Get Lenin (12 page)

Metzger was covered in blood, his men also. They had a sweaty high coming off them; they were all panting like hounds. Schenker retched onto the floor and onto his highly polished boots.

Metzger looked at him in disdain. ‘Christ, Schenker, pull yourself together.’

He picked up Schenker’s Luger and handed it to one of the younger men. The soldier looked at it in puzzlement until Metzger, reaching down, picked up the carving knife on the floor and plunged it to the hilt into the soldier’s chest. Pulling the stunned man closer onto the blade, he twisted it repeatedly, then threw the soldier onto the floor. The rest of the men stood stunned.

Metzger turned to them. ‘He will receive a funeral you could only dream of. He will join the great fallen German soldiers who are about the shed their life’s blood for the Reich. Remember him well, gentlemen. He is a hero.’

He then pulled documentation from his tunic, drenched in blood, and checked the photograph on it. Satisfied that it matched the man he had just stabbed, he placed the documents into the dying soldier’s tunic.

They headed out into the courtyard.

Metzger turned to Schenker. ‘Torch the outbuildings, leave the farmhouse standing.’ Schenker, recovering his composure, saluted straight-armed. Metzger spoke slowly, ‘Leave the farmhouse standing.’ Metzger prayed this idiot wouldn’t be drafted to his units when the battles proper started.

The following morning, the local constabulary made their way between the ravaged farms. Lowe’s farm was the worst the district investigator had ever had to deal with. His men were traumatised and stood in huddles in the courtyard smoking and whispering.

The dogs had had their throats cut and had been eviscerated with some kind of large knife. Their entrails were strewn around the yard. The farmer’s body had been dumped in the well; he was like a rag doll as they hoisted him up onto the ground. The outer buildings had been burnt down, the livestock slaughtered with automatic weapons. Spent casings lay scattered everywhere.

The girls loft though was nothing like anything they had ever seen. The pathologist arrived with his team from Berlin, then the Gestapo, police and representatives of the Führer, followed by the press. Cars began to block up the roadway, interfering with the investigation.

Then officials from the Propaganda Ministry arrived.

Whatever evidence was around was now utterly contaminated as film cameras were set up and mounted, and Gestapo operatives took photographs.

The investigator saluted the Gestapo plain clothes officers smartly. It was an honour to have these men come all the way from Berlin. He led the two men into the kitchen. Tables and chairs lay overturned and there, in the middle of the room, the immense bulk of Gertrude lay. Beside her lay a man with a carving knife buried up to its hilt in his chest. The man was wearing a Polish Officer’s uniform. Documentation showed he was Polish Army.

‘
Looks like the old bird got one,’ said the investigator, lighting up a cigarette. It killed the smell, but only just.

The Gestapo men looked around, taking everything in. Two SS stepped in and stood alongside them, summoning the investigator over. He stood, slightly stooped, fidgeting with his hat, clearly out of his depth.

‘
Thank you for your assistance and prompt request for us. We will handle this awful incident from here on. Please submit all your findings directly to me,’

The investigator was handed a card listing the address as Himmler’s headquarters in Berlin. They saluted and the investigator responded after a pause. He hadn’t contacted any Gestapo; he'd only got the call himself a few hours earlier.

The Polish Ambassador to Germany, Jozeph Lipski, re-read Von Ribbentrop’s communiqué. After initial diplomatic success and high level discussions with the Axis powers, Lipski was now completely isolated. For months he had been trying to meet Von Ribbentrop face-to-face, only to be rebuffed at every diplomatic level, the same with Molotov in Moscow. Both nations were behaving as if his country didn’t even exist. The Italians had promised to assist, but so far nothing from them either. The British and French were making enquiries on Poland’s behalf with equally limited success. Every newspaper, newsreel and radio broadcast reported on Molotov, Von Ribbentropp, Chamberlain, Mussolini and Hitler ad nauseum. Lipski occasionally appeared in newsreels, receiving column inches in the newspapers, but was never mentioned in the film commentaries.

The Polish government, fearful of Germany regaining territories ceded after Versailles, had despatched cavalry columns to the disputed regions. Horse cavalry and bicycle-mounted troops, bows and arrows against the coming lightening.

The country was put on a war footing and had its embassies in friendly countries discreetly looking for assurances of support. The communiqué in Lipski’s hand was stamped ‘strictly confidential’. Polish Special Forces had been caught slipping over the border and attacking peaceful neighbouring German farms. He skimmed through the rhetoric to the final sentence which stated, ‘Any further attacks will be considered a hostile act of a nation state and will be dealt with accordingly.’ Attached were facsimiles of identity documents found on a dead Polish officer, killed during an attack on a farm. With the communiqués was a package containing film footage and forensic photographs taken at the Lowe farm by the Propaganda Ministry,

Lipski watched them in revulsion. As a footnote, the ammunition retrieved was from British-issue machine guns. Were British commandos operating with these men? Was Poland deliberately precipitating a crisis in the hope of dragging England into an avoidable conflict? Lipski began making a series of phone calls. The first was to the Polish Army Command. Who the hell was this man whose the identity papers had were being cited?

In London, Chainbridge, Liddell and Kell reviewed the recent dispatches with a sense of impending doom. The Polish army attacking peaceful German villagers with British supplied weapons, Thompson M1928s to be precise, according to the dispatch lying on the table in front of them. Also, a communications tower in Germany had been attacked by Polish special Special Forces, though verification was sketchy.

The German High Command was preparing a dossier. According to the embassy in Warsaw, German tanks and heavy Panzer divisions had been spotted moving toward the Polish border. The German war machine was now springing into life despite reassurances to the contrary from Von Ribbbentropp and Hitler. They were being deployed to specific regions to protect the Germans living close to the Polish border, Berlin was now telling the world.

