by Glenn Meade
He struggled through the woods, fighting for his life, the sound of dogs growing louder, yelps and barks as the animals picked up his scent.
He sucked in frozen lungfuls of air, his chest ablaze, and with every agonizing step he prayed that he would reach the train track. His coarse prison uniform and boots, his only protection from the freezing cold, rubbed like sandpaper against his skin.
A rifle cracked, then another, and shots zinged inches from his head. Gasping for breath, Andrev glanced back. At least two dozen armed guards zigzagged through the woods behind him.
Up ahead he saw the rail tracks curve through a bend in the woods. The shrill whistle blast of a train sounded. Andrev focused on the tracks as the whistle screamed louder. He was less than a hundred yards from the line. He knew that the train was his only hope of freedom. If he could only clamber aboard when the engine slowed rounding the bend.
Eighty yards.
Seventy.
Shots buzzed past him like crazed bees.
Sixty.
Fifty.
Andrev kept moving, each footstep an agony in the heavy snow, his body on fire with so many pains that it felt as if a thousand daggers slashed at his flesh.
Another volley of shots slammed into the trees to his right.
And then it happened.
One moment Andrev was running, the next his legs threaded air as the ground disappeared beneath his feet and a vast hole appeared in the earth. He let out a cry, lost his balance, and sank into the abyss like a rock.
He landed hard on his shoulder in an open pit and heard the crack of bone. Andrev’s shoulder was on fire with raw pain. He struggled to untangle himself from what felt like branches of deadwood.
To his horror Andrev saw that the tangle of branches was a mass of frozen human corpses.
He was lying in a huge pit where the camp guards disposed of the dead—hundreds of rotting bodies, their limbs meshed in an obscene tapestry. He struggled to haul himself out of the pit as the forest again thundered with gunfire and barking dogs. As he climbed out, agony in his shoulder, Andrev again heard the shrill whistle.
A black train with a huge red star on its front belched steam as it thundered round a bend in the woods, like a massive steel snake on tracks. His heart lifted and he started toward the tracks.
Behind him in the woods he never saw the guard kneel and take aim.
A rifle exploded and the bullet punched Andrev like a hammer blow, sending him flying forward into the gruesome pit, and then there was only darkness, silent, empty, painless darkness.
The black train with a red star painted on the front and red flags fluttering from its carriages screeched to a halt with a squeal of brakes.
Steam billowed from its engine as one of the carriage doors snapped open. A stern-faced man with hard blue eyes and blond hair jumped down, brandishing a Nagant revolver. He wore an ankle-length leather trench coat, scarf, gloves, and an officer’s leather peaked cap.
He saw the guards run forward out of the woods, readying their rifles as they approached the pit. One was a brutal-looking sergeant with a Slavic face, a Cossack nagaika whip coiled from a leather uniform belt around his waist. He aimed his rifle at the unconscious prisoner and his finger fastened on the trigger.
The officer brought up his right hand and the Nagant exploded once, hitting the sergeant in the left arm; the rifle snapped from his grasp.
“Stop firing. That’s an order.” The officer raced up to the sergeant and barked, “You idiot. What’s your name?”
“Sergeant Mersk, Commissar Yakov.” The sergeant wore a grubby sheepskin hat and had a drooping black mustache.
“I gave strict instructions that the prisoner was to be taken alive.”
The sergeant, a big, powerfully built Ukrainian, clutched his bloody arm and struggled to his feet, examining his flesh wound. “I—I’m sorry, Commissar. I thought he would escape.”
“If he’s dead you’ll pay with your life.” Yakov thrust the Nagant back in his holster and trudged over to the pit’s edge. The prisoner was sprawled in the snow among a tangle of rotten corpses. His eyes were closed and fresh blood seeped from a bullet wound in his side. In his filthy prison clothing, his body emaciated and his face unshaven, he was a pitiful sight. Yakov noticed a faint cloud of breath rise from the man’s lips.
