9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  Volsky took the photo, his brows raising with surprise when he saw it. It was immediately clear to him what had happened now. Kapustin kept digging and when he managed to get hold of Fedorov’s letter he decided the mystery was now beginning to touch upon dangerous information, hidden secrets, black operations, shadows he was not accustomed to lighting with the flashlight of his diligent mind and work. Volsky knew the man was close to Kamenski, and it was no surprise that he went to him with this. Apparently Kamenski knew more about Kirov that anyone realized. The Admiral stared at the photograph, breathing deeply.

  “Kamenski gave you this?”

  “He did.”

  “And did he tell you where he found this photo?”

  “Oh, I asked him, but he would not reveal those details. It was enough for him to assure me as to its authenticity, and I can tell you that was more than enough for me to grasp at that moment. I must say that I found it hard to believe, and so Kamenski advised me to have this discussion with you, before things get out of hand, as he put it, and put the matter to rest.”

  “Things were already getting out of hand,” said Volsky, with just a touch of anger. “I will assume your Captain Volkov was responsible for delivering Fedorov’s note to you in the first place.” He leaned forward, leveling a finger at Kapustin. “If you think you can rely on men like that from Naval Intelligence to do your dirty work, Kapustin, I will tell you that I have men of my own to command, men of war. I will not hesitate to use the full power and authority of my position to see that my operations are not compromised in any way.”

  “Admiral Volsky…” Kapustin held out a hand, placating the Admiral. “I am not here to quarrel with you, and for the methods I used to obtain that letter, I apologize to you here and now. It will not happen again. As for Captain Volkov, yes, he can be difficult to manage at times. Kamenski and I have sent him off on a wild goose chase to keep him busy. He is riding the Trans-Siberian rail line, checking every depot from here to the Caspian Sea, and will be of no further bother to you. But Admiral—that photograph—imagine my shock and surprise! I am a man accustomed to keeping my feet firmly on the ground. Numbers, reports, photographs—yes, I have piles and piles of them. But when I saw that one, my entire world turned upside down, and I must tell you that I was given the choice of either believing what my eyes were telling me or considering myself insane. Can you help me answer that question?”

  “What else has Kamenski told you?”

  “Wasn’t that enough? Please, Admiral—is that photo authentic, or am I a lunatic?”

  Volsky thought for a good long time, watching Kapustin and wondering what else he might already know. Pavel Kamenski had been one of the most powerful operatives of the KGB in the decades leading up to the demise of the old Soviet Union. He survived the dissolution of that organization and was instrumental in seeing its services parceled off to other agencies like the Federal Protective Service, the Foreign Intelligence Service and the GRU. Volsky had long wondered what the Soviet and the Russian governments after it had learned about Kirov. After all, they had nearly eighty years to ruminate on information they may have uncovered as a result of Kirov’s astounding sorties to the 1940s.

  He looked at Kapustin, considering, then nodded. “Very well, Inspector. I will tell you about this photograph, if you care to listen, and then you will be kind enough to answer a few questions for me.”

  “Deal,” said Kapustin, sitting up in his chair, obviously interested.

  Volsky leaned forward, placing the photograph on his desk and tapping it with his finger. “If you must know, then I will consider enlightening you, Inspector—on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want to meet with Kamenski.”

  The Inspector General smiled. “Admiral, I would be more than happy to make the introduction.”

  “Very well, I hope your breakfast has settled, Inspector.” Volsky leaned back, thinking. “On the night of July 28th this summer past Kirov was on station with the attack submarine Orel north of Yan Mayen for live fire exercises…”

  Chapter 9

  Fedorov stood there gaping at the scene, disoriented and trying to determine what had happened. His instinct told him to get outside, for the commotion seemed to be drawing everyone out of the nearby buildings, and he could hear shouts and see people pointing at something just outside the dining hall. He holstered his pistol and ran to join them, amazed at the brightness in the sky to the northeast. When he finally got clear of the eaves overhanging the dining hall doorway he saw it, an enormous glow in the sky, as if a massive fire was burning on the distant tree-sewn taiga. The whole northeastern sky was involved and the only thing that came to mind to explain it was the awful memory of that nuclear detonation he had seen aboard Kirov in the North Atlantic, yet this was bigger, more awesome, a fiery glow on the horizon that spoke of terrible disaster.

