‘Very good,’ said Major Han. ‘We’ll make a soldier of you yet, Adam.’
‘Nice of you to say so, major. I always was good at amateur theatricals … How far are we from the port now?’ Adam checked the striped T-shirt which the paratroopers wore under their jackets.
The major looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to sunset, five minutes to the main gate of the harbour.’
It was a pity, Adam thought, that they weren’t going into action in full daylight. Their vehicles and uniforms were so impressive, it was almost a waste. As for the faces of the men, the Soviet Army itself was composed of conscripts of such diverse origins that the Afghans looked appropriately miscellaneous.
He only hoped that none of the personnel-carriers would break down. They had no recovery vehicles, spares or equipment to service them.
Another roadblock loomed in the distance. This one was more professional, with two sentry-boxes, floodlamps already on, a portable generator thumping, and twin Afghan and Soviet flags hanging limply in the airless gloaming.
Stoi! Halt. A tall, slim and elegant lieutenant stepped carefully into the road and raised one arm, in a textbook version of ‘an officer stopping an advancing convoy for identification purposes’. Adam flashed his headlights in acknowledgement and came to a stop.
The Russian NCOs at the barrier were, unusually, neither lounging nor smoking. They stood alert, obviously annoyed at the presence of this young sprout, who nevertheless outranked them. The lieutenant’s boots gleamed in the scout car’s headlamps as he pranced up to the vehicle. He looked as if he was going to speak to Adam, who hardly knew a word of Russian.
Before he reached the driver’s side ‘Colonel’ Yusuf Azambai stood up in his seat and roared, in his best regimental manner, ‘Get off the road, gospodin leytenant, while those sons of animals let us through, will you?’
The lieutenant stopped and stood stock-still. To Adam, he seemed on the point of unslinging his Kalashnikov: but perhaps it was his imagination. Then Azambai shouted, ‘I am Colonel Mazhdurov, the komandir of this special force, 105th Guards Airborne Division, on special duty, and I am in a hurry!’
The lieutenant saluted. ‘That’s better, leytenant, the Guards like a keen man.’ Azambai thought that the best thing to do was to keep talking.
The lieutenant came up to him.
‘What’s your name and unit?’ Azambai asked imperiously.
‘Federov, Leytenant, 360th Motorized Rifle Division reporting, gospodin Colonel!’
‘I see. That’s General Melik-Bekov’s lot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Azambai smiled. ‘I know him well.’ He had, in his Red Army days, actually met the aristocratic Melik-Bekov, the Azarbaijanian terror who lived like a prince, in the USSR. ‘You are the fellows who did some good work over in Wardak Province, didn’t you? Seen a bit of action, I suppose? Of course, we have been punishing the badmashes ourselves, down Khyber way …’
‘Yessir. Er, no sir. I wasn’t there. I have only just been posted here. I am a replacement.’
‘Well, Federov, you did well to stop us. But you don’t think we’re bandits, do you? Get your men off the road, because I want to get this special job over so the men can get a little kasha, gruel. We haven’t had anything all day.’
Federov was nearly ready to open the barrier. His brow wrinkled slightly as if he was wondering how to ask for movement orders from this elegant senior officer of paratroops, Guardsmen at that. Better keep talking, thought Azambai.
‘Pickled herring, sardines and cheese, that’s all I’ve had myself, since yesterday. Something to do with this new chemical defence affair, our task is. You know all about that, I suppose?’
‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘Well, you do know, I take it, that there is a chemical defence unit stationed down the road, at Kunduz?’ Chemical defence usually meant ‘gas attack’.
‘Yes, of course, gospodin Colonel.’
‘That’s where we have been. Then old General Tairov – he’s my uncle – got it into his head that we should do a special exercise, slip in to fool about here: protect this gunboat you’ve got up at the port. What’s it called?’
‘It is called the Jihun, Colonel,’ shouted Major Han, in his most military voice, from the back of the scout car. His Russian was good enough, and he thought that he could lend some verisimilitude to the proceedings. ‘That’s what it says on the orders. But we’re running behind time. I don’t know what the general is going to say.’
