by Andy Farman
In Reg Hollis’s group were Phil Daly, Sgt Rangi Hoana, a heavily muscled Maori, from the 1st Royal New Zealanders, Pte Mal Chaplin of the 5th/7th and C/Sgt Colley Brackling from the Royal Australian Regiment.
Stephanie Priestly had been part of the group but she had eventually been segregated despite the two Australian men’s best efforts to keep her where they could protect her. As more captured servicewomen arrived a second, smaller camp was constructed. There were only twenty in that camp but Reg eventually accepted that the women were safer where they were and the guards did at least treat them with a level of respect.
The group shuffled forwards another few steps and another prisoner was asked what the contents of his mess tin were. This proved an enquiry too far for Rangi Hoana who left his place in the queue to tap the constant enquirer on the shoulder.
“Listen, cannibalism was once an accepted part of my culture, and every time you whine I get hungrier, do you get it?”
It brought the group a little welcome silence.
Twice a day the prisoners were required to parade on a large area that was at times a dust bowl or a mud hole, depending on the weather. This was to check no one had escaped. In the morning, before breakfast, and at the hour before dusk the prisoners would be summoned to fall in for the head count. On occasion this assembly would be called at random times, normally for some announcement the Chinese believed to be of importance. The Chinese captors called these parades Accountings, or Kuàijì, (Hy-je) which the Australian prisoners quickly latched onto owing to how the pronunciation sounded to Western ears, and it was a dig at the poor diet the PRC served its captives. They also renamed the parade ground accordingly. When their guards summoned them to parade they shouted “Kuàijì! Kuàijì!” it was taken up by Australians calling “High Tea! High Tea! Darjeeling and fairy cakes are being served in the Tea Gardens!”
The other prisoners adopted the micky-take, to the bemusement of the guards.
Their group was now just a matter of a couple of steps from the entrance to the kitchens when the guards slammed the doors closed.
“Kuàijì! Kuàijì!”
It was greeted with catcall and whistles but it was obvious no one was going to eat who hadn’t already, until they assembled on the Tea Gardens.
Not without grumbling the prisoners shuffled into lines for the accounting. This however was not to be a boring rant by the camp commandant.
The prisoners stood waiting, bored and hungry, but when the commandant came through the gates he was accompanied by the political officer, a platoon of armed guards with bayonets fixed, and others who dragging a naked and bloody Caucasian male through the gates and onto the Tea Garden.
He wasn’t an escapee, it was early days yet and whereas an escape committee existed, their shopping list of necessary items would be a difficult one to fill. Tunnelling was the obvious route out but it was not practical without a source of wood to act as pit props.
The prisoner’s ankles and the bones in his feet had been broken, he bore a swollen and gangrenous gunshot wound to the right thigh, the apparent cause of his capture in the mountains the previous week, and as all the fingers in his hands had been broken he could not hold the large sign that said ‘War Criminal’. The prisoner was tied upright to a post and the sign was hung around his neck before the camp political officer screamed out the offences the prisoner had committed. Mass murder was mention several times, the slaughter of innocent civilians on mainland China, the unwarranted killing of men, women and children.
Whoever the prisoner was he was unrecognisable, his face swollen black and blue, teeth, finger and toenails removed with pliers. But he raised his head, unable to see properly through blackened and swollen eyes, shaking with fever from the terribly infected wound but looking straight ahead in proud defiance, unbowed and uncowed. Despite the torture he had received once the Chinese had discovered his part in the war, the only names he revealed, of the other troops involved, were those he knew to be already dead.
In shock that quickly turned to outrage the camps occupants now shouted their protests, drowning out the political officers words. At the political officers orders the guards cocked their weapons and stepped forward into the en-guard. The threat was implicit and the shouts died away, although not the seething anger.
Once all was quiet the political officer quickly turned, drawing a knife as he did so and cut the prisoners throat.
The absolute shock at what they had just witnessed lasted for a heartbeat, and then they surged forwards en-masse despite the guards, and both commandant and political officer drew their side arms. They worriedly backed away towards the gate as the guards gave ground, holding the furious prisoners at bay behind levelled bayonets until they too cleared the gateway and it was firmly shut.
Commander Hollis, Vice Admiral Putchev and a ships surgeon, a member of the Royal New Zealand Navy, ran to the figure tied to the post but it was too late, Major Richard Dewar, Royal Marines, had climbed his last mountain.
New Scotland Yard, Broadway, London SW1.
The Commissioner listened carefully to the initial forensic report on the crime scene in Kensington. The explosive used had been Semtex H and a fingertip search by members of the Specialist Counter Terrorist Search Team had discovered fragments of the device and that of the trigger in particular, a pressure pad beneath the mat inside the doorway to Svetlana’s flat. Identifying the victim would have been difficult given the massive tissue damage, but Lt Col Nunro wore her identity tags from habit.
“The blast was directional, the shrapnel that was employed has been confirmed as being 3” nails and broken glass, and the quantity of explosives used was excessive, given the purpose and location.” explained the scientific officer from the laboratories in Lambeth.
