by Mark Arundel
Using his forearm as a rest for the barrel, he pulled the stock into his shoulder and poked the rifle through the reed stems.
The two upland sandpipers were unaware of any danger and continued to feed. Rafferty relaxed, squeezed his cheek against the rifle and sighted the birds. He moved a little to get a better feel for the gun and found the perfect position. The ground was damp and sandy but he hardly noticed as he focused on taking the shot.
The sandpipers were moving, stopping, moving, stopping. He was going to have to choose one, wait until it was still and then sight quickly. He decided to aim for the body, as this would give him the best chance of success. One of the birds walked a little closer and the boy breathed deeper in anticipation. He closed one eye, followed the bird in his sights until it stopped; made the final adjustment to his aim and targeted the body just above the wing. The sandpiper had been motionless for a few seconds when Rafferty’s finger squeezed back on the trigger. The rifle jumped with a jolt into his shoulder as the compressed air brought the gun to life and propelled the pellet. It made a sound, a distinct fizzing sound that enthralled the boy. The noise spooked the sandpipers and they both flew off. He had missed. The nine-year-old Rafferty felt disappointment and then cheered himself with the knowledge that he would have to practice a great deal. Firing the rifle was everything he imagined it to be. Killing the bird was not important. He stood up, stepped around the reeds and walked out onto the flat sand carrying the gun at his waist. The upland sandpipers had all flown away. He cocked the rifle, reloaded and searched for a target. He was going to need a lot more practice, he decided.
4 April 12, 1935, Moscow, USSR
The overweight politburo member sat at the table.
He was alone, with a large bowl of paprika-seasoned beef stew waiting in front of him.
It was the second full bowl the cook had brought to him. He was fifty years old and over the past decade had not concerned himself with his weight. He was many stones heavier and they all hung on his large frame, filling his waist and neck. At home, dressed only in his underpants, he resembled a sumo wrestler.
He poured another glass of vodka, pulled a hunk of bread from the loaf and began to eat. This goulash was the best in Moscow and the man drove across the city, once a week, especially to eat it. Every Tuesday he was at the same table.
While he spooned the peppery meat and gravy into his mouth with an accompanying bite of bread, a younger man stood by the door. He was an armed and trained bodyguard whose eyes moved between the table and the view through the glass door. He also doubled during this weekly outing as the chauffeur.
The politburo member took another mouthful of the hot meal and combined it with a gulp of the vodka sending his tongue into a fiery rage. His eyes watered a little and he wiped his nose. He used the cloth napkin. With the bowl empty, he sat back and rested feeling fully satisfied. Moments ticked by. He viewed the remaining hunk of bread and the refilled glass of vodka. Five minutes later the cook ladled a generous third helping and the fat politician sat forward once again and lifted his spoon.
Marik Kasseri stepped down from the unmarked truck and walked away without looking back. He wore the clothes of a worker; dirty boots, rough breeches tied with a rope belt, a tunic buttoned at the front, his collar turned up and a soft cap with a small peak. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders against the chill wind.
When he reached the end of the street, he saw the parked black car; it was in the right place. He crossed over and continued beyond the corner, only stopping when he reached the first doorway. He took shelter from the wind before he looked back up the street. There was nobody following him. Across the road, two mothers walked past carrying heavy bags and gossiping intently. Their young children ran around them playing. Once they were out of sight, Kasseri walked back to the corner, turned onto the street and glanced at the black ZIS Party car.
He concentrated on the scene and steeled himself for the task ahead. His fingertips felt the deep three-inch scar across his cheekbone in an unconscious action, which he had developed since the bullet wound four years earlier.
Kasseri had been General Baranov’s automatic choice. His reliability was unquestionable, his ability to kill came without remorse and his loyalty remained fixed, never straying beyond the parameters of his orders. It was his ability, though, to react successfully to fluid situations that made him special.
