskin coughed. Smurov’s eyes glittered. Durell felt a chill deep within his bones. The full enormity of the stakes hit him like a shock wave. The whole picture became clearer. The future of the world was at stake. Ordinary morality did not exist here. No laws covered this emergency. Perhaps Gustaffson, having created his machine, had early realized the significance of what he had created. He had not been able to bring himself to destroy it until, perhaps through gullible idealism, he fell into the hands of amoral and power-hungry men who had no scruples

about using it for world hegemony. Now it was too late to pretend that Pandora’s box had not been opened.

Traskin was silent. Smurov continued to stare. Durell leaned forward and spoke quietly.

“All the cards on the table, right?”

“Yes,” Smurov said. “We have a peasant’s saying— ‘The rabbit does not see the snare under the tops of the grain in the field.’ ”

“True. We have to work together. Those are our orders. But when and if we find the weather machine—

“There will be no problem,” Smurov said. He spoke with all the heavy smoothness of an asphalt roller. “It has all been decided higher up. We are not to concern ourselves with that.”

“We must. For instance, you haven’t gotten any cooperation from Swedish Intelligence. They’re stubborn. In fact, I’d guess you’ve been forbidden to go north, right?”

“There have been petty obstacles—”

“So you need me and my boat,” Durell stated.

“It will be convenient.”

“I must admit,” Durell said, “I’ve found some peculiar obstacles in my way, too. Who else is hunting for Gustaffson?”

Traskin smiled sadly. “Almost everyone, my dear Durell. The British are here, a bit clumsily. The French, of course,
pour la gloire
. An Egyptian mission. And several Chinese.”

“Is it to be a free-for-all, then?” Durell asked.

“One moment.” Traskin spoke sharply now. “
Have
you permission to go north,
gospodin
?”

“As far as I know. I’m saddled with a Swedish agent. She thinks I don’t realize how much she’s interfered with me. But as long as I know, it will be all right.”

“And your orders—afterward?”

“I don’t have any,” Durell said truthfully.

Both Russians stared at him in disbelief.

“It is an impasse,” Traskin said softly.

“Not necessarily. We can work together, up to the point where someone gets greedy. No use dropping the bone into the river just because we see its reflection in the water,” Durell said.

“That is a Russian proverb,” Smurov said. “But if we go together, I am in command.”

“No. It will be a joint committee,” Durell insisted.

“We are in a race, gentlemen. Others will manage to get through the Swedish security net and try for the prize. We’d do best to get there first. To quarrel now would defeat our ends. I’m sure Colonel Traskin agrees.”

“That is so.” Traskin turned to Smurov. “You see, we must cooperate with the American.”

“But he is tricky, he is dangerous!”

“I got rid of two of your assassins once,” Durell conceded, then added, “In exchange for Freeman, whom your hooligans killed in Budapest.”

“He was an imperialist spy!” Smurov snapped. His face was red and sweaty. He drank more starka and slammed the glass down, breathing heavily. “We need not pretend with each other, Durell. We have looked for each other for a long, long time.”

“And now our hands are tied,” Durell said softly. “We’re harnessed together, whether we like it or not. The goal is too important to quarrel about it before we get there.”

“But afterward—-”

“Yes, afterward,” Durell said quietly. “Afterward, we shall see.”

HE PHONED for a taxi and gave Sigrid’s address to the driver, leaving the KGB men in the Skansen restaurant. It was past five o’clock. The sun was still high in the wind-broomed sky. It seemed colder. The taxi skirted the Central Station and the new triple-leveled business center at Sergenstorg and the elegant shops of

Hotorcity, where motor traffic was banned in favor of garden terraces and pedestrian promenades. Sigrid’s apartment was near the new suburban district of Vallingby, with its ultra-modern skyscraper flats and cultural centers. Traffic proceeded smoothly on the fine boulevards. Durell picked up a tail, a black Volvo that persisted in the rear. But at Brommaplan the Volvo vanished.

A little farther on he asked his driver to stop and telephoned Ole Olsen at the hospital. Talmage answered. “Ole is sleeping, sir. Can I do anything for you?”

“Can you see if the
Vesper
has come in from Visby?” Durell asked.

“One moment.” There was a pause. “Yes, sir. At the berth we reserved for her.”

“Then get the message to Baron Uccelatti to expect two guests. Our KGB friends. And we sail at ten tonight.” “Mr. Durell, there has been some difficulty about clearance papers for the schooner.”

“I’m not surprised. Straighten it out, Mark.”

“It’s not that easy. There have been inquiries into the documents carried by Uccelatti’s crew—”

“Do what you can. And change that departure time. We’ll sail at eight.”

“Mr. Durell. Did you know that Miss Elgiva has checked out of her hotel? One of our people covered it. She has a summer house at the resort of Saltsjobaden. She’s gone there. We made no attempt to stop her, but—” 

“Good thing.”

“Don’t you want her aboard the
Vesper
, sir?”

“She’ll be there. Are our KGB friends covered, too?” “Yes, sir. Last report, they left the Skansen restaurant in their own car. They’re being adequately followed.” “You’re learning, Mark.” Durell hung up.

Sigrid’s apartment, which was really her Uncle Eric’s, was part of a huge garden complex that stood like sugar cubes in the glittering afternoon sun. It was a peaceful scene. Golden-haired mothers and bouncing children moved and played in the recreation areas. The shops were bright and busy. Nobody seemed troubled by the weather. A thin haze tarnished the blue sky, and the wind now and then came in irregular puffs, sometimes very strong, then dying abruptly for a few minutes of unnatural calm.

Durell ran his finger down the directory to find the Gustaffson apartment. It was on the top floor, a garden affair with a terrace, one of the best. He took a scented, silent elevator and got out in an octagonal foyer that served only this one apartment. The foyer was ornamented with a tall, narrow medieval tapestry, a Chinese ceramic dog that stood three feet high, and two round, iron Viking shields, pitted with age, that flanked the first doorway.

Durell smelled cigar smoke.

He checked his hand on the bell. A glass portal to the left opened onto the terrace. He found it unlocked and stepped out into the sunlight. The view of Stockholm was magnificent. The wind slammed against him, bitterly cold. The sky looked peculiar. He heard a soft snatch of Sibelius from inside the apartment. Tall windows formed a glass façade, but they were all heavily curtained; he could not see inside. The terrace was ornamented with glass sculpture, some potted plants, modern sling chairs. Two empty glasses stood on a red formica table. A cigar rested in an ashtray. He touched the ash with his fingertip. It was cold. He did not think Sigrid followed her Danish sisters by smoking cigars.

He could hear nothing inside except for the recorded music. Big double doors indicated the entrance into the apartment. He felt exposed on the terrace, like a fly on a lump of sugar. It was a long way down to the gardens where the children played. The double doors had bronze lever handles. He tried one carefully. His shadow fell against the curtains, but it could not be helped, and when the handle clicked down, he moved in fast.

He was expected.

Something whirred through the air with a murderous sound, and an iron tooth grazed his cheek as he dropped down and out of the way. It was shadowed in the room, with the curtains drawn. There was movement to his left, another whirring, a leap of something dark. Durell jumped for his life. He saw the tall shadow of a man swinging an incredible weapon—a medieval battle mace, an iron-spiked ball at the end of a heavy chain, fastened to an iron handle. The iron ball hissed above his head and the momentum threw the big man off balance for a moment. Durell backed away, on his toes, reaching for his gun. “Olaf?”