The Moscow Affair (From The Files Of Lady Dru Drummond Book 1)

by CW Hawes

  This morning dawned brighter. The sun was shining and there was warmth on the air. Klara brought me breakfast.

  “Is there a place near here to buy clothing?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know, my lady. I can find out.”

  “Would you, please?”

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll see what I can find out now.”

  Klara left and I pondered. Plain clothes. Nothing fancy. A much faster car this time. Perhaps, with Nestor’s help… . No. Once again, I had to do this on my own. An electric torch, as well, if I could get one. Klara and I would leave at night. A little after midnight, which would give us many hours of darkness on the road. And this time, I think I’ll go south. To the Ukraine, and cross the border into Romania and from there, Prague or Berlin.

  Probably be wise to take food and water. And extra petrol. A map. I’ll need a map. That will be a tougher find than an electric torch. But Klara and I will need a map. I just hoped they had one of the Ukraine and our present area. But if not, I’ll leave anyway. With Klara along things will be easier.

  “All set, then, Dru,” I told myself and lit an after breakfast cigarette.

  I spent the rest of the day getting a picture of how the compound was laid out, where the guards were located, as well as the mine fields, and where the road went. Klara found the location of a clothing store and, escorted by a guard, bought each of us two simple and plain dresses, and a selection of scarves.

  She showed me what she’d purchased and I tried my dresses on. They fit well enough. Soviet workmanship leaves one feeling quite glad the Party doesn’t rule the world.

  Klara looked me in the eyes after I had the second dress off and said, “We’re leaving, aren’t we?”

  I nodded. “Yes. You and I. Soon.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “I think you and I have had quite enough of this place.”

  She nodded and I told her she could go. I looked around the room that was now my cell. I’d miss Dunyasha very much. And Mikhail? Yes, I would miss him also. But he is not Karl and I realized I missed Karl very, very much.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mosquitoes

  I am exhausted. Emotionally. Very early this morning, sometime between two and three, I killed a man. I’ve never been in a position where I had to choose to kill or die. Instinctively, I chose life and in doing so chose to end someone else’s. Sitting here, some twenty hours later, the shock is still with me. I’ve been shot at, experienced artillery shells and bombs exploding. I’ve even had my photographer’s brains splatter me, but never had I killed anyone. And now I have. It sounds so mundane to say, but it’s an experience which I care not to repeat.

  The past four days, ever since Klara’s shopping, I’ve had the feeling I was being watched. Just a feeling, nothing I could pinpoint. An observation I was never truly alone, except in my rooms. Then the thought came to me perhaps my rooms were bugged. I searched and found a microphone hidden underneath a table. The wire, very carefully concealed. I unhooked the listening device, lay it on the floor, and smashed it with a log. At the very least, they were listening to what was being said in my rooms.

  Yesterday, when the Count told me I was going with his raiding party in order to write a first hand account, I said “no.”

  “Ah, this again,” he said.

  “You are spying on me.”

  The thin smile appeared. “Lady Hurley-Drummond, you are here because of your interest in Captain Turbanev and his interest in you. Mostly due to his interest in you. His interest is two-fold: personal and as a contribution to the Revolution. In the latter, he received my support and encouragement. Early on, I supported having you work for us. However, when I saw you were clearly not with us, not one of us, I urged the Captain to send you away. He refused. Now he is not here and I am in charge.”

  “And you don’t know what to do with me. You don’t want me around and can’t send me away.”

  “I do know what to do with you. Put you to work. The reason you are here. If you don’t work for us…” He shrugged. “Let us just say, the world is a dangerous place. Accidents happen, you understand.”

  I simply glared at him.

  “You will come with us and report.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “Just remember, the world can be a very cruel place. Did you eat lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then realize, my dear Lady Hurley-Drummond, that meal may have been your last. I hope you enjoyed it.” He smiled. A genuine smile. Then very quietly, almost as if to himself, he said, “Yes. Very dangerous. To very good people, very bad things often happen.” He turned and walked away.

