Angel, Archangel (15 page)

Dietz was grateful for the opportunity to rest up.
He must have marched thirty kilometres in the past two days.
From what Herries had said at the camp they must be approaching their own lines by now.
It was another fifteen kilometres to the front, maybe less.
Judging the points of the compass from the position of the sun, he calculated that Herries would be heading north and east, which would mean following the road that lay before him off to the right.
He reckoned that it would pay to stick to the forest, on account of the occasional Russian convoy that used the road, but if Herries had any sense, he would keep the road in sight as a permanent navigational reference point.

Where was Herries?

Dietz resolved to wait for one more hour, before searching for Herries’ tracks on the other side of the road.
But he was still convinced that Herries was on this side.
It was a gut feeling, but his instinct had served him right when he had called on it before.

The sound of a vehicle approaching from the front caught his ear.
He picked it up several hundred metres away on the long, straight highway.
It was a jeep moving at speed, its bright red star clearly visible on the bonnet.
Dietz hugged the ground a little closer and merged with the grass and the bushes.

The open-topped vehicle passed so close that Dietz was able to distinguish the lone occupant as a lieutenant from the silver flashes that twinkled on his epaulettes.
His bored expression reflected the tedium of driving along the straight flat roads that crossed the great Czechoslovak plain that lay beneath the mountains.
The German twitched at the opportunity he was missing; an officer riding alone in a jeep without escort was a rare sight that close to the front.
But to expose his position now would be to alert Herries, and the Englishman came before all Russians.

He watched as the vehicle shrank into the distance.
It was well over five hundred metres from him when he saw its brake lights sparkle and then glow red.
Two pinpoints of light at the extremity of his vision.

Then he heard the shot.

Dietz was on his feet and running for the jeep while the single report was still echoing off” the mountain.

* * * * * * * *

Malenkoy was satisfied that the construction side of the maskirovka was all but complete.
There was just time to finish it before the operation entered the new phase tomorrow.
Nerchenko had seemed especially eager for him to start adding the final master-touches during their meeting earlier that morning and Malenkoy had been in no position to argue.
If he had had the power of veto, he would have advised holding back on the bogus radio transmissions for a few more days, but Nerchenko had seemed anxious for activities to be stepped up now.
And no one argued with General Nerchenko.

By tomorrow evening, if German aerial reconnaissance pictures hadn’t already shown it, the intensive radio traffic that Malenkoy would supervise would make the Nazis really believe that Chrudim was brimming with Soviet armour just waiting to roll towards Berlin.

Deception and disinformation; that was Malenkoy’s trade.
Instead of putting his skills to good use in this area, he had been made to hunt SS diehards for a day and a night in a cold, wet and threatening forest.
The experience still made him feel jumpy.

He needed a drink and knew just where to find one.

Sergeant Sheverev was exactly where Malenkoy expected him to be.
As he entered the vehicle maintenance park, he could hear the burly starshina bellowing at an unfortunate private who had mislaid one of Sheverev’s precious spanners.
The private explained that he had put the tool down for a second beside the lorry he had been working on and the next time he looked, it had gone.
It was now probably exchanging hands on the black market for local wine or brandy, Malenkoy thought.

Sheverev looked over the private’s shoulder and caught Malenkoy’s eye.
He sent the private back to work on his mechanical charge.
The private passed Malenkoy, relief etched on his face that he had escaped so lightly.
Sheverev was not known for his leniency in the maintenance park.

“Comrade Major, to what do I owe the pleasure?
No, don’t tell me.
I can guess.”
Sheverev let out a long throaty laugh, his bear-like frame heaving with every intake of breath.

“Quiet, Oleg Andreyovich, and give me a drink.
Vodka is what I feel like, so please, none of that local wine which does such terrible things to my stomach.”
Malenkoy gave him a pained expression.

“To please our new hero, the Major, would be an honour.”
Sheverev bowed to Malenkoy in mock reverence and disappeared behind one of his trucks.

Sheverev was Malenkoy’s best ally in Chrudim.
Malenkoy had tacitly agreed to turn a blind eye to Sheverev’s racketeering on the understanding that he could use the sergeant’s tools and resources when he needed them.
Sheverev also kept his Major happy with a liberal supply of vodka whenever Malenkoy felt like a drink.
There was one other advantage of keeping in with the sergeant; he knew all the gossip there was to be had in the sector.

He re-emerged carrying a bottle and two dirty metal cups.
Sheverev poured a good measure into each container and handed one to Malenkoy.

“To you, Comrade Major,” he said raising his cup.
“A damn good engineer and scourge of SS terrorists to boot.
Nastrovya.”
He knocked back half the contents.

“Spare me the compliments, Oleg Andreyovich,” Malenkoy said, yawning.
“I only co-ordinated the hunt because the fuckers were in my sector and ruining our little game here.
It was really the Siberians who found them.”

“The Siberians .
.
.
yes, I knew that actually,” Sheverev said shaking his head slowly.
“Those sons of bitches have had a busy week.”

Malenkoy took another swig of the throat-burning vodka.
Already he felt his body relaxing.
Soon the maskirovka would be finished and then perhaps he could apply for some leave.
He was hardly listening to the old gossip.

