by Colin Gee
The reservoir in the heater would normally hold about a third of a gallon, but Brown decided not to stint on the accelerant, so poured the entire amount around the heater, through the kitchen, and to the bottom of the stairs.
The fumes were overpowering and he felt light-headed almost immediately.
Quickly moving to the back door. Brown took a few deep breaths of good cold air before moving back into the kitchen and igniting the candle on the kitchen table.
He pushed the metal holder off and moved away as fast as he could, the satisfying whoof of an instant fire speeding him into fresh air.
Brown did not dally, and was cycling away long before the flames gained the first floor.
“I’m cumming, babe!”
The two lovers moaned through their orgasms, she with her arms wrapped around the driver’s seat in front, he with his arms wrapped around her.
As her senses recovered, quicker than her still moaning man, the woman became aware of something out of the ordinary.
“What’s that?”
He, suddenly alert, for fear of discovery, listened intently, whereas his lover was sniffing the air.
“There’s summat on fire somewhere. I can smell it.”
He could too.
Both rearranged their clothes to mask their recent activity, and he drove the car out of the wood.
The source of the smell was immediately apparent.
“Fucking hell! It’s the farmhouse!”
Thompson’s Farm was a sea of yellow and orange, and all the firemen in the world could not have saved the building.
As the couple drove back down the track to the main road, it was consumed before their eyes.
By the time the Fire Brigade arrived, the roof had already collapsed into the first floor.
A cyclist came up, dismounted, and stood with the couple. The three shared cigarettes as they watched firemen extinguish the blaze and take out what could only be bodies, the two covered shapes dealt with in a manner of respect by the crews.
The Essex Constabulary were also there, so before they could take start taking statements from anyone who might have seen the fire, the three decided, each for their own reasons, to make themselves scarce.
Leonard Brown slipped off his cycle clips and fluffed his trouser bottoms back into shape.
Abandoning the bike in an alley next to Shenfield Railway station, he slipped behind the wheel of his Hillman Minx saloon and set out to leave a chalk mark on an entranceway to Southwark Cathedral, which would signal success to his controller.
In turn, the controller would report back to his NKVD master, confirming that the kill order had been obeyed.
The message would then end up in front of Marshal Beria, part-author of the kill order, who would, when circumstances permitted, confirm to the other part-author that his instructions had been carried out to the letter.
Stalin, when told, grunted in satisfaction that the risk of blackmail against the GRU General Tatiana Nazarbayeva had been removed.
He spared no further thought for her son, Captain-Lieutenant Ilya Yurievich Nazarbayev, murdered on his order.
The NKVD boss, wallowing in his continuing revenge upon Nazarbayeva, did not communicate to her the news of the death of her child, understanding that to do so would undoubtedly reveal his part in the young man’s death.
Instead, he said nothing, and no-one else was privy.
A silence that was to cost the Red Navy dearly in the weeks to come.
It was a simple matter of codes, and of Glenlara.
In the London headquarters of OSS, the news from Essex was badly received, despite the first reports suggesting that it was nothing more than a horrible accident.
The Achilles/Thetis file was as dead as the man it detailed, and it was set aside, pending the report on the fire and any other final inclusions.
1602 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, Temporary Headquarters, Camerone Division, Schleiden, Germany.
De Walle had personally handed Knocke the unpalatable report from Gehlen’s intelligence service the previous evening.
Orders were issued, bringing one of the five men to the divisional headquarters for 1600 hrs on the 25th.
Ulrich Weiss had been known to them, and had been closely watched from the time he had been detected.
Weiss came to attention in front of Knocke’s desk and saluted.
“Standartenfuhrer, reporting as ordered.”
Knocke looked up from his position and his eyes burned straight through the Soviet agent. Weiss immediately knew that he was lost.
“Personally, you disgust me, Weiss. If it were down to me I’d have you shot immediately. But... others seem to think that you can be of use to us, rather than being placed in front of a firing squad.”
For a second, the desperate man thought about the pistol at his side, for either assassinating Knocke, or shooting his way out of the building, or both.
The realist in him understood he would no more than twitch before he would be dead, shot down by one of the officers behind him.
He was not mistaken.
His arrest was swift and silent, and he was taken away to see if he could contribute positively to the Allied war effort before paying his dues to both comrades and country.
Wilhelm Baumer, a sergent-chef in Camerone’s supply unit, was caught trying to leave his post, some sixth sense telling him that his time was up.
Otto Hirsch, a new arrival from Sassy assigned to the Stug Kompagnie, resisted arrest and was shot down without compunction.
In the Legion hospital, Capitan Dr Gottfried Pfeffer protested his innocence, but was taken away all the same.
De Walle, ill at ease at the last of Gehlen’s discoveries, personally arrested Commandant Guy Parras at the headquarters of Camerone’s artillery regiment, removing the highest placed of Gehlen’s detections, and a man who De Walle felt was a personal embarrassment and a stain on the honour of the Legion.
