Men of War (2013) (34 page)

“But
it doesn’t say anything about Orlov,” Karpov protested.

“No,
the book is very vague, but I found two other sources that give more details.
They were after Orlov. It was kept very secret, but I dug things up.”

“I’m
sure you did.”

“And
there’s more…” Fedorov now reached into his jacket pocket to play his last trump
card. He handed Karpov a folded piece of paper and the Captain took it slowly,
almost as if he was afraid of what he might see there. He opened it and read
silently, his features clearly reflecting the surprise and emotion he felt.

“Son
of a bitch,” he whispered. “Where did you find
this?”

Fedorov
just smiled.

Chapter 26

The
truck
made its way along the thin dirty track that passed for a road. Now
the passage of vehicles and people had widened it, trampling what little grass
had managed to scratch a living on its fringes. It growled past the wide
rolling vineyards, the vines still thick with ripening grapes that Orlov had
picked and sampled any time they stopped. The harvest was near, but this year
the wine would have to wait and molder on the vines. The peasants of Kizlyar
had all been rounded up, the men set to digging trenches on the western fringe
of the town, the women carrying wood and setting up encampments and cooking
sites to feed the weary soldiers that came in on the trucks.

Orlov
was one of them, jostling along with a small rifle squad until he gave the men
a warning frown and jumped off when the truck neared the outskirts of the town.
None of the men moved to follow him, and the truck rolled on.

Orlov
wanted to have a look around, noting the winding course of the Terek river to
the west of the hamlet. It stretched away to the north, lost amid the rolling
farmland, the vineyards and scatterings of trees that clung to the banks in
small groups. He could see the work parties digging there on the eastern bank,
building up a wall of earth and loose stone to hide gun positions. Some cut
trees which they laid out as obstacles for enemy tanks and vehicles, but there
was no sign of any fighting here yet.

He
saw a small stream that had been diverted from the main river to bring water in
to the town, and so he followed it lazily along the southern fringe of the
settlement until it bent north and led him in past a few hovels and weathered
barns. The sparse trees here still had leaves, though they were yellowing and
starting to fall. He passed an old man leaning heavily on a cane near a tall
stand of grape vines, then came to a deep trench dug across the road as a kind
of defensive barrier in front of an old red brick building. A plaintive red
flag was nailed to the door, and he took it to be an official building.

Molla,
he thought. Perhaps the bastard is hiding out here. He made for the building,
his hand in his pocket fingering the revolver he had taken from the NKVD
guards. The door opened with a dry squeak and his footfalls were heavy on the
bare wood floor.

Two
men were drinking at a plain table, and they turned to give him an unfriendly
look. “What is it?” A balding man with a thick neck spoke up, wiping his lip
with the back of a fat hand.

“Commissar
Molla?”

“Not
here,” said the man. “What’s your business?”

“I
have orders for the commissar.”

“Orders?”
The man gave him a toothless smile. “Orders he says,” this time he was nodding
to his companion, a scraggly officer with Lieutenant’s bars on his shoulder.
“Well Molla don’t take orders lightly.” The man laughed, his voice gritty, then
he coughed, clearing his throat before he spat on the floor.

Orlov
walked slowly across the room. “Where is he?” he said in a low voice. The edge
of a threat was plain for both men to hear, and the heavy set man gave him a
frown.

“I
says Molla don’t take orders, eh? He’s Commissar, or haven’t you heard. He
gives
orders, and you better get used to it. That shiny badge on your cap counts for
nothing up here.”

“Is
that so…” Orlov drew out his pistol, then slowly reached for the bottle the men
had been sharing with his other hand, looking it over. It was a brandy, well
noted in the region, and he raised the bottle to take a sip. The two men were
clearly not happy about it.

“Not
bad,” said Orlov. “Maybe I’ll keep it. But then again, maybe I’ll break it over
your thick skull.” He gave the fat man a murderous look. “I’ll ask you again.
Where is Molla?”

