Extracts

The room was cold and damp and bleak and bare. Vlasenin had been in there for what seemed like hours – ever since he had woken to find himself dragged from the boot of a car through a doorway and down a flight of steps to his new quarters.

Without his coat or cap the plain Army uniform had long since given up the fight to keep any of the chill out. He hugged himself, blew freezing breath on frozen knuckles, jumped up and paced around for the fiftieth time, walking around the metal and canvas chair by the metal table, circuiting all four walls before collapsing on the filthy mattress that covered the metal and wire-spring bed.

He felt as though he would freeze to death, but he knew they wouldn't let that happen. They had plenty of other things to do to him yet and once all that began he would look back on this period as fondly as a childhood holiday. He gave a shiver that was more than the cold. So close, damn it. He had known his superiors were getting suspicious of his continuing lack of results, knew that this was the moment when action had to be taken. So he had contacted the Tsarists. The first directly treasonable action of his life, but one which he knew would put him beyond the pale at a stroke. Everyone knew the Whites were still active, some inside Russia, others scattered to the four corners of Europe. The names of the contacts, the locations of the dead letter drops, the code words which could gain you an audience... they were not hard to reach. But in reaching for them you put your head on the block – and quite a few other parts of your anatomy.

He smiled grimly despite himself. No other organisation was hunted quite so fiercely by the NKVD. That was why he had chosen a small group, near to where he worked, with few contacts in the wider reaches of the underground. They had fallen over themselves to help, and so had the British. The plan was arranged quickly – too quickly. He knew that now. But they had insisted that even a minute longer than necessary spent in Russia could be fatal. So he had let himself be swayed. To what avail. He had been taken. That meant the network was blown. But was there anyone left to retrieve the briefcase?

The man for the job

Davies looked down at the bulky file. A remarkable life. A remarkable career, with far more on the credit side than the debit. It painted a picture of a man with uncommon courage, toughness, cunning, intelligence, leadership and survival ability. Not forgetting a lucky streak a mile wide.

    It also portrayed someone with little or no respect for authority and a positive delight in unorthodox action. If he had stayed a little longer in Paris he might now be one of those rather precious intellectuals safely encamped in America. He was well-read, wrote a little in his spare time and unlike most men Davies knew his wit went beyond regurgitated Noël Coward. Everyone who knew Alex had not been too surprised when he courted and married Angela Holden, an exquisitely beautiful gossip magazine writer who dabbled on the fringes of the London literati, during his time in the Home Section. But the divorce had been no great surprise, either.
   And if he had been able to curb his tongue a little more he could have been on the General Staff or a senior commissioner in India by now. Instead he had ploughed his own furrow – and his country had benefited from it immensely. That was the bottom line. That was why Davies had been sending him into the field, with SIS and SOE, for eight years now; thanking God he was out there and apologising because he wasn't reporting back regularly.