‘Yes, we’d better be getting a move on. Can’t stay here gossiping all day. I’ll tell the general you assisted us, Federov. Every little helps, eh?’
‘Er, yes, komandir. Many thanks.’ The young officer turned to his men, waving to them to remove the barrier, ‘Bistro! – hurry.’
‘Spasiba, leytenant – thank you.’ The major acknowledged the salute.
They were through. Only the dock gates to deal with now. It was already getting dark.
The dock gates loomed, large, new, made of steel bars, festooned with barbed wire. The car stopped on the shiny new asphalt, extensively floodlit with carbon arcs.
The armoured personnel-carriers drew up in line behind.
‘Colonel’ Azambai, accompanied by Adam, jumped down from the car and strode across to the guardhouse.
Outside was a large notice, red lettering on white: The Shipping Administration of Central Asia. Headquarters at Charjui. Charjui was in the USSR. The Russians were behaving as if this Afghan port was already in their own territory.
Inside the hut, sitting beside a large samovar which they were feeding with charcoal chips, were two Russian sergeants. They stood and came to attention when they saw the officers.
‘Colonel Mazhdurov and unit, on a special mission, for the gunboat Jihun. I am in a hurry, sergeant!’
The older sergeant, a middle-aged man with jackboots which some first-year conscript had undoubtedly spent a long time polishing, clicked his heels. ‘Dakumyent?’ he said.
Documents. Well, there was no movement order. Best to try the Airborne pass. Azambai reached into his pocket and took out the red booklet with its gold hammer and sickle embossed on the front.
‘There you are, my man. Urgent chemical defence work. The Jihun.’
‘Spasiba, thank you.’ The sergeant glanced at it and saw the Guards badge on the Turkestani’s right breast. He clicked his heels again, and pressed a button, ‘The gates are open now, gospodin Colonel.’
Carefully obeying the sign which said maximum speed 10 kph, the convoy rolled along the concrete surface of the broad roadway to the docks. This was the old part of the port, just a small jetty; and suddenly there she was, the Jihun, tied up fore and aft.
The gunboat was brightly lit by floodlights, and lying low in the water, obviously heavily laden. She looked dirty, rusty, had undoubtedly seen better days. A sergeant who had been lolling on a pile of sacks, stood up in the glare of the headlights. Azambai got out of the car and went up to the man as he snapped to attention.
‘Who are you?’
‘Sergeant Bichak, beg to report, sir!’
‘Good. Now, sergeant, we’re here on a special mission, as you must realize. Chemical defence exercise. Who is on guard and who’s on board, and what are your orders?’
‘Gospodin Colonel! On shore: myself, ten men in that hut,’ he indicated a guard hut some twenty feet away, ‘and a special detachment on the ship, nobody to go on board without a permit.’ He spoke with a Tartar accent.
‘And quite right, too. Make sure that you don’t let anyone, anyone at all, on board. Now, I’m cancelling the order about the permit, on my own authority. That means that nobody else, even with a permit, may go on board. Danger of chemical contamination, toxic agents, khimicheskoye oruzhiye. And confine your men, for safety, to that hut. That is imperative. Understand?’
‘Understood, sir!’
‘Now, sergeant. What other ships are in dock here?’
‘None, gos
podin Colonel. The Jihun is isolated at this wharf. Orders from GHQ.’
‘Good. Who and where are the men on board?’
‘They are a detachment from the Intelligence Section of KGB troops, sir. Captain Nazarov, Lieutenant Gritkin and twenty-eight men, seven of them sergeants, on this watch. I don’t know exactly where they are. The officers allocate the guard duties.’
‘When is your watch over, sergeant?’
‘Same as theirs, sir, two a.m.’
At that moment a Red Army officer, in camouflage over-jacket, came out of the wheelhouse and stepped to the rails, fifteen feet above them. He peered into the pools of light and darkness caused by the floodlights mounted high on the boat. The rumbling of the armoured vehicles must have alerted him.
He was wearing a steel helmet, and carried one of the new Kalashnikov 74s. He levelled it at the pair as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the light and shade pattern on the dockside.
‘Hands up!’
Attack is the best defence, thought Azambai. He called out, ‘Comrade Officer: how do you like it here?’ in as jolly a voice as he could manage, though his throat was dry.