He snapped at the guards, “He’s alive. Get him out of there and be careful. If he dies I’ll hold you all responsible.”
Half a dozen guards slid down into the pit, their breaths fogging as they lifted out the prisoner and laid him on the snow. Yakov knelt, felt the man’s faint pulse. He said to a guard, “Give me your trouser belt.”
“Commissar?”
“You heard me. And someone give me a bayonet.”
The guards obeyed the order and Yakov used the bayonet to cut away the prisoner’s clothing, exposing a bleeding wound. Yakov tore the scarf from his neck, folded the cloth neatly in a square, and used it to compress the bullet wound; then he tied the belt around the prisoner’s torso to stem the bleeding.
He snapped his fingers at the sergeant, saying, “Take him back to camp on board my train. And find the medical orderly. I want this man kept alive.”
The Ukrainian sergeant sourly clutched his wound. “But the prisoner tried to escape. That’s a crime punishable by death.”
“I’ll say whether he lives or dies. Obey the order or it’s you who’ll get a bullet.”
“Yes, Commissar Yakov.”
The sergeant instructed his men and they carried the wounded man to the train. Yakov stared back at where the prisoner’s blood stained the snow. He knelt, touched the crimson with his gloved fingers. Anger flushed his face as he stood up again.
The confused sergeant said, “I don’t understand, Commissar. Why did you intervene to help this traitor? He’s nothing but trouble.”
Yakov watched as the man was lifted on board by a group of Red Guards from the train. “The prisoner has a name.”
The sergeant’s eyes flashed with contempt. “Uri Andrev, an Imperial Army captain and convicted enemy of the state. Do you know him, Commissar Yakov?”
“You could say he’s my brother.”
3
GERMANY
Nearly two thousand miles away that same morning, the entire north coast of Bremerhaven was smothered by a curtain of mist.
The young woman looked striking as she stood on the bow of cargo frigate Marie-Ann and it chugged out of the fog into Bremerhaven harbor.
With her long auburn hair down around her shoulders, in another age Lydia Ryan might have passed for a pirate queen standing at the prow of her ship, were it not for the sensible, warm clothes that she wore—a long, black woolen skirt, leather boots, and a waist-length jacket and blouse that hugged her figure.
She had the Spanish look you see so often in the west of Ireland—pale skin and green eyes. An interesting throwback to the Basques from northern Spain, who settled on the country’s western shores thousands of years ago.
The Marie-Ann prepared to dock, its propeller dying as the captain cut the engines. The harbor was sealed off by German army troops. Lydia Ryan’s work that morning required complete secrecy.
She spotted Colonel Horst Ritter, of German military intelligence, as he watched from the harbor wall. He was about fifty, dressed in an immaculate pressed uniform and pigskin gloves, his knee-high boots polished like glass. Ritter took a deep breath of salty air, twirled his waxed mustache, and allowed himself a smile as he waved to her.
Lydia waved back.
Ritter gave a signal and two trucks with canvas tops reversed toward the edge of the harbor wall. German soldiers jumped down, rolled up the canvas tops, and unloaded wooden crates of arms and munitions onto the quayside.
As the Marie-Ann’s crew docked, Lydia climbed up onto the harbor wall using a ladder of metal rungs. “Colonel Ritter, don’t they ever give you a holiday?”
Ritter clicked his heels, all charm as he took her hand and kissed
it. The young woman had a firm figure and a vivacious look that Ritter always found enticing. “Not when I have important work to do, such as helping you Irish republicans defeat the British. A great pleasure to see you again, Fräulein Ryan.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Colonel.”
Ritter’s English was impeccable and he sighed good-humoredly. “Ach, if only that were really true and I was thirty again. You had a pleasant voyage?”
“Not exactly, considering we spent five days changing flags to avoid the British navy. Still, it had its moments.”
“No matter, you made it safely. Your cargo’s ready. Two hundred rifles and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. There are even a half-dozen Bergmann machine guns thrown in for good measure. Compliments of the Kaiser.”