“Amateurs will tend to show themselves up for what they are when their inexperience leads to a level of overkill in their devices.” said DAC Jennings of Special Branch who had control of the investigation. “What are your feelings so far, or do you need more time?”
“I am confident that the evidence will continue to point to a professional assassin, one from the Eastern Bloc and that person was, or is, Spetsnaz or at least received their training from them?”
“How so?”
“The pressure pad was home-made but constructed exactly as taught by those people, down to the dimensions of the apertures in the plastic foam keeping the firing circuit open until the victim, Lt Col Nunro in this case, trod on the welcome mat inside the door.”
“Alright then, just to recap, the explosive alone was sufficient to guarantee the death of the victim?” asked the Commissioner.
“And then some.”
“But the bomber was not some amateur wacko building it from instructions on the internet?”
“Definitely not.” the science offer said.
“So why the shrapnel?”
“Commissioner, you are the policeman and I am but a humble scientist whose work touches on the genius, but I would say that there was possibly an element of the personal about this, the damage inflicted to the victim was huge.”
“Thank you and we will not detain you any longer. Any signature twisting of wires etc., and DNA or fingerprints at this juncture would be gratefully received, I assure you.”
With the science officer departed the commissioner and DAC Jennings moved to another issue, the assumed real target of the bombing.
“Svetlana disappeared from this building after seeing the newsflash about the incident on the BBC. I was on my way down at that moment to break the news about her flat but she was already gone when I arrived at the office she was using.” explained the commissioner.
“She didn’t know the American was the victim, surely?”
“No one did at that time, just that at least one person had been killed.”
“Well I am sorry to say that she has simply vanished, dropped completely off the radar and that is despite an ‘all-ports’ with photographs within the hour of her leaving the o
ffice.” said the DAC. “It’s not as if she doesn’t stand out from the crowd either.” he added with some exasperation.
“You’ve seen her file, she is a resourceful young woman and taking her at face value would be a serious error.”
“But one that she successfully exploits quite often.” DAC Jennings stated. “However, running requires money, and you have to be visible while you earn it, so we will track her down before long.” He sounded confident as that had been his experience in a long career as a detective.
“I hate to rain on your parade on that one, but I kinda suspect she may have been running on near empty on Day One, although that may not be the case now.”
Art Petrucci, CIA Chief of Station, London, was another man who had mastered the trick of remaining inconspicuous at all times, he had sat through the meeting between introductions at the beginning and that point without making any previous comment.
“Go on?” prompted Sir Richard.
“We gave the young lady access to quite considerable funds when we sent her off into harm’s way in Russia. Granted, and all, that she had not been entirely truthful about her relationship with the now, new Russian Premier, she needed that money by way of a persuader to turn Torneski.”
“You turned the head of the KGB! She turned Elena Torneski?” blurted out the commissioner in surprise.
“We persuaded Torneski to help us kill a whole bunch of people so we could win this war, yes Dick.” Art said. “We didn’t exactly offer her a contract, pension and dental benefits.”
“How much money are we talking about?” DAC Jennings enquired.
Art told them.
“Wow!”
“Half down, half when the world is again at peace so long as we won.”
“You are now going to reveal how Svetlana’s considerable ability and intellect has dropped a spanner in the payment works?” the commissioner asked with an expectant smile.
“The best looking god damn forger and con artist I never met, yes Commissioner.”
Art went on to explain how the entire advance payment had disappeared from Torneski’s secret account in Lucerne, and the second half of the payment from just one street away at another bank, the one that the US treasury had been holding it in on deposit. The security cameras showed the perpetrator of the thefts at each of the two banks, and also walking with a large blue-rinsed poodle trotting beside her from the first bank to the second. At the first bank, completely aware that she was under security surveillance, an unmistakeable Svetlana Vorsoff had even removed her Audrey Hepburn style dark glasses to look directly at a discretely sited camera and wink.
The signatures had been perfect; she held all the correct documents and had all the correct identifications and passwords which she had apparently memorised, including two, twenty six digit pass codes. Described by staff at both banks as elegant, chic, a very well-spoken young English woman, she was dressed in the most expensive fashion and had referred to the giant poodle as ‘Sir Dickie’.
Sir Richard Tennant’s laugh was more guffaw than anything and he slapped the top of his desk repeatedly as he did so.
“This is hardly a laughing matter, sir.” DAC Jenner said reproachfully.
“That bit is.” replied the commissioner, drying his eyes with a handkerchief.
“You realise of course that Torneski will also know who stole her money and her reaction will be the opposite of yours, boss?” the DAC stated. “But how the hell did she get original documents?”
“I think that was probably the point.” Art said in reply to the first question. “That was the ‘why’ but as to the ‘where’, well I’d guess they came from Torneski’s safe.” Art opined. “She has a dacha in the woods where she plays with her girls in private. It is in the pre-op briefing you can both read in twenty five years’ time.” He smiled as he reminded them of the Official Secrets Act time limit.
“The post-op briefing states she met Torneski there to put the Presidents offer to her. So at some time before or afterwards she cracked the safe and pulled a switch on the Premier. I guess the documents must have been hidden in the hooker boots lining.”
