Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  Things could not have gone better and as the commotion ensued Seb made his approach. He singled out three or four stragglers towards the back of the unit and decided that would be enough for what he had in mind.

  To cut a long story short, he needed four able bodies to provide covering fire, or at the very least a distraction. There was also the small issue of munitions shortages

  in this part of the world, so two men often resulted in one rifle.

  The uniform had surprised Seb. It fitted far better than he could have imagined. He had spent the best part of the previous week trying to track down a suitable candidate before he struck and stole the outfit.

  Being the man that he was, Seb would never dream of killing his unfortunate donor. There were two reasons behind his logic. First, he did not wish to harm anyone and second it would make a terrible mess of the tunic, thus ruining the disguise.

  One thing about war that grated on Seb was the inability to do everyday things if and when you liked. An example of this would be the fact that he was in desperate need of a shave. He would, however have to pay a king’s ransom to lay his hands on a razor.

  Once or twice he had studied his survival knife, but pushed the thought aside as fanciful and frankly quite dangerous. One benefit of a beard was the inability to distinguish his true identity.

  Seb was not debonair nor had he fallen from the ugly tree as a child. Over the past few years he had become something of an international man of mystery and this was when being an average looking man in his twenties played right into his hands.

  In little more than a whisper Seb aimed to catch the attention of the comrade closest to him.

  ‘I know a better way.’ He paused both for dramatic effect and to gauge the response of his target. He was clearly interested, if all be it puzzled by the new arrival.

  ‘Is that so,’ the man replied in a low, rumbling voice comparable to that of the distant thunder.

  ‘Yes.’ He said and glanced toward the general. Next he scanned the extremities of the waifs and strays, clearly reluctant to greet the Germans. ‘I need four men.’ He looked the stranger dead in the eye and winked. ‘Four men and we can take this post, but we need to move fast and be discreet.’ Silence.

  Finally another of the stragglers broke the tension.

  'What is the plan my friend?' he eagerly enquired whilst taking a cursory glance towards the commanding officer.

  Seb could feel the fish biting; all he had to do now was snare the catch and reel it in.

  'Simple, really. We flank the guns instead of charging straight into the line of fire.’

  The two men eyed their new acquaintance, unsure what move to make. The more Seb thought about it, the more his metaphor swung to that of fly-fishing. Other types of fishing were ok, but the way his audience toyed with the idea, reminded him of how the colourful fly bobbed gently on the surface until finally the river fish made a move.

  'Say we are interested, how do we get away from the group?'

  As he thought of how to articulate his response, Seb noticed how much the man’s crooked eyebrow amused him.

  'Well, we wait for the distraction,' he chirped with both a glint in his eye and a stroke of the chin.

  The larger, gruff soldier looked puzzled, but it appeared the smaller one had caught on.

  'Who are you, comrade?' He mused, 'Your Russian is very good, but…'

  Seb had to think fast; he could not risk being detected by the general standing no more than twenty yards away.

  'You are right, my friend. I am no Russian. I am a lone star, very much like the one on your flag. I have no real mission to talk of, I just help where I can.’

  Seb thought that by offering some information he would show willing, but remain anonymous at the same time. For all intents and purposes the taller man appeared appeased. The smaller however, remained cautious.

  'If you want our help, you must tell me more than that.’ At this point the soldier looked through Seb rather than at him. Aware of the shortage of time Seb elected to throw the dice.

  'My name is Seb and I am searching for someone who double crossed me. I have no rank and I answer to no one. Would you like a greater chance of survival or not?'

  The two men appeared to be considering the terms of the agreement when Seb elected to throw in one last sweetener. 'If my plan works, you will of course take the credit.’

  No more than a minute later Seb had the full and undivided attention of four Red Army soldiers. Two of them he had had the pleasure of conversing with prior to their manoeuvre, the other pair he had not.

  It made no odds -- the game was on.

  Seb checked his watch. It was time for the distraction.

  As if by magic a barrage of shells fell somewhere to the left of their current location. The raid wasn’t close as such, but close enough for the now diminished group of men at their side to look briefly in the required direction.

  Covered by the sound of the distant strike, Seb and his new recruits disappeared round the corner of a battered building and remained out of the General’s sight until the mud stopped flying.

