by Colin Gee
“Move!”
Mikenas fell in with the rear group, jogging alongside Audra Karelis.
The older woman understood the younger’s pain.
“Shit happens, Janina. We weren’t to know… clearly we were set up. Another thing that the devils will pay for.”
Mikenas nodded, knowing the words to be fair, and knowing that they wouldn’t help.
“I left a present for the communist bastards.”
They dropped into cover both sides of the narrow path and watched to the rear as the final members of the group moved through.
Something surrendered noisily to the fires on the road and the rising smoke became thicker.
A number of shots rang out as the two young men who lead the pursuers away did their best to attract the undivided attention of the NKVD unit.
“Mines?”
“Of course. I had my people put some in the road, just in case… plus we didn’t want to carry the shitty things another metre, did we?”
Janina smiled as Karelis rose up and started to move on.
No sooner had they moved than one of the mines found a suitable weight on top of it and exploded.
A second explosion followed in quick succession.
“Just bits of the first one. We couldn’t be… can’t be that lucky!”
Janina Mikenas laughed as they ran.
‘No, we won’t be.’
But they were.
The two decoys returned to the hidden resting point almost five hours to the minute after the group had run from the ambush site.
Their news was encouraging but, none the less, Janina decided to keep the group hidden until dawn, if only to give the casualties more time to gather some strength.
There was something about two of the women that made her senses light up, a something she didn’t understand, but a something that was very real.
So much so that, under her orders, Karelis kept an eye on them at all times.
Janina Mikenas had spent some time with Lukša and consoled him as best she could, which was nowhere near enough to console the distraught father.
Her rounds took her amongst all her people, for the enormity of what they had done was now visiting every mind and bringing its own brand of torture.
Another of the ex-prisoners died but it seemed likely that the rest would survive.
The partisan leader moved amongst them, asking names and places of origin, offering encouragement but always falling short of apologising.
The examination of what had happened and how the partisan group had clearly been fed false information would come later, along with the recriminations.
For now, Janina returned with a piece of bread and sat next to Karelis.
“So?”
“I’m sure you’re right. They’re different… always aware… they miss nothing.”
That left a big question hanging unspoken in the silence.
‘Agents… but ours or theirs?’
Janina studied the pair, immediately understanding what Karelis meant.
‘Can we afford to risk it? Why not kill them both now?’
There was a presence to the two women, one that screamed that they were more than they seemed.
She immediately noticed that they watched different areas, maintaining a surveillance that had no overlap, no wasted areas.
“I’ll talk to them… but keep watching.”
‘It is decided. What they say now will determine their fate.’
Grabbing a flask, she stood and wandered over to where the pair were leant up against a tree trunk,
Both women swivelled their heads as one. The thinner-faced blonde accepted the flask and passed it to the other woman, who drank heartily.
“So… who are you two?”
Clearly the pair had discussed the matter already, as the answer flowed quickly.
“My friend is Polish, I’m Lithuanian. We’re both Allied agents captured by the Russians.”
Janina Mikenas held up her hand to interrupt.
“Your accent isn’t natural. You speak the language well though.”
“I grew up in London, but my parents were both from Kaunus.”
“And you?”
“Lublin.”
“OK, so what’s your names and who do you really work for?”
The two women had decided that the partisans were genuine, and represented their best chance of being safe, so had elected to tell the truth.
“I’m Renata Luistikaite”
“Karin Greim.”
Janina indicated the two obvious bumps but kept her thoughts to herself.
‘Sending pregnant women would be a masterstroke of course!’
Greim responded to the unspoken question.
“Women in prison get raped.”
“How long?”
“We were taken at the end of March… the rapes started straight away… minimum of five months.”
“Sorry.”
“It happens.”
Renata Luistikaite drew a quick line under the matter.
“We’re both SOE… British intelligence agents. We were based in Torun but got arrested before the landings were due. Been in prison ever since.”
“They tortured you, of course.”
“Of course.”
‘Convincing… such marks would need to be convincing.’
“And?”
“And we told them everything they wanted to know… eventually.”
The women’s distorted hands told part of the story of what they had been through, the presence of burns and bruises on their faces, arms, and legs, and the bulging bellies filled in the gaps.
Greim also bore the angry scar of a head wound that would always remind her of the nearness of her brush with death in the Torun bar.
“And how would I be able to confirm that you are who you say you are?”
“Do you have a radio?”
“Maybe.”
‘And now we get to it…’
There was no maybe. The Shields had a number of radios available to them, all of which could be used to contact the Allies.
A sudden hissing sound stopped the three in mid-conversation.
The hissing died away to be replaced by nothing.
… just silence…
… but a silence full of approaching malice and terror.
The silence was replaced by birdsong and engine sounds.