‘
Panzers, motorised divisions and Luftwaffe support to protect a couple of dairy farmers, that doesn't quite add up,’ observed Kell dryly.

The room was heavy with cigarette smoke and, beyond, a beautiful summer’s day tried vainly to get through the window pane. There was nothing from the Moscow bureau about any evacuation plan, though armament production was shifting up a gear.

Lipski had sent several ‘eyes only’ level messages concerning the German accusations to the governments of England and France. There had been absolutely no Polish forces anywhere near the German border, but now they were mobilising army and cavalry units in response to Germany’s manoeuvres. The German’s weren’t responding at all, a wall of silence descending around Berlin.

Chainbridge peered over the edge of his glasses. ‘It appears, Gentlemen, we are on the brink of war.’

‘
Hitler’s a master of brinkmanship,’ countered Kell, the unease carrying through his voice as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

‘
Could be sabre-rattling, looking for more concessions. It’s the Foreign Office and our French counterparts' desire that we keep Hitler and Stalin at each other’s throats. The Foreign Office believes that Hitler will more than likely strike east, whatever pact those two lunatics have struck,’

Chainbridge held his gaze, ‘Hitler wants a war, it’s as simple as that, and he sees us as the biggest threat to his ambitions. We’ve committed to defending Poland, should he invade. He’s going to invade.’

‘
Stalin?’ Kell toyed absently with his glasses as he spoke and continued sipping the cold dregs from the tea cup. The room began to feel stifling in the summer heat.

‘
Poland is about to become the first acquisition of Russia’s ‘Near abroad’. Stalin’s keen to start expanding the revolution.’ De Witte had an operative in Moscow who had confirmed that the Soviet Union was moving large numbers of armoured columns and troops to Poland’s borders. Molotov and Stalin were using the term ‘a zone of privileged interest’ when referring to Poland and, glancing at the map, that could also encompass Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Finland.

On Chainbridge’s advice, the British Government had beefed up its security at its embassy in Helsinki after the peace negotiations between Finland and Russia. Should Russia invade again, which was becoming more likely, this would give Stalin a toehold in the Scandinavian countries. The problem politically was that Finland was friendly with Germany. If England went to war with Germany, the embassy was vulnerable with its small garrison.

Chainbridge lit up from the stub of a previous cigarette. It wasn’t Hitler he was worrying about now, it was Stalin. ‘We have intelligence out of Moscow that the army’s ‘on manoeuvres’ on her borders with Poland. The bear has woken up.’

A pall hung in the room. The second part of the intelligence was that the rail link to Tyumen had been completed and Gulag labour in the Urals had increased two-fold. Again nothing concrete, but it appeared that some heavy manufacturing equipment was moving toward the Urals which suggested they were preparing for war.

‘
I’ll inform the Prime Minister and I’ll contact the Army, see if any of the arsenals have been compromised. We probably sold those bloody guns to the Poles anyway.’

Kell rose, his demeanour deflated. He left, leaving Liddle and Chainbridge to their thoughts. Chainbridge had to get news to Eva in Berlin.

In Krakow, Warsaw and all the major cities, the intelligentsia were being listed by the Gestapo and dossiers were being created on them. Henk Molenaar’s name was already included. German spies were preparing the groundwork for invasion. British and French spies were feeding the information back in the hope of keeping things in check.

Chainbridge picked up the phone and asked the operator to find the hotel in Berlin where Donald T Kincaid was staying. Then he contacted De Witte who was in Cambridge sourcing new intelligence operatives, instructing him to return to London immediately.

He returned to his chambers where Meenagh awaited him. His drive through the London rush hour was a hot, uncomfortable ride. The late summer heat was oppressive and the rank smell of the Thames permeated the air. In the gridlock he watched the people walking, wrapped up in their daily lives. Mothers, babies and toddlers mingled with a stream of business men in bowler hats. They flowed across the bridges of London from Threadneedle Street, a uniform sea of black and white, giving a sense of stability and security. The gloom had broken to reveal a beautiful late summer evening, he thought as he stepped through the front door of his chambers. For the first time in years, Meenagh saw her husband visibly depressed. As always, he lightened up as she stepped toward him, eyes lowered, arms open in welcome. He ran his fingers through her greying hair and kissed her. They retreated to his study and he put a shellac disc onto the turntable.

As Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number 11 hissed and crackled through the speakers, they held each other tightly, with the same intensity as the night they had met in Bombay ten years previously.

* * *

The restaurant off the Potsdam Plaza was exclusive to high ranking Nazi party members. Kincaid was mingling with Goebbels, his wife Magda, and their ‘dear friend’ Eva Braun. Hitler was unable to attend, excusing himself with a migraine. Bormann was at another table and, nearby, the erudite Speer was holding court, discussing architecture and other topics close to an aesthete's heart.

Eva Braun was light hearted tonight. She had laughed in a sisterly fashion, observing that there were now two Evas at the table, referring to Eva Molenaar as the second. Goebbels remarked at how beautiful they both looked as he assembled a champagne glass tower and filled it with expensive champagne, creating a waterfall effect from the top glass down. Kincaid, squeezing Eva closer to him, said she was going to be a great star of the silver screen. The table toasted her. All around, the revellers were almost frenzied in their enjoyment of the cabaret, the room a sea of black uniforms, leather webbing and scarlet armbands.

Eva left the dinner party, excusing herself after a waitress had whispered an urgent message into her ear. In the restrooms, an attendant handed a slip of paper punched in Braille point. The pit of her stomach gripped in fear - her grandfather’s name was on the list of targeted intellectuals. The attendant offered her a cigarette and set light to the message for her at the same time, flushing the ashes down the toilet. Eva thanked the girl and tipped her before leaving.