  As they traversed their way down a narrow alley one of the soldiers spoke out. The sound was not loud, but Seb frowned upon the carelessness of the question.

  'How did you do that?' he asked in nothing more than a mumble.

  It was the smaller man again.

  'I radioed your headquarters yesterday and gave them the coordinates of a target. Now please, no more talking.’

  Thankfully the man – as puzzled as he was – complied with Seb’s request for quiet and the collective moved forward.

  Seb knew that the whistle signalling the start of the Allied assault was imminent, but thankfully they had made good ground. Their luck also carried when considering the entrance to the factory Seb had spied a few days earlier. Both the building and the small opening in the wall were still in place.

  'Quickly,' he began, 'Through the hole.’

  The order was growled more than anything, as he ushered the men inside. 'Keep very quiet. We are close to the enemy line', he continued in no more than a whisper.

  'What now?' the larger man enquired. Seb knew exactly what was needed.

  'We wait until the signal is given to attack and the attention of the Axis forces is focussed on the advancing men. That is when we strike.’

  Seb could see this suggestion was favourable, as smiles played upon the faces within the huddle. Turning to move forwards and towards the grimy windows, Seb noticed something. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted some old tins and bottles.

  So that’s what this place was… Handy.

  Quickly and to the surprise of his new comrades, Seb scuttled across the factory floor and began to examine the vessels.

  'What are you doing?'

  The smaller man was starting to grate on him now, but even Seb had to admit that his inquisitive mind would lead him either to glory or certain death eventually.

  'I’m checking for anything we can use. This was a paint factory after all.’ There it was, tucked away at the back of the discarded bottles and tins. Thinners. 'Stuff an old rag in here and we’ve got our very own Molotov.’

  He winked at the smaller man.

  'Very resourceful,' he replied through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly the shrill tone of a whistle pierced the otherwise silent dusk air.

  'Ok, here we go. Form up at the windows and give me some covering fire when I give the word.’

  The group simply nodded as Seb disappeared into the doorway.

  From his new position he could make out the green mass moving towards the distant barbed wire. On any other day he knew they would be lucky to make it even half way.

  Today would be different.

  The machine gun nest was fairly understaffed and Seb spied an easy conversion: four Germans and an MG42. Amazing to think that, given the right situation four men could wipe out fifty in the blink of an eye.

  Modern warfare is certainly a
scary thing.

  There it was, the buzzsaw in its preliminary cycle. A relentless whirring, closely followed by the unforgettable firepower.

  Seb gave the order and to his surprise, his new recruits were a decent shot with a rifle.

  In an instant he saw the two Germans in charge of the ammunition fall into the mud.

  His turn. As quick as physically possible, Seb lit the rag he had placed inside the neck of the bottle and steadied himself for the throw.

  Now Seb had made some throws in the past, but this one would surely be the greatest amongst them. There’s little competition between a shy at the stumps in a village cricket match and taking out a gun emplacement.

  Leaning around the corner of the wall Seb hurled the flaming bottle in the general direction of the MG42. His theory was simple: hit the firing gun and flames would rain down on the surrounding area.

  Much like his performance with the bat, his strike rate on this occasion was only fifty percent. The Nazi operating the mounted gun – with a somewhat disturbing glee – had copped it full on.

  Seb had no sympathy for this pathetic excuse of a man and would have gladly watched him burn. The problem lay with the second soldier.

  Somehow he had evaded the fireball and was somewhat agitated by the attempt on his life. He was reaching for his MP40 and Seb had little to retaliate with.

  In what was an ironic twist of fate, he had brought a knife to a gunfight.

  All Seb could do was dive for cover and hope for the best. The best being that one of his new friends would see the danger and put a round in the assailant.

  It was hard for the untrained ear to distinguish amidst the firecracker-type pops emitting from the machine gun nest, but Seb picked it out. For one, he was still alive. For another he hadn’t even been hit. This was something for which he had braced himself.

  Had one of the Russians shot the German? Couldn’t be. He had already established that the noise was not that of the standard issue Russian rifle. It was increasingly high-calibre and long range.

