Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (41 page)

None the less, he informed the
sleepy
voice at the other end of the phone that
‘
Se
ñ
or
Juan Flores, with regret, would not be able to join them until Saturday.
’

“Is that word for word?”

“Si, Señor.
The gentleman made me write it down.
”

“Thank you.”

Mayakov immediately roused his team on the basis of
t
his urgent instruction.
‘
Juan
’
was a confirmation of
the plan
,
as agreed with the Rezident
,
‘
Flores
’
being the imperative of a strike this very morning
.
‘
Saturday
’
referred to the next contact, which would be made at the safe house
arranged by the local NKVD station.

‘With Regret’ meant at all costs, the sort of order old men give younger men with monotonous regularity.

The receptionist continued reading the morning paper, still finding Senor Flores’ German accent laughable, despite its hideous strangulation of his mother tongue.

Upstairs, t
he six spent their time checking the
weapons
they had checked just a few hours before
, making breakfast
, and ensuring that each man knew his job for the
task
ahead. The plan was simple, as are all good plans, with altern
atives if required.

Their escape had been laid out by
Vaspatin,
the
NKVD
Rezident
, the same man who had
distributed cyanide capsules to each
of them
on the orders of
Moscow
.

By
062
5 hrs
,
the room had been cleaned thoroughly and the group was on its way down the stairs to their vehicles
,
and a rendezvous with
violent death
.

At 063
5 hrs
, two
shadowy figure
s
stole
into the hotel by
a
rear entrance and made
their
way up
to the recently vacated rooms.

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 the
ir
identities of
the Marqu
is 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 073
0 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 converge
nce 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 junct
ion of the Pardo al Goloso and t
he 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’ w
as
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 ar
my 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, th
e group’s other German by birth. A
cting according to the plan,
he
deflect
ed
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 d
isoriented as he was by the blow, he never reached it. A
studded b
oot 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 to
o
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 fo
r 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.”