“No comrade, I do not,” replied Grusian, suddenly feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the conversation.
“The Butcher,” Menzhinsky said. Pausing for effect, he stared into the eyes of his subordinate for any hint of emotion. Grusian displayed none. Menzhinsky mildly smiled and thought to himself that Grusian might just be the deadliest man he had ever dealt with.
Leaning forward, Menzhinsky placed his hands on the back of Grusian’s high-backed chair. “Now comrade, I need you to be that butcher. I want you to do something for the revolution that will take a man as committed to the people as I am to the ideals of our glorious socialist revolution. Can you be that man, Comrade Grusian?”
Grusian’s eyes lit up. “Yes comrade, I will do whatever needs to be done to protect the revolution, even if I must give my life in the performance of that duty, comrade.” Grusian still did not know where this was all heading, yet his heart swelled with pride at being personally chosen to protect the revolution.
“Excellent comrade…excellent,” Menzhinsky said as he walked around his table and sat down again. Removing a piece of paper from a beige folder on his desk, he paused to read it once before he handed it over to Grusian. “Comrade Colonel, this is an order, signed by myself today, authorizing you to proceed without delay to Turta, a tiny little cesspool of a village filled with counter-revolutionaries. It is situated just inside Mongolia, but borders on a map do not mean a thing to you and your mission colonel. Two vitally important pieces of information have recently come to light,” said Menzhinsky, as he wiped clean the lenses of his glasses. “The first is the scrap of paper found on the White terrorist that you killed a couple of weeks ago, and the second comes from a trusted agent deep within the corrupt and inefficient English counter-revolutionary spy network. Combined, they lead me to believe that there is a plot unfolding to kill off the revolution. Do you understand what I am saying, comrade?”
“Yes, explicitly Comrade Menzhinsky,” said Grusian, expectantly leaning forward in his chair to catch every word.
Menzhinsky continued. “Very good comrade, once you arrive in Turta; you are to contact a murderous Czarist traitor named Gustav Reimer, he has taken over a small portion of Northern Mongolia and rules it with an iron fist. It is fortunate that the Workers and Peasants’ Red Army has recently been ordered to conduct a punitive raid against this bastard and his counter-revolutionary ways. An under-strength infantry regiment has been tasked with eliminating this man and his stronghold inside Mongolia. You will leave here right away and join them on the border,” Menzhinsky explained as he tapped his pen on his desk for effect. “I want this to be a discrete operation, so keep out of the way of the army and let them do their job, while you do yours. Whatever you do, don’t draw any attention to yourself or your activities. Contact me and me alone once you have arrived. I want what I believe you will find there to come as a pleasant surprise to Comrade Stalin.”
“Yes comrade, I understand what you are saying clearly,” said Grusian, even though he did not fully—asking questions was known to be an unwise, sometimes fatal move with Vyacheslav Menzhinsky.
Menzhinsky stood and moved over beside Grusian. “This bastard Reimer has something that I want. It is not important to you to know what that is. When the time comes, I will tell you what to do,” Menzhinsky said as he patted Grusian on the shoulder.
Grusian looked up at his superior. “Comrade, I look forward to this assignment and I will not fail you or the people.”
“I hope not Comrade Grusian, as the consequences would be severe on both you and your family should you fail in the execution of this task,” said Menzhinsky, staring directly into Grusian’s cold, dark eyes.
“I understand comrade. When do I depart?”
“I want you to take my personal armoured train from the Yaroslavsky Station,” said Menzhinsky. “It will depart this Saturday morning, eight o’clock sharp. The order that I gave you gives you complete and total authority over the train and all who ride in her,” stressed Menzhinsky. “Comrade Grusian, be vigilant—the line between here and Mongolia is infested with counter-revolutionary vermin. The separatists, renegade Whites and western spies are everywhere along that route. You must get through and link up with the army regiment and above all, you must accomplish this task… without fail.”
Grusian had never been so proud in his life. Standing, he crisply came to attention in front of Menzhinsky. “Comrade, I will not fail. I will do the people’s bidding.”
Menzhinsky nodded. “You are dismissed comrade and remember not a word to anyone; not even your wife.”
