Angel, Archangel (16 page)

Herries turned the key with such force that his clammy thumb and forefinger slipped off the shiny metal surface, but the engine caught, the clutch engaged and he shot back in his seat as the jeep surged forward.
Dietz hurled his rifle into the rear of the vehicle and lunged for the tail-gate, grasping it with one hand, then two.
Herries was into second gear, the engine screaming as he brought the speed up to 40 kph, but Dietz held on, slowly hauling in his dragging feet, preparing himself for the final effort which would propel him into the rear of the vehicle.

Herries could see it all in the mirror.
The two white hands on the tailgate and between them the grotesquely twisted face, blood and dirt still caked to the stubble on the cheeks and chin, wincing with every jerking movement of his body which brought him one second nearer to jumping onto the back seat.

Herries threw the corpse off his legs and groped for the MP40 which was lying between the two front seats.
He grabbed it by the barrel, took one last look at the needle on the speedometer as it nudged past 55 kph, and then swung round, crashing the stock of his machine pistol down onto Dietz’s knuckles.
The mouth curled back silently with the pain and the red eyes bored into Herries’ for a second, then he was gone.
He watched in the mirror as the body rolled, bounced and fell along the road, before coming to rest.
Then he rounded a corner and it was gone.

Herries drove fast for another two kilometres before he felt he had put enough distance between himself and the man whom he was sure he had killed two days before.
This time he would take no chances, even if Dietz had hit the road hard enough to break every bone in his body.

Herries swung down a muddy track lined with high pines and, when he was satisfied that the vehicle could no longer be seen from the road, he slewed to a halt.
His body trembled with deep convulsions as the events of the last few minutes caught up with him.
He leant over the side of the jeep and retched until his stomach was emptied of the berries and leaves that had been his only nourishment for the past few days.

Ten minutes later Herries was back in the driving seat dressed in the uniform of the Soviet lieutenant.
He wrapped the greatcoat around his body to hide the large dark stain on the chest and was about to set off back for the road when he noticed the wretched appearance of his face in the mirror.
He jumped out of the jeep and went over to his bundle of clothes which partially hid the body of the Russian behind the nearest pine.
He found his razor and set about shaving his dry face, his cheeks and chin still too numb to protest as the rusty blade scraped away the two-day old stubble.

Satisfied that his cleaner image would not draw undue attention from passing factions of the Red Army, Herries drove off in the open-topped jeep, paused at the main road to make sure the coast was clear, and then took a left in the direction of Pilzen.

* * * * * * * *

Shaposhnikov and Krilov settled back into the canvas seats in the rear of the Ilyushin as the pilot opened up the throttles and the bomber trundled down the long runway before lifting off from Kubinka, the military airfield fifty kilometres from Moscow.

It was a four hour flight to Ostrava, the main Soviet rail-head and logistics station for the Red Army build-up in Czechoslovakia.
There they would pick up transport for the two hundred kilometre journey to the front, but not before Shaposhnikov ensured the consignment from Factory 497 at Berezniki, a facility at the base of the Urals, had arrived safely at the marshalling yards.
Shaposhnikov wanted to oversee some of the unloading operation personally.

As Krilov stared out of the window at the receding city of Moscow, he felt an immense wave of relief.
Every minute that passed put another five kilometres between them and Beria’s internal security police, the NKVD.
The events of the last few days had made him anxious.
Paliev’s attempted defection, Nerchenko’s jitters, the coded exchanges between Moscow and Branodz; they had all risked exposure unnecessarily.
Finally there was the news that Paliev had been ambushed by the fascists.
But somehow the leadership of Shaposhnikov had kept them as one, kept them strong.
He relished the moment when they would all be together; Shaposhnikov, himself, and the three generals, Badunov, Vorontin and Nerchenko, from each respective front.
Five men who would change the face of the world.
His whole body tingled with excitement.

The village of Krazna Hora had long been ordained as the meeting place for the final briefing on Archangel.
Krilov had had to send out urgent despatches within the past few hours to the three generals in the field to tell them that the plan had been brought forward.
It would be up to Shaposhnikov tomorrow to tell them by how much the scheme had been affected.

Archangel would work because good men, pure Bolsheviks, committed to the ideals on which their Revolution had been founded, were behind it.
It would work because their mentor was not only true to those beliefs, he was also the best strategist in the Allied command - Western or Eastern.
It had been planned down to the last detail.

By the time Generalissimo Stalin, once a great man, now paranoid and divorced from reality, realized they were gone, the steamroller would be heading for Paris.

It would work because they had the ultimate weapon known to man, the last resort if all else failed.
And they had the balls to use it.

Krilov reclined a little more, no longer caring about the sharp discomfort of the seat.
It felt good to be going into action again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Herries’ few hours in the barn could have been his most comfortable since his arrival on the Eastern Front, but he chose not to sleep.

He wasn’t afraid of being discovered by the peasant who owned the barn, for he could easily have bluffed his way through any encounter with a rural Czechoslovakian simpleton.

