Chapter Nine.

Two days later, at precisely seven o'clock in the morning, a sleek, black ZIS-101 government limousine with Kiev plates stopped outside the Hotel Europe. A young NKVD Sergeant of State Security, wearing the uniform of the State security personnel, with maroon collar tabs piped in raspberry and the special oval State security sleeve patches on both sleeves; climbed out and walked into reception carrying a large parcel sealed with an NKVD wax seal. He was directed to room 87 on the third floor by a nervously obsequious porter. He knocked and waited.

In a little while, a pretty young blonde opened the door. She wore a hastily thrown-on robe that left little to the imagination, and her hair was tousled. She looked sweet. The young Sergeant blushed, and completely forgetting to salute, stumbled over his words as he made a valiant attempt to speak to her, looking at her face, rather than ogle the soft curve of her bosom that was peeping out of her parting robe. At length, he dragged his gaze away, and stammered,

'Comrade Doktor von Seringen? I am instructed to bring this package to you with the kind regards of Comrade Captain of State Security Burmistenko, of the Kiev Bureau.'

Karyn smiled at him, and accepted the package.

"Bol'shoye spasiba! Sergant; Do svidan'ya!"... 'Thank you very much, Sergeant; Goodbye!'

As she turned, she saw his eyes dragged to her bosom again. Poor lamb! Give him a little thrill. As she pushed the door to her room open, with the package in her grasp, her robe sort of... accidentally slipped open, fully revealing her right breast to his eager stare. She glanced down, and then at him, and with a bashful smile, tugged the wayward material together, redeeming her modesty. Slipping into the room, she closed the door behind her with a wicked smile on her face. So, they were human, after all.

She laid the parcel on the bed, broke the wax seal, and pulled off the twine and the brown paper wrapping. Opening the cardboard box she discovered it contained a dark brown, NKVD double-breasted, long leather service coat with a deep astrakhan collar; a women's dark blue beret adorned with an enamelled red star, a white shirt and black tie; long, chrome "Sapogi"... leather boots, a high quality, "Gimnasterka" pullover; and a grey cotton twill service uniform with raspberry piping; maroon "Petlytsi"... collar tabs piped in raspberry with the single diamond pip indicating the rank of Senior Major of State Security; and having the special oval State Security sleeve patches sewn onto both sleeves.

Three enamelled badges… The highest National Order of the Soviet Union: The "Orden Lenina"... The Order of Lenin, alongside the "Orden Krasnogo Znameni"… The Order of the Red Banner; and the "Orden Krasnaya Zvezda"... The Order of The Red Star, were pinned above the right breast pocket. There was more. Lower down the box was a neatly folded, blue NKVD service skirt, and a brown leather service belt with a brown leather flapped holster containing a Nagant 7.62mm revolver, complete with two suppressors. There was also a note. It bore a single line of an old Russian Proverb... "Yabloko ot yabloni nedaleko katitsya"... "An apple never falls too far from the tree." There was no signature.

Sacha came out of the adjoining room and stared at the uniform spread out on the bed. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he uttered just two words...

"Vot der'mo!"...'Oh shit!'

Karyn gave him a puzzled look.

'What's wrong? It's only an NKVD uniform.'

Sacha gave a wild laugh,

'Only a uniform? Look at the Rank; just look at the Decorations. It's a bloody Heroine's uniform!… a Senior Major of State Security uniform! That's the same rank as the head of the Minsk Office. Surta must be bloody mad. You'll never get away with it.'

Karyn smiled,

'Oh yes I will. The bigger the lie, the smaller the suspicion. Let's see what I look like in it.'

She slipped the robe off her shoulders. She was wearing nothing but a pair of French knickers underneath. As she turned to the bed, Sacha shuddered at the mental picture of what her luminous, soft flesh would look like if her deceit were exposed. They wouldn't even have to break sweat to drag her off to the dreadful NKVD prison on Volodarski Street. It was only a few hundred metres down the road... the second on the right past the NKVD Headquarters.

The Prison was a three-floored, rectangular building with a round tower at each corner. Each tower was topped with corniced battlements and a low conical roof. The whole place was surrounded by a high, stone-buttressed wall. They called it "Pischalovskij Castle" It was designed to imitate a typical Belarusian Gothic castle. In each of its sixty grim, unheated concrete cells, there was a little window in the door through which food could be passed. There was a drain in the middle of the floor. A dim light bulb hung from the ceiling and cast a sickly glint off the sturdy iron hooks embedded in the ceiling. From these hooks, the victims were suspended by their handcuffed wrists while they were flogged, or otherwise tortured... which was euphemistically referred to as "Fizicheskoye vmeshatel'stvo"… "physical intervention." A small hole on the door was covered with a leather cloth so that the prisoner could be watched.