‘Who are you, what do you want?’ The officer levelled the gun, sighting it straight at the Turkestani.
‘I’m Colonel Mazhdurov, 105th Guards Airborne, special duty, chemical defence,’ Azambai called. ‘Are you Nazarov, or Gritkin?’
‘I’m Lieutenant Gritkin, sir. You’d better come aboard and be identified. I’m on special duty, too. As the Colonel knows, this is a high-security matter.’
Azambai held up his red and gold booklet. ‘Here you are, leytenant, this should be enough for you.’
‘Not enough, I am afraid, Colonel.’ He sounded old for a lieutenant, probably promoted from the ranks. Such men were often difficult, sticking to the letter. Their general aim was, of course, to exercise whatever power they could. Paying people back for all those slaps as rankers … And he was, after all, a KGB soldier, not an ordinary army man.
‘I’m not a bandit, you know, leytenant!’
‘No, gospodin Colonel. Of course not. Advance and be recognized.’
Now Gritkin had been joined by three more figures, sergeants by the look of them. There was nothing for it, Azambai would have to go aboard.
‘All right, Gritkin. I’m coming.’
Azambai signalled to Major Han to stay where he was, beside the guard sergeant, and covered the length of the gangway in three or four leaps. Up a flight of iron steps, then another, and he was on the bridge-deck, holding out his identity book. The lieutenant saluted and took it, looking back and forth between Azambai’s face and the photograph on the document. Then he said, ‘That seems to be in order, sir,’ handing it back; ‘and now may I see your written instructions?’
‘For what?’ Azambai raised his eyebrows.
‘For boarding this ship. The shore-guard must have told you. From Shtad-Kvartyra, Headquarters.’
‘There never is anything in writing concerning chemical defence matters. You should know that, lieutenant.’ Azambai put an edge into his voice. He sensed the suspicion of the three sergeants, who were moving closer. Surely they wouldn’t dare to defy a full colonel? Poison gas warfare was a crime, and the Russians never admitted to having any more than ‘defence measures’ for gas. In reality, the Red Army had plenty of gas.
‘There is nothing written down about the nature of the warfare, Colonel,’ said Gritkin, his Ukrainian accent becoming more pronounced with strain or emotion, ‘but there is always some authorization in general terms. Such as “This person may board the Jihun for such-and-such a defensive purpose.” That is what I want; State Security demands it. Spravka, proof, that your mission is authorized. You should know that already.’
That seemed to be that. Gritkin was so suspicious that the major knew that he could never shift him with mere bluster. He mentally rifled through the possibilities, his mind working at top speed. Shoot all four Russians? No, that would bring the house down. Explain? No, that would look bad.
He said, ‘We’re guards and paratroops, and a special reconnaissance group, Gritkin. That means we’re unorthodox. Personal verbal orders from General Tairov. We have to provide chemical defence for this ship.’
The other man was unimpressed. ‘Yes, Colonel.’
He couldn’t be faulted. He stood straight, shoulders back like the good NCO he had probably once been, heels together. He was not being insolent or incorrect to any degree. Merely doing his duty.
‘Yes, Gritkin. Now, have you a radio on this boat?’
‘We are not allowed to use the radio except in emergencies and for raising the alarm. For instance, in case of theft.’
Azambai managed a chuckle, though he felt more like grinding his teeth.
‘Stealing, yes; running off with old lifebelts I suppose.’
‘I’m not talking about blat, Colonel.’ He was hinting that there was something more here than the small-time thievery which everyone in the Soviet forces knew about and practised to some extent. He stopped talking, abruptly. He obviously knew about the gold; he had now almost suggested that this was a plot to seize it. He’d be shot if that happened. Azambai reflected that the KGB had been clever. The NCOs on the gates, and probably those in the hut too, almost certainly knew nothing at all about the treasure in the ship. That was the way to keep security. They had even left a fairly light guard on it. But Gritkin and his sergeants were a different matter.
‘And I am talking about protecting your ship, against blat or anything else, lieutenant. Blat is as much an anti-State activity as anything else.’ Let the lieutenant think that he was a priest, at heart, if that would help.