Grusian left Menzhinsky’s office, retrieved his pistol, and then exited the building. Stepping outside, it felt good once more to be in the warmth of the summer sun. The winters in Moscow are far too long, he thought to himself. Feeling good about himself, he decided to walk home instead of taking a tram, and set off at a brisk pace.
Moscow, like many other cities in Russia, was still suffering through long shortages of both food and goods. The lines had gone down appreciably since last winter, yet one always saw women, young, and old, queuing up outside the shops every day for the staples of life. Sometimes his wife would wait all day only to be told to come back the next day. Grusian hated this; he despised how things had become in Russia. However, deep down, he knew that only through complete victory in the revolution could things change for the better.
When Grusian arrived home, he walked into their tiny living room and picked up his young son, Alexovich, swung him around in the air and then told him that he would have to go away for a little while but would be back in time for his birthday. Having done that, he went into the kitchen where his wife was warming up a lamb stew, their meal the past three nights for supper. Digging around in a drawer, he found his wife’s old, dull meat cleaver. Picking it up, he found it quite comfortable and well balanced in his hand. Whistling a childhood song to himself, he set about sharpening the blade.
CHAPTER 9
BAKU - AZERBAIJAN
Sheppard stood on the small rusty metal adjoining platform between the train cars, feeling the cool air rush past his face as the train began to slow down as it neared its destination. They had been on board the train for days and he was becoming somewhat claustrophobic from being locked up inside their cramped carriage for most of that time. The city of Baku appeared to Sheppard to be an eclectic mix of new and old architecture, with a couple of recently built ornamental-looking mosques standing right next to several centuries-old traditional Russian Orthodox cathedrals with their distinct bulbous onion domes adorning them.
His attention focused on the multitude of Red flags flying throughout the city. Shipov told him that they had bribed their way into Baku as a hospital train, but Sheppard knew that he wouldn’t feel at ease until they were on the Caspian Sea and the city was well behind them.
The trip across the Black Sea had been uneventful. True to his word, Shipov had arranged for a train to be waiting for them. A few bribes had ensured their anonymity was maintained as they disembarked their ship and made their way across Georgia and into Azerbaijan.
With a loud blare of the whistle, the train slowed and gradually came to a halt in Baku’s near empty train station. A light rain fell from the dull grey sky, making the air seem fresh and inviting to Sheppard, who was about to step from the train, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw it was Colonel Shipov, dressed with a long white coat trying to look, Sheppard guessed, like a doctor.
“You will need this, Chris,” said Shipov as he handed Sheppard a small enamel red star. “Put it on your hat. I know it’s not much, but there isn’t much to a Red’s uniform. It’s only a few baubles of jewellery that lets people know who you are and who you fight for.”
Sheppard took the star and affixed it to his khaki side cap. “So, how do I look?”
“Like a true traitorous Red bastard,” replied Shipov, with a grin.
“Oddly quiet wouldn’t you say,” said Sheppard as he lo
oked both ways down the track.
“Timed it this way,” said Shipov. “Feel like stretching your legs while I go and find our contact?”
Sheppard didn’t need to be told twice. Jumping down, he landed on the platform and instantly stretched out his tall frame. Looking around, he saw only a few people standing about and was grateful for the lack of attention. Shipov joined him and together the two men walked nonchalantly along the platform to see if their contact and transport had arrived.
With a loud hiss, the train’s engine vented its steam, covering the front of the train in a light grey fog. Sheppard saw a small, rotund bearded man emerge through the mist wearing a full-length black overcoat and short top hat. Seeing Sheppard and Shipov, the man waved to them and with a broad smile upon his face, walked towards them.
“Our contact?” asked Sheppard quietly.
“Yes. Father Grigory Federov, he may look harmless, but he is one of my best men still alive in Baku,” replied Shipov.
Sheppard started to wonder if all men of the cloth were in the service of their respective nation’s intelligence services.
“Ah, gentlemen, welcome to Baku. Are your sick and wounded ready to be moved?” the priest asked loudly, so anyone bothering to listen would hear.
