Nobel Academy. It was to be hailed as Germany’s contribution to peace and freeing Europe from the spectre of Bolshevism.
Goebbels had already dispatched Nazi Party journalists and propaganda film units to Norway's capital. As they enjoyed the champagne and canapes, the troika knew that if this worked, the Fuhrer would look favourably on them and they would continue to ride high in the echelons of power.
Kincaid was shouting instructions all over the flying boat in preparation for the transfer. He was in a foul mood. He hauled Eva by the arm down into the hold and told her to start translating. Regan appeared at his elbow, his perpetual shadow. Zbarsky studied Eva carefully. Between her factual translation she was slipping words in that were out of context with the sentence. He pieced her words together in his head ‘We…..need…to…get…..out…… now.’ He nodded in understanding. The further they were away from Russia, the harder it was going to be to get back.
Kincaid’s attitude toward Eva had altered. He was terse and cold, no longer pandering to her. The endgame was in progress and he was tying up the loose ends. This meant Zbarsky, his technical team, and Eva were now on borrowed time.
Dressed in tweeds, Kincaid’s eyes were bleary from travelling and a hangover, and his florid face completed his resemblance to an English country squire. Eva had changed into warm clothing, allowing her to slip Schenker’s Luger into the pocket of her heavy overcoat. Its weight gave her comfort. She had used one before and had checked it out in her bathroom. It had a full clip, clear breech and the trigger action was smooth. The last time she’d used one was in Czechoslovakia two years earlier, saving De Witte’s life.
Kincaid span her roughly one too many times and she pulled her arm free of his grip. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Don?’ She stood her ground, jutting her jaw outward, staring up into his face.
Wrong-footed by her resistance, Kincaid worked himself up into a fury. He wasn’t used to being confronted, least of all by a woman. She rubbed her elbow knowing full well she’d bruise later.
‘Your job is to translate. Do it!’ He was shaking, running his hands through his hair, the rheumy eyes magnified behind their lenses.
Almost as a reflex he raised his hand to strike her but he stopped in mid-air. The radio operator was shouting down that the sea was becoming too rough to attempt the transfer. In the past hour, the wind had picked up.
Regan had stood by throughout and when Eva looked to him he winked with a sneer spread across his face.
‘Christ!’ roared Kincaid climbing up the stairwell out of the hold. He could be heard berating the crew above. The U-Boat captain wanted to move closer in-shore to calmer water. Imagine the consequences if the sarcophagus were to fall overboard between the plane and the submarine.
Eva and Zbarsky could hear the flying boat's engines starting up and the floor beneath them start to move. Looking out of the window, they could see the sky and sea beginning to turn grey.
‘Did we land or were we shot down?’ inquired Brandt as the American transport skidded to a halt.
The airstrip was a disused farm road that the pilot had been directed to by Chainbridge and De Witte. They were waiting with Captain Charles Fletchmore and four members of his commando unit from the Embassy. Fletchmore’s remaining commandos were on the islands around Helsinki looking out for a seaplane the size of a factory.
Brandt and his men descended the steps and were greeted with military salutes. An uneasy pause followed, Brandt and his men wary of armed commandos and vice-versa. Fletchmore’s German was fluent and quickly established a professional rapport. Chainbridge and De Witte stayed back and decided on remaining nameless. Fletchmore introduced them as ‘Messers Floyd and Jackson, from England.’ Brandt knew straightaway they were running the show — British Intelligence? The word
De Witte sensed the stand-off and stepped forward. He directed a question to Brandt. Noting De Witte was blind, Brandt, as a courtesy stepped roughly into line with De Witte’s nose.
‘The young lady accompanying Kincaid, Eva Molenaar, how is she?’ His tone tried to sound neutral but Brandt picked up on its intensity. He realised that Eva was involved with this man. He felt a jealous tug in his stomach. The man was clearly older, handsome, had a quiet charisma and was blind. He could see the attraction.
‘She’s alive, but I think she’s running on borrowed time. She witnessed everything.’
De Witte nodded solemnly. Part of him was always braced for the worst.
After Eva had returned from Munich two years earlier where she had met the Russian Attache, De Witte had activated a double-agent in Beria’s department, a Cossack of noble blood. He had fed the details of Lenin’s transport itinerary into Berlin’s intelligence community. These details had eventually led them to Kincaid. Now she was trapped on board his private aircraft with him.
He put his feelings to one side and turned to Kravchenko. He started speaking fluent Russian, making him feel welcome, commending him on his escape.
Chainbridge watched, appraising the Russian as a commando was cleaning and dressing his hand. Could he be persuaded to join them? Being a NKVD Internal Elite officer meant he was hand-picked by Stalin, implying he had some insight to the man. De Witte, Chainbridge and members of British Intelligence had suggested they themselves keep Lenin. Churchill wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We are not grave robbers, sirs!’ he had barked.
The point was moot as Stalin couldn’t be found and The Politburo was scattered throughout Russia. With no-one to threaten, Churchill had called the sarcophagus ‘a Nazi pig-in-a-poke’.
Brandt sipped the piping-hot beef tea and chewed cold hard bread, sizing up the situation. He made eye contact with Kravchenko who nodded slightly in understanding. He checked his watch. It was 13.00hrs. The flying boat would’ve been in the Gulf of Finland for over three hours now.
The window was closing to catch Kincaid. Time was also running out for Eva. He was impatient to do something. He looked around to this unit. Olga stayed close to Kant, a heavy blanket wrapped around her small frame, eyeing the American plane in terror.
The commandos and Germans stood smoking, speaking in broken English, using hand gestures for emphasis. They were beginning to relax in each other’s company, grateful not to be facing one another in combat.
Fletchmore was tall, soft-spoken and rake-thin to the point his uniform appeared oversized. His eyes were deep-set and brown beneath ginger beetled-brows. A razor-thin mouth was lifted by a full moustache. Brandt assumed he was a Sandhurst graduate, his deep tan suggesting he had been posted in foreign climes. Fletchmore in turn had skimmed Brandt’s file and viewed him as an equal.
The problem was three-fold: finding the flying boat, getting close enough to disable it and then to storm it. Then the U-Boat; she wasn’t on any intelligence file anywhere, a prototype that had slipped through. No-one knew where she had departed from or where she was heading. The Enigma code had yet to be broken and, until it was, they had no way of tracking her.
One of Fletchmore’s men had a large radio strapped to his back. It crackled into life. Fletchmore was over in three strides. The soldier handed him the headset. Fletchmore stared ahead in concentration. It was a single codeword, ‘Bootleg’. He handed it back with a curt nod. ‘Captains Brandt, Kravchenko, we’ve found the bugger. She’s off the Island of Suomenlinna.’
De Witte’s heart jumped at the thought of hearing Eva's voice and the touch of her skin again.
Chainbridge smiled at the stroke of good fortune and turned to the American aircrew. ‘Can you get us over there without being spotted?’
The crewmen grinned back. The pilot, popping gum in his mouth, said ‘Just point us in the direction you want to go, sir!’
‘Great,’ mumbled Kant, lighting up one of Kravchenko’s cigarettes from his stub. He was beginning to acquire a taste for them along with Olga’s lichen tea. He met the eyes of his men. They all had the same look; the look of foot soldiers in a situation beyond their control.
Chainbridge and De Witte couldn’t shake the feeling that their luck was about to change, that they were all stepping into the firing line. Brandt and Kramer had briefly discussed defecting to Switzerland with the two men. Neither Chainbridge nor De Witte had made a commitment, merely saying they would pass on the request.
