by Peter Cave
‘Pat, I need you up at the front,’ Piggy said. He nodded at the jeep’s own pair of Vickers guns. ‘On the bacon slicer, just in case.’
O’Neill glanced sideways at his prisoner. ‘And what about Florence Nightingale here? Little bastard might decide to do a runner.’
‘Improvise,’ Piggy told him.
‘Right.’ O’Neill cast his eyes quickly around the jeep, finding a length of cord used to lash down fuel cans and fashioning it into a makeshift slip-noose. Dropping it over the German’s neck, he pulled it tight and secured the loose end to the mounting of the spare wheel. Satisfied with his work, he crawled into the passenger seat and primed both the Vickers for action.
Piggy felt a little easier now, but there was just one last little precaution to take. He reached to the floor of the jeep and hefted up his heavy Ml Thompson sub-machine-gun. Slamming a fresh magazine into place, he slipped off the safety-catch and leaned out over the side of the jeep, jamming the weapon into a makeshift holster formed by the elasticated webbing round the spare water cans. The weapon was now concealed on the blind side of the Russian troops, and ready for action if it became necessary.
There was not much more he could do, Piggy thought. He glanced sideways at Wellerby. ‘Right, take us in – nice and slow.’
The two jeeps approached the Russian roadblock at a crawl. Despite Winston Churchill’s eventual conviction that Stalin was one of the good guys after all, there was still a deep-seated mistrust between the two armies.
As Wellerby brought the leading vehicle to a halt, Baker studied the line of twelve Russian soldiers some ten yards in front of him. They stood, stonily, each cradling a PPS-41 sub-machine-gun equipped with an old Thompson-like circular drum magazine. If it had not been for the uniforms, they would have looked exactly like a bunch of desperadoes from a Hollywood gangster film.
There was something about their stance which made Baker feel even more uneasy. In the heady aftermath of victory, most Allied soldiers had tended to let discipline relax, and embrace a general feeling of camaraderie. These Russians looked as though they were fresh out of intensive training and ready to ship out to the front line.
He stood up in the jeep, scanning the line for any sign of an officer. There was none. ‘Who is in charge here? Does anyone speak English?’ he asked in a calm, authoritative tone.
There was no response. The Russian soldiers continued to stare straight through him, virtually unblinking. Several seconds passed in strained silence.
Inside the cab of one of the covered Russian personnel carriers, Tovan Leveski examined the occupants of the two jeeps thoughtfully. He too had been a little confused about their uniforms from a distance, having been briefed to expect a standard British Army patrol. Now, at close hand, he could see that these were no ordinary British soldiers. Clad in dispatch rider’s breeches, motorcycle boots and camouflaged ‘Denison’ smocks, they could have been anything. But it was their headgear which finally gave the clue. The beige berets, sporting the unique winged-dagger badge, clearly identified them as members of that small, élite force which had already started to become almost legendary. Clearly, even four SAS men were not to be taken lightly.
Quietly, Leveski murmured his orders to the eight more armed soldiers concealed in the truck behind him. Satisfied, he opened the passenger door and dropped down to the ground.
Piggy regarded him cautiously. Although the man ostensibly sported the uniform and badging of a full major in the Red Army, he seemed to lack a military bearing. However, the 7.62mm Tokarev TT-33 self-loading pistol in his hand certainly looked official enough.
‘I am in charge of this detachment, Corporal,’ Leveski said in flawless English.
It was a sticky stand-off situation, Piggy thought to himself. Even with the incredibly destructive firepower of the Vickers to hand, he and his men were hopelessly outnumbered – and there was no way of knowing how many other armed troops were inside the vehicles which made up the roadblock. Besides, military bearing or not, the officer still outranked him. For the moment there was nothing to do except play it by ear. They were no longer in a war situation, after all. Apart from the Germans and Italians, everyone was supposed to be on the same side now.
‘Do you mind telling me the purpose of this roadblock?’ Piggy demanded.
Leveski smiled thinly. ‘Certainly. My orders are to monitor all military movement on this road, Corporal. Perhaps you in turn would be so good as to tell me the exact nature and purpose of your convoy.’
