The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  General Alekseev ambled over to a shattered window and watched with relief when Bagration, Sergeant Tarasov and a small detachment of trustworthy soldiers finally got into Alekseev’s personal staff car. Without looking back, they took off towards the centre of the burning town and the waiting train. Seeing them leave, Alekseev felt as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his tired shoulders. He was about to turn away from the window and end it all, when something unexpected caught his eye. Approaching out of the smoke was a small column of dark grey armoured cars flying large red banners. They raced down the dirt road straight towards the farm.

  Their hated enemy was coming.

  The defeated and broken White soldiers trudging along either side of the road knew that the vehicles weren’t theirs. They didn’t even try to stop them, as they no longer gave a damn about fighting. They were beaten, and to a man, they all knew it.

  Alekseev let out a resigned sigh, returned to his desk, took a seat, fixed his tunic to look more presentable, and then fixed his tired gaze upon his pistol. As he contemplated the unthinkable, his hands suddenly stopped trembling and a serene calmness enveloped him as he slowly reached for his pistol. The sound of machine guns tearing through the air seemed far…somehow distant to Alekseev, though deep inside he knew it was the Reds’ armoured cars sowing death and fear among the fleeing Whites, forcing them to stampede out of their way.

  Alekseev was detached; it felt as though he were in a dream…no, it must surely be some kind of horrible nightmare. He willed himself to wake up somewhere else, some place safe. However, deep down, in his soul he knew he was going to die, no matter what happened next. He slowly grew to welcome it.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp bang, and Alekseev felt an intense burning pain. Instantly snapping out of his dreamlike trance, Alekseev, to his dismay, realised that he had been shot straight through his right hand. Blood had splattered all over his desk and his stained white tunic. Recoiling in pain, he instinctively grabbed his wounded hand with his good one and looked up in horror to see a tall, imposing man dressed fully in black leather standing in the doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand. Menacingly, the man entered the room, walked over beside Alekseev, towering above him. The man had broad shoulders, short jet-black hair, and intense ice-blue eyes, with a deep scar down the right cheek of his once handsome face.

  “Who the hell are you?” defiantly demanded Alekseev, clutching his wounded hand in pain.

  “Major-General Alekseev?” the man asked calmly.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “General, I am so glad to finally make your acquaintance,” said the man in black. “I am so sorry general, where are my manners? Please let me introduce myself. I am Comrade Colonel Dimitri Grusian, and you sir are now a prisoner of the Cheka.” The man spoke as though introducing himself at a formal dinner.

  “The what?” stammered Alekseev, looking into Grusian’s cold blue eyes.

  Grusian’s face instantly turned menacing. In one sharp move, he knocked Alekseev’s pistol off the desk and then struck Alekseev hard across the face, sending the hapless officer tumbling from his chair and onto the hardwood floor.

  Alekseev moaned in pain as his head hit the dusty floorboards.

  Grusian stepped over the wounded general and snarled, “The Cheka, my dear general, are the people’s All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, and as such I have the power, the right and the authority to conduct field tribunals on bourgeois counter-revolutionaries and criminals, like yourself.”

  Alekseev’s blood instantly turned cold. As if in a dream, he found himself being hauled up off the floor by two young Cheka soldiers dressed from head to toe, like their superior, in black leather. Without uttering a word, both men held him tightly in their grip.

  “You can’t treat me this way. I’m a Russian General. God damn it, and you will treat me with respect,” stammered Alekseev, trying to gain his composure.

  Grusian stepped forward, looked deep into Alekseev’s bloodshot eyes for a moment, then as hard as he could, he struck him in the stomach, causing Alekseev to double over, painfully gasping for air. The two soldiers holding him smiled at each other, and then hauled Alekseev back onto his feet so their sadistic superior could continue his interrogation.

