The Red King of Helsinki: Lies, Spies and Gymnastics

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Iain watched on the snow-covered jetty as a small tugboat slowly piloted HMS Newcastle into Helsinki South Harbour, frozen but for a jagged shipping lane cutting between thick sheets of ice. He’d been following the gradually expanding navigation lights for over an hour while the faint winter sun rose above the Gulf of Finland.

The snowfall had made the day’s copy of Helsingin Sanomat folded under his arm limp. Iain shivered as he placed the paper inside his thick winter coat and pulled the collar further up around his ears. A glance at his watch showed 08:06. They were on time at least. He stamped his feet. The Finns say the coldest winds blow from Siberia, and this morning Iain understood what they meant. Even the weather from the mighty Soviet Union was a bully to its small neighbour.

Finally the ship docked and Iain climbed onboard. He nodded at a Sub Lieutenant, who bounced down the gangway and told Iain to follow him. He looked like a child, with a freshly scrubbed pink face, and at the last minute Iain remembered not to salute him. He kept forgetting he was a civilian now. But the ship, with its musty smell, a combination of salty seawater and diesel oil, made him feel at home. ‘Good passage?’

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