Herries’ restlessness centred on the tenacity of the Siberians whom the Russians used to hunt insurgents behind their lines.
If they were onto him, they could have picked up his trail from the point where Dietz’s body lay broken in the road.
He was pretty sure that such clues as he had left were minimal, but now that he was only a matter of miles from his goal, it paid to stay on his guard.
If he had been discovered, there would have been no question of bluffing his way past the Russians who controlled their Siberian hunters.
They would have cast one look at the jeep hidden inside the barn and taken him away to be shot, either as a spy, a deserter or a black marketeer - jeeps commanded a high price with the partisans.

As soon as he had caught his breath, Herries arose from his bed of straw, heaped in one of the corners of the dry stone building.
He knew the most dangerous part of the journey was yet to come.

He had survived the two-day trek through the dripping forest, avoiding its dangers with the skill of a seasoned poacher.
He had skirted Branodz by about three kilometres along the way and crept up to a bluff, which overlooked the centre of the town to see Ivan’s preparations for the invasion of the West for himself.
Squinting through his Zeisses he had seen the armour, the preparations, the hive of activity around the headquarters.
There had been patrols, but none had come close to him.
He was still good, even without Dietz.

But this morning he was heading into the beast’s lair.
Today would signal the end of the journey, one way or the other.

Herries stood in the middle of the barn and dusted the straw off his uniform.
He walked over to the jeep and inspected his face in the rear-view mirror.
Stubble was returning to his sallow cheeks, but he scratched it off with his razor, the light that streamed through the cracks in the wooden roof being just sufficient to show him what he was doing.

He had needed cover, a place to go to ground for a few hours.
He had not been long on the road when he spotted the barn down the muddy track.
It was the perfect place to hide the secret of Archangel.

Herries placed his officer’s cap on his head and inspected the face that stared back at him in the jeep’s mirror.
He reckoned that with the greatcoat to conceal the reddish-brown mark that stained his chest, he could pass unchallenged into Pilzen.

He walked back to the corner where he had rested and pulled back some of the straw until the base of the stone wall was exposed.
He removed the loose rock that he had found the night before and stuffed the small package into the dark recess that lay behind.
He wedged the stone back into its position, satisfied that it looked undisturbed and then heaped the straw back into the corner.

The job finished, he pulled back the twin doors of the barn and paused to scrutinize the surrounding woods to make sure that he had not been observed.

The jeep started up first time.
He coasted down to the end of the track and resumed his journey along the last few kilometres that led into Pilzen.

Before the radio was destroyed during their retreat from Boskovice, Herries had reckoned on the German-occupied town in Western Czechoslovakia being the next to crack between the vice-like squeeze of the converging Soviet and American Armies.

When he crossed the town’s limits in his jeep, he wasn’t so sure.
His eyes darted in and out of the columns of Red Army troops that lined the streets for signs of a Western presence.
He was in the centre of the town and on the point of turning round when he spotted the Stars and Stripes fluttering reassuringly in the wind on a building at the far side of the main square.
His pulse quickened as he steered the vehicle straight for it.

He drew up outside the building and hailed the burly US military policeman who was standing guard outside.
Trying hard to keep his nerve, he mustered a halting Russian accent.

“I have signal for the British liaison officer.
Please to tell me where is the British delegation.”
Herries prayed that the American would not run a spot check on his papers.

The MP ambled down to the jeep.

“You want the British mission?
Jesus Christ, another one?”
The American gritted his teeth.
“You’re almost there, bud.
See that grey building on the other side of the square?
You’ll find the British in there.
Why the hell they can’t put a flag outside their building same as we do, I don’t know.
That way I wouldn’t have to give fifty goddamned guys like you the directions every day.”

Herries put the jeep in gear and tore round to the other side of the square, scattering a group of US and Soviet personnel who were bartering in the road outside the British building.
Herries leapt out of the vehicle, bounded up the steps and was through the door.

“And where the bloody ‘ell do you think you’re going Joe?”
The hand that had grabbed him prevented him from reaching the officer who was sitting at a desk on the far side of the room.
He turned round to confront the sentry.
The clipped, English public-school tones of his voice echoed throughout the sparsely furnished lobby.

“I am an officer of the German armed forces and I have come to surrender myself to your commanding officer.
I have vital, urgent information to convey.”

Amazement registered on the soldier’s face before he drew the bolt back on his Sten and held the muzzle firmly up against Herries’ chest.
The corporal didn’t need to summon the captain over.
In a moment he was beside the sentry, his startled eyes searching Herries’ haggard face.

“What the devil’s going on here?
Who are you?”
The voice was pure Sandhurst.

“My name is Herries.
I am an Obersturmführer of the Waffen-SS.
I have come to turn myself in to the British authorities, because I have some vital information which I must report to your commanding officer.”
Herries cast a sidelong look through the open door, beyond which Russian and American soldiers were trying to get a glimpse of him.
The corporal also noticed the prying eyes and slammed the door shut.

