George Bartram - Under the Freeze

“And you did it.”

“You damned well bet I did. That’s why I’m alive today.”

“Who was behind it?”

Pope-Ginna dared to look at him. “I always thought it was Jock.”

“But you never knew?”

“Never. And I never asked, either.” He glanced at Repin and mumbled, “Better not to ask some things.”

“And so you started making the trips to Russia.”

“Yes. You’re quite right about those. I kept London informed, more or less. Not completely. Carlson seemed to know about my Mi-six connection, and he told me what to say and what to leave out. Yes, I advised on the fitting-up of a submarine. For ‘research,’ it was said, but it was a much better version of the sort of gear I’d used in going after the Homburg’ s gold. Divers’ ports, a tunnel attachment to mate with another craft or a sea lab, a deck-mounted submersible. Cargo space. Lots of cargo space, very unusual for a submarine.”

“What was it for?”

“I asked no questions.” He looked away at the place beyond Tarp again. “I asked no questions.” He sighed. “Carlson was killed by one of the death squads. After that, my contacts were always by telephone. Get a call, leave the house, find a coinbox, call a number — all that. Spy stuff. The first call, he threatened me. I—”

“He?”

“The voice.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Pope-Ginna’s face crumpled up. He was going to cry again. “Really! It wasn’t Jock, I know; I know Jock’s voice. He said he was taking over for poor Carlson — ‘poor Carlson,’ that’s what he said — and everything would be just as before. Then I got the instructions about the telephone calls. Really! I know it sounds… melodramatic. But that’s the way it happened !” He turned to Repin almost frantically. “There are really people who do things that way!”

“I’m sure there are,” Repin said kindly.

“Did you do what he said?” Tarp did not need to threaten.

“Of course!”

“Why?”

“You don’t know what Argentina was like then. He talked about the death squads. About how involved I was with certain acts that had involved bribery and corruption. About how the government could freeze all my assets and jail me. That sort of thing happened every day.”

“And what was it you did for this voice?”

“I, ah, delivered something in the Soviet Union.”

“What?”

“A, a sort of tube thing. Like a cigar tube, really. Small, silvery tube.”

“What was in it?”

“I don’t know. I was told that if I looked, they’d know, and that would be the end.”

“Just one?”

“No. Five altogether.”

“Only in Russia?”

Pope-Ginna licked his lips. His color was dreadful and his shivering had given way to a clammy slackness of the muscles that Tarp took as a sign of hypothermia. He would have to be made warm very soon. “In London, too,” Pope-Ginna said.

“And where else?”

“That was all. Moscow and London. I swear.”

“How was it done?”

“I flew to London. I’d make a telephone call. Then I’d leave one of the tubes in a place. Then I’d wait for a telephone call and then I’d go to Moscow. Same thing there — telephone, and then drop off the tube. That was all. That was my part.”

“Were there code names?”

“Yes.”

“What were they?”

“In Moscow, Maxudov. In London, John Bull.”

MAX and JB . The little boxes in the habitat . And there was a third , labeled GAUCHO . “Just those two?”

“Yes, I swear. That’s all. Please, don’t you believe me? Please. Please ? Aren’t you satisfied?”

Tarp looked at Repin, who nodded. “Satisfied for now,” Tarp said. He started up the ladder.

“You are believing him, my friend?”

“I don’t know yet. How is he today?”

“He cries a little, like a bride. He did not want me to leave, he said.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“His wife, she died in 1964, he said. Her heart.”

“I’ll have it checked. Anything more about Schneider or his wife?”

“Not today. You are checking on the death of Schneider’s wife?”

“I’m waiting to hear from Juana.”

They lay at anchor in a small bay north of Cape Town. Trees and grassland of a remarkable freshness (or so it seemed after the days near the ice) came almost to the water’s edge; in the middle of the crescent lay a small town, the metal roofs of the pink-and-brown houses like mirrors in the sun. The Global Clipper seemed out of proportion to the neat bay and to the two military landing craft that lay quietly at anchor halfway between it and the town.

“Is peaceful,” Repin said. He was wearing an open shirt and one of the ubiquitous cloth military hats that appear every where in Africa.

“You don’t like peaceful scenes?”

“Not so much when American marines take up the foreground.”

“Only a small part of the foreground.”

Repin laughed. “American marines cannot take up a small part, my friend. To a Russian eye, they fill the space.” Repin was eating a mango by peeling sections and then eating the lush fruit off the palm-sized pit. It was messy, and he seemed to enjoy it that way. “Mr. Smith is coming soon?” he said guilelessly.

“He wants to be here in time to see the marines hit the beach.”

“Ha, ha-ha. Is funny expression, ‘hit the beach.’” Repin hit the rail with a fist as if to demonstrate.

“No, you don’t say that in Russian, do you?”

A small boat put out from the town and curved toward the landing craft. The water was very still and very blue, and the boat cut through it neatly. A flock of pelicans took off and skimmed low and dropped down again.

“Those pelicans had better get ready for a busy day tomorrow,” Tarp said.

“Soldiers playing games.” Repin did not sound contemptuous, but sad. He threw the big mango pit into the water and licked his fingers. “‘War games.’ Nice expression. ‘Hit the beach. War games.’ Funny business, language.”

A little helicopter buzzed over the low brown hills that lay beyond the town. It came very fast, then slowed as it passed over the town and its single dock, then came out toward the landing craft and circled them. After one pass it came toward the tanker.

“Here comes Mr. Smith.”

Repin grunted. On the tanker’s deck men were running toward the helicopter pad. Otherwise the deck was empty, the submersible already off-loaded and the big French choppers gone.

The former president stepped down to the deck with a smile and a wave, still like a politician, and spent a few seconds being introduced to the ship’s captain. He was wearing bush clothes and he looked tanned and healthy and rich.

He also looked pleased with himself. As he shook hands with them his mouth spread into a grin; his eyes were bright even behind the big sunglasses he was wearing and he seemed very pleased indeed. “I’m supposed to be up at Okavango looking at elephants!” he shouted as they left the pad. “Couple of newsmen even chased up there after me, I hear!”

“You like going incognito.”

He laughed. “Maybe. Maybe. Yeah, I guess I like it. Well, what’s the word?”

Tarp took him to Repin’s suite, which had been checked for bugs and judged secure. “Mr. Smith” lay back in an armchair with his hat on a table in front of him, still with the sunglasses on, and waited to hear about the plutonium.

“We got it, that’s all.”

“I know you got it! You sent me the report. Where was it?”

“Where we thought it would be.” Tarp looked at Repin. “We’re ready to move on to the next step, sir.”