Piggy considered the matter for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. His orders had been specific, but were not, as far as he was aware, secret. He could think of no valid reason to withhold information, yet something rankled.
‘With respect, Major, I fail to see what business that is of the Russian Army.’
Leveski shrugged faintly. ‘Your failure to understand is of absolutely no concern to me, Corporal. ‘What does concern me, however, is your apparent lack of respect for a superior officer and your refusal to cooperate.’
Piggy conceded the point, grudgingly and despite the dubious circumstances. ‘All right, Major. I am leading a four-man patrol to escort a German prisoner of war to the railway marshalling yards at Brandenburg. And, since I have a strict schedule to adhere to, I would appreciate it if you would order your men to clear the road so that we can continue.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ the Russian said in a flat, emotionless tone. ‘You and your men are in breach of the Geneva Convention, and I cannot allow you to continue.’
Piggy stared at the Russian in disbelief, starting to lose his temper.
‘Since when has it been against the rules of the Convention to transport prisoners of war?’
‘Military prisoners are one thing, Corporal. Civilians are another matter,’ Leveski informed him calmly. ‘You do have a civilian in your custody, do you not? One Klaus Mencken – Dr Mencken?’
‘Doctor?’ Piggy spat out the word, in a mixture of loathing and ridicule. ‘My men and I have come directly from Buchenwald concentration camp, Major. This “doctor” was in charge of horrific, inhuman experiments on Jewish internees there. His speciality, I understand, was removing five-month foetuses from the womb for dissection. The man is a war criminal, Major, and is on his way to an international trial to answer for those crimes against humanity. So don’t quote the Geneva Convention to me.’
The impassioned speech seemed to have had no effect on the Russian, who continued to speak in a calm, emotionless voice. ‘I must insist that you hand Dr Mencken over to me.’
‘By what damned authority?’ snapped Piggy, openly angry now, having had more than a bellyful of the Russians.
‘By the authority of superior strength.’
The new voice came from a few yards away.
Baker’s eyes strayed to his right, where a Russian captain had just jumped down from the back of one of the personnel carriers. The man walked unhurriedly towards the leading jeep, being very careful to stay out of the line of fire of the Vickers.
‘I am Captain Zhann,’ he announced. ‘You and your men are in the direct line of fire of no less than eighteen automatic weapons. Now please, Corporal, I must ask you to move back from that machine-gun and order your men to step calmly out and away from your vehicles. If you do not comply, my men have orders to open fire. You would be cut to ribbons, I can assure you.’
It was a threat that Piggy found easy to believe. Assuming that the remainder of the concealed troops also carried the thirty-five-round PPSh-41 sub-machine-guns which were on display, the Russian captain had the cards fully stacked in his favour. Each individual weapon had an automatic firing rate of 105 rounds a minute, and in a full burst, a cyclic firing rate approaching 900 rounds a minute. And the 7.62mm slugs were real body-rippers. At that range, they would all be dead in the first five seconds. Still, there remained time for at least a token show of defiance.
‘And if I refuse?’ Piggy asked.
Zhann shrugged.
‘Then you and your men will be slaughtered needlessly. A pointless gesture, wouldn’t you say?’
Piggy could only stare at the Russian in disbelief. The whole thing was crazy. It was peacetime, for Chrissake. They had all just fought the most bitter and savage war in human history. It was unthinkable that anyone would want to carry on the killing.
‘You’re bluffing,’ he blurted out at last, suddenly convinced that it was the only explanation. ‘Apart from which, you’d never get away with it.’
Leveski stepped forward again. ‘I can assure you that Captain Zhann is conducting himself according to my specific orders,’ he muttered chillingly. ‘And what would there be to “get away with”, as you put it? A simple mistake, in the confusion of a postwar city. A tragic accident. The authorities would have no choice but to accept that verdict.’
Piggy’s fingers tightened around the firing mechanism of the Vickers. He moved the twin barrels a fraction of an inch from side to side – mainly to show Leveski that he had control.
‘Aren’t you and your captain forgetting something, Major?’ he pointed out. ‘If it comes to a shoot-out, it’ll be far from one-sided. I can virtually cut your vehicles in half with one of these babies.’
