hammered together. He removed his gun from its holster and let the weapon, with its comforting weight, rest on his lap. The driver, picking up on the other man's unease, accelerated, keen to get to the military airstrip along the empty prospeckt as quickly as he could. The road was completely deserted. The brilliant Spasskaya Red Star glowed over the arabesques of the Kremlin skyline in the rear view mirror. Another light from an approaching motorcycle loomed up and appeared in the side mirrors. The driver noted too late that there was a side-car passenger armed with a machine gun mounted on the front. The pillion fired into the Zil’s rear tyres in a short accurate burst. The driver struggled to control the vehicle, twisting the wheel and letting it flow through his fingers as the front tyres tried to compensate. The motorcycle raced ahead and the side-car rider fired directly at the windscreen and front headlights. The first wave of bullets glanced off, then slowly, under sustained fire, the window began to crack.
The motorcycle weaved back and forth in front of the driver who was accelerating to hit it. The side-car rider opened fire into the windscreen and then the Zil’s front tyres. The passenger tried the
radio again. Nothing but static. The windscreen imploded, throwing chunks of glass onto the men. The passenger fired out at the motorcycle as it weaved and bobbed, the side-car rider no longer firing. The driver saw the other car ahead of it too late. The car that had passed them was stopped in the middle of the highway.
On impact, the two couriers were hurled through the shattered window, glancing off the stationary vehicle, and sliding across the tarmac. The motor cycle swerved back and pulled up alongside the injured driver who was lying prone. The side-car rider fired his machine gun into the man. The passenger tried to rise up and fire his revolver, but was killed by a sustained burst of machine gun fire. The side-car rider climbed out of his vehicle and walked up to the dead passenger. Rolling up his coat sleeve, he removed his hand with a blow from a cleaver.
He brought the attache case to the other car and the occupants who had been standing by the roadside joined them. They rifled through the case's contents quickly and thoroughly, but didn’t find what they were looking for. Then they searched the two dead men. Stuffed down the front of the driver’s shirt they found their prize.
The motorcycle bearing only its main rider, the document tucked into his weather-proof coat, turned and tore off into the night. The side-car rider and the two other men opened the boot of the stationary car, dragged the dead couriers over and hoisted them in. After the impact, closing the boot was impossible, so they fashioned a rope with their ties and closed it. They pushed the vehicle over to the side of the road and one of the men produced an incendiary device. He lobbed it into the car. They left, heading away from the airport, leaving the smashed Zil blazing in the Moscow night.
By early morning the lone motorcycle rider, a former White Army Cossack loyal to the late Tsar Nicholas' family, had ensured the documents had arrived safely at the German Embassy. Its Charge d' Affaires, Tippelskirch, handed over written assurances in return, signed by Von Ribbentrop personally, that an independent Cossackia would be established after Germany had conquered Russia.
Chapter 7
Berlin September 1941
Eva stepped down the steps from Kincaid’s privately chartered plane in the early morning hours onto the military airstrip. The sun was rising over Berlin, drenching the city in a deep amber hue. Waiting for them was a black limousine flanked by two motorcycle outriders, engines idling impatiently. Standing at the foot of the steps were two uniformed SS Officers. They saluted in unison, Kincaid returning the gesture. Eva barely nodded, moving closer under his arm.
Neither of them had to display their racial purity papers as they were guests of Dr. Goebbels. Flying out of New York, they had stayed overnight in Paris at Kincaid’s private apartment near Montmartre. From Paris to Berlin, the charter had been escorted by German fighter aircraft. Kincaid had used the journey to catch up with paperwork, barely noticing Eva, leaving her to her thoughts. There had been no contact from her family in Poland. She thought of pretty Michaela and Silvie, wondering what had befallen them, then Jonas. She had tried several times to contact his family urging them to leave before the Germans and Russians invaded.
At the back of her mind she knew that she was being hunted down too, the forged letters of transit leading a paper trail back to her. It was a gnawing threat, a continuing fear. Then she’d listen to Kincaid, listen to the hatred in his voice and his sneering toward Eastern Europeans. It steeled her resolve.
She had attended the Nuremburg rallies with him by night. The sky blazed with torches as Hitler ranted from the podium. She had watched in horror as Kincaid screamed ‘Seig Heil’, whipped into a furore along with thousands of Germans.
If in some way she could stop these men, these maniacs, then she would have to remain dispassionate, focused. She had to be cold, as cold as the night she killed Jurgen Locher, luring him away from a bar and gunning him down, standing over him until he expired, then put another one in him to be certain.
Her covert work had thwarted some catastrophes and saved lives, but this Lenin operation was fast becoming a farce. Chainbridge had received a direct order from Churchill — stop the Germans getting Lenin. He is not to become a propaganda tool — it would shake the Soviet Union if they pulled it off. It would damage Russia’s standing in the world and the Allied war effort — don’t give Hitler a bargaining chip.
Eva had found communicating back to De Witte harder under Kincaid’s constant attention. He was a needy little boy trapped in a fifty-three year old body. During their time together his womanising had slowed down and he was now telling her that he loved her. The cigarette carton messages were still effective. De Witte and Chainbridge could then place contacts in most public places and hotels to collect. More sensitive messages were placed in books and left in book stores fronted by American and British intelligence who would broadcast in code back to London and Washington DC.
Ellen Edelstein preyed on her mind; the solitary figure at the train station as they loaded Jonas’ body aboard, she had stood until the train had disappeared. A few of her letters had never elicited a response and were eventually forgotten about.
Now a regular visitor to Berlin, Eva had asked the German underground to locate Ellen. She was found in Berlin, not far from Kincaid’s hotel, cleaning the public toilets, a Star of David armband fastened to her old coat. Eva had gone there and found her. Ellen was thinner, her skin pale and in poor condition. Her once luxurious tresses that Eva had marvelled at were now shorn tight to her skull. Ellen had blinked in slow recognition of Eva and shied away from her, hands raised, her eyes lowered.
Eva tried to reassure her and explained quickly that she was here to help her now. The underground operative with her studied the Jewish girl’s appearance in horror. They took Ellen quietly out of the train station while her supervisor went on a cigarette break. The supervisor was a heavy-set woman in a warm overcoat, Nazi armband, and plucked eyebrows pencilled in a thin line, giving her a permanent surprised look. In an alleyway, away from prying eyes the women talked, glancing furtively out over their shoulders.
Eva handed Ellen a purse full of dollars, told her to leave with the operative and join the German underground. Ellen slowly regained control of her hysteria and took the cash with a trembling hand. Eva explained to the operative that Ellen was a genius at mathematics and would make a brilliant code-breaker. The operative looked Ellen up and down a few times, deciding what to do. She took off her coat and wrapped it around her tenderly. Eva unpinned her hat and slipped it onto Ellen’s head, fixing the pins.
Ellen looked out from under the brim with haunted eyes and whispered, ‘Thank you, thank you.' She touched Eva’s sleeve. Her once beautiful hands were calloused and raw, and several nails were chipped and broken. Her sunken eyes glittered as if in a fever and she shivered in the operative’s coat. Looking around several times he started to guide Ellen away.
Eva watched her one-time friend slip into the shadows of the grey afternoon. As she stepped onto the street, Eva saw more work gangs made up only of old men, women and children, all with crosses on their sleeves. People walked past ignoring them. They were lined up together with armed SS soldiers watching them. Any pause from their labours resulted in a beating with rifle butts.
The car raced through the streets, the bikes stopping at junctions and halting the traffic, sirens wailing. Kincaid was enjoying this level of attention, his manner relaxed as he made small-talk with their fellow travellers.