  There was no time for guesses; Seb knew all-too—well the importance of sneaking away unnoticed. Slowly he rose to a crouching position and checked himself for damage.

  Cautiously he peered over the top of a long-since operated machine in an attempt to check the coast. He decided there was nothing on the horizon and made for the back of the factory and an exit he had observed on his previous reconnaissance mission.

  That was until he was halted in his tracks by a familiar noise.

  'Where are you going, comrade?' It was the smaller Russian.

  Slowly Seb turned around to face his Comrades and saw an outstretched hand.

  'You have saved the lives of many men today my friend. We would like to thank you.’

  Seb was never one for accolades or expressions of gratitude, but in order to keep the peace he shook the hand in front of him. This was followed by an alarmingly hefty pat on the back from the bigger man, while his other helpers simply nodded in appreciation.

  'There is no need to thank me. I've done this kind of thing before… but really I must go.’

  The urgency was clear in Seb’s voice and the men could see this.

  'Very well, but if you ever need our help do not hesitate to seek us out.’

  Slowly the smaller man pointed to his friend. 'This is Viktor Kuznetsov and I am Dimitri Sokolov.’

  Seb thanked the pair for their kind offer and gestured his goodbyes to the other two soldiers.

  'Remember Dimitri, this move was your idea.’

  His words echoed around the grey factory walls as Seb made his way towards the tradesman’s entrance.

  The plan had been to disappear into the network of sewers situated underneath the city of Leningrad.

  That was the plan, but as Seb was unfortunately aware things seldom turn out the way you envisage them.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  An Invitation ~ Autumn, 1939

  If he’d heard it once he’d heard it a thousand times, yet people continued to give him a hard time about his decision. The accusations had been raining down on him thick and fast the past few weeks and the blows were pricking at his conscience like a hundred angry hornets.

  This word association wasn’t actually a bad one, as stinging insects were one of the few things that truly scared Edward. Despite having no inclination as to why this particular fear held firm, he remained terrified of all things creepy-crawly.

  He often wondered why he hadn’t just signed up, but his train of thought always pulled in at the same station. Ed did not like the British and, although a notion he kept under wraps whilst studying at Cambridge, he had no desire to help them win their war.

  The detective did, however appreciate the knock-on effect a German victory could have for his own island existence. Ireland would undoubtedly be next and this was something he would not tolerate.

  His defence was always the same and to the logical mind it was a valid point of view.

  Who would protect the public if the inspector had indeed signed up to fight against the fascists?

  As if to compound his sense of misery, his somewhat regimented early-morning walk proffered little in the way of enlightenment. What was usually a breeding ground for theorie, proved to be as desolate as the proverbial and aptly topical, ‘no man’s land.’

  To cut a long story short, that was exactly where he and the investigative team where with their current line of inquiry.

  It was almost a year since Seb had worked with Inspector Irwin’s unit. The fledgling profiler’s intuition had undoubtedly aided the team and to this day, Ed failed to understand his associate's abrupt departure.

  Unfortunately the untimely intervention of another war put paid to bringing the perpetrator to justice. This was something Edward often brooded about. For him, it was the proverbial black mark on his record -- the unsolved case.

  The past few days had been intense to say the least. If the populace didn’t have their attention fixed firmly on the war effort, they turned their gaze towards the constabulary.

  Edward dealt only in cold, hard facts; it was just the way he operated. He had a feeling this was how he would always be, but as of yet the strategy wasn’t broken and he had no intention of fixing it.

  Something that was broken was Edward’s marriage. If he was honest, the job proved to be both the cause and his saviour. He knew deep down that his efforts and attention had been channelled into investigations and his mind was as far from his relationship as his body was equidistant to the war.

  On the other hand he could fully appreciate the importance of his job. Without his daily routine and a bolthole to return to in times of need, Ed knew that the drinking would have long since consumed him.

  The stocky inspector slung his overcoat onto the back of his chair and reclined. He wished he had invested in a coat rack. Just as he was about to reach around in a futile attempt to free himself from the clammy clasp of the raincoat, his eyes flirted with an envelope on his desk.

  It must have missed the rain, because it was the driest thing within reach. In his experience Ed knew that an early morning delivery meant one thing: trouble.