Get Lenin (24 page)

He put his feelings to one side and turned to Kravchenko. He started speaking fluent Russian, making him feel welcome, commending him on his escape.

Chainbridge watched, appraising the Russian as a commando was cleaning and dressing his hand. Could he be persuaded to join them? Being a NKVD Internal Elite officer meant he was hand-picked by Stalin, implying he had some insight to the man. De Witte, Chainbridge and members of British Intelligence had suggested they themselves keep Lenin. Churchill wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We are not grave robbers, sirs!’ he had barked.

The point was moot as Stalin couldn’t be found and The Politburo was scattered throughout Russia. With no-one to threaten, Churchill had called the sarcophagus ‘a Nazi pig-in-a-poke’.

Brandt sipped the piping-hot beef tea and chewed cold hard bread, sizing up the situation. He made eye contact with Kravchenko who nodded slightly in understanding. He checked his watch. It was 13.00hrs. The flying boat would’ve been in the Gulf of Finland for over three hours now.

The window was closing to catch Kincaid. Time was also running out for Eva. He was impatient to do something. He looked around to this unit. Olga stayed close to Kant, a heavy blanket wrapped around her small frame, eyeing the American plane in terror.

The commandos and Germans stood smoking, speaking in broken English, using hand gestures for emphasis. They were beginning to relax in each other’s company, grateful not to be facing one another in combat.

Fletchmore was tall, soft-spoken and rake-thin to the point his uniform appeared oversized. His eyes were deep-set and brown beneath ginger beetled-brows. A razor-thin mouth was lifted by a full moustache. Brandt assumed he was a Sandhurst graduate, his deep tan suggesting he had been posted in foreign climes. Fletchmore in turn had skimmed Brandt’s file and viewed him as an equal.

The problem was three-fold: finding the flying boat, getting close enough to disable it and then to storm it. Then the U-Boat; she wasn’t on any intelligence file anywhere, a prototype that had slipped through. No-one knew where she had departed from or where she was heading. The Enigma code had yet to be broken and, until it was, they had no way of tracking her.

One of Fletchmore’s men had a large radio strapped to his back. It crackled into life. Fletchmore was over in three strides. The soldier handed him the headset. Fletchmore stared ahead in concentration. It was a single codeword, ‘Bootleg’. He handed it back with a curt nod. ‘Captains Brandt, Kravchenko, we’ve found the bugger. She’s off the Island of Suomenlinna.’

De Witte’s heart jumped at the thought of hearing Eva's voice and the touch of her skin again.

Chainbridge smiled at the stroke of good fortune and turned to the American aircrew. ‘Can you get us over there without being spotted?’

The crewmen grinned back. The pilot, popping gum in his mouth, said ‘Just point us in the direction you want to go, sir!’

‘
Great,’ mumbled Kant, lighting up one of Kravchenko’s cigarettes from his stub. He was beginning to acquire a taste for them along with Olga’s lichen tea. He met the eyes of his men. They all had the same look; the look of foot soldiers in a situation beyond their control.

Chainbridge and De Witte couldn’t shake the feeling that their luck was about to change, that they were all stepping into the firing line. Brandt and Kramer had briefly discussed defecting to Switzerland with the two men. Neither Chainbridge nor De Witte had made a commitment, merely saying they would pass on the request.

Bader piped up. ‘Sarge, what’s plan B?’

Kant looked to Brandt for feedback. He got a slight shrug as a response. ‘The same as ever, Bader, there isn’t one,’ Bader re-checked his machine gun, finished his last cigarette and made his way to the plane.

Kramer caught Brandt’s attention and summoned him over. ‘Captain, I know that man.’ He was staring at De Witte. ‘I saw him in Barcelona in ’37. He was keeping tabs on a fellow comrade in my unit, George Orwell. I remember him because he was blind and travelling as a writer or journalist.’

‘
Did you catch a name?’ Brandt studied De Witte as he headed back to a waiting car. This was getting messy with spies - as if it could get any messier.