Kasseri put his hand inside the pocket of his tunic and gently held the gun. It was a Tokarev TT pistol, 1933 model; standard Red Army issue. The grip came embossed with a Soviet five-point star and it weighed 910g; he liked the feel of it in his hand. The pistol, short recoil operated and locked breech, had good penetration and an effective range. It was a tough weapon. Its steel magazine held eight cartridges and the fixed sight was factory-zeroed for twenty-five yards. The one feature it lacked was a manual safety; the single action trigger came without any safeties at all. The only certain safe way to carry the pistol was to always have an empty chamber. This meant the Tokarev TT would have seven shots and not the eight the magazine could hold. This was how Kasseri had prepared his.
He released the gun, pulled his hand from his pocket and began walking up the street towards the black car. As he approached the ZIS-101, he pulled his jacket collar around his neck and put his head down. When he passed the door he glanced sideways with his eyes, just for a moment and then he was the other side. He had seen the man standing just inside. He was the bodyguard, detailed in the assignment briefing. Kasseri walked on while his mind quickly weighed the two options: wait outside and make the kill as he leaves or enter and shoot him where he sits. The problem, of course, was the guard. He would be armed and well trained for his duty, probably taken from the Secret Police. Kasseri had only seen him briefly but it was obvious he was fit and strong. Such an opponent required care.
Kasseri knew he could not afford complacency. He must decide whom to kill first, his target or the guard. It was an easy choice. It had to be the guard first. Kasseri leant casually against the wall as if waiting for a friend while he considered. The guard had something about him that bothered Kasseri. It was the fact he was standing by the door. He could have been standing there for a long time. He had chosen this instead of sitting. It told Kasseri he was dedicated and probably enthusiastic, either of these qualities could make him extremely dangerous. Kasseri reached into his tunic pocket and pulled the trigger of his pistol, it clicked, clearing the empty chamber. The gun would now fire the next time he pulled the trigger, but without any safety, this was a dangerous way to carry it. Kasseri had the feeling it was a necessary risk to take. He stood up straight from the wall and walked towards the door. He was ready to do it.
Inside, the politburo member finished his third bowl of goulash and mopped around the bowl with the last piece from the loaf. He sat back heavily and belched loudly. The noise made his protector turn to look. The politician emptied his vodka glass and stood up pushing his chair back noisily on the stone floor. He headed towards the door.
‘Let’s go,’ he told his guard.
The man opened the door and stepped out.
Kasseri had started to move back towards the door as it rattled open and the bodyguard walked out. The guard turned quickly to look up and down the street; and then up again. Kasseri was only twelve yards away and for an instant, the two men caught each other’s eyes. Kasseri stopped, unsure for a split second, as the bodyguard’s appearance caught him unaware. The guard stopped also, evaluating the man he saw. He was dressed as a worker, but something was wrong, there were things that troubled him. He thought them in an instant, he wasn’t dirty enough, he moved too strongly, the scar indicated fighting perhaps as a soldier and his eyes, they could be the eyes of a man who killed others and then afterwards slept soundly in his bed.
Kasseri felt the stab of danger as he recognised the other man’s intention; he had decided not to take any chances. As the man’s hand moved towards his belt Kasseri real
ised he was going for the gun he kept tucked in his waistband. Kasseri made his decision instinctively. He too went for his gun. The two men were in a fast draw contest. The guard had moved first and his gun was easier to reach. Kasseri had to pull his out from inside his tunic pocket. Although Kasseri was faster the bodyguard’s advantage enabled him to raise and point his gun first. Kasseri was only a fraction behind. Both men were using the same weapon, the Tokarev TT pistol. As the guard aimed at the chest of his target, Kasseri pointed his own pistol with a bent elbow judging the shot without having time to aim properly. Even so, the guard pulled his trigger first; it clicked emptying the blank chamber he was using to carry the pistol safely. Before he had time to squeeze the trigger again, Kasseri fired. The pistol shot exploded, the weapon kicked strongly, and the bang echoed through the street. The bullet struck the man just below the rib cage on his right side. The force sent him spinning. He fought to keep control but dropped to his knees. Gravity forced his gun and head downwards.