  “Now, general, I have been told by some very reliable people…well spies actually that you have some information that I, and the Russian people would find quite interesting. For you see, my dear General Alekseev, I have been watching you for months,” said Grusian matter-of-factly. “I long ago infiltrated your staff and many other White formations with true Bolshevik patriots. They have been steadily supplying me with valuable information about you and your activities. The main mission charged to me by the people is the discovery and elimination of enemies of the state, namely Czarist monarchists and their sycophantic supporters…like yourself,” Grusian said threateningly, as he moved to within an inch of Alekseev’s face. His cold eyes seemed to be staring straight through him. “So general, please be so kind as to tell me where you keep your private correspondence, or any documents detailing the whereabouts of any counter-revolutionaries and their activities may be found, and after that, I promise you that I will finish you off quickly.”

  Alekseev could not believe what he was hearing. Was it true, were members of his personal staff really Red Agents? The thought that his family could be in mortal danger flooded his mind, paralysing him with doubt and fear.

  “Come, come, general, all I want is some information, and then this…agony of yours will all be over,” said Grusian, as he picked up and then examined Alekseev’s discoloured white peaked cap.

  Alekseev knew he could say nothing; to do so would doom his family. He resolved to die on his feet, like a man. Taking a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, he looked into Grusian’s eyes, the soulless eyes of a remorseless killer. “Colonel, if you are telling the truth about my headquarters being infested with Red vermin, then you should already know that I no longer possess any of my correspondence. I knew all was lost, so I sent it all away, into the safekeeping of Admiral Kolchak, several days ago.”

  A crooked smile formed on Grusian’s face. “I do believe you, General, when you say that your papers are no longer here. However, I do not believe you as to where they have gone. In the long run, it matters not, for I will find them, and they will lead me to more traitors.”

  Grusian placed the cap down on the table and turned to walk away, stopping at the entrance to the room. He then turned on his heels, swiftly drew his pistol, and then fired one shot into Alekseev’s forehead, snapping it back. The sound of the pistol firing inside the tiny room was deafening. Blood, brains, and bone splattered onto the wall behind the men holding Alekseev’s dead body. Grusian did not notice the mess or even care—Alekseev was just another dead enemy of the state, and his death truly meant nothing to him.

  The blood covered Cheka soldiers let go of Alekseev’s body. Stepping over his corpse, they obediently followed Grusian outside. Without saying another word, they all climbed back inside the nearest armoured car and then headed straight into the blazing inferno that had once been a town, destroying anything or anyone who dared stand in their way.

  Captain Bagration was relieved to see the train station appear through the smoky haze, like a welcoming port in a storm. Unable to proceed any further through the sea of people pushing and jostling to escape, Bagration jumped down from the staff car. He drew his sidearm and joined by Sergeant Tarasov and his men as they pushed their way through the throng of people towards the train station platform.

  Panic and fear gripped the inhabitants. They all knew that the train was their last hope for salvation. No one wanted to be left behind.

  Bagration pushed on. His heart ached when he saw scores of pitifully wounded soldiers and civilians vainly crawling towards the train, leaving trails of blood in their wake, while others too injured to move, lay in the dirt, begging to be carried onto the waiting tr
ain. Terrified women pleaded with the soldiers for their children to be spared while those with money and no scruples tried bribing their way to safety and freedom.

  Barely twenty White soldiers positioned along the platform formed a slender cordon. Desperately, they fought to control the worsening situation. Officers, their pistols drawn, fired into the air, trying to keep the mass of panicked people back. Two men trying to escape knocked a soldier down and darted towards the train, only to be shot dead by a grizzled looking sergeant. Bagration wished he was immune to the plight of the refugees, but he knew they would all be left to the doubtful mercy of the Reds. He had seen far too much death in his short lifetime. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his way towards the train. He began to fear that Mrs. Alekseev and her granddaughter hadn’t made it, when through the struggling cordon; he saw her standing stoically beside the train, her young granddaughter behind her. He had to get to them. With his pistol raised, he pushed and fought his way through the frightened crowd towards the white soldiers guarding the train, when suddenly a nervous looking soldier raised his rifle and aimed it straight at him.

  “S-Stop or I’ll kill you. I don’t care if you’re a bloody officer. No one is g-getting on this train,” stammered the scared young soldier.