  He saw three men pointing at the sky, shaking their heads in disbelief, and went over to join them, listening to what they were saying. One man, short, stocky, with dark hair and a thin mustache was speaking to a tall, swarthy man. “What could it be?” he said. “A fire in the sky? How is it possible?”

  The third man listened intently, turning his head from one to the other like a child waiting to be told something as his parents talked. Fedorov could see that he was not dressed like any of the others, and when the tall man turned to him and spoke in English, he realized he was not Russian. The man returned with passable Russian, but it was clear that he was not a native speaker.

  An Englishman! What would he be doing here in the middle of the Soviet Union in 1942? Fedorov studied the man closely. He realized that Britain and Russia were supposed allies, but the man was obviously a civilian and to find him here in a distant rail yard in Siberia was very odd.

  “Excuse me,” said Fedorov, “what has happened?” It was the question on everyone’s lips, and the stocky young man who had been speaking turned to him, looking at him strangely. Fedorov had taken off his heavier outer coat with his NKVD decorations while he slept. His Black Ushanka was also upstairs on the night stand by his bed, but he still wore the lighter service jacket Troyak had given him, jet black with two broad pockets over each breast. The Black Tiger patch of the Spetsnaz insignia below each shoulder on the arms seemed to draw the man’s interest, and his eye drifted to the pistol in Fedorov’s side holster.

  “Military?” The young man asked, and Fedorov realized he needed to say something to preserve his cover.

  “A long way from Vladivostok,” he smiled. “I’m transferring to the Caspian.”

  Even as he spoke Fedorov began to wonder where Troyak and Zykov were, and why he had not seen these three men earlier when they arrived at the hotel. He reasoned that they may have come in on a train while they were sleeping. But where was the Sergeant? He found himself looking around to see if he could spot Troyak, but it only increased his confusion. Nothing looked familiar here! They had walked two blocks from the rail yard to the hotel, past a number of old weathered houses and storage buildings, but there was nothing between the hotel and the rail station now, just a vacant muddy field with tufts of grass fading away into the gravel bed of the rail yard. The train station itself seemed much too small. Ilanskiy had a marshalling yard with six lines, but now there were only two, and it was completely empty! There was no sign of his freight train, the rail workers, or anyone else. What was going on here?

  “Something terrible has happened,” said the stocky young man. “But there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger. Let’s get back inside.” He tramped off, the tall man and Englishman in his wake, both chattering about the event. Fedorov followed them.

  Back in the hotel dining room he saw the men seating themselves at the table setting he noted earlier, and when the younger man saw him he beckoned him to join, gesturing to an empty chair.

  “Tell me you are not a security man working for the Okhrana and I will be happy to share my breakfast table with you,” said the young man
as Fedorov drew near.

  Fedorov was confused, still looking around and finding the dining room strangely unfamiliar. Where was Troyak? What was happening on the taiga outside? He should be out looking for Zykov and the Sergeant. Yet there was something about this energetic young man that compelled him to linger for a moment, his confused thoughts settling like well stirred tea leaves at the bottom of his tea cup mind.

  “Then again if you are Okhrana, I must tell you I have done nothing inappropriate. I was given a full release, and I mean only to travel to Irkutsk to visit friends. You need have no further worries about me.” The man looked at him, waiting. “Well? Which is it?”

  The Okhrana? That was the old secret service of the Tsar before the Russian revolution! What was this man talking about? Yet it was obvious to him that the man needed some reassurance, and so Fedorov held up a hand, “have no fear,” he said. “I have no business with you. I’m just a soldier.”

  “Good then,” the young man held out a hand. “Mironov.”