Kasseri sprang on his advantage, taking a step forward and raising his pistol, locking his elbow and using both hands to aim, he pulled the trigger. The second bullet hit the man squarely in the chest knocking him backwards onto the ground. Kasseri never took his eyes from his victim, he moved in close, stood over him and fired once putting a bullet into his skull.
He checked the doorway, looked up and down the street and then bent down and pulled the Tokarev TT pistol from the dead man’s hand. His heartbeat was thumping in his ears and the surge of blood pumped and heightened his thoughts and actions.
He put the second pistol in his outside jacket pocket and stepped inside with his own gun raised. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom and he scanned the room; his target was gone.
Two doors exited the room, one to a second internal room and the other to the kitchen. Kasseri chose the kitchen and ran in. The cook stood frozen and stared with frightened eyes. The outside door was open; Kasseri ran over to it and looked out cautiously. It led to a walled area with a solid wooden gate, which was gently moving on its hinges. Four quick strides took him to the gateway. Holding his pistol with both hands in front of his chest, he ducked out and glanced both ways. It was a narrow alleyway, mostly walled with some metal fencing and thorn hedges, running five hundred yards behind the buildings. Kasseri saw him immediately. He was about one hundred and fifty yards away and even from that distance, Kasseri could feel the man’s fear.
The fat politician had been unnerved the moment he saw his guard go for his gun. He had already turned and was desperately searching for an escape when he heard the first shot. It panicked him, he began to run and he had not stopped. He was still running as Kasseri narrowed the gap to fifty yards. The fifty-year-old, overweight and unfit man had only managed to keep going as long as he did because acute terror was driving him. As his body gave out, he buckled and doubled over, falling to his knees. The vomit spewed from him in huge gushes covering the ground in a circular decoration of regurgitated goulash and bread. When Kasseri reached him, he seemed to be dying. His face was purple and his bloodshot eyes bulged. His vomit covered chin was eclipsed by his breathing which gasped and hissed as the bile in his throat made it impossible for him to get sufficient oxygen. The sweat ran from his hairline as though his head were under a tap.
On sensing his assailant’s presence, the man looked up with terror and tried unsuccessfully to speak. Kasseri, by contrast, had his breathing controlled, and his heartbeat, although raised, was not a problem. As he stepped around the vomit and raised his pistol, taking aim at the man’s face, the politician opened his mouth again but was still unable to speak. His throat closed and he gulped for air like a beached fish.
Kasseri was relaxed; pleased he had tracked him down so easily. He checked his aim. The man found his voice. ‘Please don’t do it; I’ll give any...’
Kasseri didn’t allow him to finish. He fired once and then twice. The first bullet entered through the forehead. The man twisted and fell heavily into his own vomit. Kasseri fired the second bullet through the back of the head and it exited through the bridge of the nose. The blood ran steadily and added its deep scarlet to the vomit, which now began to resemble a collage from an experimental artist.
Less than five minutes later, Kasseri was back in the parked truck. He drove slowly away and steered towards Red Army barracks in the south. On the way to the truck, he had put an empty chamber in both the Tokarev TT pistols and then put them safely away in his jacket pocket.
5 December 29, 1942, Stalingrad, USSR
The Russian winter of nineteen forty-two was a fearsome beast. It possessed neither love nor mercy. There were those who spoke of it as a cheap whore who slept with the Devil and used the money to buy death. In December of that year, the invading German soldiers in the Russian city of Stalingrad would not have disagreed.
The Deutschland military was ill-equipped for the freezing temperature and with supplies running low, they were exhausted and demoralised. The Russian army, in contrast, was fully equipped and was a strengthening fighting force. They were persisting with their guerrilla warfare, and it was working. The battle had turned.