The Russian gave one of his chilling smiles. ‘What I believe the Americans call a Mexican stand-off,’ he observed. ‘However, we would still appear to have the advantage. As you see, I have four covered lorries. Only one of them contains armed troops. Your problem, Corporal, would be in knowing which one to fire on first. You must surely appreciate that you wouldn’t get time for a second guess.’
It was becoming like a game of poker, Piggy thought. But what made the stakes so high? It made no sense at all. Unless, of course, the Russian was bluffing. No stranger to a deck of cards, Piggy decided to call Leveski’s hand.
‘You must understand that my men and I cannot be expected to surrender our weapons,’ he said in a flat, businesslike tone. ‘And I cannot believe that you would push this insanity to its logical conclusion.’
As if understanding his corporal’s reticence to surrender without a fight, Trooper Wellerby spoke up.
‘We ain’t got a choice, have we, Corp? What’s a piece of rubbish like Mencken to us, anyway? If the Russkies want him that bad, you can bet your sweet fucking life they ain’t planning to take him to no birthday party.’
Piggy could not repress a thin smile. In attempting to make light of the situation, Wellerby had hit the nail on the head. He was right: what were the lives of three brave troopers measured against the Butcher of Buchenwald? If only a tenth of the stories about him were true, he deserved not an ounce of human consideration. Whether Mencken died from a British noose or a Russian bullet, it made no difference at all. On the other hand, Piggy knew that he had no moral right to condemn his men to almost certain death. He returned his attention to Leveski.
‘All right, Major,’ he said, ‘in the interests of avoiding conflict, I will allow you to take the prisoner. But I must point out that I regard this as an act of hijacking and I will be reporting it to higher authorities as soon as we reach Brandenburg.’
Leveski allowed the faintest trace of satisfaction to cross his face. ‘Your objections are noted, Corporal.’ He began to walk towards the second jeep. Releasing the hastily made noose, he gestured for Mencken to alight and led the German towards the waiting Russian convoy.
Even now, the Nazi was arrogant. He still felt justified. He had just been obeying orders, he had done no wrong. He glared at Leveski defiantly. ‘I suppose you Russian dogs intend to shoot me. Then do it, and get it over with. I would not expect the luxury of a trial from Bolshevik lackeys.’
Leveski ignored the insults, switching on his chilling smile. ‘Shoot you, Herr Doktor?’ he murmured in a low voice. ‘Oh no. On the contrary, we are going to treat you like a VIP. You are going to Russia to join some of your colleagues. You will soon be working for us, Doctor – doing what you appear to enjoy doing most.’
He took Mencken by the arm, escorting him towards the nearest truck and bundling him up into the cab. Jumping in behind him, Leveski barked instructions to the driver, who fired the vehicle up into life and prepared to move off with a crunch of gears.
As the truck started to move, Leveski stuck his head out of the open window, nodding towards Captain Zhann. ‘You have your orders, Captain,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We cannot afford any survivors to tell the tale.’
Zhann nodded curtly in acknowledgement, but his face was as grim as his heart was heavy. He was a good soldier, a professional soldier. And the job of the soldier was to kill the enemy, not murder what amounted to an ally. But an order was an order, and much as he detested the increasing power and influence of the KGB in military matters, to defy a command was to place his own life on the line.
He glanced at Piggy. It was a mistake which was to cost him his life. For in that fleeting look, Piggy saw something beyond the expression of respect for a fellow soldier. He saw regret, and he saw pity. Even as Zhann’s hand twitched at his side in a prearranged signal, Piggy’s highly tuned senses were already primed. That very special instinct was alerted, and his body tensed to respond.
Ninety-nine soldiers out of 100 would have missed the faint, muted click of a dozen PPSh sub-machine-guns being cocked simultaneously. Piggy did not. More importantly, he pinpointed the exact source of the sound immediately: third lorry, fifteen degrees to his right.