“Colonel, I could kiss that man. I’m even tempted to kiss you.”
Ritter threw back his head and laughed. “And I might be inclined to accept, fräulein.”
A youthful crew member from the Marie-Ann clambered up the metal rungs, clutching a bottle of Jameson whiskey. He had the same handsome dark looks as Lydia and he was no more than eighteen, his cloth cap set jauntily on his head, his cheeks spotted with freckles. He handed the bottle to Lydia. “Paudie says we shouldn’t be long loading. Ten minutes at most.”
“Good. Go help with the boxes, Finn.”
The youth scrambled back down the ladder.
Ritter said to Lydia, “There’s a certain resemblance, if I’m not mistaken?”
“My youngest brother.” She handed Ritter the Jameson. “A small gift by way of saying thanks. I hope you like Irish whiskey, colonel?”
Ritter examined the bottle and gratefully touched his cap in salute. “I certainly do. I’ll enjoy it.” He nodded toward an empty stretch of the harbor, his face more solemn. “You’re in a hurry so I’ll not detain you long. Will you join me for a brief stroll?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that invitation sounded a touch ominous.”
Ritter took her arm. “I’m afraid so. I have some bad news.”
Lydia allowed Ritter to escort her along the harbor. There was no breeze, the sea mist lingering, and suddenly she felt very tired, the stress showing in her face.
Ritter removed his pigskin gloves. “After a week of sharing cramped quarters with a crew full of men, you must be longing for a hot bath and some privacy.”
“You read my mind, Colonel.”
“This is the third smuggling run you’ve carried out in seven months. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long without being caught by the British.”
“You know us Irish. We’ll risk taking weapons from the devil himself.”
Ritter smiled. “Not that we Germans can complain. Your rebels will tie up British troops and keep them from our front lines.”
“What’s this bad news, Colonel?”
“I’ve received reports from our Kriegsmarine that the Royal Navy is very active in the Irish Sea. The British appear to be working even harder to prevent you from smuggling arms.”
“Don’t worry, our captain is used to playing cat-and-mouse with their navy.”
Ritter slapped his pigskin gloves in his palm. “I’m sure. But remember what happened to your comrade Roger Casement when he smuggled our rifles?”
“The British hung him as a traitor.”
Ritter nodded. “They’ll do the same to you if you’re not careful, and it won’t matter that you’re a woman. They may not even give you the benefit of a trial—just a bullet in the back of the neck to simplify matters.”
“Why the sudden concern?”
“I don’t want to lose you, Fräulein Ryan. Neither, I’m sure, do your fellow republicans, or that young brother of yours. So I’ve arranged for one of our submarines to shadow your vessel all the way to the Irish coast. If you encounter trouble, the U-boat captain will do his best to take care of it.”
“I appreciate it, Colonel, as I’m sure the crew will.” Lydia Ryan observed that the Marie-Ann’s cargo was almost loaded. “And now, if there’s nothing else?”
“Actually there is. It’s about the prisoner you asked me to check on.”
Lydia Ryan halted, her expression changing instantly. “What about him?”
“I checked our lists of British forces prisoners-of-war in at least two dozen of our POW camps and so far there’s no report of an Irishman named Sean Quinn among our captured enemy. Or at least no one who matches the age, background, and description you gave.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. I’m truly sorry, fräulein.”
Lydia’s face was crestfallen. “Not your fault, Colonel. At least you tried.”
“I take it the man was a close friend or relative?”
“Yes.”
Ritter frowned. “I don’t understand. He’s British forces, yet you’re a rebel fighting the crown?”
“A long story, Colonel, one meant for another day. And now, I really better be getting back.”
As they turned to walk toward the Marie-Ann, her cargo loaded, Ritter said, “Please. I have a gift for you, too. One good turn deserves another.”
He slipped a hand into his uniform pocket and removed a small, shiny black Mauser pistol with polished walnut grips. “Something to help you if ever you find yourself in a difficult situation.”
