The Nazi's Son

by Andrew Turpin

  “But if the border guards say they can deal with it, why not just let them do it?” Severinov asked.

  Pugachov shook his head. “No way. Not unless you want the whole operation screwed up. They are useless. I guarantee you, they will screw it up. Trust me, I’ve had to deal with them many times before, and they are bungling amateurs. We will handle it with these police officers. When we find out which boat they are on, we can call the border authorities then.”

  “All right, let’s try that,” Severinov said. He waved at the two police officers, indicating to them to follow, and strode back to the Mercedes.

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  Saimaa Canal

  About a mile and a half north of the dacha in the woods, Johnson was standing on the deck of the Sanets as the ship rose slowly inside the narrow rectangular concrete enclosure of the Iskrovka lock, the walls of which towered above him like some Soviet-era prison yard. The enormous black lock gates had closed behind them after they had entered, and now water was gushing steadily in from the northern end. According to Oleg, this allowed the ship to rise about eleven meters up to the level of the next stretch of the canal.

  The crew had moored the ship to a series of moving hooks that were built into the lock wall and rose up and down as the water level changed.

  It was the second lock the ship had been through, including Brusnitchnoe, which had a ten-meter rise. Oleg’s other ship, the Osa, had followed them up the canal and was now waiting for the Sanets to complete its passage through the lock so that it could enter.

  Johnson had been slightly surprised at the sophistication of the entire canal operation. Starting from the south, the first three locks and movable road bridges were controlled remotely from the operating center at Brusnitchnoe, according to Oleg, who had to remain in contact with staff there by VHF radio. The other five were controlled from a remote control center at Mälkiä lock, farther northwest.

  The locks were illuminated by bright streetlights on lampposts, and were neatly landscaped, with areas of lawn and rose bushes growing in beds.

  But otherwise, the territory through which they were traveling was a kind of no-man’s-land, with no houses or other settlements and no infrastructure apart from the highway and the locks.

  Johnson and Katya had remained hidden in the compartment beneath the changing room floor until the ship had been cleared by Russian customs checkpoint officers at Brusnitchnoe lock. Although the ship had been subjected to a search, it had lasted no more than ten minutes and did not come remotely close to discovering the underfloor hiding place.

  Twenty minutes after they had left the Brusnitchnoe customs post, Oleg permitted Johnson and Katya to come out on deck.

  This was a relief to Johnson, whose principal concern was that somehow Severinov would work out what their escape plan was and track them to the canal before they were over the border. Therefore, wherever possible, he wanted to keep a close eye on the highway for any sign of police or FSB vehicles. The highway came close to the canal in some places, while in others the two were separated by the thick pine forests that covered most of the area right up to the canal banks.

  Because of the regular movable road bridge closures to allow boats and ships through the locks, the vehicles in both directions tended to travel in bunches that had built up as they waited for the bridges to be lowered again.

  Most of the northbound vehicle traffic consisted of commercial trucks and vans that were presumably heading into Finland to deliver or collect goods. There were only a few cars, and most of them were older models, some quite battered.

  Oleg noticed him and Katya watching the traffic. “This is not the danger point,” he said. “The next three locks, Cvetotchnoe, Ilistoye, and Pälli, are the difficult ones, where the highway runs next to them or over them. Pälli is the Russian border checkpoint, so if we can get through that, we’re clear and through.”

  Johnson tugged at the old wound at the top of his right ear and explained his concerns about Severinov. “What if they catch up with us?”

  Oleg gave first Johnson, then Katya a sideways glance and stroked his bearded chin. “We have a few options.” He indicated toward some of his ship’s crew, most of whom were heavily muscled and bearded. “We can rely on these men for help if needed. Another question: Can you both swim?”

  “Of course,” Johnson said. Katya nodded.

  “Do you know how to use diving gear? Scuba diving kit?”

  Johnson didn’t like the sound of this, but he did know how to dive at a basic level. He had done a lengthy scuba course several years earlier back home in Portland Harbor and had also dove while on holiday in the Red Sea, to view the coral reefs there.

  “Sort of, I guess,” Johnson said. “I am not very good at it.”

  “I also don’t like it,” Katya said, “but I have learned it in the Baltic, near St. Petersburg, yes.”

  “Good,” said Oleg. “I’m not saying you will need to dive, but it does give us an option if required. We also have the Osa as a backup.” He indicated toward the Sanets’ sister ship behind them.

  Katya tapped the Heckler & Koch pistol that she, like Johnson, had tucked into the waistband of her pants. “I too have a backup,” she said, glancing alternately at Johnson and Oleg. For a second, Johnson thought about laughing, but he could see that Katya did not intend the comment in a lighthearted way. He just hoped that if she intended to use the weapon again, she would do so in a disciplined manner this time.

  After leaving Iskrovka, on the long stretch toward the next lock at Cvetotchnoe, seven and a half kilometers north, the canal entered an extensive natural lake. However, the main fairway—marked with white buoys to indicate where the canal bed had been dredged deep to allow larger ships adequate bottom clearance—remained only wide enough to allow two vessels to pass each other, no more.