“Up
the road with the truck convoy,” the heavy man said quickly enough. “He’s up herding
the women, as always—one of Beria’s men. You heard of him, yes? Big boss man
Beria. You want Molla, then look for the trucks with the women. He’s usually
not far afield.” He gave Orlov a wide eyed look, watching him take another long
swallow from the brandy. Then the big Chief set the bottle down with a thump on
the table.

“Thank
you, Comrades,” and he walked out the way he came.

An
hour later he came to a long line of the trucks pulled off the side of the road
leading north from the town. Men were carrying boxes of food and drink from old
buildings and warehouses along the side of the road. Inside, he could see
women, young and old, huddled in the shadows, and he realized he might find his
grandmother here.

Orlov
stuck his head into the yawning opening of the first truck. “Anya
Kanina
?” He puckered his eyes, staring at the sallow faces
of the women where they sat on the plan flat wood bed of the truck. The fear in
their eyes was plain to see, but no one spoke a word. “I am looking for Anya
Kanina
? Has anyone seen her?” Silence was his only answer,
so he moved up the line to the next truck, getting much the same response.

Five
trucks on he saw a woman shrink a little deeper into the shadows when he called
out the name, and his heart beat faster. Could it be her? He leaned in, staring
into the shadows to get a better look at the woman, noting her youth, the long
blonde hair that his grandpa always talked about.
“Oh, your grandma was a
real beauty, Gennadi. Her hair was like gold silk…”

His
excitement and relief brought a broad smile to his face, and his impulse was to
jump into the truck and go embrace the woman. Yet she was obviously afraid,
shirking away from his gaze and huddling deeper. “Anya
Kanina
?”
he said jubilantly.

“Leave
her alone,” an old gray haired crone put her scrawny arms about the woman
protectively. “Hasn’t she suffered enough? Tell the Commissar to find someone
else this time, the bastard. Yes! Shoot me if you wish, but you’ll not hurt
this poor girl again. You’ll have to drag my dead bones out of here first.
Leave her alone!”

Orlov
felt a surge of anger when he heard the woman speak. The Commissar…That bastard
Molla!
Sookin
syn
!
He turned abruptly, eyes set, jaw tight, his hand stiff in his NKVD jacket
pocket. Then he strode away towards the old warehouse where the men were
sorting through a supply cache, a dark light in his eyes.

“You!
What are you doing?” The stranger’s voice was sharp and demanding. There were
six men in dark trench coats and black Ushankas, their PPS submachine guns
hanging from their broad shoulders on thin leather straps.

“Commissar
Molla?” Orlov got right to the heart of the matter.

“Who
wants to know?”

Orlov
stepped up to the group, his heart still pounding, his excitement in finding
his grandmother now a barely controlled anger in his chest. “Orders for the
Commissar,” he said, eying the men with a frown.

“I’ll
take them.”

Orlov
saw the woven gold and white on red felt of an NKVD officer’s badge on the
man’s sleeve, a colonel from the insignia on his hat, and the man was looking
him over from head to foot.

“You
are Commissar Molla?” Orlov’s finger moved to the trigger of the pistol in his
jacket pocket, and two of the other men now seemed tensely alert. He knew if he
fired and killed this man he was a dead man himself, but he did not care.

“Molla
is down the road. If you have orders for him, give them to me. I’ll see that he
gets them.”

Orlov
shook his head. “Sorry comrade Colonel, I was told to speak directly to the
Commissar. Where is he, please?”

The
colonel did not like that. He was a man accustomed to seeing other men do
exactly what he told them, and without any lip or hesitation. He was, as the
fat man in the red brick building had hinted, one of Beria’s men. Lavrentiy
Beria was the notorious head of the state security apparatus, and he had some
very vile habits that often saw him send men out to sweep the villages for
young pretty women, particularly when he was near his old homeland in the
Caucasus as he was now. The colonel put his hands on his hips and squared off
to Orlov, anger evident on his face.

“Did
you hear me, Captain?”

Orlov
noted the leather straps crossed on the man’s chest, the prominent collar
boards, thick black belt with a gold star in a square buckle, flared pant legs
above black leather boots. Another damn officer, he thought, his hand
tightening on the revolver.