“Pardon?”
“She wasn’t wearing anything else, the report is quite a kinky read…you can see that in twenty five years too.”
Sir Richard made a show of working out on his fingers how old he would be when that date came around.
“I suspect I won’t care, by then.” he concluded sadly.
“So did the assassin miss? And will he try again?”
“I don’t see Elena Torneski letting her get away with the money unpunished, but it is a moot point as I think she would keep sending people to try and kill the fair Svetlana, regardless.” Art said with absolute certainty. “Sad to say her days are numbered, Svetlana is a dead-girl-walking.”
“You say that with some conviction, Mr Petrucci, is there something else I have to wait a quarter century to read?”
“No Commissioner, some things just have to stay secret forever.”
North of Bateman’s Bay, NSW.
It was another humid and physically unpleasant day, and no matter what part of this country you worked, those damned ants always got you. Perhaps these nasty little bastards, fire ants, had followed them here from the forests near the Macquarie Pass, where they had previously worked.
It was a challenging ground to operate in. Large areas were basically charcoal, burnt out by the fires, so five cam changes were necessary, woodland, burnt timber and woodland once more when they got to where the enemy were, and burnt timber and woodland going back.
The targets were to be different this time to, veteran units had savvy leaders because the un-savvy were dead, so it was time to send the smart ones to join the dullards.
One at a time, the snipers removed the natural camouflage before stripping off their ghillie suits and turning them inside out. Old brown sack cloth, hessian, had been sown on in preparation; the strips doubled the garments weight so they prayed for dry weather and moved out. They went slowly, aware that dust would accompany any movement. If necessary they would have to use their water in the Camelbak each wore, spraying a little ahead of them to kill the dust at spots that had O.Ps covering them.
It was going to be a long day.
Sergeant Baz Cotter was chosen to lead a recce patrol by the company 2 i/c, which was a welcome relief for him to get out from under the serious hard work 2nd Lt Pottinger was proving to be. For the members of the patrol it was a welcome reprieve as the platoon commander had been slated to lead it.
Something was in the wind as the two armies had come to a kind of stalemate, fighting patrols going out to make the other sides nights ones that were sleepless, and ambush patrols to counter those fighting patrols. Now, those on-high in the ivory tower wanted a prisoner, and for this it followed that a recce for a suitable spot to carry out a snatch would have in it those who would carry out the actual task later. Baz went for his O Group with the 2 i/c and the platoon commander tagged along. Baz had no problem with this because Mr P lacked experience. The O Group itself was nothing special to Baz’s mind but the platoon commanders ears twitched and he sat up straighter when the 2 i/c did the end of orders spiel. “Of great importance blah blah…a feather in the cap blah blah…” which Baz had learned to tune out of the process after about a week of real war fighting back in Germany. Second Lieutenant Pottinger though, Baz later concluded, still took all that shit seriously.
By tradition as much as practicality the patrol commander gets some say, if not all, in whom he wants with him.
“Any thoughts on who you’ll take, Sergeant?” the 2 i/c had asked.
“Four One Bravo.” Baz said automatically, choosing Dopey Hemp’s section simply because it was their turn. He felt the platoon commander stiffen up beside him at the words but he did not think anything of it. He went to the Q Stores for specialist kit and Mr P stayed behind.
In Baz’s absence his boss had tried to sell the captain on its being a bad idea
following his platoon sergeant’s choice of man power. Captains, or even lieutenants for that matter, do not take seriously the opinions of ‘subbies’. The 2 i/c was aware of the rotation of patrolling tasks that Sgt Cotter employed and it was a good one. Mr Pottinger left in a huff, storming off in search of his platoon sergeant and determined that if any of the sections were praised for a job well done, its wasn’t going to be 2 Section.
Baz was weighed down with kit as he worked his way along the track plan to Dopey’s trench with the items to be doled out.
They had O.Ps out to give warning of an enemy approaching but still, he was not happy stood above ground next to the FEBA, forward edge of the battle area, arguing with his boss.
“Sir, with due respect, you will be leading the actual fighting patrol whenever it happens and not me, plus it will be a platoon effort. So who gives a rat’s arse who lays hands on the prisoner?”
“Sergeant Cotter, I am beginning to think you are in cahoots with Hemp.” He pointed at Dopey down in his trench, watching the argument but without a clue as to what had sparked off the latest lot of fireworks.
“Sir, again, it is my decision, and my decision was based on whose turn it is next.”
“And I am the platoon commander, and I am telling you to change it.”
The crack of the shot followed just a second after Mr Pottinger had pointed at his epaulet, and before the arrival of the thump of that shot being fired, Baz was already in Dopey’s trench, below ground and shouting stand-to!
“Looks like you’re leading the fighting patrol too Sarge.” Spider remarked, on seeing the back of the platoon commander’s head pebbledash the trunk of the tree beside his own firing bay.
They lay absolutely still for an hour before edging back from the firing position, by which time fewer pairs of eyes were watching intently for them.