Lydia accepted the pistol. “I’ll take all the weapons I can get. You certainly know how to impress a lady, Colonel. Most men do it with flowers or chocolates, but you Germans are nothing if not kind and practical.”
Ritter touched her arm fondly, then stepped back, clicked his heels. “I mean it, I’d hate to lose you. Bon voyage, until the next shipment.”
“If the devil doesn’t get me first.”
Ten minutes later, from the stern of the Marie-Ann, Lydia watched Ritter standing on the harbor wall. He gave her a final wave before he disappeared like a ghost into the sea mist. She shivered, a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach after hearing Ritter’s news.
A noise sounded above the brittle clanking of the engine and she turned. Her brother stepped out of the wooden wheelhouse, where the captain was busy steering his way out of port.
Finn came up beside her and removed his cap to reveal a head of thick black curls, innocence in his youthful features that made him so appealing to the girls. “Well? What did the German officer say? It was about Sean, wasn’t it?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s written all over your face. Did he have any news or hold out any hope?”
“No news. But there’s always hope, Finn.”
Her brother shook his head. “He’s not coming back now, Lydia. You have to face up to it. I know Sean was the love of your life, but he’s been missing in action for over three years. You’d have heard by now if he was a prisoner.” He touched her arm, more than genuine fondness in the gesture, a reverence almost. “You have to move on with your life.”
“Sean was reported as missing, not dead. They’ll find him one day, I know they will.”
“But Lydia—”
A sudden anger rose up inside her and combined with all the pent-up tension of the last week at sea. “No, I won’t accept the worst. We know nothing without the proof. Now go tell Dinny that we’ll have a German U-boat shadowing us all the way home; it’ll be a comfort. And be quick about it.”
Finn hesitated. “You really need to get some rest, you know that? You’re on edge. You haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in almost a week. Go down below and try to shut your eyes while you can. One more thing.”
“What?”
“I love you, Lydia Ryan, despite your faults. You’re still mo cushla, as Dad always says.” Finn winked impishly, using the old Gaelic term of endearment that always softened her heart. Mo cushla—“You’re the breath of me, the beat of my heart.”
She smiled back despite herself, her anger diminished. “Go on with you. I’ll be along shortly.”
Finn moved toward the wheelhouse. She watched
him go and was immediately sorry for her outburst. There was a time when her heart was large and gentle and kind, but the war, of course, the war with all its ravages and deep valleys of hurt, had made her temper quicker and her heart much smaller and harder.
She became aware of something heavy in her right hand—it was the small black Mauser that Ritter gave her. She hitched up her skirt, exposing her legs, and tucked the Mauser into the top of her right ankle boot.
Just then the Marie-Ann cleared the harbor and a wind gusted out of nowhere, making her shiver.
The fog disappeared and the infinite gray enormity of the Baltic stretched to the horizon. For some reason she felt utterly and completely alone. “Where are you, Sean Quinn? Curse you for not being here when I need you most.”
As quickly as it came, her grieving plea was snatched away by the wind, lost in the cold, uncaring vastness of the Baltic.
Lydia wiped her eyes, straightened her skirt, and went down below.
4
ST. PETERSBURG
The city looked like hell on earth, a place gone mad.
It was spring but winter’s glacial hand still clutched the streets of the ancient settlement built by Peter the Great—huge, dirty chunks of frozen water clogging every avenue and pavement.
There were plenty of signs of war, of course, and Philip Sorg missed none of them as his hired horse-drawn droshky headed west, past the chaos of St. Petersburg’s sprawling slums and their endless lines of dirty gray laundry hanging from balconies.
Sorg took mental note of the piles of sandbags outside important public offices and the propaganda posters that adorned lampposts and walls. He paid attention to which streets were pockmarked with holes from artillery shells and where the bloodred flags of revolution fluttered from the tsarist buildings that once managed the vast Russian Empire, stretching from the Baltic to the Pacific.