Parras’ discovery had, by Gehlen’s own admission, been a very lucky break; a Frenchman netted in a sweep of German personnel.
Elsewhere in the Legion Corps, others, whose dubious behaviour and associations had brought them to the attention of Gehlen’s service, were closely monitored.
1722 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, GRU Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.
‘Pantomime 26?’
Lieutenant Pinkerova read the low-level report from a member of the Peruvian Consulate regarding a recent communication made by one of the senior staff. Using his access to the diplomatic bag, the agent had examined the letter and recorded its contents.
The report had been clerked into the GRU headquarters the previous evening, so was already twenty hours old.
Taking the report, she made the short journey to Poboshkin’s office, via the filing desk where she asked for and received the file on ‘Pantomime’. On arrival, she placed both in front of Lieutenant Colonel Poboshkin.
After a short explanation, Poboshkin opened the file and started to sift through its contents.
Previously, GRU and NKVD had discovered the scent of something called Pantomime, but the specific operation was unknown to them; despite the considerable amount of paperwork the file contained, there were no facts and precious little but whispers and innuendo to go on. It was a very unsatisfactory file in so many respects, except for three entries which, in the light of recent events, caught Poboshkin’s eye immediately.
Poboshkin started, the jerky movement pronounced enough to make Pinkerova recoil automatically.
He screwed his eyes up and re-read the different sheets, laying each out side by side.
“What do you see, Comrade Leytenant?”
Pinkerova was considered bright by those who worked with her, and Poboshkin was just using her brain to confirm his own thinking.
Her eyes flitted back and forth, taking in the minutiae, discarding some things, filing others, until she had her moment of realisation.
“Poland.”
&nbs
p; “Yes... obviously,” he said with some humour.
“This one is from a naval source, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“The dates... these reports all come from the last two weeks... significant I think, Comrade PodPolkovnik.”
“I agree.”
She frowned.
“It’s not that simple, is it? The 26th... Poland?”
The knock on the door broke their concentration.
A young clerk nervously entered, bearing a message sheet.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik, I wanted to file this new message, but I’m told you’re holding the Pantomime file? Perhaps you wish to see it now?”
“Thank you, Comrade Serzhant. From what source?”
The girl explained that the report originated from one of the members of the GRU openly placed within the 1st Polish Army.
The man, a sergeant in the Army motor pool, had overheard a conversation between two unknown Polish senior officers.
Hidden beneath the car he was working on, the two had been oblivious to his presence, speaking in soft whispers that had barely carried to him.
The Sergeant was careful to say what he heard and what he might have heard, but he was certain about the words that stood out in his report.
He felt the hair on his neck stand on end.
Leytenant Pinkerova, sharing the document, experienced the same sensation.
There is was, in black and white, the same phrase.
‘Pantomime 26.’
“That’s it then. They’re coming tomorrow! Thank you Comrade Serzhant. Leytenant, find Comrade General Nazarbayeva and brief her. Tell her I’m informing Army command and I’ll bring the file as soon as possible. Quickly now, there’s not a moment to lose.”
The office emptied rapidly, leaving Poboshkin holding the phone.
“Get me Marshal Konev immediately.”
1735 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, GRU Commander’s office, Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.
“That’s precisely what my aide passed on to Marshal Konev, Comrade Marshal.”
Nazarbayeva listened as Zhukov shouted at his staff, the sudden burst of sound causing her to recoil from the handset.
As she waited for the flow of orders to halt, she beckoned Poboshkin closer.
“Get this copied immediately and get yourself on a plane to Moscow. I’ll sort that immediately. I want the GKO to see the raw data... Yes, Comrade Marshal, I’m still here.”
She listened for a few moments and replaced the receiver, Zhukov ending the conversation without the normal pleasantries.
A very tired Repin stood waiting for instructions and quickly received some, as Nazarbayeva had been simultaneously composing a written order.
“Tell our mutual friend, then get a team over to this address and get the Peruvian shaken down quickly. Wring him for everything he knows… and get it done quickly. We’ve no time to lose.”
Repin took the order and left as Nazarbayeva turned her attention back to her Aide.
“As quick as you can, Andrey. The Army is alerted but I think that STAVKA will need more persuasion. Good luck, Comrade.”
She pressed the phone to her ear once more and hit the exchange button.
“Commander, Nordhausen Airfield please.”
1802 hrs, Monday 25th March 1946, office of the Chairman of the NKVD, Moscow, USSR.
Beria was spitting as his excitement and anger powered the rate of words as well as the volume.
“Where’s the main document? Has it arrived yet?”
Danilov, Beria’s personal secretary, shrugged his shoulders.
“According to that document,” he pointed at Philby’s covering report on Spectrum, “The item was dispatched on the normal BOAC Stockholm run. It should be here, but it isn’t, Comrade Marshal.”