  I was left standing in the room which served as my office looking at the door by which he exited.

  “He’s sick.” I muttered to myself and got out a cigarette. I lit it and stretched out on the sofa.

  There was a knock on the door and I called out, “Enter.”

  Dunyasha came in and sat in a chair. “Relaxing are we?”

  “No. Fuming.”

  “Ah. Then you must have had a visit from Neratoff.”

  “I did, indeed.” And related to her the conversation.

  “That’s a bald-face threat if I ever heard one.”

  “It is.”

  “I sure wish Mikhail was back.”

  “I, as well, Dunyasha.”

  “We leave at eleven,” she said.

  “You, as well?”

  “My job is to watch you. Neratoff thinks you will behave better if I’m your watchdog.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “So I am being watched.”

  “More or less.”

  “Why?”

  “Neratoff fears a repeat performance. He senses you are getting antsy.”

  “Then I’d best un-antsy myself.”

  “I guess so. Tonight should be easy. Just blowing up a fuel depot and dynamiting railroad track.”

  “Why do I have to be there?”

  “So you can write and to make sure you don’t go anywhere.”

  “I hate this place, Dunyasha. I regret meeting Mikhail.”

  “I’m going to be a selfish bitch. I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, I’d not have gotten to know you.” She got out of her chair and sat on the floor next to the sofa. She took my hand and kissed the palm. “I love you, Dru.”

  “I’m…, Dunyasha, I…”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it. We’re friends and I’m happy.” Although I thought I detected a trace of disappointment in her voice.

  I nodded and touched her hair. How strange this life is, how very strange. We held hands, I on the couch and she sitting on the floor, and said nothing for a long time.

  We drove a hundred kilometers south and dynamited a kilometer of railroad track at fifty meter intervals. The process was simple: every fifty meters one stick of dynamite was placed on each rail, they were wired together, and then detonated. The blast was thunderous and I suppose no one who lived nearby and heard it had any doubt what the blast meant.

  The two dozen partisans, Neratoff, Dunyasha, and myself moved on to the fuel depot, which was seventy-five kilometers to the northeast of where we blew the track.

  The depot was simply ten storage tanks: five for gasoline and five for diesel fuel, a pump for each, an electric generator, and a small building to house the half dozen guards. The installation was surrounded by a ten-foot chain link fence, with another foot and a half of barbed wire, and was located a kilometer outside of a village. The village was small: an abandoned church, a dozen huts, and a small building. What purpose the building served was not immediately apparent.

  The terrain was relatively flat and the illuminated installation was clearly visible from the village. We drove through the hamlet and fifty meters outside of the place stopped. On a trailer behind one of the trucks, was a small cannon. I learned it’s a German 75mm recoilless gun, one of three newly acquired weapons. Three men got out of the truck, took the weapon off the trailer, and set it up. Wit
h a range of almost seven thousand meters, they were firing at almost point blank range.

  The Whites dispersed to form a picket line around the recoilless gun. Then the gunners opened fire, I watched through binoculars. The first three shells didn’t hit anything apparent. The fourth hit a fuel storage tank which exploded in a great ball of flame. Then in rapid succession fuel tank after fuel tank went up in flames.

  With the depot a raging inferno. Neratoff gave the order to return to base. Suddenly a flare illuminated the night sky and three Soviet fighters came swooping in, machine guns blazing. After the planes passed, the Count ordered us to fall back to the hamlet.

  Several men attempted to stop us and were shot down.

  “The church, Dru,” Dunyasha said.

  She and I ran for the church, while another flare illuminated us for the planes’ second strafing run. We took cover up against the wall of a house and when the planes had passed continued our run to the church. The door wasn’t locked. We entered and seven guerilla fighters followed us in.

  The fighter planes made two more strafing runs and then flew off. They were replaced with four autogyros with search lights making slow circles over the hamlet.

