Greenfly (Commander Shaw Book 18)

by Philip McCutchan

  I gave it a couple of minutes, during which I thought of Felicity. There was silence from the hut. Dead, or still obeying the last order?

  After the two minutes I got slowly to my feet.

  No firing.

  I looked down at the black form in the snow. In point of fact it wasn’t all black, there was a garment like a white sheet over the clothing, but against the snow’s virgin whiteness it looked dark, and some of the dark was blood. I pushed at it with a foot and it sogged but made no movement. Then I went into the hut, calling softly for Felicity. “All right?” I asked with my heart in my mouth.

  “All right,” she said. “Just a near miss. Who was it?”

  “God knows,” I answered, feeling the lifting of a great weight. “I’ll go and find out. Or try to.”

  I went outside again. The time was now 2.25 a.m. I bent down by the body, there in the darkness. I had no means of seeing – no torch; all I could do was feel. The presence of a beard proved the sex. There was a lot of bulk, a lot of fat. The clothing was not a uniform so far as I could make out, but then the KGB – say – wouldn’t be likely to be wearing uniform on a mission such as this. I felt around in the pockets and found a wallet plus the usual clutter of any man’s pockets. The clutter I left, the wallet I took. Also a long envelope that was in the same pocket. I moved off to the right and found two more bodies, both dead. There was nothing of interest in their pockets. I went back to Felicity.

  I said, “I have some bumph. When I also get light – well, then we’ll see. Maybe.”

  “How long now before the train?”

  “Half an hour,” I said.

  It was a long half hour, and it was in fact longer than half an hour, before we heard the distant chug and rattle and clank of the approaching engine with its trucks.

  “Out,” I said. “And keep in the lee of the workings so far as possible.” Together we made our way to the railway line itself, heading for a spot about a hundred yards short of the bridge on the Smolensk side. Here canvas tarpaulins had been rigged close to the track, tarpaulins as stiff as iron from the bitter cold. I could only guess that their purpose was to provide some sort of shelter for the labour gangs. Now they made good shelter for us. We heard a series of bangs as the engine slowed for the bridge and each of the trucks crashed into the buffers of its next ahead, the speed coming right off so that the train, as it came up to where we waited invisibly, was almost stopped. It was a good old steam engine out of history, a train spotter’s delight, a big chugging monster with a great furnace flaring into the night and two comrades on the footplate, both of them with all their attention concentrated ahead on the bridge. I could see them clearly in the light from the furnace. Slowly the engine moved past us; I allowed it and the tender to get some distance ahead before I said, “Now!”

  Some open trucks were moving past us. I had-no idea what their loads might be; from low down it was impossible to see anything that might be protruding above the sides. We moved along with the train, which was still going dead slow, and swung ourselves up onto one of the couplings, and sat astride a set of buffers, uncomfortably, dangerously, legs dangling and hands grabbing for any hold that was going. Still the train moved slowly, giving us a chance to settle, though I wasn’t going to settle for long. We had to get into a truck, get cover over us.

  “All right?” I asked.

  “Just about.”

  “When the speed comes on, hold tight.”

  “What do you think?” she responded. She was doing her best but sounded, not surprisingly, dead scared. I didn’t believe we could make it if we stayed long on the coupling. If we hadn’t had thick gloves supplied along with the guns and anoraks by Olga Menshikova, our hands where they gripped the metal protuberances would have frozen and left skin behind if we’d pulled away. I thought about the machine-pistols which we still carried. I didn’t fancy taking them right into Moscow even stripped down but had not been prepared to leave them at the bridge with the bodies and risk them being traced back to the Ladybirds in the little cottage. They would have to be dumped somewhere along the route into Moscow but until that time came they were of some comfort. Once we were across the bridge and gathering speed I stood up on the coupling and, holding tight against the train’s swaying motion, clambered up the front of the next truck astern to take a look: I hadn’t done this during the slowing period since there would be a guard’s van at the rear end and the guard could well have been keeping a lookout ahead as the bridge was negotiated. But now, I thought, that guard would be back in the warm. The truck was covered, as I had already seen from the securing lines – a tarpaulin, hauled taut and thick with snow. Not so taut that I wasn’t able to get some slack on the ropes by twisting with the barrel of the Kalashnikov; and working patiently though with numb fingers that prolonged the job I managed to lift a corner of the tarpaulin and then extend the lift so that there was just about room to squeeze through and take a chance on what we landed amongst, and take a chance also on whether or not there was room. I believed there was; the tarpaulin had a sag that told me the truck wasn’t fully laden.

