Russian Front (7)
‘The very best of our snipers, known only as Yuri, was recently killed in a botched scouting operation. He trained the other snipers and was our most successful shot. More important, he inspired the defenders of the city. Comrade Stalin himself took a personal interest in his activities and, of course, our newspapers and newsreels sang his praises.’ Sasha reached into a battered leather briefcase as he spoke. ‘Here is a good portrait, taken in the city a few days before his death. It is the best, erm, close-up picture of him. It has not been released to our publicity department yet.’ Sasha handed the large glossy black and white print over to Swayne, who looked at it, looked at Sasha, then at Fortune. Swayne smiled uncertainly. Some kind of joke? Sasha and Fortune weren’t smiling. Swayne looked at the photo again. A man in what was recognizably a Red Army officer’s uniform, smiling for the camera. A posed shot, against a background of ruined buildings. The man was holding a rifle of a type with which Swayne was not familiar across his chest. The man’s face was proud, determined, looking away and upwards as if towards the future. It was a good enough portrait of a brave soldier of about thirty years old and there was nothing remarkable about it at all. Except, of course, that the photograph was of Swayne himself. The explanation came to Swayne almost immediately. ‘Your special effects people from the movies are very clever, sir,’ he said. He made as if to hand the photo back to Sasha, but Sasha made no move to take it. Evidently Swayne was to study it, for some reason, so he took a closer look. It really was very good. He had no idea how such things were done, but you couldn’t see the join, or whatever it was, where Swayne’s face had been superimposed upon the other image. ‘It’s not our doing, I assure you,’ said Fortune. ‘The picture you hold in your hand is an authentic portrait of Yuri, taken less than two weeks ago,’ stated Sasha. ‘There has been no retouching or likewise interference with negative.’ ‘The fact of the matter is that you are Yuri’s double, Swayne,’ said Fortune matter-of-factly. ‘One of Sasha’s, ah, colleagues, who knew Yuri, saw you in Tobruk and nearly fainted in shock. You really might be identical twins. Even your other measurements are the same – height, weight, hat size. Your feet are one size bigger. He has – had, I should say, - a scar on his neck. Apart from that you look just like him. More importantly, you are the same kind of soldier – an expert at scouting and sniping.’ There was a long moment of silence. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Swayne found himself saying. ‘We want you to get on tonight’s sleeper to Glasgow.’ Fortune looked at his watch. ‘It leaves in just over half an hour, but we have a car standing by. There you will be met and taken to Prestwick airfield where a long-range aircraft will take you to Moscow. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Russia, have you?’ Like most British soldiers, the war had represented Swayne’s first opportunity to travel abroad. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you will find it rather chilly at this time of year.’ Added Fortune apologetically. ‘Is more bracing than cold – yet.’ Said Sasha. ‘From Moscow you will be taken in great secrecy to Stalingrad where you will impersonate this Yuri – showing the flag, you said more than you knew earlier – by visiting the rear and front lines, and generally demonstrating that you, as Yuri, will shortly return to active service.’ ‘But …I don’t speak a bloody word of Russian!’ Swayne blurted out. ‘Yuri was shot in the neck’ said Sasha. ‘He died at a field hospital. All the doctors and nurses have been removed to, erm, other parts of Soviet Union. And they have all agreed to keep his death secret. We are confident that they will keep this promise.’ Something about this last statement chilled Swayne further. ‘The story will be that you were wounded in the throat and your vocal cords were destroyed, removing your power of speech,’ continued Fortune. All you have to do is keep silent and wear the correct uniform. Your record shows that you can display endless patience when stalking and waiting in cover. You can keep silent when you need to, for as long as you need to.’ Sasha added soothingly, ‘While in Stalingrad you will live in relative comfort, I assure you, in a room in General Chuikov’s bunker. He is commanding officer of the 62nd Army, currently defending the remains of Stalingrad on West Bank of Volga. He is one of very few people who know about this plan. Others are an intelligence expert with NKVD called, erm, Romanov,’ Sasha almost giggled at this, and Swayne’s Russian history was just adequate to realize why, ‘whose idea this was, and a young woman called Tania.’ Sasha paused, as if deciding how much more to tell Swayne. ‘Tania speaks perfect English,’ Sasha said finally. ‘Her mother was English and Tania herself was an English teacher before war. Tania is also a sniper. Yuri trained her himself. You and Tania will be based at Chuikov’s headquarters bunker, and when you have finished your work for the day you will be able to relax and speak English with her, provided you are completely alone. Romanov will also be on hand. I think you will like him, he is nice chap, very bright, also English speaker. You will feel almost at home!’ Sasha exclaimed. Like fuck I will, thought Swayne. It didn’t surprise him particularly to learn that the Russians were using women as front-line soldiers. He had heard something of the sort. This made him wonder idly what sort of a killer Sally would make, which prompted a chain of thought leading to his next question. ‘How long will I have to stay out there?’ Sasha answered: ‘The journey to Stalingrad will be by air, in stages. We need to get you seen out there as quickly as possible. But it is a great distance, and we may not be able to arrange a plane for your return journey. I would estimate between ten days and two weeks.’ Once again, Fortune seemed to read Swayne’s thoughts. ‘And of course you’ll be due for a spot of leave when you return. Perhaps you could take Miss-, er, Sergeant Knott to a few shows. The latest Coward, Blithe Spirit, is very good.’ Now! Have another tot of Sasha’s firewater and I’ll see if your car’s ready. We haven’t got much time, but have you got any more questions?’ As Fortune picked up a telephone Swayne thought. What the hell, I’ve never been to Russia. It’ll be an adventure. And they say it won’t be dangerous. There might be a gong in it. ‘Just the one question,’ he said aloud. ‘What’s the NKVD?’ The impish twinkle returned to Sasha’s eyes. * * * * * As Swayne, fortified with a packet of sandwiches and a flask of coffee which one of Fortune’s staff had given him, slept soundly in his bunk in the rocking darkness of the night train to Glasgow, an intelligence officer at Bletchley was assessing the decoded signal from a German stay-behind agent known only as ‘Sparrow’ in Tobruk. The officer was impressed that Sparrow had seemed able to recruit, in a very short time since the Allies had recaptured the town, a British officer whom Sparrow had codenamed ‘Gentleman’. FROM: SPARROW Here follows latest material from Gentleman. An officer of the Long Range Desert Group, an expert sniper, is en route to America for special training. Gentleman believes his final destination is Russia. G overheard their Commanding Officer talking either to or about an NKVD officer ROMANOV. Gentleman, who is unusually disillusioned with his government and the USA, believes that SWAYNE might be used to assassinate a high-ranking Soviet personage, even Stalin himself. He has no evidence, but is personally convinced that the USA and Britain are plotting to manipulate matters so that Communist Russia is destroyed or at least seriously weakened. The intelligence officer at Bletchley considered the signal. The most important piece of information was that there appeared to be a traitor in the LRDG. The rest seemed to be supposition based on the typically weak German grasp of the real relationships between the Allies. In the great scheme of things it was not an especially important intercept. Many hundreds of messages were being unbuttoned every day, and he had been specially briefed to watch for information concerning the imminent Allied landings in French North Africa which were intended to support Montgomery’s push from Alamein. He was aware of the importance of the battle for Stalingrad, but of course that particular front was not mentioned in the message. He forwarded it for filing and urgent onward passage to MI6 headquarters in Cairo. Chapter Six LONDON It was a beautiful day for early November. Sally left the mews flat, locking the door carefully as she had been instructed, and walked through sunshine that was almost warm in the direction of Green Park. Crossing Piccadilly, she skirted a sandbagged anti-aircraft emplacement and strolled down through the park in the direction of Buckingham Palace. She had a lunch appointment with someone called Fortune at a Hotel near Victoria, but since she was early there was no need to hurry. The leaves on the trees were golden against the brilliant