Belle. Its engines rotated against the cold, their immense blades cutting the air like scythes. Sitting beside it like toys were five fully fuelled ME 109s acting as fighter escort.
The plan was for it to fly to Helsinki where the sarcophagus would be transferred to a U-Boat waiting among the small islands dotted around the Baltic. A small encampment stood on the edge where the fighter pilots and Kincaid’s private operators waited. Standing at the flying-boat’s door, Kincaid watched through high-powered binoculars. Below the airship’s hull hung the carriage like an injured farm animal. Brandt’s team held their positions on the roof.
Kincaid began to smile. ‘Sweet Jesus, Eva,’ he breathed, ‘they have it.’
Multiple explosions echoed above the tree-line where the unit had left charges in the de-railed train. Smoke rose gracefully into the air.
‘By the time the Reds realise what’s just happened, Lenin will be ensconced in Berlin.’ He grinned and began to whistle tunelessly.
From her seat, Eva watched the airship making good time. From the encampment ran a rail that led directly to the flying boat’s hold. The carriage would be opened, the technicians removed and Lenin’s tomb would be loaded aboard.
The half-track that had acted as the radio jammer appeared through the trees and took up position not far from the temporary rail. It towed the two anti-aircraft guns that had protected the airship hangar, their crews standing on the guns' chassis.
The interior of the flying boat was plush; mahogany, soft leather, polished oak and gold at every turn. Eva sat in a living room area with bedrooms and a bathroom behind it. A liveried steward hovered nearby. She had just finished a meal; fillet of sturgeon, with fresh asparagus and grilled vegetables. This was followed by a Martini, and she lit another expensive French cigarette.
Two of Regan’s cameras were set up at either end of the room. A long table with crystal goblets and champagne bottles on ice sat in line between them. On the far wall hung an American flag and on the opposite side, a Swastika. A banner between them read ‘Mission accomplished!’
Below the floor was a hold with a compatible generator system for the sarcophagus and quarters for the embalming team. It was dependant on Zbarsky’s mind after that and whether or not he would co-operate. Kincaid’s and Schenker’s view was simple: if he and his embalmers refused to help, they’d be shot.
Eva sipped her Martini, waiting for the moment she would contact Chainbridge and Peter. The pilots started their final check before take-off. Below, the fighter pilots climbed into their cockpits and started preparing for take- off, their engines rising to a screech from a whine.
The flying-boat’s radio operator was communicating with Berlin on a secure channel and excited chatter went back and forth.
Looking out, Eva could see the airship filling the sky and manoeuvring to the rail link. It banked slightly, descended, and dropped anchors either side of the rail. Eva started to seek out Brandt among the men slipping down the ropes. She spotted him and found herself watching his every move.
She pushed her hair behind her ear almost as a reflex and chided herself immediately for doing so.
The carriage was placed perfectly onto the rail. She spotted the SS officer hovering near the carriage door, his gun twitching in his gloved hand.
He had changed out of combat wear to full SS regalia: black uniform, brown shirt, armband and highly polished boots. Regan slid down from the airship with a pack on his back. From it he quickly assembled a tripod for a camera and mounted one from the pack. Still filming the airship with a hand camera as it inched into position, he shouted instructions to Schenker. Preening himself for film, Schenker stepped back from the door, preparing for Regan to switch cameras. Regan loaded some cameras he had finished with into a basket hung from the airship. He tugged on the line and it was hauled up for shipping on to Berlin. Brandt’s team then released the harnesses and the carriage glided down the incline to a stop.
Brandt and his tall lanky sergeant gave a hand signal and, with a roar, the airship rose and banked toward the west, bound for Army Group Central.
Kravchenko worked his way through the forest. There was little to salvage after the German devices had destroyed the carriages. He had walked along both sides of the destruction hoping to find the other two men in his carriage but found only corpses.
He managed to salvage some supplies, ammunition and, by a miracle, vodka, black bread and cold sausage. Undoing his bandaged hand, he poured the alcohol over the wound, winced, and then drank the last few mouthfuls.
His choices were stark. Get Lenin back before the Germans could remove him from Russia or trudge back to Tyumen and report what happened.
Either way he was a dead man.
The airship was easy enough to follow with the carriage weighing it down, but following it on foot wasn’t easy. Having been raised in the Urals, Kravchenko knew that the wolves would be drawn to the smell of the dead. As an afterthought he could add them to the firing squad and the Gulag as his options for the future.
He picked his way between the trees, listening for the airship. Occasionally the top-most branches would shake as the carriage was dragged along. It was heading in the direction of the River Tura, which meant he would probably encounter more Germans — yet another way to die, he thought wryly. He kept the vodka bottle as an opportunity to fill it with petrol and use it as a bomb might present itself later.
He began to recover from the shock of the attack and his mind started to focus on what, if anything, he could do. He needed above all else to get hold of a radio. It was still two hours at least before anyone would suspect anything was wrong. The forest began to part and he could hear heavy vehicles roaring, trying to keep the diesel flowing in the dropping temperature. He skirted along the edge and stopped in his tracks.
The flying boat out on the ice seemed to go on forever, the crew moving around like ants with the fighters dwarfed by its bulk. Glinting in the faint light like a prehistoric bird, its engines shook the surrounding air like a gun battery.
Kincaid had stepped down onto the ice and joined the German team. They were relaxed and laughing, drinking coffee laced with strong Irish whiskey. Snow was falling lightly, giving the air a festive feel. Brandt and Kant smoked quietly, talking low and looking around. Olga joined them, wrapping her arms around Kant briefly.
The message from Berlin was, 'Congratulations — keep moving — U-806 is en-route.'
An SS trooper descended from the plane and trotted over to Schenker. He motioned the captain to lean closer and uttered something into his ear. He handed Schenker a message. Schenker straightened slowly and nodded. The trooper trotted back up into the plane.
After reading it, Schenker produced a lighter and lit the paper. It burned to his glove as he lit a cigarette from it, the ashes scattering in the breeze. Separated from its locomotive, the carriage doors were easy to prise open and Kincaid and Schenker strode in.
Dr Zbarsky and his team raised their hands in surrender, blinking in the glare of torches and powerful lights for Regan to film with. Schenker and Kincaid leaned in to look at Lenin. He was intact and showing no signs of damage. Schenker turned to Zbarsky, smiling coldly. ‘Good evening, Herr Zbarsky. I trust you had a good flight.’ He smiled at his own joke and pointed his idle Luger at the Doctor. ‘We have much to discuss.’
Zbarsky just stared ahead.
Bader and Hauptmann watched Lenin’s technicians and Zbarsky, Kincaid and Schenker walk toward the flying boat. Instinct warned them that something wasn’t quite right. They exchanged glances. Brandt and Kant hadn’t been invited to board the plane. Regan had cameras standing idle and he wasn’t making any effort to use them.
Schultz was radioing in co-ordinates for their collection by transport, his broad back sitting like a boulder on the ice. He looked up, sensing something too. Years of training and combat operations gave the unit a collective intuition for danger. Bader and Hauptmann started scanning the tree-line along the shore, their fingers resting lightly on their machine gun triggers.
Schultz shouted in frustration, ‘Scheisse! The signal is still jammed. That bloody half-track over there — I’m going over to kick their arses!’ He trudged toward the half-track, cursing loudly and waving his fist,
‘Poor bastards are in for a roasting,’ grinned Bader. The unease was growing in his gut, but he was unable to pinpoint it.
Hauptmann tried to smile about it. Schultz’s finely honed perfectionism was the butt of endless jokes.