   There could be no other man for the job. He had examined and rejected all the other candidates. He honestly didn't think anyone but Rawlings could do it. But he would do it in a way no-one could predict. And someone would have a hell of a job explaining it all afterwards.
   There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Davies called and Rawlings stepped in. He was freshly bathed and shaved, and someone had managed to find him a major's uniform that fitted. He looked tired, no doubt, but the salute was immaculate and he took the proffered seat at Davies' desk with no stiffness or stagger, removing the mission folder from under his arm and placing it to one side.
    After a brief pause Davies spoke. "You had a chance to study the file?"
   "Yes, sir. Read through it on the plane." He made no further comment, simply looked straight ahead, so that after a few seconds Davies said with some asperity: "Well, what do you think?"
    "About what, sir?" Rawlings spoke politely and evenly, but there was a world of weariness in his voice. "About the fact that we've got to do what no British combat or intelligence unit has ever done before? About the fact that we have to take hostile action against an ally? About the fact that hardly any of these men, myself included, knows anything about Turkey? Or can speak Turkish? Or Russian, for that matter? About the fact that the Italians and Germans will be sniffing round too, and they all know my face in the crowd? Or about the fact that I need a month in a sanatorium, preferably on a Caribbean island, after that French fiasco?"
   He sighed deeply and went on without waiting for a reply. "Well, we could bat all those imponderables back and forth till Doomsday, couldn't we, Hugh? But you and I both know we've got to make do with the resources available and this plan." He gestured towards the folder. "It looks plausible on paper, I'll admit – though what happens in the field could well end up looking like its forty-second cousin twice removed and I hope everyone's aware of that. But honestly, Hugh, do you really think I'm the man to take charge? Frankly, I'm bloody knackered."
   Davies was slightly nonplussed; even after eight years he was still not used to such directness from a subordinate. But he knew better than to give him a dressing down. "I know it's rough, Alex, but I can't think of a better operative than you for this one. You're tough, cunning, resourceful, a born leader..."
   "They'll never get all that on the tombstone, you know."
   "...you're also one of the most insubordinate, undisciplined bastards I've ever met, in uniform or out! But I'd still pick you above anyone else for a job like this. And back you to the hilt afterwards."
   "Well, I'm glad to hear that, sir," Rawlings said with a fair helping of irony, "because there'll be times on this trip when we won't be operating according to the manual. And I don't want the high-ups breathing down my neck telling me how to run a mission."
   "They won't," Davies replied soothingly, then added: "But they will want to keep a close eye on how things are going. You can't blame them on a mission like this. And they are entitled to."
    "Yes – but they're not entitled to make me do something that could get me or my men killed, and I hope they don't try." He clicked his tongue and studied the ceiling. "Selborne, Hambro, the lot of them – they're only interested in guarding their little empires. Playing it straight so they don't offend anybody in Whitehall. Haven't a bloody clue what it's like at the sharp end any more. Even old Gubbins, and he used to..."
   "I know, I know – it was better in Dalton's day, he meant business, can't set Europe ablaze without any matches..." Davies pursed his lips. "That sounds like a cracked record, Alex, and you know it. They've given you a free rein often enough."
   "And when I took it up, they pulled me in, ticked me off and put me behind a desk trying to get all the bloody lower slobbovians to agree how they're going to liberate Central Europe. Thanks very much. And that's another thing – if I hear one word about not provoking a diplomatic incident with our Russian allies..."
   "Oh, come off it." Davies was angry too now. "You know that's all being handled higher up. As far as you're concerned they're the opposition."
   "That's what you said before Abyssinia, and Spain – both times. 'Treat them like the enemy, old chap, let the diplomats sort out the mess'. Next thing I know I'm being threatened with recall, swimming in official bullshit and being told not to play so rough.
   "If I'm going to do this job, I need room to manouevre. Any problems with the Russians, any dealings we might have with our official set-up in Turkey or elsewhere, any help we might need from SIS – I bet they’ll try to muck things up, just to make us look bad – I need backing all the way to Number 10. If Selborne's not happy with that, tell him to send someone else. Someone not so dog-tired and knocked about."
   "You're fit as a fiddle." Davies was anxious to change the subject. "Damn sight better shape than me, that’s for sure."
   "I know," Rawlings countered brutally, casting his eye around the office, with a huge fan keeping out the heat and a well-stocked drinks cabinet by Davies' desk. "Glad to see they can still keep you in the style to which you're accustomed on the wrong side of Suez. I'm sure I could sit at that desk making telephone calls and sorting files all day. My trivial round and common task is a little more demanding – sir."
   Davies ignored the sarcasm. "I've read the report from the doctor who examined you on arrival. Apart from the broken nose, which seems to have fully set, all you suffered was severe bruising and localised burns. That and fatigue. He said that a few more hours sleep would be ideal, but barring that you're back to operational fitness."
   "Oh, that's all right, then. Here was me thinking Hoffman and his boys half-killed me and nearly drove me mad into the bargain." He shook his head. "You should send that doctor out to Turkey, Hugh. He's a tough old bugger and no mistake. In fact …"
   "Shut up!" Davies spat the words out so sharply that Rawlings sat up a little straighter despite himself. "There's no time for this. You're going because I say so. And I say so because I think rescuing this man is the most important task any SOE agent has ever had to achieve. And I think you can do it. But if you go out with a chip on your shoulder, sulking and whining to nurse your precious ego, then we damn well will find someone else."
   "No. You're right, Hugh. There isn't time, and all this is just pissing against the wind." Rawlings was calm and sober now, his eyes looking straight into Davies'. "I'll get this boy out or die trying. Count on me."

First Contact

Blood and brains spattered across Rawlings' face as he dived for cover under the truck's axle, just as the wild staccato crackle of a dozen rifles and submachine-guns ripped the still morning air.
   As he rolled clear of the truck’s underside and stood up he could see the whole lumber yard, now turned into a killing ground. Two of Vasily's men were down already, one almost in front of him, shot in a dozen places. Another going down to the left, blood gouting from chest and back. Explosive bullet; sniper's issue. They went in one side, came out the other and took whatever was in between with them. Whoever was up there knew their business.
   Rowley had been at the trucks too, but he had dived towards the house and was firing his Sten from behind an upturned bench on the porch. Walters and Garside were taking cover behind one of the piles of lumber, the remaining Russian behind the other. The piles of lumber that were steadily being whittled to matchwood as a dozen or more men swarmed down the slopes, firing their weapons on the run, using every scrap of cover. They were wearing civilian clothes but Rawlings could see they carried Schmeisser machine pistols and Mauser infantry rifles. There was at least one heavy machine-gun supporting them from up in the trees, as well as more rifles and Schmeissers set at various heights. A perfect enfilade.
   The only hope of survival was to get back in the house, quick. Where was Vasily? He had been in the cab of the truck and had ducked down a split second before a Mauser bullet shattered the windscreen. Now he joined Rawlings behind the body of the truck, firing his Nagant revolver wildly. A volley of shots shrieked against the elderly metal of the truck, and one man used the cover to get close enough to throw a grenade.
   "Move!" Rawlings shouted. The Russian needed no second bidding. They had just cleared the rear axle when the grenade exploded, tearing the truck apart and blasting them the few yards to the next one. They took cover behind the body, taking station at opposite ends. This truck was partly shielded by one of the lumber piles about ten yards in front of it, but offered a clear field of fire to right and left.
   And there was no shortage of targets. Their attackers had reached the piles of timber offcuts at the edge of the yard and were using them as firing positions while their comrades moved up on either flank, throwing grenades and firing from the hip. They had not lost a man so far, but now Rawlings and Vasily opened fire, taking one man apiece.
   The attackers dropped prone and fired back, forcing them to duck behind the bonnet for cover. Costas had sprinted out to another bench at the opposite end of the porch, only yards from the lumber piles, trying to give the men behind them covering fire with one of the Russian submachine-guns. Curtis and Emerson were at the doorway firing pistols, oblivious to the bullets that came in return. Every window at the front of the house was a firing post, but still that terrible hail razored down the piles of lumber where the three men lay helpless, knowing that to run for the door or try to fire back would be suicide.