by Gee, Colin
Twelve minutes later, having completed the task assigned to them, they exited by the same route, re-entering the hotel more openly and making their way to a fifth floor suite, having resumed their identities of the Marquis and Marchioness of Bodonitsa; Greek nobility holidaying in the Spanish capital.
A creature of habit, Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco y Bahamonde left his official residence precisely at 0730 hrs, slipping into his official presidential car for the fast drive into Madrid.
As was normal, elements of the Spanish Army and the Guardia Civil were stationed along his route, positioned to discourage attempts on the Caudillo’s person.
One such team of Guardia Civil, complete with one of the newly supplied American jeeps, waited alertly at the convergence of the Avenida de la Guardia and the Avenida del Palacio.
“It is time, Comrades.”
The jeep mounted a .50 cal Browning machine-gun, which was their killing weapon of choice on this warm summer’s morning.
Elsewhere, the other three members of the NKVD assassination team played their own important roles.
The simple plan swung into action.
Four loud explosions rent the air, as the military base on the eastern side of the Avenida del Palacio was engulfed in smoke and flames. Beyond that, a six man army section stationed on the junction of the Pardo al Goloso and the Pardo a Fuencarral came under fire, killing or incapacitating every man in seconds.
Instantly, everything was bedlam, as troops and civil guards raced towards the action.
A quick-thinking civil guard officer waved the Caudillo’s car and escort away, barring the day’s intended route down the Del Pardo a Fuencarral, deflecting the presidential cavalcade down the Avenida del Palacio.
President Francisco Franco gently sipped his fresh orange juice as the sound of the explosions still echoed through the palace.
“German Bastards,” he announced to no-one in particular, although the meeting room contained many ears waiting for his orders.
Major Mayakov was the first to die, a marksman’s bullet taking him full in the chest and wrecking his heart in an instant.
The machine-gunner was next, less than half a second behind, flung from his position by the double impact of bullets in the chest and neck.
The other Soviet ‘Guardia’ was killed within a few seconds, the whole ambush team slain without firing a shot. Presently sweating in the back of the presidential limousine was retired army corporal Jose Luis de Messia. Franco’s double was used to taking the risk, but today was clearly different. Buildings had been blown up, shots had been fired. He did not know that Death had already visited itself upon a dozen people and was not yet satisfied. He just knew enough to be petrified.
The quick-thinking officer who had altered the cavalcade’s route was actually Serzhant David Meyer, the group’s other German by birth. Acting according to the plan, he deflected the Caudillo down the ambush party’s path. Confused by the lack of activity from Mayakov’s group, he had hung around longer than he should have. Spanish uniforms almost surrounded him, confused voices seeking instructions and direction. Meyer ordered the growing group to follow the route taken by the President’s car. Taking the opportunity offered by their swift departure, he quickly heading off to where he had secreted a motor-cycle.
He pulled the tarpaulin off the Steyr-Daimler-Puch motorcycle and mounted it in one easy motion.
Almost instantly, Meyer found himself propelled off the bike as the impact of a rifle butt knocked him sideways.
He saw a vague shape through clouded eyes and went for his pistol holster. Slowed and disoriented as he was by the blow, he never reached it. A studded boot pressed down onto his right arm, fixing it in place.
A heavily accented voice shouted in the language of his youth.
“Oh no, you German bastard, none of that. We want a word with you!”
Rough hands grabbed Meyer and dragged him towards the main road, where a vehicle stood waiting.
With his hands quickly bound, he was thrown into the back of the small truck.
As his captors boarded, he tried to flick the capsule out from his cheek but it had gone, forced from its hiding place when the rifle butt took him in the head.
With fear and courage in equal measure, Meyer pressed his neck against a seat stanchion, cutting off the blood flow in an attempt to commit suicide.
Flushed with their capture and talking of the horrors that awaited the spy, none of the soldiers noticed that their captive no longer cared.
Unfortunately for Meyer, the suicide attempt failed, his unconscious head rolling to one side, restoring the flow of blood.
To the east, the NKVD bomber arrived breathless at the car, the earth and dirt where he had crawled up to the buildings apparent on his uniform.
“Clean yourself off quickly, Vassily, quickly,” the young officer pointed out the mess and turned back to watch the road, his eyes flicking to the firing spot from which he had slain the army unit, and where he had left the deadly PPSH.
Although he was puzzled by the absence of fire from the ambush party, Oleg Nazarbayev concentrated on his own and Vassily Horn’s successful evasion.
Snatching up his Star Z45 submachine gun, he heard the approach of a heavy vehicle from the north, presently obscured by the dust and smoke from the burning military buildings.
“Get your pistol working, Vassily, follow my lead.”
Dropping into cover behind the bonnet of the Peugeot 402, he fired two short bursts in the direction of the concealed firing point from where he had made his kills.
Horn understood immediately and triggered off three shots of his own, coinciding with the emergence of a military truck from the smoke.
The 1935 Chevrolet truck braked violently and halted in the road.