  “They’re keeping us pinned down for a reason,” Dunyasha said.

  “Troops are on their way,” I filled in.

  “Right.”

  “This could be it, then. We might die right here.”

  “Yes, we might, Dru. Probably better than being captured. You’re not armed.”

  I pulled out my revolver and my pistol.

  Dunyasha laughed. “That’s why I love you. It’s like loving myself.”

  I laughed with her, hugged her, and said, “I always thought you were a bit narcissistic.”

  “Why Dru Drummond, what a horrible thing to say to your friend when we might die, even if it is true.”

  There was an explosion.

  “Oh my God, they’re shelling the village,” she said.

  Another explosion. She said something in Russian and then there was a third explosion.

  “Sounds like mortar,” she said.

  She spoke more Russian, pointed to four guerillas, said a few additional words, and the four left the church.

  “Come, Dru, let’s see if this place has a back door.”

  On either side of the iconostasis were plain doors. We tried one and found it opened to a room behind the sanctuary. The room smelled musty from disuse, like the rest of the building. There was a trap door in the floor. We opened it and more musty dampness met our noses. Dunyasha turned on her electric torch. There was a ladder and we took it into a large basement under the church. The place seemed to be used for storage and to my eyes of mostly junk.

  We climbed back out. The room behind the sanctuary appeared to be used for a combination office, sleeping area, and kitchen. There was a door which led to the outside. We opened the door and looked out. All we could see was the night. Another explosion. We ducked back inside.

  “I think we need to barricade the main door and we’ll leave this one to make our escape,” Dunyasha said. “Here.” She gave me her machine pistol. Watch the door.” She then went to the front of the church.

  Another explosion. I counted up to ten and a second explosion. They were giving us a good pounding. If they kept the bombardment up, there might be nothing left for the soldiers to find. I walked out the door and to the corner of the building. A mortar shell exploded in front of the church. Another shell came in and the house next to the church exploded. I returned to the church, closed and bolted the door. Dunyasha and the three partisans entered the back room.

  Dunyasha spoke Russian then English. “The front door is barricaded. If we need to, we’ll retreat to the cellar. Otherwise we will use this door to make our escape.”

  A mortar round hit the church. The building shook with the impact of the blast. A partisan left and returned to say the shell had ripped a hole in the roof over the nave. We sat together in the room behind the sanctuary. Two of the three partisans were women. All three were on the older end of middle age. One of the women said something and Dunyasha translated for me.

  “Sonya says things are too quiet.”

  I said, “Yes, the mortar has stopped firing.”

  “Which means the army is probably moving in,” Dunyasha said. The pop, pop, pop, of rifle fire seemed to confirm her statement.

  A blast rocked the building again and several gunshots splintered the back door. It opened and several soldiers went down in a hail of gunfire from our assault rifles. Dunyasha peeked out one of the doors into the nave and opened fire with her submachine gun.

  “The cellar!” she yelled.

  I pulled open the door in the floor.

  Dunyasha shouted commands in Russian. To me she said, “Down the rabbit hole.”

  “No. I’m not leaving you.”

  “Dru!”

  “No. We’re friends. I’m not leaving you.”

  More gun fire from the partisans holding the back door. They pushed the door closed and piled the bed, table, and chairs against it.

  Dunyasha fired a burst and ran for the trap door. We piled down the ladder and closed it. Ivan volunteered to hold the Army off while we found cover. Dunyasha directed us to form a semi-circle around the ladder. Hiding in all the junk, I stayed close to my friend, my pistol drawn.

  A beam of light shining down the ladder. They’d open the trap door. Ivan opened fire. A Soviet fell through the opening and another must’ve fallen across because the light dimmed. Ivan backed away from the ladder.