‘Shake out,’ he screamed at the top of his voice. Even as he yelled, the Vickers in his hands was pumping out its devastating 500 rounds a minute – a lethal cocktail of tracer, armour-piercing shells, incendiary and ball. Beside him, Wellerby had already dived over the side of the jeep, retrieved the Thompson and rolled back under the vehicle, from where he began raking the legs of the Russian soldiers who had been standing in line.
Piggy swung the spitting machine-gun along the side of the third lorry from the cab to the tailgate, concentrating his fire at the level where the side panel met the canvas cover. The fabric of the canopy shredded away like mist evaporating in the sunshine, whole sections of it bursting into flame and drifting into the air on its own convection currents. The side panel disintegrated into splinters of wood and metal, finally revealing the inside of the truck like the stage of some monstrous puppet theatre on which life-sized marionettes jerked and twitched in an obscene dance of death.
Caught on the hop, the rest of the Russian troops had reacted with commendable speed. Leaving their unfortunate colleagues who had caught Wellerby’s raking ground-level burst from under the jeep writhing on the ground with shattered legs and kneecaps, those who could still move threw themselves down and rolled for what cover they could find.
The second set of Vickers never had a chance to open up. Pat O’Neill took a chest full of rib-splintering 7.62mm slugs which lifted him out of the jeep and threw him several feet behind it. He was dead before he hit the ground. Seconds later, Mad Dog caught it in the gut and slid lifelessly down in his seat, his head bowed forward like a man in prayer. Beyond the arc of the sub-machine-guns, two surviving Russian soldiers had rolled into a position from which they had a clear line of fire to the underside of the lead jeep. Andy Wellerby did not stand a chance as a deadly cone of fire from the two guns converged on his trapped and prone form.
Piggy had only the satisfaction of seeing Colonel Zhann’s upper torso dissolve into a massive bloody stump before the Russian fire came up over the side of the jeep and caught him in the thighs and groin. He fell sideways, landing half in and half out of the jeep as the clatter of gunfire finally ceased.
Pain swamped his senses, but his eyes were still open and his brain could still register what they saw. Just before the blackness came down, Piggy saw the lorry containing Leveski and Mencken dwindling into the distance.
‘We owe you one, you bastards,’ he grunted from between clenched teeth just before he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Miraculously, Piggy survived. But he was to hobble for the res
t of his life on a pair of crutches and one tin leg. Just one year after leaving the military hospital, he joined the Operations Planning and Intelligence Unit at Stirling Lines – ironically enough, nicknamed ‘The Kremlin’ – and had a distinguished career until his retirement in 1986. Throughout his service years, his colleagues would come to know him for one particular conviction, which became almost a catch-phrase.
‘Never trust a fucking Russian,’ Piggy would say. ‘Never trust a fucking Russian.’
Chapter 3
Puerto Gaiba, Bolivia – May 1951
The man who called himself Conrad Weiss watched the two strangers walking along the shabby riverside and knew that the day he had feared and dreaded for six years had finally arrived.
They were coming for him; of that Weiss had absolutely no doubt. The two men were smartly dressed and obviously Europeans – both extreme rarities in a little Bolivian backwater town on the River Paraguay. He assumed that they had been to his house and extracted directions to the boat from his wife. He hoped that they had not tortured or hurt her. Although he had originally taken Conceptua in bigamous marriage purely for reasons of political expediency, Weiss had grown genuinely fond of her and the two olive-skinned sons she had borne him.
The two men strolled unhurriedly towards the luxury motor cruiser, which stood out like a sore thumb among the jumble of dilapidated river fishing craft. Weiss thought, momentarily, of the loaded Luger he kept in his cabin locker, quickly dismissing it. If the men were coming for him they would be trained agents, armed and alert. Besides, even if he did manage to kill them both, others would follow. They knew where he was now.
It seemed best to play innocent, attempt to bluff it out. There was at least a reasonable chance of getting away with it, Weiss reasoned. His false Swiss identity papers were the flawless work of a master forger, and his assumed identity was rock solid. And, even if that failed to impress his investigators, he had distributed vast sums in bribes to corrupt Bolivian officials in high places. That should protect him against an official attempts at extradition. Of course, they might have plans to smuggle him out of South America forcibly. Or simply to kill him where he was. In which case, his six-year run of good luck would have finally run out.