A deep covering of frost gave Stalingrad an expensive and stylish coat. It wrapped itself tightly in the calm, silvery light and muffled gentleness. It was an illusion. It masked a horrible truth, a truth of carnage, destruction and death.
A crack unit of Russian combat soldiers was hunting for Germans. They were two miles out from their line, which was marked by the city quays. The experienced ten-man unit of hardened, experienced soldiers counted in their ranks a sniper and a tank buster. Their leader was a man who had been a soldier since he was fifteen.
The day was slipping away, and the coldness was freezing the ground still harder, as the weak sun fell low over the western ruins of the city. Heavy grey clouds, punched with black, ugly bruises were accumulating in the darkening northern sky. The clouds towered menacingly like faceless monsters and they pushed down with the promise of heavy snow.
‘It’s time to head back,’ Marik Kasseri said looking up at the sky. ‘It will be dark in less than an hour. It looks like snow.’ He turned and nodded to Leonid, his second in command and his friend. Leonid nodded back and Kasseri made the hand signal for the other soldiers. As they broke cover and joined into their patrol formation it began to snow. Big wet flakes fell heavily and soon covered everything with a natural white camouflage. The blizzard reduced visibility and the soldiers turned their heads to protect their eyes from the stinging flakes. A hush fell on the city, and the grey, bleak whiteness took away definition, distance and shape.
Kasseri led the group from the front. He took them north before turning along the river and heading towards the quays and home. The snow was worsening and visibility was terrible. The unit was still a mile away from base camp and they had begun to trudge with their heads down.
The shortest route home took them across an open stretch of ground, wide and flat, beside the Volga.
Along the eastern edge, a row of thick, dark tree trunks marked the riverbank. The patrol trudged into the open, heading diagonally with the trees ahead and away to their left. They were unaware of the danger.
With the heavier snow had come a gusting north-easterly, blowing from their right. It was covering the sound of the engines and the snow hid the black beasts well. Two German Panzers waited motionless behind the tree trunks, facing the open ground with both commanders low in their turrets and watching through field glasses.
The Russian unit of ten soldiers was deep into the open when both tank commanders gave their softly spoken orders. Each gunner adjusted the trajectory, took aim and then fired. The deep metallic boom of the 50mm guns was instantly recognisable. It reached the soldiers but the warning came too late.
The shell landed many yards short, thundering on impact and sending earth, snow and shrapnel flying. Every man dropped flat in the snow and instinctively covered their heads. The second shell was more accurate. It struck the grou
nd only a few yards in front of one of the soldiers, killing him outright and only a few further yards behind Leonid.
‘Move,’ Kasseri shouted as he leapt to his feet. He began to run and then he glanced back to where he knew the tanks must be. He heard the deep rumble of their engines. They had broken cover and were both heading straight for them. He could see them clearly, now. How had he missed them before? He didn’t give that another thought. He and his men had to move and move fast.
‘Find cover, there; hurry,’ Kasseri shouted and pushed his men and pointed at the nearest building. They were moving as fast as they could while carrying their heavy weapons and backpacks. Kasseri glanced back. He wanted to judge the distances and assess their chances when he saw him. The dead soldier’s body lay torn apart and his blood soaked into the snow. It created an ugly crimson stain. It was not the corpse, though, that had taken Kasseri’s attention. He was staring at Leonid. His second-in-command, his friend was down, still and silent. Was he dead or just injured? Kasseri didn’t know.
His decision was immediate and without hesitation; he stopped and turned back. He ran to Leonid and then realised just how close the tanks were. He would not have enough time to get Leonid and himself to the nearest building. The tanks would reach them while they were still in the open.
On board the Panzer tanks, both gunners readied their coaxially mounted 7.92mm MG34 machine guns as they chased the fleeing Russian soldiers. Idiot, they thought. One of the Russian soldiers had turned and he was running back to a fallen comrade. They would kill him first.