blue of the sky. She was wearing a rather smart cream suit with a blue border over a white silk blouse. Her shoes were a darkish blue with holes at the front where three of her toes peeped through. With white stockings she didn’t need varnish on her toenails, which was just as well since it was such a fag to get hold of in wartime. Shopping in Cairo or even Tobruk was much simpler, if rather more dicey for a woman. You could get hold of anything there if you were prepared to venture into the darker alleys. The faintest whisper of wind rustled some leaves. She couldn’t help smiling at the glorious morning and stopped for a moment to turn her face to a sun that seemed much kinder than the blazing orb above the desert. Suddenly, she just wanted to get out of London and see some countryside before winter came properly, or they sent her back to Egypt. One plan she had already hatched was to go and call on Hugh’s parents in Somerset, when Hugh was on his way back from America or wherever he was, and all this nonsense about Lisbon had been cleared up. Hugh had told her enough about his family for her to able to work out their address in the Exmoor village where his father was the local doctor. He had also said that his first priority on returning would be a visit home. Sally planned to write to them, explain that Hugh and she had met in Egypt, and ask if there was a respectable pub or bed-and-breakfast where she could stay for a day or two. With any luck they would invite her to stay with them. She felt sure, from what Hugh had told her, that she would get on with them and that they would like her. It was the kind of impulsive plan that didn’t seem at all strange in the middle of a war. The thought of pretending to be his girlfriend tickled her. Just picture his face if he came home unexpectedly to find her there, in the sitting room drinking tea with his Mother and Father! Of course, he might hit the roof and order her from the premises, but somehow she felt this was unlikely. And she knew that he wanted her. Well, he wouldn’t get very far under his own parents’ roof, would he? He would have to jolly well wait. This made her ask herself whether she wanted him. The answer was that she didn’t know. He was attractive – ‘cute’ as the American girls put it – but she needed to know him better. She continued to daydream about staying at his parents’ home as she walked along the path through the trees. Wouldn’t it be priceless if she was given his room to stay in and he had to sleep on the sofa! Her smile broadened as she pictured herself going downstairs to hand him the Teddy Bear that he had incautiously mentioned when they were at that party on the hospital ship. ‘Here you are,’ she might say, with due melodrama. ‘I couldn’t bear to come between you and Teddy.’ Pulling back her hair from her face she heard a wolf-whistle. Two rather unprepossessing American GIs had turned to look at her. She carried on and, to her relief, they made no attempt to follow her. London seemed to be full of them. The flyers seemed to be the most interesting. They would apparently hire taxis all the way from their bases in East Anglia for a very wild night out in London, then take a taxi all the way back. She had attended some fairly rowdy RAF parties in Egypt and she quite liked the mad type, provided they made her laugh and knew where to draw the line. Which, of course, so many didn’t. She looked at her watch and decided she had dawdled enough. She waited for a long line of Bedford Army lorries at Constitution Hill before crossing the road and walking past the heavily sandbagged and guarded Buckingham Palace. A few minutes later a smiling Commissionaire was opening the glass doors, covered in plywood for the Duration, of the discreet Hotel in a quiet cul-de-sac around the corner from Victoria Station. She stood in the lobby for a second, getting used to the relative darkness after the bright day outside. A hand touched her arm and she was looking up into a kindly face. He took her arm and guided her towards a comfortable lounge that looked out on to a garden. He seemed to have been speaking for some minutes. ‘Glad to see you got the note. I’m Fortune of course. Hope you find the accommodation acceptable, we like to think we look after our guests, did you walk all the way? Well done, well done. Yes it is a splendid day, it certainly is. Can I tempt you with a sherry? Yes, why not, let’s pretend it’s still summer. In fact, why don’t we go and sit next to those windows away from the crowd at the bar.’ The place seemed to be an officers’ haunt. There were all types of uniforms crowded around the bar, many of them high-ranking. They sat down and sipped their drinks. Fortune seemed to suddenly remember something. ‘By the way, I’m sorry you and Lieutenant Swayne were separated so abruptly. I hope young Lesley put you in the picture?’ Lesley hadn’t told Sally anything at all. After the business about being hustled into the Ladies for ‘freshening up’, Lesley had gently but firmly taken her back down the stairs of the Regent Street building to street level and walked her in the blackout around the corner to the mews flat which had been her home for several days. Then she had left her alone to make a lonely supper from tins in the flat’s small but well-equipped kitchen. Early the next morning Lesley had returned to give her a set of keys, telling Sally that she could come and go as she pleased, provided she didn’t contact anyone she knew. She also gave Sally an envelope containing a very generous allocation of spending money, for which Lesley made her sign the inevitable chit. The flat’s refrigerator and larder were mysteriously restocked every day, always when Sally was out. She finally decided there must be a secret door to an adjacent flat with spyholes and false mirrors. This conclusion didn’t make taking a bath very relaxing. Fortune answered his own question. ‘No, of course she couldn’t have. It’s this blasted, pardon me, wretched, Need to Know principle, I keep forgetting who needs to know what and who doesn’t know what I know, and so on. Ah, here’s Sasha. Shall we go into lunch?’ When they had been introduced and were all seated in the dining room, Fortune lost his avuncular look. The lunch menu was sitting in a silver holder in the middle of the table. Fortune pushed it towards her, saying: ‘It looks as if we may have a spot of bother with Hugh’s mission.’ It had taken Sally all of ten seconds to choose her lunch from the limited menu. Dover sole sounded nice. ‘Bother?’ she asked quietly. A tall, dark-haired naval officer sat down to eat on his own at a table for four next to them. Perhaps the crowd in the bar didn’t want to eat just yet, although it was past one. She heard voices slightly raised in irritation at the door of the room, but Fortune was speaking again in a low voice and she had to bend towards him to hear. ‘I can’t, of course, tell you how we know, but we have reliable information to the effect that the Germans are aware that Hugh is engaged on something a bit out of the ordinary. In other words, they do not accept that you and he are gallivanting around in Portugal. We don’t know how much more than that they know.’ ‘Miss Sally,’ began Sasha. ‘Before you were asked to help us in Tobruk, you may have noticed a military delegation from the Soviet Union. They held some long meetings with Colonel Morrison, your Commanding Officer.’ ‘Was this in connection with Hugh’s mission?’ There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that,’ said Sally. ‘Never mind, my dear,’ Fortune said while patting her hand in a way that was meant kindly but she found rather patronizing. ‘My security clearance is quite high, you know.’ Sally said, her voice rising to a normal volume. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to do the job I was doing if I wasn’t to be trusted.’ ‘Of course, of course.’ Said Fortune. ‘Perhaps, Sasha’ he said, turning in his seat, ‘given that we’re in the middle of London, surrounded by soldiers giving each other noisy lunches, we could at least ask Sally straight out what it is we want to know.’ The room had become more full, and some Free French officers who had lunched a little too well were starting to hum the Marseillaise. A distressed headwaiter immediately began to plead with them to stop. The dark-haired naval officer alone at the next table was staring out of the window. With a part of her mind Sally wondered if he had been stood up. Fortune’s suggestion didn’t make Sasha seem any happier, but he leaned forward to speak to Sally. He attempted to smile, but she saw no patience or respect in his eyes. What Swayne had seen as an impish twinkle she saw as potential cruelty. ‘I have no doubt Comrade Colonel Fortune is right.’ Fortune looked down at the table, the ghost of a smile playing over his face at being called Comrade. ‘You were Colonel Morrison’s secretary, and we know that you were very good at your job. This means that you worked closely with him. I must ask you – did he ever mention anything about Hugh being sent to Soviet Union after, or perhaps instead of, being posted to America?’
Go to part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
Copyright © 1998 Aidan Steer |