  I climbed down again to the coupling and told Felicity what to do. I said, “I’ll be right behind you. Just hold tight, get your bottom on the lip of the truck, then get your legs in and let yourself down. After that, crawl clear of the gap to leave room for me. All right?”

  She nodded but didn’t speak. I could feel her fear, the fear that she would let go and fall, and drop beneath the wheels of the train, which, though its acceleration was not all that great, had by now gathered a fair amount of speed. But I knew she had the guts to overcome her fear: a case of teeth gritting and she was good at that.

  And she made it safely. I watched her sit for a moment on the edge of the truck, a shadow in the night, then she slid down inside. I lost no time in following her. There was in fact plenty of room. It wasn’t what you could call warm; but it was a lot better than the swaying, grinding buffers and at least we were out of the wind made by the train’s speed.

  “What’s the load, I wonder?” she asked.

  “Boxes. Wooden boxes.”

  “Crates?”

  “Not quite the feel,” I said, after searching around.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  There was of course no light; I wanted badly to look inside that dead man’s wallet and read the contents of the envelope, but I would have to wait. I did a little more feeling around the so-called boxes. Cased guns or ammunition? I didn’t think so. The shape was wrong. Too long, I’d have thought, and the wood was polished. And on the tops, on the lids, my fingers found metal plates.

  I said, “They’re coffins.”

  Felicity gave a gasp. “Tenanted?” she asked. I didn’t know the answer to that, and I wasn’t going to pry. But it made the journey that much more gruesome.

  *

  According to Olga Menshikova the train was due into Moscow at 6 a.m. That must mean we would have no daylight all the way: the winter dawns in the Soviet were late. But there would be lights to show us when we were starting to approach the capital and I would have to assess the moment to leave the train. That could not be while it was travelling at any real speed. And there would be stops at Borodino and Dorokovo only. Too far off Moscow.

  “How far off?” Felicity asked.

  “Dorokovo’s about fifty miles, give or take.”

  “Might be safer?”

  “I don’t fancy the open road.” I spoke through chattering teeth: the night cold struck through the thick quilted anoraks, almost freezing thought as well as bodies, and thought of bodies directed my mind again to the coffins on which we lay. An escape route? If they were empty … but an escape to where? Some Soviet funeral parlour, probably. Or maybe inside the Kremlin walls themselves – the Russians had had a run of elderly leaders not so long ago and they could have decided to stockpile coffins for future use. If it was to be an ordinary funeral parlour we might have a chance, since it’s always easier to break out than in, but o
f course it wasn’t on because somewhere along the line some busybody – right word? – would be sure to note that two of the coffins were heavier than the others and no English tourist could talk himself out of that one …

  The train ground on, rumbling, clanking through the night, occasionally emitting a steamy whistle for no apparent reason. It wasn’t travelling very fast; possibly the snow was causing delay in spite of the plough ahead of the engine, throwing the stuff aside to clear the track. A heavier than usual fall, perhaps, and our arrival would be late, which could mean some unwelcome light in the sky.

  As my watch moved towards 6 a.m. I kept a discreet lookout, sticking my head through the lifted corner of the tarpaulin. I reckoned we were going to be late: we seemed still to be in open country, way beyond the outskirts of any city let alone the great metropolis of Moscow. I came down again to the comparative comfort of the coffins; a wind had come up, a very bitter one, and my face and head were half frozen after a few minutes. I gave it another quarter of an hour and then I looked out again, and fancied I could make out a loom of light in the distance ahead. Thereafter I remained at my post and within the next half-hour it became obvious that journey’s end was not far off. I dropped down and warned Felicity.