“Hold on a bloody moment, let me get this right,” the infantry captain said.
“You’re a German officer, wearing Russian uniform, talking to me in King’s English and you want to surrender to my commanding officer with urgent information?”

“That’s right,” Herries said levelly.
“And if you value those pips on your shoulder, Captain, you should take me to him now.”

The officer looked at Herries for a long time.
Then his mouth cracked into a smile.
“Well, how do you do,” he said.
“And I’m Winston fucking Churchill.
Corporal, lock this man up in the stores room and keep him under armed guard while I fetch the colonel.
He’s not going to believe this.”

* * * * * * * *

Colonel Jackson listened at first impassively to Herries’ story and then with increasing distaste.

The picture that Herries painted made him sick - an actual regiment of British volunteers fighting on the Russian Front.
Alone in the stores room with Herries, Jackson would have gladly put a bullet through the traitor’s head but for the startling information he was holding.

Herries, made to stand in the corner of the dim room with only his trousers on, was shivering convulsively.
He was clearly ill, but Jackson felt no compassion.

“I don’t have the authority to grant what you ask, but even if I had, why should I believe you?”
Jackson asked with a sneer.
‘The fact that your Reich is on its last knees obviously would not have escaped your attention, so you came up with this incredible tale to save your stinking neck.”

Herries clutched his bare chest with his arms, trying to warm himself against the cold and damp of the room.
His words came between intermittent sobs and shivers.

“Colonel, why the hell should I give myself up to you, right out of the blue, when I could have taken off to Turkey, or Switzerland, or any other fucking place you care to think of where there aren’t British, American or Russian troops to hunt me down?
I have come to you because I have information which you cannot afford to ignore, but I have put a price on that information.
It’s full immunity from prosecution or no deal.”

Jackson, who had listened to Herries whine for the best part of an hour, exploded with rage.

“How dare you talk to me of deals, you damned traitor!
If we want any information we can beat it out of you right now.”

Herries stepped forward into the light of the single lamp which hung from the ceiling.
He gave Jackson a wry smile.

“Do you really think I would have neatly memorized the plan just so that you could make me cough it up, Colonel?
You must be joking.
The original documents - giving names of participants, dates, times and so forth - are hidden in a very safe place just outside the town.
And you’d never find it in a month of Sundays, Jackson, so you can put that idea right out of your head.”

The Colonel took a step forward to strike Herries across the face.
Herries retreated back into the gloom of the corner.

“Colonel, you can’t beat the location of that hiding place out of me either.
You see, I’m going to die unless I get medical treatment for this dysentery very soon and any persuasive techniques used by your men are only going get me there a little quicker.
I really have nothing to lose by keeping my mouth shut under interrogation.”

Jackson reluctantly lowered his arm.
He would have to take guidance from General Styles.
He just hoped the general was in the mood to listen.
He turned on his heels, but Herries’ cracking voice made him pause by the door.

“Remember, Colonel, I want a signed affidavit of immunity before I tell you anything.
But you’d better hurry.
I can tell you that time’s running out.”

Jackson slammed the door behind him and called for the sentry.

Herries passed out, unable to fight the fatigue any longer.

* * * * * * * *

For a split second the reality of the door crashing open mingled with Herries’ tortured nightmare.
Dietz wasn’t dead; he had finally caught up with him.
Lights and noise exploded inside his exhausted mind.

Herries pressed his bare back against the damp wall in a vain effort to get away, but rough hands pulled at his body and dragged him to his feet.
He opened his eyes and squinted under the light of the lone lamp to see not Dietz, but Colonel Jackson before him.
Two soldiers gripped him tightly by the arms.

Jackson swiped Herries hard across the cheek with the back of his hand.

“You’d better wake up you little bastard, because you and I are going for a ride.”

The slap drove some of the fatigue from his body, the stinging sensation giving way to a dull throb at the point where Jackson’s signet ring had partially torn the soft flesh of his lower lip.
But it was not so much the pain as Jackson’s words which jolted Herries out of his exhaustion.

“I told you,” Herries croaked, “no signed affidavit, no deal.”

The soldiers’ grips tightened on his arms.
Jackson nodded at a third soldier whose fist crashed into Herries’ stomach, driving upwards into the base of his ribcage.

“I warned you, you traitor.
Don’t talk to me about deals.”

As Herries slumped, the soldiers let the body sink onto the floor.
Herries looked up at Jackson to see him holding up a piece of paper.

“You deserve more than that,” Jackson sneered, “but General Styles’ signature on this forbids me to treat you too roughly.”

“Give me that.”
The pain shot through Herries’ ribs as he grabbed desperately at the sheet of paper.
Clenching it with shaking hands, he saw the official stamp and the scrawled hand of General Styles.
It was what he needed.
It was his passport home.

Jackson waited till he could see Harries tasting immunity.
Then he pulled the paper from his grip.

“Oh no,” he said shaking his head at Herries.
“We need proof that what you’ve been garbling about for the past few hours is fact.
Then you can have your miserable reprieve.
Show us your evidence, Herries, if you can.”