* * *

Haselden
squinted through his field glasses and saw the group of NKVD men taking to
another tall man, and something did not seem right to his well trained eye. The
group was tense, one man in the back was pointing a sleek submachine gun at the
newcomer. Something was wrong here. He peered through the glasses, adjusting
the focus and thinking that this might be their man. He stood a head above the
others, and his uniform was different. Clearly he was not like the other NKVD
men they had been watching near the warehouse from their well concealed cover
blind.

“Damn,
Sutherland. Have a look at this. Could that be our man?”

Sutherland
took the field glasses, careful to note the sun so the lenses would not catch
the light. He took a long look and sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he
said. “He’s too far away to get a good look at him.”

“But
the whole scene looks suspicious. Looks like trouble.”

Their
conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a church bell ringing out
a warning in the town. Sutherland pivoted slightly, re-focusing on the distant
river to the west. “Well, well, well… Looks like we’ve got company.”

Even
as they finished they heard the distant, mournful mutter of machine gun fire,
and then the high whistling fall of an incoming round. There was an explosion
near the river, a little south of the main town site, then another and another.

Haselden
knew the sound of those rounds. They were coming in from an 8-cm
schwere
Granatwerfer
34 German
mortar. The weapon earned a fierce reputation for its good range, accuracy and
rate of fire during the war, though this was more likely due to the expertise
of the men who used it. Haselden could see that these were simple covering fire
rounds, getting the range as much as anything else, though those machine guns
had to be firing at something.

“Looks
like Jerry is crashing the party,” said Sutherland.

“It
certainly does,” Haselden returned, steely eyed.

As
the first rounds came in the group of NKVD men acted quickly. Three had their
weapons trained on Orlov and he was hustled up into the back of a truck.
Haselden had to think quickly. “Look, Davey, if that’s our man he’ll be out of
town and heading north on a truck if we don’t move now.” His sibilant whisper
conveyed the urgency of the moment as he reached for his STEN gun.

“Well
we didn’t come all this way for nothing,” said Sutherland firmly. “Let’s get on
with it then.” He looked over his shoulder, flashing a hand signal to Sergeant
Terry, who was quickly mounting a round on the nose of his PIAT and slapping
home a C-clip cartridge on to top of the Bren Light Machinegun he was manning.
The Sergeant was their fire support man, and on Sutherland’s signal he opened
up on the front of truck with the LMG in a series of brisk, short bursts.

Haselden
and Sutherland were up and running in a low crouch, closing on the back side of
the warehouse. There was shouting, men running out of every door in the old
building, weapons ready, and over it all came the whine of more German mortar
rounds and now the distant growl of an armored car.

The
two commandos fell in behind some cover, with Sutherland rolling to one side and
already laying down covering fire. The NKVD men scattered, jumping behind any
cover they could find and Haselden was up and running. He reached the warehouse
and tossed a flash-bang grenade through the wide open door, then ran north
along the back of the building.

Sutherland
was starting to take return fire in crisp, burps from the Russian submachine
guns. Now Sergeant Terry swiveled his Bren to the left and barked out a return,
forcing the black Ushankas to go to ground. Sutherland was immediately up and
running in towards Haselden’s position. Smoke was coming from the open back
warehouse door, and now Haselden tossed another flash-bang around the corner of
the building. He was very near the truck, but heard the engine thrum and saw
the vehicle starting to move. He looked back at Sergeant Terry and flashed him
a quick hand signal. Terry had the PIAT up in a second and the sharp pop of the
round firing bit the air. The warhead struck the front right door of the truck
and exploded like thunder. The vehicle rocked with the blow and a fire started.

Now
Haselden was around the edge of the warehouse, STEN gun at the ready, and
firing as he went. Sutherland was right on his heels as they leapt for the back
of the truck. Haselden reached it first, peering into the back through the
thickening smoke. It was empty, and his eye soon saw why. The canvass top near
the front cabin had been torn back and was dangling loosely in the smoky
breeze. Obviously the men who had scrambled inside had dislodged the canvas and
slipped out when Terry’s Bren gun first bit into the steel of the engine
cowling. He swore under his breath, then wheeled on his team mate, his arm
stiffly pointing down the line of trucks.