‘
Mr. White I think, Witte maybe,’ Kramer replied. ‘He haunted The Plaza España.’

‘
Stay alert, Kramer. We have to make every move count in our favour.’ Kramer grinned ruefully and nodded. ‘As always, sir,’

Fletchmore strode toward them, and motioning toward his commandos said in a clipped tone, ‘We need to pick up some equipment first and rendezvous with my remaining men.’

A disused barn nearby had been requisitioned for equipment and ammunition. Ropes, harnesses and abseiling paraphernalia, along with Finnish Navy dinghies fitted with Seagull outboard engines, were loaded up. The next issue was uniforms. They couldn’t have any rank or insignias on display. For the third time in thirty-six hours, Brandt changed uniform; this time it was Finnish army clothing.

Kravechenko’s soiled and blood-stained clothes felt cheap and shoddy once he had dressed into the new clothing. His hand was throbbing under the clean dressing and the beef tea had refreshed him. What they all needed badly was sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen just yet. Exhaustion meant his reflexes would slow and he was gambling on adrenalin to push him through. They boarded the American transport and within minutes were skimming feet above the choppy waters to the large fortified island, the starboard engine sputtering a smoke trail like a kite’s ribbon.

Chainbridge and De Witte headed back to Helsinki, deep in thought in the back of the embassy car.

* * *

U-806’s top deck had opened out, revealing a wide yellow maw. Two telescopic cranes mounted at either end of the doors swung out with a metal basket between their arms. The submarine was alongside the flying boat in an isolated cove. The current was strong, making alignment difficult.

The cranes were cranked manually, extending into the opened side of the aircraft. The crew, with the exception of the pilots and radio operator, reached out and guided in the basket. They were being tossed about and balance was near impossible. With a screech of soles on wet metal, some slipped on the floor. The danger was if someone fell into the water they’d be crushed between the vessels or die from hypothermia within minutes. This was the third attempt and the weather was deteriorating. The swell was becoming choppy and grey clouds drew closer, threatening rain.

Kincaid was prowling, shouting, berating and urging the crews to load the coffin. Ahtisaans shouted below to start the engines on a slow rotation as the U-Boat was swinging away from the flying boat and in danger of shearing off its pontoon below the wing.

He couldn’t shake the thought that this should’ve been loaded from a harbour in shallower water. The clown with the camera kept shouting and trying to capture the whole thing on film, panning the camera on a tripod and trying to keep his balance. The U-Boat throbbed below the waterline as her engines began a slow rotation. The helm made incremental adjustments, bringing the bow closer in toward the open hold. With shouts, waves and then a few thumbs-up, the sarcophagus was loaded into the basket. Two U-Boat crewmen crawled over the arms and reached down at the end, fastening the sarcophagus securely.

The process of winding in the arms began. Lenin plummeted briefly before being hoisted upward, to everyone’s relief. Crewmen with grappling hooks latched onto the sarcophagus and hauled it in over the open doors. Waves surged over the decks and spilled into the hold as Ahtisaans reversed the U-Boat out from under the flying boat’s wing. The whole operation had taken nearly three hours.

Zbarsky and Eva watched the operation from the lounge. They couldn’t escape but had discussed in whispers their options. They counted ten of Kincaid’s personal staff, excluding the pilots and radio operator. In addition there were four S.S. storm-troopers who were on edge, leaderless after Schenker’s death. Two were guarding the open hold entrance, the other two guarding the body stored in the galley freezer. Kincaid had taken charge and they were happy to follow orders.

Whilst they were being well treated, Eva began to notice an atmosphere toward her and Zbarsky’s team. The unspoken question was simple – were they going to be allowed to board the U-Boat?

* * *

Olga was sixteen when she had killed her first Russian. Local villagers were being rounded up for deportation to Kazakhstan on one of Stalin’s whims. She, her grandfather and his bandits had attacked a NKVD patrol on horseback. The bandits were skilled riflemen and their ponies small and agile, allowing them to turn around tightly. The unsuspecting soldiers had been killed in seconds, unprepared for such an attack. Olga’s pony seemed to follow her thoughts, slaloming around rocks and bushes, responding to Olga’s heels.