  Bagration froze in his tracks, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He hadn’t come this far to be killed by one of his own side. Slowly, he raised his hands to show the terrified soldier that he meant him no harm, and then calmly spoke. “Private, my name is Captain Constantine Bagration. I am General Alekseev’s personal Aide-de-Camp. I am on your side. You don’t want to kill me, now do you?”

  The soldier did not respond. He just kept his rifle shakily aimed at Bagration’s chest.

  “Constantine? Constantine, is that you?” called a large, bearded major from the train platform.

  “Yes sir, yes it is,” said a relieved Bagration. “Sir, for god’s sake, please tell your men to let me and my men pass.”

  The order was given.

  A big sergeant walked over, carefully placing his hand on the young White soldier’s rifle and then slowly lowered it until it was aimed harmlessly at the ground. “It’s alright now. You can come forward, sir,” the sergeant told Bagration.

  Nodding his acknowledgment, Bagration cautiously advanced, his hands still by his side, and passed the terrified soldier who had just threatened to kill him. To Bagration, the soldier looked no more than sixteen years old if he was even that old. He doubted that the soldier had been in the army for barely a few weeks. He was not angry with the frightened soldier; rather, he pitied him as he suspected that he would be dead before the sunset.

  “Sergeant, these men are with me,” said Bagration, indicating to Tarasov and three other tough-looking, bearded Cossacks.

  With a quick wave of his hand, the sergeant let Bagration’s men squeeze past the cordon and walk up onto the platform as shells began to rain down all around them. Nearby Buildings and scores of people jammed into the narrow streets were instantly torn apart. Debris rained down everywhere, like a burning rain, causing the already scared mass of people to surge forward, trampling those underfoot. Fear and dread were taking hold. Bagration knew that unless they got underway shortly that the soldiers would soon be overwhelmed.

  The heat from the burning buildings burnt his face, but Grusian, standing tall in his vehicle’s turret, ignored the pain. Swearing loudly at the vehicle driver, Grusian bashed his hand on the side of the armoured car as it slowed to a crawl as soon as it entered a narrow dirt street. His mind was fixated on one goal: stopping the last operational train out of the damned town before it had a chance to escape. He was not going to be denied, not now when he was so close. Like a man possessed, he ordered his men to push on into the ever-increasing chaos of death and destruction all around them. His crew nodded their understanding and then started firing indiscriminately into the swarms of refugees fleeing the fighting, trying to clear the road. The only choices the inhabitants of Porovino had were to die in the burning buildings or under the murderous fusillade from Grusian’s men. As one, the people panicked, abandoning their personal possessions and carts as they fled, all of which soon piled up, blocking the narrow road to Grusian’s armoured cars.

  Bagration holstered his pistol, checked his uniform, and then calmly walked towards Mrs. Alekseev. She was dressed perfectly in a long flowing green dress with a matching feathered hat. Bagration was amazed at how she could maintain such grace and poise while the world was literally coming apart around her. Beside her stood a beautiful young girl with sparkling blue eyes, whose clean and well-pressed white dress was adorned with a glittering diamond necklace. She looked as out of place on the platform as did her grandmother.

  “Madame, I must respectfully ask you to board the train,” said Bagration.

  “Captain Bagration, we cannot possibly leave yet. My husband is not here,” Mrs. Alekseev replied, looking out into the ever-growing crowd of people.

  “I am sorry, Madame, but I must insist that you board the train while we still have time.”

  With that, Mrs. Alekseev looked deep into Constantine’s sad, tired eyes and knew that her husband was most likely already dead. Maintaining her calm resolve, she smiled at Constantine and then placed a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Come, my dear Nadya, it’s getting late. We must go now.”

  “What about grandfather?” Nadya asked, looking at the mass of panicked refugees as they fought and pushed their way towards the platform.

  “Don’t worry about your grandfather. He’ll join us later right after he gives those horrible Reds a good whipping,” Mrs. Alekseev said calmly to her granddaughter, as she turned to leave. “Now, my child, we must move along so these brave soldiers can do their duty.”