One of the lookouts dropped next to his leader.
“One armoured car and a lorry stopped up the lane. The soldiers are out and on foot, the armoured car is following them up. Two hundred metres and coming our way.”
“How many?”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Straight at us?”
“Not quite, but if they move a few metres to one side they’ll fall on top of us.”
It took but a moment.
“Pass the word. Total silence. We stay… but everyone’s to be ready.”
The sound of the armoured car’s engine growling in low gear started to invade everyone’s senses, almost like the approach of predatory tiger in search of a fine meal.
Janina checked that Karelis was still watching the two women and, in her concentration, was startled by the voice next to her ear.
“We can fight. Give us weapons.”
It was Greim who had spoken, and in that second Janina saw the eyes of a killer pleading for the means to kill.
“No. I think not. Maybe when we know who you are. For now, just shut up and pray.”
‘For the moment, I’ll stay my hand.’
A low moan caught everyone’s attention, but the wounded man’s sounds were quickly silenced by a dirty hand.
Janina was at the wrong end of the site, and had no idea how close the NKVD soldiers came to finding the group, but she sensed and saw relaxation in the stiff bodies, and then realised that the sounds of the engine were now fading.
Still, the partisan group remained in hiding for another fifteen minutes, holding its col
lective breath until Janina decided it was safe to move.
“Pick everything up. We move immediately.”
She turned her attention back to the two women.
“You two walk?”
They nodded and rose to their feet.
“Good. We’ll soon see if your stories are true. If not, I promise you an interesting time.”
The threat was left hanging.
“Audra, these are your responsibility.”
The ‘Shield of St Michael’ moved off towards safety.
Throughout the Baltic States, special units of NKVD troops used a variety of tactics to lure partisans into the open, with a great deal of success.
Many groups were wiped out completely, and the vast majority were badly damaged and driven underground to lick their wounds.
‘The Shield of St Michael’ was one of the very lucky ones that managed to disengage without being brought to heel, and compounded its luck with moving rapidly into an area that had just been declared as ‘partisan-free’ following the total destruction of the resident resistance fighters group, mainly because it had been infiltrated by turncoats.
The patrols in their new area were few and Mikenas decided to try and establish some sort of contact with the Allies before exposing her group again.
2017 hrs, Sunday, 15th September 1946, Mir Castle, Mir, USSR.
It was the first time they had been together for a very long time and it was not going well.
They sat in silence, eating their way through a very average meal, drinking a very average wine, the best fare that the senior officer’s guest centre could find in austere times.
Uniforms were rare in the restaurant, most visitors preferring to relax in civilian clothing and leave behind the pressures of military life.
Those who didn’t know her by sight simply assumed that the beautiful woman was merely the trophy wife of the thin officer who sat opposite her, whereas it was she who was there by right, and he who was her guest,
Yuri Nazarbayev was a changed man; gaunt and lacking the humour and compassion that had marked him aside from other suitors when he had pursued the woman of his dreams.
Tatiana Nazarbayeva played with her food, the newfound coolness between them so stark and clear that she found so little in common with the man who had fathered her children.
They had made love, or as she felt, rutted their way through a sexual act that carried no great meaning and was simply an animal release, which had never their manner.
Yuri had made officer rank of his own accord, although there were rumblings from those jealous or simply being provocative, that he secured his position through the support of his GRU wife.
Whether the possibility of it or the suggestion of it contributed to the wall he seemed to have constructed was unknown to Tatiana.
The wall was very real, and had been built slowly since she had revealed the events at the dacha in Moscow.
In truth, she had even built a version for herself, perhaps as some sort of coping mechanism.
Whatever was happening, there was something solid and inexorable between them, an obstruction that neither he nor she tried to surmount, and one that neither seemed inclined to overcome.
During their walk around the castle that afternoon, they had hardly spoken a dozen words and the distant atmosphere was tangible.
After dinner, they adjourned to the bar and drank heavily, probably as much to avoid the need to talk as any need for drink.
They staggered to their first floor bedroom and simply collapsed on the bed without ceremony or exchange.
Yuri Nazarbayev woke alone, a simple note informing him of his wife’s early recall to duty.
It was a lie and he knew it, but was relieved that it saved him the awful and strained goodbye he had anticipated.
Beria chuckled as he read.
A recent report from his main man in the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps had recorded great success, as NKVD lackeys goaded the newly fledged Lieutenant with stories of his wife’s affair in Moscow, constructing rumours about her sexual proclivities, as well as spreading reports about her involvement in his promotion.
The latest report, hotly arrived from Mir Castle, amused him greatly as it was quite clear that he had driven a huge wedge between the woman and her husband.
He laughed again, this time loud enough that it could be heard by his secretary through closed doors.