  “Any time now. As soon as we begin to slow.”

  It was still dark and I was thankful for it. We wouldn’t have had much hope in daylight.

  It was ten minutes later that the train slowed to a crawl.

  I didn’t jump the gun and it was fortunate that I didn’t. The crawl grew slower and then the train stopped. “Now?” Felicity asked.

  “Hold on,” I said. I don’t know why; it was something instinctive, a hunch, no real reason to delay what we had to do. Then just a few seconds later I heard voices, and footsteps coming closer to the truck, and then a lot of banging front and rear and cursing as heavy gear was manoeuvred about, and then the sound of the engine chugging away and obviously, since we didn’t move, leaving us behind.

  “They’ve uncoupled us,” I whispered. We waited: it was all we could do. Soon there was more sound, that of an engine – a shunting engine, I guessed. More bangings from the front only this time as we were coupled on, and an authoritative voice, giving orders. I stiffened as I heard those orders: my Russian, and Felicity’s, was equal to the occasion. I whispered, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes. Siberia.”

  Coffins for the prison population, those who had succumbed and over the years ahead would succumb to the harsh and terrible conditions of the Siberian plain. As if sensing my thoughts Felicity said, “Do they give them coffins? Not just mass graves?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Perhaps they like to do things properly … “

  “What about us, for God’s sake?”

  A touch of hysteria? Not likely with Felicity; but she was clearly in a high state of anxiety which wasn’t surprising. All I could say was, “Hold on, Felicity. We have to wait. That’s all there is to it. I’ve a feeling they’ve unhitched us fore and aft – we’re on our own behind the shunting engine – ”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Yes, but a good one. And I’ll make another: they won’t take just one truck to Siberia. We’ll be coupled onto another train. That gives us a bit of leeway, right?”

  “You hope,” she said bitterly.

  “I do indeed,” I said, and heard her blow an angry breath down through her nose. As I had said, there was nothing we could do but wait and see which way things went. I believed our chance might come during the wait for the fresh train, the Siberia express or whatever – the coffin special, perhaps. We would be shunted into a siding … but then again we might not be. We might be coupled up at any moment and started off on the long haul to the far north-east of the Soviet Union, the parts where the wind blew always, bitterly from the frozen seas across the frozen plain, the part of Russia where English tourists certainly didn’t go any more than they emerged from coffin trucks. One thing was sure: I would take any risks to get us off that train before it was too far out of Moscow. And as always the clock was in charge: I had to get us away before the day came. Currently it was just the weather, the iron hard sky and the overcast, that was stopping the sun’s fight from coming through.

  Snow came into the truck, blown on the wind that lifted the freed corner of the tarpaulin – which, strangely perhaps, hadn’t been noticed. Soon it might be; there could be further checks before the train for Siberia pulled out. Or possibly we could both have misunderstood. It was possible that the truck was after all destined for unloading here in the capital and the railwaymen were not bothering with securing lines that had come adrift. If that was so, then we could be discovered at any moment and the sooner we broke out the better.

  I had to consider the crew of the shunting engine. It was good that the snow had come back, but the fall was unlikely to be enough to shield two figures emerging through the corner of the tarpaulin and making a run for it; though the sight of living things coming out from a load of coffins might put the enginemen off their stroke for long enough, it wasn’t a risk I could take.

  We had to go on waiting. Here in a Moscow marshalling yard or whatever, with the shunting engine right ahead of us, I couldn’t risk even looking out. And we had to keep dead still in case any movement, any sound brought someone to investigate.

  “Have you,” Felicity whispered in my ear, “any idea where we are?”

  “Probably somewhere outside Kiyevsky station.”