  Bagration opened the door to the train carriage, holding it open as the women climbed aboard. He and his men followed closely behind. Bagration was instantly struck by the unbelievable luxury of the carriage. Fine leather couches, chairs, rich tapestries, and ornately painted wooden furniture adorned the truly luxurious room. Years of fighting had hardened Bagration, but such opulence seemed almost obscene while people died mere yards away from the train.

  A loud whistle sounded and the train shuddered to life. Ever so slowly, it began to creep forward, gradually picking up speed as it headed out of the station. Bagration stood by an open window and watched in horror as the crowd suddenly realized that they were being abandoned to their fate. With a mournful cry, the people surged forward, finally overwhelming the precious few White soldiers who had remained behind. It was too much even for Bagration to watch. He shook his head at the pointlessness of it all and was about to leave when then heard the sound of soldiers firing from the platform into the crowd, killing their fellow Russians. Bagration was horrified that it had all come to this. He could not believe that this nightmarish day could get any worse.

  Through the smoke, Grusian, his blood boiling with rage, saw the train start to move away from the platform. Looking down, he saw that the road ahead was impassable. Screaming in rage, he leapt from of his vehicle, pistol in hand, and pushed his way through the crowd onto the platform and then like a madman, he ran after the departing train. A surprised White soldier, seeing him approach, spun around and tried to raise his rifle but was instantly shot twice in the chest for his efforts. Leaping over the dying soldier, Grusian sprinted to the end of the platform. His anger and hatred were etched across his face. Emptying his pistol into the back of the train, Grusian screamed at the top of his lungs at his escaping quarry. After a few seconds, the train grew smaller and smaller as it moved further down the tracks. Jamming his pistol back into its holster, Grusian, oblivious to all the death around him, turned and calmly walked back to his armoured car. His prey would have to wait for another day.

  CHAPTER 2

  A MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS

  ENGLAND, MAY 1927

  A cool evening fog rolled across the open fields, covering the land as far as the eye could see in
a wispy grey blanket.

  The calmness of the night was suddenly shattered when out of the mist raced a car, its tires squealing loudly as it turned sharply off the narrow country road and onto the cobblestone lane leading towards Grant House. The 16th-century manor was located in the middle of a large open field and surrounded by a wide moat. It had recently become home to a very rich émigré Russian Prince who fled Russia when Czar Nicholas II had abdicated power in 1917.

  A large stag, spooked by the noise, darted out of the fog and then foolishly stopped in the middle of the road directly in front of the speeding car. Without even slowing down, the car sped around the deer, missing it by the narrowest of margins. The vehicle then sped on towards the manor. With a screech of the protesting brakes, Captain Christopher Sheppard brought his vehicle to a sliding halt. Rocks and dirt flew into the air behind the car as it came to a sudden halt. Sheppard pulled up on the handbrake of his silver Bentley Sports-Tourer, a wide satisfied grin on his face. A second later, Sheppard jumped out of his car and looked around, admiring the collection of expensive cars parked in front of the manor house. The chauffeurs of the cars were doing as they customarily did—milling around, smoking and chatting with one another, to help pass the long tedious hours of waiting while their employers partied well into the night. All except for one man, who sat silently in the driver’s seat of his car, constantly, almost nervously, staring over his shoulder at the front door of the house in expectation of someone leaving soon, Sheppard thought.

  “Now, Harry, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sheppard asked his bewildered passenger.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I told you that I should have driven. You nearly hit that bloody animal. I do not relish the thought of being recklessly killed by you and your careless driving,” replied the man, as he unravelled a long scarf from his face, revealing his dark complexion. Harry Campbell was in his mid-twenties and had very short hair and a boxer’s build with a nose that had been broken more than once when he was growing up in the west end of London. Campbell had been in Sheppard’s employ since he had arrived back in England three months ago, to close out his late brother’s estate. “Now sir, I need not remind you that your late brother, and now you pay me to be your driver. So if you don’t mind, I’ll drive home,” said Campbell, as he got out of the car to stretch his aching legs.