  Underarm sweat ran in great big beads down my arms. I was going to die in a junk pile in a basement. Probably never be found. Karl. God, oh God, Karl. He’ll never know. I’ll be dead and he’ll be searching for me, unaware I was killed in this god forsaken place. How could I do this to him? My soulmate? I’m despicable. That’s all there is to it. If I get out of this alive, I need to quit this nonsense. I love Karl and he loves me. I truly don’t want to be with anyone else. Mikhail is a wonderful man and I could love him. But Karl is my soulmate and I do love him. I'll love him forever.

  The light brightened coming from the trap door, which meant they must’ve pulled the body away, and something dropped down. Ivan yelled and I didn’t need a translator. I flattened on the floor. The explosion was deafening in that confined space and I must’ve blacked out momentarily. My ears were ringing and my head hurt. Dunyasha was groggy. I peeked out and saw what was left of Ivan several feet from the ladder. He’d fallen on the grenade to save us.

  Then down the ladder came a soldier, then a second, a third, and a fourth. The first inspected Ivan’s body. The other three played their electric torches over the array of junk. Suddenly a deafening roar of automatic gunfire caught the Soviets by surprise. Sonya and her partner had opened fire with their assault rifles and Dunyasha joined the fray, emptying the magazine of her machine pistol.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air along with that distinctive coppery odor of blood, mixed with the smell of urine. All was quiet. We slowly emerged from our hiding places. Dunyasha and the partisans went to Ivan. I slowly climbed the ladder and poked my head out to see what there was to see. A dead soldier and one very much alive standing by the wall, his rifle aimed at me. He was young. Eighteen was my guess. When he saw me, he lowered the weapon and looked at me. We studied each other’s faces for a succession of eternities. At some point I must’ve smiled for I saw him smile. But the smile went away. I suppose he remembered his duty to Mother Russia as taught to him by the Communist State. He raised the rifle and I fired, in quick succession, three rounds from the Sauer.

  Surprise registered on his face. He slumped back against the wall, the rifle no longer aimed at anything, and slowly slid to the floor. I climbed out of the opening in the floor. The kid suddenly gained a surge of determination and raised his rifle. I emptied the magazine into him. The rifle dropped and he fell over sideways onto the floor.

  Dunyasha scrambled out of
the basement and came to my side. That’s when I realized what I’d just done. I looked at her, tears rolling down my cheeks, and I buried my face in her shoulder.

  The trip back to the compound was somber. We had eight dead and eleven wounded. When the Soviets pulled back, they left thirty-five dead. The fourteen wounded they left behind, Neratoff personally shot; which brought the total to forty-nine soldiers killed in action. Our saving grace was these were not frontline troops. Young and inexperienced, led by officers promoted to fill the vacancies created when the experienced commanders were purged, they broke when facing determined resistance.

  Dunyasha summed it up well, “If they’d been seasoned combat veterans, we’d have died back there.” She paused and lit a cigarette.

  “The luck won’t last forever,” I said.

  “It never does,” she replied. “That’s why I think you are right to leave this. Besides, it isn’t your fight.”

  “It’s not yours either, Dunyasha. This was settled long ago when the Reds beat the Whites. I hate to say it, but I think this, what we’re doing, is too little too late.”

  “Da.” She exhaled smoke. “The mosquito pestering the elephant.”

  I thought about that comment. Both Neratoff and Dunyasha had used the phrase. After today, I think Dunyasha has it right.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sod’s Law Redivivus

  At two-thirty this morning, Wednesday, the twenty-ninth of April, Klara and I left the house and made our way to the garage. We didn’t leave by the front or back doors because I learned Neratoff has alarms connected to all the doors and windows on the ground floor. We went out a window from my bedroom. Klara had asked one of the partisans if they had a rope ladder she could have, citing my supposed paranoia of being trapped in my room if there was a fire. The fellow came up with one yesterday for Klara.

  On the ground, we made our way to the two out buildings which serve as garages for the cars and trucks. One building has five trucks garaged in it. The other has the cars. There’s a small office in the garage for the motorcars where Nestor keeps the logbooks and maintenance records. It’s also where the board with all the keys is located.