Nazarbayev fired another short burst and waved frantically at the lorry, indicating enemy in the direction he had fired.
The infantry commander understood and deployed his men immediately, a dozen riflemen swiftly oriented to flank the suspect position.
Both Russians fired again until the Spaniards were too close for comfort.
Reloading their weapons quickly, they watched as one of the infantrymen handed a PPSH to his officer, who waved it dramatically to his two ‘comrades’ on the road.
Nazarbayev acknowledged the man’s wave and indicated two more approaching trucks.
The first infantry officer ran to the road and within an instant a second, larger group of soldiers was on the hunt for the assassin’s, moving to the south of the road junction and immediately spotting the slain men.
The rearmost truck deployed its cargo, setting up a road block which faced in both directions, part of the Spanish plan to trap the enemy agents.
Almost immediately a fire fight broke out with the first group of soldiers, at least one going to ground hard. Such was the confusion of the hour that another party of Spanish soldiers had clashed with their own forces, with the poorly named ‘friendly fire’ claiming three quick victims, and providing a focal point for more units to in on in order to avenge fallen comrades.
Grasping the opportunity offered, the two Soviet officers immediately started their Peugeot and set off southwards and back towards Madrid.
By the time the Spanish had sorted out their mistake, thirteen of their number lay dead upon the field.
Akim Igorevich Vaspatin had never played poker, but his face was ideally suited to a game that requires no evidence or expression for the opponent to read.
His glass was empty, so he placed it on the crisp starched table cloth and waited for the bastard opposite to speak, the footsteps of the officer who had brought the verbal report still echoing on the marble floor.
“It would appear that we are in your debt, Colonel Vaspatin. Thank you for the timely warning.”
“I am glad that I could be of assistance, Generalissimo. Thankfully our intelligence service detected the plot in time.”
The Spaniard laughed the sor
t of laugh that does not have humour at its heart.
“Don’t be too modest, Colonel. Your role in my country is well known.”
For a man wearing many dangerous hats, such statements can be very worrying, and Vaspatin felt a momentary icy stab in his heart.
“You are Soviet Military Intelligence, this we know well, Colonel.”
Franco looked at his guest with genuine puzzlement.
“You didn’t think we didn’t know did you?”
Vaspatin smiled and shrugged, relieved that only part of his clandestine world was known.
“Now, we will see if any of the German swine have survived, and what they might tell of us of their reasons.”
The GRU/NKVD officer went to speak but was cut short by an imperious hand.
“We know what you have told us, at the behest and direction of your superiors of course.”
The last of Franco’s juice disappeared, and a waiter attempting a third refill was waved away.
“We want to hear what these assassins have to say for themselves.”
An aide walked briskly in and whispered in the Dictator’s ear.
“Good.”
Rising from the table and slipping into the jacket held by one of his personal valets, Franco concluded the discussion.
“One of the assassins is still alive. We will question him. If things are as you state, then Spain will not get involved in your war, Colonel Vaspatin. Thank you again and good day.”
Franco left the room at speed, leaving behind a worried man. A man who had not expected any survivors to interfere with the plan to take Spain out of the war.
As the Caudillo’s car swept out of the Presidential Palace, this time containing the genuine article, another car parked inconspicuously some miles away, pulling into a concealed shady spot on the Calle del Sur in Majadahonda. Two men in civilian clothing walked briskly to the railway station intent on boarding the next northwest-bound train.
Their Peugeot had been dumped, pushed into the Arroyo de Trofa River before the men had used their ‘clean’ vehicle to drive to the ten kilometres to the station. The second ‘clean’ vehicle had not followed the Peugeot into the water, despite the contingency plan, both men wishing to give any surviving comrades the best possible chance.
Nazarbayev and Horn both knew something had gone wrong, in the same way as they both now accepted that no-one else from the team was coming back.
Despite the large number of people travelling that day their compartment was empty, save for themselves. They were able to talk about events softly in Russian, and more loudly about the weather in German, on the occasions that someone strolled past the glass between them and the corridor.
Both took it in turns to have a nap as the stations rolled gently by. The pair were both wide awake by the time that Valladolid materialised out of the sunny haze.
Dismounting from the train together, they quickly oriented themselves, drawing on the briefing they had received, and, identifying the main entrance, proceeded out through the arches into the Calle del Recondo, their eyes adjusting to the strong sunlight.
Moving a few metres left to the end of the main entrance they waited in a return, where the front recessed back, indulging in cigarettes as they waited for their contact.
Both were still alert and took in their surroundings with practicised eyes, noting objects and people, ticking off possible threats as each was processed through their brain.
Neither man saw anything except that which it was intended that they should see, although perhaps they should have noted that the shoeshine spent all his time on the left foot of his customer, and that the same customer had his newspaper on his lap rather than reading it or indulging in conversation.
The man and woman with the pram stood side by side, facing the station and gazing down at their silent child, Nazarbayev was just starting to ask himself questions when he spotted a huge man holding a white suitcase starting to cross the road.