  A group of birds, which Oleg said were black-throated loons, were busy diving into the water, often emerging half a minute later with small fish in their beaks.

  The highway ran to the left of the canal during this stretch, sometimes concealed behind trees but visible in several places.

  Johnson and Katya stood on deck on the port side of the ship to keep a close eye on the traffic heading north. A convoy of four white vans sped past. Close behind came a couple of large semitrailer trucks and a few cars.

  At Cvetotchnoe lock, the highway toward Finland passed over a movable bridge positioned right next to the lock, similar to Brusnitchnoe, and then continued straight through the forest to the north at a ninety-degree angle to the canal, taking vehicles well away from the water.

  As the Sanets drew closer to Cvetotchnoe, Johnson saw the movable bridge start to rise. The four vans had gone through, but the semitrailers and the cars were forced to stop and wait.

  That was when he noticed a police car barreling up the highway left of the water, traveling at high speed and then braking hard as it came up to the rear of the line of vehicles waiting at the bridge. It came to a halt, and two men jumped out, both dressed in uniform.

  “Shit,” Johnson muttered.

  He felt a surge of adrenaline go through him and immediately ducked down out of sight behind the gunwale, pulling Katya with him.

  He peered over the top and watched as the policemen walked to the edge of the highway, looking out over the canal. One of them pointed at the Sanets.

  Twenty seconds later, a black Mercedes came into view, also speeding northward. It braked to a sharp halt behind the police car and another two men got out, both dressed in black. Without hesitating, they walked over to the two police officers and began an animated conversation, glancing occasionally in the direction of the ship.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  Saimaa Canal

  “We’ll start with these two ships,” Severinov said to the two police officers in a tone that stated there was to be no argument. He indicated toward the timber-carrying ship entering Cvetotchnoe lock ahead of them a
nd another farther back on the canal to their right.

  “I’m hoping that Johnson and the girl won’t have gotten any farther north than this, so we begin here,” Severinov said. “You two go on board the first one and search it. We will stay on the quay and keep a watch—if they are on the boat, I don’t want to take the risk of them escaping while we’re below decks.”

  The policemen nodded their agreement, and Severinov terminated the short impromptu roadside meeting before climbing back into the Mercedes. Pugachov did likewise, installing himself behind the steering wheel.

  As the first ship came to a standstill in the lock, the enormous lock gates behind it closed, and the movable bridge slowly began to descend again. Water began pouring into the lock from the northern end of the structure, and the vessel, which Severinov could now see was named the Sanets, began to rise.

  Within a couple of minutes, the line of traffic began moving again. The police car ahead of them nosed into a small parking lot next to the lock, and Pugachov piloted the Mercedes into a space beside it.

  Severinov, Pugachov, and the policemen climbed out of their vehicles and began to walk toward the quayside. The blue-painted port side of the ship’s hull was rising slowly ahead of them. A group of four men were standing next to the ship on the quay. Two of them looked like canal workers in fluorescent yellow jackets and the other two were clearly ship’s crew who had disembarked; they were wearing thick jackets that bore the logo Saimaa-Baltic Shipping.

  “Leonid, you show them your ID and get these two on board,” Severinov muttered, indicating toward the policemen next to them.

  Pugachov strode up to the group and flashed his FSB identification.

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  Saimaa Canal

  The angle of visibility out of the small porthole at the port side of the deckhouse was a narrow one, maybe no more than forty degrees. But it was enough.

  Johnson felt his bowel flip inside him as he eyed the four men who were standing on the side of the quay at Cvetotchnoe lock.

  Shit, Johnson thought. He turned toward Katya and Oleg, who were standing behind him. “It’s Severinov. I thought this was going too well to be true.”

  Katya bent down and looked out the porthole. “Svolach,” she said. “Scum. Two police with him as well.”

  Oleg swore softly. “We will deal with this.”

  Yaroslav, wearing a shipping line jacket, appeared behind them. “Oleg, I have just been speaking to some men on the lock.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen them,” Oleg said, turning to face him. “They’re police. What the hell do they want?”

  “Yes, there are two police officers and two other men. One of them is FSB—he showed me his identity card, and he wants to see our ship’s registration papers. The police want to come aboard to search the ship. They are both carrying guns. What do you want me to tell them?”

  Oleg shrugged and looked at Johnson. “They can see the papers—I will get them in a few minutes. And we will have to let them on board. We have no choice. I will try and talk them out of doing a search, but I am certain that will not work. You two need to get into the hiding place right now. Move.” He pointed Johnson toward the door behind them that led into the crew’s changing room, where the hatch leading to the underfloor cavity was concealed.

  “You go in there,” Katya said. “I’ll go in the refuge on deck. It’s better we are separate.”

  Johnson shook his head. Although the idea of being separated was a good one, the refuge on deck was not concealed well enough, in his view.

  “No,” Johnson said. “They are more likely to find you there. It’s not such a good place. Why do you want to go there?”

