Resurrection Day Read Free Page B

skyline, their mammoth shapes reflected in the river. The same river French settlers led by Maisonneuve had sailed down from Quebec to found Montreal in 1642, and as fine a natural harbour as you would find anywhere.
    'Fifteen minutes to dock,' called the first officer.
    Kalugin judged the estimate to be about right. There was a slight swell, an eight-knot wind, nothing for him to worry about. The first officer was a trusted and experienced man who knew the St Lawrence seaway as well as his captain did. Kalugin put down his binoculars, took a nervous drag on his cigarette, crushed it in the ashtray at his elbow. 'Take her in the rest of the way. I'll be below in my quarters if you need me.'
    Kalugin went down the metal steps to his private quarters. For eight months of the year the cabin served as his home, the photographs on his desk of his wife and two sons reminders of his other life back in Estonia. After fifteen years serving in the Soviet navy, he had resigned and taken a master's job with a private shipping line operating out of Tallinn. These days, you had to go wherever the money was.
    And it was money that made Kalugin risk his career that cold November evening as he unlocked his desk drawer with a key he took from his trouser pocket. Inside, underneath a thick sheaf of paperwork, was another key, this one secured by some thin metal wire to a three-inch chunk of brass, so Kalugin wouldn't mislay it. Slipping the key into his pocket, he relocked the drawer. Then he stepped out of his cabin, shut the door after him, and anxiously made his way along the corridor to the port cabin.
    Kalugin rapped twice on the metal door, and twice again, before he slipped the key into the lock. When he stepped inside, the cramped, twin-bunked cabin was in darkness. The light nicked on as the Tartu's only passenger sat up listlessly and Kalugin closed the door behind him.
    The Russian wasn't tall but he was reasonably well built, his body taut and fit. He was a handsome, lean-faced man. Where exactly in Russia he was from Kalugin couldn't tell, because the passenger had barely spoken a single word to him during the entire ten-day crossing. The cabin had been his home for the journey, an electronic chessboard his only companion to help take his mind off the angry waves of the harsh Atlantic. 'Better prepare yourself. We'll be docking in fifteen minutes.'
    The Russian nodded. Already he was pulling on a dark blue windcheater, impatient to quit the stuffy confines of the cabin.
    'You know the drill,' Kalugin advised. 'You don't move until the harbour officials and the crew have disembarked. You don't speak to anyone as you leave the ship, keep your head down and trail behind the crew. Your papers all look in order, so you shouldn't have any trouble. After that, you're on your own.'
    'My thanks for your hospitality, Captain.' It was the first complete sentence the man had spoken to Kalugin since he'd boarded. The captain still couldn't place the Russian's accent, but couldn't have cared less. He grunted, put his hand on the doorknob. 'I'll be back when it's time for you to leave. Until then, it would be wise if you remained locked in the cabin.'
    Twenty minutes after the Tartu had moored, an inspector from the Canadian Customs Office, accompanied by an officer from the Immigration Department, strode up the gangplank. Kalugin knew both men from previous visits and led them down for mugs of steaming coffee in the mess-room, where he signed the four copies of the ship's manifest, the declaration listing his vessel's cargo, the port of origin and the cargo's final destination. The crew had been assembled, and they waited to present their crewman's papers to the immigration officer for inspection, before each was issued with a seaman's shore permit, allowing him freely to enter and leave the port while the Tartu was docked. Finally, the immigration officer handed the list to Kalugin for signature. Because the captain or his shipping company had