‘If you can’t use your radio, use mine.’ He’d just had a brain-wave.
‘I’m not allowed to leave the ship until relieved. That would be irregular.’
‘Lieutenant, if your superior – Captain Nazarov isn’t it? – is awake, tell him that Colonel Mazhdurov would be glad to have a word with him.’ He turned his back, ostentatiously, and looked as incuriously as he could down onto the quay.
As if relieved at the decision, Gritkin was away and back in a moment with a tall, thin, slightly drunken captain, smelling of vodka and smoothing his field uniform shirt. He came to attention when he saw the ‘colonel’.
Azambai explained the situation. The captain was impressed. ‘Yes, Colonel, of course. Come with me to the saloon and have a drink. Gritkin can go and verify things on your radio, and I am sure that all will be in order.’ He seemed apprehensive, aware that he was not quite sober, and afraid that the ‘colonel’ would report him.
That would not do. Azambai would have to go with him, or the trick wouldn’t work. He thought fast.
‘Thank you, Captain. But I’ll have to take Gritkin down to the quay myself. My radio operator will not accept any orders without me. That’s the way we do things in the Airborne.’ He gave an arch smile to indicate his pride in the endearing little ways of his lads: doing their duty to the letter.
The captain saluted. ‘Certainly, Colonel. I’ll await your return. I’ll have the vodka ready. It’s the best.’
Together Azambai and Gritkin went down to where the APCs stood, silently, full of very tense men, waiting for something to happen. Azambai knocked on the turret of the first carrier. Zelikov opened it and looked out. ‘Gospodin Colonel?’
‘Captain Gritkin, from the gunboat,’ Azambai said, in his best, clipped military Russian, ‘wants to verify our orders, sergeant.’ He turned to the captain. ‘From whom do you want the authorization, Gritkin?’
‘From Movement Control, North Command.’
‘Yes, of course, that’s the best. Everything should be filed with them.’ Azambai was sweating, even in the cold night air, but thinking, fast. ‘Sergeant, raise Movement Control. You will remember that, on our high-security network, it has the prefix ooksoos, vinegar.’
Zelikov was quick on the uptake. ‘At once, gospodin Colonel.’ He remembered that vinegar was th
e call-sign for the third personnel-carrier in their convoy.
‘Right, then, I’ll leave you to it.’ Azambai moved away slowly out of Gritkin’s line of vision, then sprang rather than walked the fifty feet or so to the third APC, tapping on the turret as he came level with it.
‘When you get a message, in the next few seconds, in Russian, from a Nikolai, just say, “Wait, please, we’re checking,”’ he told the radio-man. The man nodded. He was one of the best Russian speakers among the Turkestanis. That was why Azambai had chosen his vehicle.
It seemed like only a second before the radio squawked, with Zelikov’s voice asking for Movement Control, for Transport Information. The Turkestani replied with the answer he had been told to give and put the caller on hold. Azambai then spoke rapidly. ‘When Lieutenant Gritkin comes on, say that our visit is authorized at the highest level, but that it is highly secret and he is to give us all co-operation.’
Within three minutes it was done. Azambai walked back to the slightly chastened Gritkin and fell into step beside him as they made their way back to the ship. ‘Well done, lieutenant. I like a man with zeal. Let’s have that vodka out now, shall we?’
When they rejoined Captain Nazarov, Azambai underlined the importance of his work by refusing a drink. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have things to do for my Homeland. I cannot drink.’
After a few quick shots of vodka, ‘bought from Moscow’s best liquor store: 4 Gorky Street,’ the captain staggered off, and Azambai explained that he and his men would have to be given a free hand to set up their chemical protection system on board the Jihun. Gritkin, very politely, borrowed his forged Airborne pass, photographed it with a Polaroid camera, and locked the print in a flat grey box marked ALTINKUSH. Altinkush in Turkic languages meant ‘Goldenbird’.
Adam posted two personnel-carriers side-on, with their gun ports facing inland, near the dock gates to discourage visitors. He also arranged for one of his Russian-speaking ‘sergeants’ to sit with the Soviet guards, in case of problems. Then the rest of the men started to carry the gelignite boxes on board the Jihun.