  “If they find this underfloor hole, we are sitting ducks together. We are both finished. But if we are separate, it is different. If they find you, I will take them out. And if they find me, you can take them out.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not going to let—”

  But before he could complete his sentence, Katya interrupted. “Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.” Without a further word, she turned and headed out the deckhouse door.

  Johnson instinctively started to go after her, but Oleg put his hand up, indicating that he should stop.

  “No,” Oleg said. “There’s no time to argue. We need to move. Let her go out there if she wants; it’s her risk. You go inside. She may be right—if they did find this hiding place, you would both be sitting ducks, as she calls it.” He opened the door to the crew changing room and pulled Johnson inside, then reached up to the top of the lockers and removed the metal catch release for the underfloor cavity hatch door, which he opened.

  “I will get you when we are all clear,” Oleg said. “Just remain extremely quiet, and don’t move.”

  The urgency in Oleg’s voice clearly said there was no time to waste, and Johnson knew he was right. The Russian couldn’t delay going to see the police officers any longer. He just hoped Oleg’s affable manner and plausible arguments would be enough to persuade them that a cursory search of the ship would be sufficient. He also hoped that his instinct to trust the ship’s owner was the correct one.

  Johnson descended into the cavity and sank to his knees on the sleeping mat covering the floor. He had just switched on the battery lamp when the hatch door above him clicked shut.

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  Saimaa Canal

  It was the situation Katya had always feared being in. Backed into a corner with no obvious means of escape. She knew that if the police officers who were trying to board the ship, or the FSB, for that matter, were to trap her now, she would face an extremely grim fate, not least given her father’s track record and the fact that she had the blood of an FSB officer already on her hands.

  Some of her friends had eventually returned following various ordeals in the subbasements of the Bolshoy Dom, the monolithic FSB and former KGB office building on Liteyny Prospekt in central St. Petersburg, and had never been the same again. Some of their stories of torture and beatings had given her nightmares. Two of them had not returned—their bodies were never recovered.

  To her ongoing surprise, Katya had never been hauled in for interrogation, but if the officers got their hands on her now, she knew it would likely end in only one way.

  That wasn’t going to happen. Not if she had anything to do with it. If they came close to finding her, she would go on the offensive. As a last resort, it would be better to die fighting rather than be captured helpless down some rabbit hole of a hiding place. That was what her father had instilled in her. For what they had done to her parents and her friends, she would rather take as many of them with her as she could.

  Katya moved swiftly along the gangway on the starboard side of the ship, out of sight of the policemen who were standing on the other side of Cvetotchnoe lock. She walked between the gunwale and the towering piles of timber stacked on the main deck and eventually reached the narrow gap between the pine trunks that led to the steel refuge.

  Katya slipped into the gap and crawled into the refuge. There she removed the Heckler & Koch from her waistband and the suppressor from her jacket pocket and screwed the suppressor onto the barrel.

  Then she sat silently to wait. She was completely certain of one thing: she wasn’t going to be the third member of her family to be gunned down by these bastards. She was also certain she would do everything in her power to prevent Joe Johnson from also being gunned down—he seemed the best chance of getting some justice for what had happened to her father and mother. Perhaps she could help him finish what her father had intended to do.

  After several minutes, Katya heard the sound of voices coming from the port side of the ship. It was difficult to hear much, but she did make out Oleg’s low-pitched, gruff tones saying something about there being nobody unauthorized on board the ship.

  Then came another man’s voice, a brusque, commanding one. The only audible part of the conversation was when he demanded to see the rear of th
e ship.

  The voices rapidly faded, presumably as the men moved to the ship’s stern.

  What seemed like an eternity later, but in fact was probably no more than ten minutes, she again heard the same voices coming from the same direction. This time they were louder.

  “What is down here?” a man asked from somewhere out of sight.

  “Nothing,” came Oleg’s voice. “It is just a gap between the timber cargo.”

  “We will have a quick look. Then we will search the deckhouse and the engine room. Come this way, Ivan.”

  Katya assumed that Ivan must be the man’s police colleague.

  Next came the sound of multiple footsteps and the brushing sound of clothing rubbing against the pine trunks as the officers began to make their way down the gap between the logs.

  Katya knew what she was going to do next: it was them or her. She wasn’t going to give them a chance to take her out.

  She flicked the safety on her P7 to off and inched forward on her knees. Then in one movement, she pushed herself out into the gap, took aim, and fired three rounds in quick succession.

  As she moved, she could see the first officer reaching for his gun. But he was too slow.

  The first two rounds hit the officer in the chest. As he fell, the third round hit the second policeman in the head.

  Bull’s-eye.

  Behind them, Oleg stood, his eyes wide, his mouth open, and his hands raised.

  “Don’t shoot,” he called.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Wednesday, April 9, 2014

  Saimaa Canal

  Johnson heard the squeak of the door to the crew changing room above his hiding place as someone opened it. Then came a prolonged scraping, scratching noise as something was dragged across the floor, followed by a slight thud. There was a pause, followed by another similar series of sounds.