“Busy?”
Malenkoy felt he had to humour the other man.
He didn’t want the vodka supply to dry up.
“Busy doing what?”

Sheverev leant forward.
Malenkoy could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Well, a sergeant friend of mine who looks after a bunch of Siberians over in Branodz told me that our good friend, Comrade General Nerchenko, commissioned his platoon to track down a major from headquarters who took a jeep and an armoured car for escort and deserted, just like that.”
The starshina whistled through his teeth.
“I mean what would make a man run away like that?
It was a nice comfortable job being aide-de-camp to the general.”

Malenkoy stiffened.

“You don’t mean Major Paliev?”

“Yes, Paliev, that was him.”
Sheverev nodded.

“Oleg Andreyovich, Paliev didn’t desert, he was ambushed on official business for the general.
He was killed by the SS insurgents we found up on the mountain.
We found his papers on one of the bodies.”

“Well that may be, Comrade Major,” Sheverev said, slurring his words, “but Nerchenko told my friend and his Siberians to kill your Major Paliev when they caught up with him.
Nerchenko must have really hated this Paliev.
He ordered them to burn the body, the jeep, everything.
Only deserters get that sort of treatment.”

Malenkoy stopped drinking.
He thought of Yuri.
He saw the headless body at the Freikorps’ camp.
He saw Nerchenko’s face drain of its colour when he told him that it was the SS who had killed Paliev.
Yet he’d wanted Paliev dead all along.
It just didn’t add up.

Sheverev continued to drone on.

Malenkoy looked intently at him and put his finger to his lips.

Sheverev looked affronted.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.
I’ve got to go.”

“So suddenly?”

“Yes.”

Malenkoy walked off, but stopped after a few paces.
He turned to Sheverev.

“You should watch your mouth, Oleg Andreyovich.
One day you might get it shot off.”

Sheverev shrugged.

“Me?
No chance.
I’m a survivor.
Like you, Comrade Major.
We use our heads.
We’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

* * * * * * * *

Herries had forgotten to put his MP40 on automatic, but it did not matter.
The single shot killed the Russian instantly.

The plan had worked perfectly, but he had had to wait a good two hours before the right opportunity presented itself.
He had first spotted the jeep and the lone occupant through his Zeisses at a range of several hundred metres.
When it reached a dip in the road, Herries jumped from behind his cover and lay down beside the crumbling edge of the concrete highway.

For an agonizing few seconds, he had thought the Ivan was not going to stop, then he heard the whine of the engine as the gears slowed the jeep’s speed and he held his breath, his thumping heart almost blocking out the sound of the approaching vehicle.
Before the occupant had time to get out of the car and remove his pistol from its holster, Herries had the gun trained on his chest.
One shot, and it was all over.
The young officer’s surprise was etched on his now lifeless face, showing the traces of those last emotions - anger at being duped, agony that it should all end this way.

Herries scrambled up to the jeep and inspected his work.
Playing dead had been a desperate ploy, but he couldn’t go any further on foot.
His stomach felt as if it was being pulled inside out by the dysentery.
Had he not reached the road at that precise instant, he would have collapsed in the forest and elected to stay and die there.

Herries was relieved to see that over one of the jeep’s rear seats was an officer’s greatcoat.
It would cover up the bloodstain that was now spreading over the man’s tunic with the rapidity of ink on blotting paper.
He had to get the uniform off him, but it was too dangerous to do it in that exposed place.
Better to drive further along the road and swing off into the trees, where he would have time to change into the Russian’s clothes and dispose of the body.

He pushed the corpse onto the passenger seat and cast a quick glance around to familiarize himself with the controls.
The ignition caught the engine straight away and first gear engaged with no difficulty, but he lifted the clutch pedal up too quickly and the jeep hopped forward with such a jolt as it stalled that Herries was thrown back in his seat.

At that precise moment, Dietz, a hundred metres behind, fired.

The bullet hit the frame around the windscreen and whined off into the trees.
Herries saw the point of impact out of the corner of his eye.

Then he saw the movement reflected in the windshield.

He already knew who it was before he spun round and saw the massive frame of Dietz pounding down the road towards him.
It took two seconds for Herries to make a choice between turning to face his sergeant with a machine pistol on single shot or trying to restart the jeep.
His dithering took Dietz fifteen metres closer.
Herries made his choice, but his reactions were dulled by the sickening panic that caused the blood to pound in his head.
His eyes raced over the dashboard.
Where was the fucking ignition key?
His fingers groped around the base of the steering column until he felt the angular edges of the key.
He turned it and the engine coughed and died.
In the mirror he could see Dietz, very close now, raising his rifle to his shoulder for a second shot on the run.
He turned the key again.

The vehicle hopped a foot and stalled.
The limp body of the Russian slumped forward onto his lap.
Shit!
He had left the bloody gear in first.
Herries’ mind was numb now to anything that was going on outside the jeep.
The blood rushing in his head made his eardrums feel as if they would explode, while everything on the periphery of his sight greyed out until he was left with a narrow tunnel of vision whose only point of focus was the ignition key.
He did not even hear the report from Dietz’s next shot, nor the bullet that screamed past his head by inches.

Dietz knew that he had Herries.
He pounded his legs along the pot-holed surface of the road with all his strength over the final twenty yards to the jeep.