“Yes Comrade Father, and thank you for your kindness,” said Shipov, embracing Federov, kissing him on both cheeks in the traditional Russian greeting. Religion had been outlawed by the Central Committee but centuries of tradition died hard in Russia.
“Good, we have no time to lose. Your ship waits for your arrival in the harbour. Your trucks are over there,” said Federov, pointing at three old trucks made up to look like ambulances at the far end of the station.
“Good,” replied Shipov, and with one wave of his hand, his soldiers smartly began to unload the train as planned.
Sheppard walked down the line of men faking injuries looking for Harry Campbell. He smiled to himself when he found him lying on a stretcher completely swathed in bandages being carried by two of Shipov’s men.
“Try to enjoy the ride Harry,” said Sheppard quietly.
“Sir, I feel like one of those mummies from Egypt. You know, the ones you see in the museums back home,” mumbled Campbell through his bandages.
“Honestly Harry, I thought corporals never had time for such things,” kidded Sheppard as he patted Campbell on the shoulder. “Now hush Harry, you’re far too wounded to talk.”
Sheppard stopped and watched as Campbell was carried onto the nearest truck. With Harry gone, he could relax somewhat. So far, the plan was working smoothly. In fact, the journey from Constantinople to the Caspian Sea had gone remarkably well. Sheppard knew this was because Shipov was cashing in favours, and he, not British Intelligence, had orchestrated this part of the mission. Someone back home had leaked Sheppard’s movements to his enemies, and Sheppard was beginning to suspect he knew who had, but decided to keep his thoughts to himself until he could confirm them.
The trucks sputtered to life and then slowly headed out of the train station. Sheppard stood there and waved to them as they disappeared from view behind a redbrick warehouse. He glanced at his watch: it was just after five in the morning. Once the trucks dropped off the first wave of soldiers, they would return for the remainder and all of their equipment, including the gold. Sheppard figured the trip there and back would be about thirty minutes, so he decided to sit on a bench and collect his thoughts.
His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him it was time to eat. Trying to keep his mind off his empty stomach, Sheppard started to watch the few people that there were on the platform when he noticed a bossy-looking Red Army officer striding purposefully towards him.
“You there, what’s your name and where do you come from?” demanded the Red officer.
Sheppard stood, saluted the officer, and answered. “Comrade, my name is Sergeant Saratoff, and I am with the people’s hospital train Red Mercy.”
The man had bad acne scars all across his face. His breath smelt of too much alcohol, smoked meats, and raw onions. Thumbing through his paperwork, the Red Officer did not find what he was looking for. A deep frown crossed his face. “Is your commanding officer around, Comrade Sergeant?”
“I am not sure where he is, comrade,” replied Sheppard, wishing Shipov was there to deal with the meddlesome officer’s questions.
“That’s Comrade Lieutenant, Sergeant,” snapped the Red officer.
“Yes of course, Comrade Lieutenant. I am sorry. We have travelled so far in the past couple of weeks and have been inundated with so many cholera patients. My mind isn’t where it should be…I am just so very tired. I forgot myself. It won’t happen again, Comrade Lieutenant,” replied Sheppard, trying to sound utterly worn out and exhausted.
“Yes, yes, I understand. That is your duty. I also don’t care how tired you are,” said the officer arrogantly. “You serve the people. Now sergeant, if your commanding officer is nowhere to be seen, how about another officer?”
Sheppard was becoming really annoyed with the man and looked around for Shipov. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen. “I am sure, Comrade Lieutenant that all is in order and that someone just forgot to send a message ahead announcing our arrival here today.”
The Red Lieutenant was having none of this and was becoming agitated. He started to fidget with his paperwork. “This won’t do…won’t do at all. I can’t believe they would have sent a train here during my shift without first informing me. I must check with my superiors to see if they know about your train. Now sergeant, sit and don’t move, I may have to question you some more when I get back. I don’t understand this at all. Regimental Headquarters is usually very good about this kind of thing.” With that, the lieutenant turned his back on Sheppard and started to walk back towards his office at the end of the platform.
Anger and fear welled up inside Sheppard. He cursed the overly efficient officer. If he wasn’t so damned well organised, we could have gotten away from Baku, no questions asked. However, he’s a damn little bureaucrat, and he thinks he knows better. He’s going to ruin everything, thought Sheppard.