  “Fedorov.” The two men shook hands.

  “These other two are my table guests as well,” said Mironov. “This is an Englishman, here to report for his newspaper in London. A worthy occupation, journalism. I have a mind to take it up myself one day, though I do not think the Tsar’s government would appreciate much of what I would have to say.” He studied Fedorov closely after that remark, as if looking for some sign of resentment, still testing this newcomer to see if he might be a threat. Apparently he was satisfied when Fedorov just gave him a blank stare, still completely confused as to what was happening.

  “And this is Boris Yevchenko, his guide. We’ll all share our breakfast!” He reached out and handed Fedorov of a piece of thick black rye.

  Fedorov hesitated, still looking around for any sign of his comrades. He knew he could not sit here chatting over breakfast with these men until he re-established contact.

  “I’m afraid I must first find my friends,” he said.

  “Friends? Good! Bring them. We’ll all eat together.”

  “You are too kind…” Fedorov nodded, excusing himself. “They must have gone out the main entrance. I’ll see if the serving girl has seen them.”

  “Serving girl?” Mironov raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more as Fedorov nodded again and started for the front desk. He slipped through the arched door and saw the same counter there, only it seemed newer, in much better condition. A man came huffing in from the main entrance with three others in his wake.

  “Just a moment, just a moment. With all this commotion out there a man cannot think straight!”

  He was certainly correct in that, thought Fedorov, suddenly struck with a moment of recognition. He knew this man…he had seen him before. No, not in the real world, but in the painting that hung behind the front desk counter—the portrait of an elderly man—Ilyana’s grandfather! It was the same man, only this time there was no painting on the wall, and in its place was the living and breathing replica of the man he had seen in the portrait! Fedorov stared at him as though he were seeing a ghost. What was happening here?

  “Könnte es ein Vulkan sein?” said one of the men by the door.

  “In Sibirien? Ein Vulkan?”

  “Haben Sie auf dem Auto überprüft? Wenn Protos beschädigt wurde dann könnten wir einen weiteren tag mit reparaturen zu verlieren.”

  The other three men who had been following the proprietor were speaking in another language, which he now recognized as German. One wore a close fitting bonnet that covered his head and ears, leaving only his beady black eyes above a ruddy cheeked face, with long thin handlebar mustache. The other two had eye goggles strapped above the bills of woolen caps, and double breasted overcoats with brass buttons.

  Fedorov knew a little German. The men had said something about a volcano and now they were talking about having to repair a car. His bewilderment redoubled, and then he looked at the wall behind the front desk counter where the portrait should have been—the portrait now huffing about behind the counter in flesh and blood, and he saw something that stunned him. The calendar there read June, 1908!

  He stepped back, a startled expression on his face, and the old gray haired man behind the counter finally noticed him, giving him a strange look as though he was trying to place the man. Fedorov backed away from the scene, his mind a dizzy whirlwind of confusion. He suddenly remembered the microphone in the collar of his service jacket and, as he backed into the dining hall again by the hearth he pinched the toggle and spoke quietly, desperately.

  “Troyak? Zykov? Can you read me?”

  Silence.

  Fedorov gave the back staircase a wide eyed look. He had been warned about those stairs by Ilyana, but now his only thought was to get back up to the second floor and into his room. He wanted to see if his hat and overcoat and equipment were still there—if his sanity could be found among those effects—and he slowly backed into the shadow of the stairwell, eyes wide with amazement. He saw the young man, Mironov, staring at him from across the room, a look of suspicion on his face now. Then there came another distant rumble of what sounded like thunder.

  Fedorov turned and quickly began to climb the stairs. It was just a short flight of twelve steps, but it seemed endless, his legs leaden, and by the time he reached the last step he felt exhausted, breathing heavily with both fear and exertion. He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. At that moment he heard the clomp of hard soled boots on the wooden floor and he straightened up to see a man walking briskly down the hall with an automatic weapon.

  It was Troyak.