Their contact halted to let the Spanish Army truck move past and then mounted the pavement, making directly for the two agents.
“Excuse me, Señors, can you tell me the time of the next train to Madrid?”
He delivered a perfectly executed pass phrase.
“So sorry, Señor, We don’t know. We are from German Nationals from Corunna, here on business.”
Satisfied with the reply, the man placed his suitcase on the ground and stepped back. It had only taken ten seconds but a lot had happened whilst the two were distracted.
Where there had been a shoeshine and customer there were now two men holding pistols. The husband and wife had similarly transformed into armed threats, both covering the Russians with their handguns.
The Army truck disgorged a dozen men in half as many seconds.
Both Soviet agents no longer had weapons and were faced with an unpalatable decision. Nazarbayev reached into his jacket pocket for his papers, expressing his indignation in the chosen language of the mission.
Suddenly both men were on the ground, as their legs were wrecked by bullets from the four Spanish Intelligence Service officers. The soldiers quickly descended upon the stricken pair, checking them for weapons, before roughly picking them up and slinging them aboard the truck.
Shocked onlookers were being encouraged to move on, even as the two medics in the truck started to work on their charges, tasked only with keeping them alive for what was to come.
Nazarbayev and Horn lay side by side, the pain increasing as the vehicle bounced on the rough roads, picking up speed on its way to the military hospital.
Horn attempted to rise but felt a stab in his side as an eager young soldier used his bayonet to dissuade him.
He rolled his head towards the moaning Nazarbayev, who nodded his goodbyes to his comrade.
Within seconds, both men had used their tongues to free the capsules Vaspatin had given them.
Horn bit on his capsule and ingested a small dose of Potassium Cyanide. This entered his digestive tract and reacted with his stomach acid, producing fatal Hydrogen Cyanide. He jerked a few times as the poison penetrated his system and then settled, dying within ninety seconds.
Oleg Nazarbayev, twin brother of Vladimir, and youngest surviving son of Yuri and Tatiana, dropped into unconsciousness and failed in his act of self-destruction, the shoeshine boy sliding rough fingers into his mouth and hooking out the suicide pill.
Horn would take his secrets to the rough grave in which the Spanish later threw his body, whereas two of his comrades remained alive to be tortured and interrogated at painful length about the German raison d’être for the attack on Franco, as well as to answer questions on incriminating evidence found in their hotel room, from planning notes of El Pardo in German through to Maria Paloma’s personal diary graphically detailing her earthy expectations for few hours of romantic liaison with a handsome young German.
After local medical treatment, Oleg Nazarbayev was flown from Valladolid to join Prisoner Meyer in an innocuous building next a military airbase in the Cuatro Vientos ward of Madrid. Dwelling within an overt military security wall, the small building regularly entertained enemies of the state.
Three days later, a Spanish soldier distributed lunch according to the normal routine but, acting under instructions from his NKVD paymaster, also gave each man new means to end their lives.
Nazarbayev, suffering badly from his wounds, was tended by physicians, anxious to nurse him back to health.
Meyer, in a bad way, his recently fractured skull bringing as much pain as the torture, had already told all he knew. That the team spoke only spoke in German or Spanish, that four of the agents had arrived separately to his group, and a female agent had delivered their uniforms. He had screamed out the details of the ambush plan as his genitals were subjected to a crushing attack by weighty pliers.
The agent managed to wait the requested time, a delay to permit the guard to be out of immediate suspicion, consuming his deadly dose of Potassium Cyanide during the mid-
afternoon siesta, before the Spanish Captain could start work on his remaining testicle.
Alarm bells rang and other men immediately ran to Nazarbayev’s sick bed, intending to stop a repeat performance. At the first sound of running feet, Oleg, weakened by a systemic infection, had instinctively known that his comrade had taken his own life and followed suit, convulsing on his bunk as keys rattled in the door.
Sat in his office, Beria read the Rezident’s report, sent ‘Eyes only’ the previous evening.
It seemed that the decision made by Stalin and himself had done all that was desired, as Spain was about to openly declare her neutrality, on the basis of the recent German-sponsored assassination attempt on the life of the Caudillo.
Rather than simply cut off the head, the reasoning had been that it could even be possible to turn Spanish views around, and make the country more sympathetic to the Communist cause, particularly in the light of the excellent assistance provided by the Russian Intelligence Services in foiling the recent plot.
Six men’s lives had been lost, plus a very useful female asset; all in all, a fair price for the advantage gained.
If it continued to work then all was well; if not, four more agents languished in a safe house outside Malpica, awaiting instructions.
The identities of the agents had been known to him before he ordered their betrayal, and he had found himself relishing the opportunity to break the news to the woman when next he saw her, and experiencing an almost sexual excitement at inflicting yet another crushing blow ‘on that GRU bitch’.
There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory.
Francis Drake
Chapter 65 – THE LEGION
Thursday, 16th August 1945, 1203 hrs, Headquarters of the Legion Corps D’Assault, Sassy, France.