Philby had been thorough and copied out the main points of the document and describing the deceptions therein, sending all in a sealed file, complete with film of every page, on the normal communications route.
Beria had taken delivery of Philby’s warning that morning but, apart from alerting Senior NKVD commanders in the whole Baltic arena, not just Poland, had done nothing but seek out the main file details that had been sent by the BOAC route.
Whilst he suspected enemy maskirovka at work and, naturally wished to avoid any more embarrassment to his agency, warning his own forces was prudent, as well as deniable if the information was some sort of enemy ruse.
“Find that fucking document, now!”
Danilov departed at high speed, determined to find the missing information.
The phone rang behind him.
“Beria.”
The NKVD Marshal’s angry voice immediately took on a softer tone.
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”
No-one was there to witness the foul look that covered his features.
“Has she now?”
He looked at Philby’s preliminary report, almost taunting him, now that corroborative evidence seemed to have surfaced.
He took the plunge.
“Indeed, Comrade General Secretary. I’d just finished confirming that exact same piece of information. I’ve already placed NKVD units integrated with the Polish army on high alert and was about to call you and…”
Beria glanced at the large Tsarist mirror and sneered at his own reflection.
“I will be there, Comrade General Secretary, and I will bring my file on the matte…”
After Stalin’s final words, Beria was left staring at a silent handset.
“A GRU briefing… a fucking GRU briefing is it?...”
He threw the receiver at the mirror, which flew away, dragging the master unit behind it.
Both clattered to the floor.
He shouted at the top of his voice.
“Danilov! Get me that fucking file!”
The file in question was presently on its way back to England on a BOAC Mosquito courier aircraft, where it would be picked up, at Per Tørget’s insistence, by Sam Rossiter himself.
It would not take long for Tørget’s reasons to become abundantly clear.
Nazarbayeva’s phonecall from GRU West Headquarters sent a GRU team to the door of Flat 1, 2 Franciskánska, Torun, where men with little time for niceties had a deep and meaningful discussion with the male occupant.
Eleven minutes after their arrival, the Peruvian diplomat, dripping blood from a swift beating, started to write out remembered details from messages that he had been involved with passing. He had, after the blow that broke two ribs, surrendered his contact, which resulted in a swift telephone call to the GRU office requesting reinforcements.
1833 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, Flat 3, 2 Franciskánska, Torun, Poland.
She lifted the needle off the record, and the sounds of the Viennese waltz died away as the urgent knocking was repeated.
The door knocks of policemen are the same the world over, and Renata Luistikaite recognised the imperative sound for what it was.
The Walther in her purse was too far away, for she knew that impatient men would kick down the door in seconds.
Smiling, she tried to click open the largest charm on her bracelet, but the hollow piece of silver containing her ‘pill’ refused to budge and her smile changed to a look of near panic.
As the door gave way, she made a desperate lunge for the window.
GRU Senior Lieutenant Vestulin kicked the scantily clad body in frustration.
“You fucking bitch!”
The rest of the team were already turning over the flat, searching for something incriminating, although they all knew that with the simple act of trying to kill herself, Renata Luistikaite had shown herself for what she was. The problem was that she was no use dead.
He kicked her again, so hard that she rolled onto her back.
She moaned unexpectedly, the blood spilling from her neck where Vestulin’s bullet had caught her in mid-run.
“Mudaks! Fyodor! She’s ali… Blyad!
Come and look at this bitch!”
His friend and colleague, a Junior Lieutenant, took one look at the revealed features and spoke the words that had formed in Vestulin’s mind.
“Greim’s… she’s the sexy bitch from Greim’s.”
“Interrogation might be fun… if she makes it. Now, get an ambulance before she bleeds out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the world was a different place for Vestulin.
His friend and two of his men were lying dead on the floor of Greims, whilst he tried to prioritise his wounds, choosing to stem the bleeding from his shattered forearm, rather than attempt to do anything with the knee that had been ravaged by the last bullet the woman had fired.
All four were victims to Karen Greim’s skill with a handgun. The 9mm Viz35 lay next to the wounded woman, her blonde hair soaked with crimson blood where one of his bullets had clipped her scalp.
Her blouse had been ripped open by one of the GRU NCO’s who was trying to stop the bleeding from her ruined shoulder and upper chest, exposing her soft flesh.
Despite the pain, Vestulin found himself admiring the form of the badly wounded spy.
Still conscious, Greim looked first at the man trying to save her life, and then at Vestulin.
He did not anticipate her laughter.
The sound died away, leaving only the smile and blood running slowly from the side of the mouth, a mouth that twisted into a sneer of hatred.
“Too late, you Russian bastard. You’re too fucking late.”
‘So, you confirm it… it is today.’
Vestulin stared into the defiant eyes.
“Get me to a phone, now!”
2004 hrs, Sunday, 24rd March 1946, Rail bridgehead at Torgelow, Germany.