It was not a pleasant laugh.
‘Fuck with me and pay the fucking price, bitch!’
1054 hrs, Saturday, 21st September 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
As was her new habit, Nazarbayeva arrived ahead of schedule to get through the security in good time.
The metal detectors had been augmented with searches beforehand, and more intimate pat-downs afterwards.
Today the time plan had gone to pot, as the political governor of Ukraine set the alarms ringing.
Errors were frequent and the man pleaded his innocence, stating he had simply forgotten that there was a clip of pistol ammunition in his greatcoat pocket.
Beria’s deputy, Lieutenant General Kaganovich just happened to be passing and stepped forward.
“Now, now, Comrade Commissar… you should know better than that.”
The guard commander was about to summon an arrest detail, as per standard procedure.
He was waved to stand down by Kaganovich.
“I’ll deal with this, Kapitan.”
He extended his hand in a way that dared his authority to be challenged.
“Have your men escort the Commissar to my office immediately. I’ll return them to you when I have completed my interrogation.”
The Ukrainian Governor did not complain and went with the two guards.
“Log this in your report, Comrade Kapitan. I’ll deal with this and lodge my own report with your commander.”
Not waiting for an answer, Kaganovich strode off in the wake of the ‘prisoner’ and escort, catching up with them on the threshold of his personal domain.
“You two remain here and guard this entrance. You, Comrade Commissar, come with me and prepare to justify your actions.”
The guards shut the door and set themselves at an alert position, fully aware of the seriousness of their orders.
1104 hrs, Saturday, 21st September 1946, Lieutenant General Kaganovich’s office, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Keeping their voices low, the two men embraced each other and kissed in the traditional Russian fashion.
“So, that gives us twenty minutes?”
“More if we need, Comrade.”
“So, let us be quick, Ilya Borisevich.”
“Tea, Nikita Sergeyevich?”
“Thank you.”
And as Kaganovich poured, Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev delivered his information.
1108 hrs, Saturday, 21st September 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
“Finally! Welcome Comrade Mayor General. We heard there was some trouble with security… that rogue Khrushchev apparently?”
Whilst it was clear that Stalin and Beria were well informed, the statement was put more like a question, encouraging a further response.
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. Fortunately Comrade Leytenant General Kaganovich was passing and he stepped in quickly to prevent any problems.”
The General Secretary moved on effortlessly.
“So, what’s the latest news you bring us?”
“Almost the same as the last time I briefed you, Comrade General Secretary. None of GRU’s assets have detected any sign of double-dealing by the Allies. Everything is being done according to the schedules devised by the Camp Vár delegations. Our Air Force reports no more incidents, and that our own reconnaissance missions have not been impeded. I’m assuming that you’ll have seen the same reports I have, Comrade General Secretary?”
“You may assume that, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“So… the only military incidents of note were the collision between the two vessels in the Balt
ic and the death of some of their troops on a booby-trap, neither of which have posed a problem to our negotiators in Sweden, who have issued guarantees that have been adopted by Red Banner Forces HQ.”
“Guarantees? Specifically?”
“Booby traps, Comrade General Secretary. There will be no more booby traps.”
The report from Sweden had actually been a little inaccurate, as the Allied delegation had been extremely vocal, angry, and threatening about the deaths of eleven Canadian soldiers, something that Beria knew and Nazarbayeva did not.
As always, the smallest victory brought a light to Beria’s eyes.
“So, Comrade Nazarbayeva, what have you discovered?”
Beria emphasised ‘have’ in the manner of a teacher to an under-performing student, something not wasted on either her or Stalin.
“They continue to improve their technology. New vehicles and weapons are appearing, although the older equipment appears to be being improved or is being recycled to the other… err… lesser nations.”
Beria piped up as Nazarbayeva took a breath.
“As you recall, Comrade General Secretary, the NKVD report indicated that many of the Amerikanski tanks were being allocated to the Dutch, Spanish, and French. We also found that a considerable number of the British Comet tanks had been given to the treacherous Poles.”
Nazarbayeva understood well enough that Beria was harping but was unconcerned as she knew that she held a few nuggets of her own.
Continuing without realising that he was not getting a rise out of the woman, Beria added more information to overshadow the GRU report.
“NKVD assets have identified a new tank division being assembled in America, comprising assets removed from their Pacific forces and newly-trained personnel. My agents have also confirmed that it will be bound for Europe to replace a number of divisions, who will return to their homeland.”
This was not news to Stalin and he all but ignored Beria’s words, instead silently encouraging the GRU officer to continue.
“Comrade General Secretary, I can confirm that the new division is called the 17th Tank, and that is slated to replace the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Tank Divisions who are already out of the line and transferring their equipment to the French and Spanish. The new division is also already forming on European soil.”