Now on the prow of a dinghy, she was lining up the flying boat’s cockpit through her telescopic sight on the side opposite to the U-Boat. She thought back to that day and the movements of her pony. Pressing her legs tighter against the sides, she made herself as taut as possible as the plane loomed closer. It was an immense wall of white metal. The waves were cold as they came over the side. The Commandos with Kant were sitting behind her, Kant aiming his heavy machine gun at the cockpit also.

Once she was in range, she squeezed the trigger. The cockpit window shattered. The form of the pilot slumped forward. She fired again; missing the second pilot with the shot, paused, then caught him with the next one. He spun away before pitching forward off the flight deck. Olga grinned back at Kant, who tipped her a wink.

‘
Now the fun begins!’ he shouted, as faces appeared at the windows below. The flying boat began to drift, its immense blades ticking over slowly. Kant opened fire and the cockpit’s framework shattered, sending shards of glass spilling into the sea. The Liberty Belle was now adrift, the U-Boat appearing on the far side of its vast wing.

In the second dinghy, Brandt and Fletchmore were shooting at the aircraft's engine housings. Black smoke began to billow from the cockpit and engines. Brandt watched the U-Boat as the crew loaded the sarcophagus into the hold.

The third dinghy was heading to the U-Boat. The commandos, led by Kravchenko and Bader, began firing at the crew on deck. Men started falling into the water as Ahtisaans reversed the boat clear of the drifting behemoth. The U-Boat’s gun was trained on the wildly pitching dinghy and plumes of spray soaked the commandos as it opened fire. Brandt, using hand signals, ordered Olga and Kant’s dinghy to the U-Boat to assist Kravchenko.

‘
Looks like we’re taking the flying boat, chaps!’ shouted Fletchmore to his commandos. Sea salt covered their features and peppered Fletchmore’s moustache as his face creased into a smile.

The wind and spray had given Brandt and Hauptmann the wake-up they needed. They were close to thirty-six hours now without sleep. As the dinghy was steered closer, Brandt and Hauptmann fired grappling hooks and lines from hand-held launchers onto the vast wings.

Once they found purchase, the outboard engine was shut down, and Brandt and Hauptman clambered up quickly hand-over-hand.

Kincaid stared in total disbelief. This is not how it was supposed to end! His pilots lay crumpled on the floor of the cockpit, dead. The instrument panels and joy sticks, rendered useless from machine-gun fire, smouldered and sparked. The radio operator had dived clear into the lounge below but was wounded and bleeding heavily on the polished floor having managed to dispatch a mayday to Berlin. Looking out at the wings through the windows, Kincaid could see the engines on both sides smouldering and leaking fuel.

Shots were ringing out below, echoing around the plane’s interior. He dashed to the other side and could see U-806 swinging slowly out into deeper water with the dinghies zipping around it. Crewmen were scrambling below and the two heavy hold doors were closing slowly. This was Kincaid’s only chance of escape and it was sailing away from him.

Regan appeared up the gangway from below. He had a deep gash across his face and was clutching a machine gun.

‘
Where’s Zbarsky and the girl?’ Kincaid barked. He was looking around, trying to come up with a plan. He needed to get to the U-Boat and the only way now was one of those dinghies.

‘
Below in the lounge,’ Regan said, reaching for a crystal decanter and pouring a generous finger of whiskey which he downed in one.

‘
Get them.’

Regan headed below. Gunfire and ricochets echoed and seemed to be getting closer. The hold where Lenin had been loaded was over-run. Commandos had killed the two S.S. guards and Kincaid’s men were pinned down.

Regan appeared with Eva and Zbarsky ahead of him. Eva still had her big coat on and Zbarsky looked visibly shaken from the battle going on below. Kincaid grabbed Eva by the throat, his grip almost causing her to faint. Regan shoved Zbarsky into an aisle seat and pointed the machine gun into his face.