  “There you are! Where have you been, Colonel?”

  Fedorov just stared at him, still disoriented, so tired, a lethargy on him that he could not explain. “I think I need to sit down…”

  Troyak could see his distress and helped him down the hall and into their room. Along the way he signaled Zykov, and told the Corporal to join them in their quarters. Fedorov had some water and rested on the bed briefly, with Troyak watching him closely, a serious expression on his face.

  “Are you ill, Colonel Fedorov?”

  “No… No… Something happened, Troyak. I can’t explain it.”

  “We searched the entire building. Where did you go?”

  Fedorov blinked, trying to compose himself. “Down the back stairs. I thought I heard something—that rumbling sound—so I went down the stairs.”

  Then, for the first time, Fedorov noticed it was pitch black outside. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, but otherwise all was dark.

  “Downstairs? You were gone for over an hour, sir. It is getting on to midnight and the train will be leaving in half an hour.”

  “The train?” Fedorov still seemed confused. What had just happened to him? Was he dreaming? Sleep walking? “I must have been dreaming,” he said slowly. “Yes…it must have been a dream.”

  There were footsteps in the hall, and Troyak was up, weapon ready. They heard muffled voices. Then a man speaking in a louder voice. “I’ve done nothing. Let me go!”

  Troyak opened the door and saw Zykov with one hand on the collar of a short young man and the other with a pistol to his head. The Corporal smiled. “Look what I found in the hall.”

  “Let me go, I say. I have done nothing!”

  Zykov pushed the young man into the room and stepped in behind him. Fedorov looked up, astounded again. It was Mironov!

  “So you are with the Okhrana after all,” said Mironov sullenly as soon as he saw Fedorov there. “I knew there was something odd about you. What have I done? You have no right to detain me!”

  Fedorov’s brain finally began to function again, with images of all he had seen and experienced in the last few minutes slowly connecting. The sound of the explosion, the rumble of thunder, the distant glow on the horizon—the month and year on that calendar!

  “Listen to me, Mironov,” he began. “What is the date?”

  “The date?”

  “What is the month and year?�
��

  Now Troyak had a bemused expression on his face, glancing at Zykov as if to communicate something unspoken to him. They were both looking at Fedorov as though he were ill. Then Mironov spoke, still somewhat indignant.

  “So you mean to interrogate me, is that it?”

  “No, no, please. Simply tell me the date.”

  “The 30th of June. I arrived late last night. You think I’m a dim witted fool, eh? I knew you were Okhrana the moment I set eyes on you. And when you refused to sit at my table my suspicions redoubled. But you have no reason to bother me. I have done nothing! What? Do you mean to hold that innocent remark I made about journalism against me? Yes, the government may not like what I have to say—but I have said nothing, nothing at all!” His eyes were fiery as he spoke, indignant, combative.

  Fedorov tried to calm himself, but his pulse quickened when he heard what Mironov said. June 30. Impossible! Yet one by one the clues piled up in his weary brain, and then came tumbling down in an avalanche of sudden realization. June 30, 1908, the sound of thunder, the fire in the sky.

  “My god, my god what has happened?” he breathed. “Mironov…You came up the back stairs just now?”

  “I saw you go that way, and yes, I followed you to see what I could find out about you. It seems I have learned too much, eh? But that is no reason to arrest me again. A man has the right to see to his own safety, particularly after what just happened out there.” He turned and pointed, suddenly noticing the darkness, the silence, the quiet night outside the window lit by a silvery gibbous moon. Now it was Mironov’s turn to stare dumfounded at the window.

  “What’s happening here? Where’s the day gone?”

  “What is your full name, Mironov, your given name?”

  The young man turned back to Fedorov, folding his arms on his barrel chest, defiant. “Sergie Mironov. You know only too well who I am if you are Okhrana. What of it? What trumped up charge are you going to fabricate this time? Are you going to say you found a printing press? I had nothing to do with that, nothing whatsoever.” His indignation was apparent.