Sheppard looked around but still couldn’t see Shipov anywhere. Biting his lip, he knew that he couldn’t let the man contact his superiors. Deciding that he had to deal with the man by himself, Sheppard rose and quietly followed the officer to his small office inside a ramshackle wooden building at the end of the platform. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him, Sheppard slid in behind the officer and then closed the door to the office. “Comrade Lieutenant, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to contact your superiors,” said Sheppard firmly.
The lieutenant turned around and was surprised to see Sheppard standing there. “Sergeant, what are you babbling about?” asked the puzzled officer. “I ordered you to stay where you were. Now get out of my office and leave me alone to do my job.” Foolishly, the Red turned his back on Sheppard and went to pick up his telephone.
Sheppard took a deep breath to calm his nerves and then silently stepped behind the unsuspecting man, his heart pounding away in his ears; fear and adrenaline surged through his veins as he tried to control himself.
The lieutenant must have sensed something was wrong. At the last possible moment, he turned his head, just as Sheppard launched at him. With a lightning-fast move, Sheppard grabbed the man around the neck with his right arm, pulling him off-balance and towards Sheppard. With all the strength Sheppard could muster, like a deadly boa constrictor, he tightened his arm tight around the stunned Red’s neck. Sheppard felt the man’s legs flail about as he kicked wildly in fear, knocking over his desk and then his chair. Desperately, the man realized that he was fighting for his life. He started to panic and grabbed onto Sheppard’s arm trying to break the tight hold around his neck, but it was all in vain. Sheppard closed his eyes and slowly crushed the life out of his hapless victim. After what seemed an eternity, the officer let go of Sheppard’s arm, his hands falling by his side, his legs dangling beneath h
im. A few seconds later, the man went completely limp and lifeless. Sheppard maintained his vice-like grip around the man’s throat for a couple more seconds, just to make sure he was finished. Confident the man was dead, Sheppard, his heart pounding away in his chest, slowly laid the corpse onto the dusty floor of the office.
Sheppard’s mouth felt drier than the hottest desert. His hands were trembling and his heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. He had never killed a man in cold blood before. He felt guilt and shame at what he had done. Trying to think about what to do next, he heard a noise behind him. Turning sharply on his heels, Sheppard drew his pistol, ready to fire.
“Easy Chris, easy; it’s me, Yuri,” said Shipov in a calm voice, his hands raised by his head showing he meant no harm. “Please lower your gun, before you shoot me.”
Sheppard fought to control his ragged breathing. “He was going to ruin everything. I had to stop him,” stammered Sheppard, feeling like he was going to be sick at any moment.
“It’s all right; you did the right thing, Chris,” said Shipov calmly as he looked down at the corpse. “I would have done the same. There’s no shame in what you have done today. Now go and join the remainder of our party loading the trucks. I will deal with this mess.”
Sheppard nodded and staggered outside into the fresh morning air. He took in several deep breaths of air in an attempt to calm his shaken nerves, and then unceremoniously emptied the meagre contents of his stomach out onto the platform. He stood there bent over for a few seconds until all he had nothing left to throw up. Wiping the remnants of bile from his face with his shaking hand, he stood and looked over towards the train. This whole affair was more than he had bargained for, and yet Sheppard knew, deep down, that things were likely to get worse before it was over.
Pulling his tunic shirt down and straightening his hat on his head, Shepard walked towards the returned trucks. Slowly, Sheppard started to feel more himself and joined the few remaining soldiers in loading the trucks with their weapons crates and other sundry supplies needed for the remainder of the journey. When they were finished, Sheppard jumped into the lead truck and sat down beside Shipov. He did not feel like asking what Shipov had done with the body, and from the expression on his face, it did not look like Shipov wanted to tell him either. They rode in silence. Sheppard knew that whenever he closed his eyes, the face of the man he had just killed would forever haunt him. He took a deep breath and vowed to himself to never speak of this day for the rest of his life. As soon as they arrived at the dock, they quickly loaded their remaining supplies on board the small freighter and then quietly set to sea, leaving Baku behind them forever.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 10