  “How far out?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I whispered snappishly. Just at that moment there was a chug from the shunting engine, a long whistle, then a heavy jolt and we were on the move again. We moved slowly, clanking over points. It was unlikely, I thought, that we would be entering the main Kiyevsky railway station; we could go to a siding for the train to Siberia to be linked up, if we had overheard correctly, or for the unloading operation if we’d been mistaken.

  It was time to go, whatever the risk. I had started to say as much to Felicity and tell her I was going to take a preliminary squint out through the tarpaulin when we stopped again and I heard the sound of what I believed was a man jumping down from the engine. Footsteps approached and then I heard someone getting onto the coupling.

  10

  I was already in position immediately beneath the lifted corner of the tarpaulin. Now I aimed my gun towards it. It was clear enough that the man was coming to re-secure the cover; I hadn’t to let that happen. From inside the truck I wouldn’t be able to loosen the ropes that passed through the eyelets in the canvas and I had no knife nor anything else I could use to cut a way out. This was the time for action.

  I made a small sound, a heel on the wood of the nearer coffin. I heard a sudden exclamation and the scrabblings on the coupling and buffers stopped. There was some hesitation and then I heard the thump of a body against the front of the truck and a gloved hand appeared over the lip. The man was about to look in just in case some of the cargo had shifted – that was probably all, but he got one hell of a shock when his face came over the corner and I jabbed the barrel of the machine-pistol into it.

  In Russian I said, “Stay where you are, Comrade. And don’t call out.”

  I couldn’t see his face other than as a dark blob: I couldn’t see the expression. It was still dark and the snow was still blowing in past the Russian’s head. Suddenly that head dipped down: he was about to run for his life, but I got to him first, dropping the gun and thrusting upright fast, using the coffins as a base, and reaching down for the hair, which was long and thick. I pulled him up by the roots and there was a terrified squeak before I got my hands around his neck and tightened my grip to near strangulation point. Whilst doing all this I had taken a quick look around: there was no-one else about. The shunting engine, which was a diesel job, had only this one man as crew and we were alongside a deserted, half derelict platform with a wall behind it and a roof high overhead. I had an idea that the wall was in fact the perimeter of the railway yar
d and on the other side I would find an ordinary street, perhaps with warehouses, perhaps with railway workers’ dwellings. To find out I hoisted the man up by his neck. He was not a big man and I was able to drag him into the truck fast enough. Once in and my hands off his neck, Felicity’s pistol jabbed into his back and he gave another startled bleat. It was an eerie situation; none of us could see each other and we were surrounded by coffins.

  I said, using Russian again, “One sound and you’re dead.”

  He got the gist even if I hadn’t got it quite right. He spoke in a shaking voice and I couldn’t understand a word so I cut him short. I said, “We want to get out of here. Out of the yard. You’re going to guide us. And we don’t want to meet anyone on the way. Have you got that?”

  Once again he seemed to get the drift, and said so. I said, “Right. No time to waste now. I’ll get out first, then you. The lady will be right behind you.” It was going to be dangerous, very tricky, and it would be a matter of luck if we got clear without meeting anybody. But I knew the fear of God was sitting heavily on our captive comrade’s soul and he would show us the fastest and easiest way out. Our anoraks were roomy and we would be able to keep the guns concealed beneath them. On the other hand, I didn’t want to take them into Moscow, where anyone is liable to be stopped, questioned and searched at the drop of a hat and for no particular reason. It might be better to leave them in the truck, link arms with our guide and all move through the yard as old mates, something like that … but then I remembered the bodies back by that bridge, who would be discovered any moment now when the workers turned up for duty. There would be that link with Olga Menshikova and her gallant band of Ladybirds. I had still to bear that in mind, so we left with the guns intact.

  We went along the platform. Snow blew in beneath the roof: its height provided poor shelter when the wind blew as it was blowing now. Snow had drifted up by the wall, and was lying along the track as well. There was no-one about and in the event it was dead easy: at the far end of the platform a door was set into the high wall, and our guide produced a key and opened it. That was all. We walked through into a snow-whitened roadway with warehouses opposite the railyard wall, and the Russian driver lost no time in shutting and locking the door behind us.