The corridors had fire hydrant points spaced at suitable intervals... not for fire-fighting... for hosing the blood and vomit out of the cells when the more "subtle" interrogations like pouring sand down the victim's throat; or the notorious "Chekist's handshake," so widely practised by the NKVD; failed to produce any results. This latter nicety entailed a firm squeeze of the victim's palm with a common pencil inserted between his fingers. It usually broke the victims fingers, squirted blood out from under his fingernails, and destroyed the nerve bundles... paralysing the hands for life, which usually wasn't very lengthy in the NKVD's company.

Another favourite pastime in Pischalovskij Castle was to insert the prisoner into one of the row of "Kishkas" built into the basement. These were narrow, chimney-like, subterranean cells that permitted a man to stand, but be unable to move. No provision was made for the prisoner's bodily functions, and the kishkas were never cleaned. Each day, the victim would be hauled up out of his tiny cell, hosed off with the fire hoses, and sent for yet more interrogation and torture. A simple prison bed was remarkably effective if the mattress was removed and the prisoner was forced to sleep on the iron frame night after night after night. They called it "The Conveyer"… when a prisoner was interrogated non-stop for a week or ten days without a wink of sleep. At the end, the victim would sign any confession put before him without ever understanding what he had signed.

The Minsk NKVD had earned a reputation for being nothing more than a gang of butchers terrorizing the whole area, but seemingly incapable of solving the simplest of crimes. In particular, there were two sadistic psychopaths who terrorised the NKVD Prison, Minsk. Both were Yakut Siberians… Kolchak and Galibarov.

Kolchak's speciality was stripping the flesh off his victims' backs with his terrible "Nagajka"... a short, thick horsewhip originally used by Cossacks in Tzarist Russia as police clubs. Of course, you couldn't actually kill anybody with it unless you really put your mind to it for a considerable length of time. In view of this, Kolchak had inserted several metal ball bearings into the little leather sack attached to the lash end of the Nagajka, which made it considerably more powerful. Galibarov's favourite toy was an Afrikaans "Sjambok"… the traditional whip of South Africa. The Sjambok was made of adult hippopotamus or rhinoceros hide. The resulting whip was as flexible as whalebone, and very tough. It was terribly severe, and was widely used in its homeland for herding cattle; as a whip, as a riding crop, and even as a personal defence weapon. It was good for killing snakes, because it could cut them in two with just a single lash. It was easier to use than a Nagajka, because it was wielded more like a rod or cane. You just swung it fast through the air, and the Sjambok did its work. A light blow would raise a serious welt. A heavy lash would cut the skin and the flesh to the bone, leaving a terrible wound, and scarring the victim's body for life.

They said that when these two animals were let loose with their wetted leather Nagajka and Sjambok, it was a common sight to see the skin and muscle of their victim being ripped to shreds in sprays of blood. It was also rumoured that this pair of perverts were "pediki"... homosexuals; who enhanced their mutual sexual gratification by way of their barbaric activities in the grisly cells of Pischalovskij Castle.

Sacha gazed out of the window onto Lenin Square. He was very quiet. He silently shuddered at the thought of these two getting their hands on her. He knew there was nothing, short of locking her away, that would stop her from carrying out this crazy plan. He turned to try to dissuade her, and for one split second... froze, as he found himself staring at an NKVD Female Investigator standing before him, her hands on her hips and an icy, intimidating stare in her blue eyes. She smiled,

'Well, D'you think it will do?

Sacha nodded dumbly, as he struggled to calm his shrieking nerves. Such was the terror that the mere sight of the uniform imposed. He found his voice, at last.

'God, you gave me a shock! If you have to do it; then, yes, it will do... it will more than do.'

Karyn laughed,

'Good! If it fooled you, even for a moment; it will certainly fool them. Call Surta and tell him to come to pick me up.'

Half an hour later, there came a soft knock on the door. Sacha opened it, and there stood Ivan Surta. He was dressed in a brown leather trench coat, similar to the double-breasted, leather service coat that Karyn wore. She had piled her hair up under the blue beret, and stood, hands in pockets, sinister and authoritative. Surta's reaction to seeing her standing there was exactly the same as Sacha's. Quickly he composed himself; saying...

'God; you gave me a shock; but I think this fool plan might just work.'

Having left the hotel room with Sacha between them... as if he was under arrest; when they came down the stairs to the hotel reception, every eye was on them. Sacha was sandwiched between them with a frightened look on his face. The hotel manager was terrified. An NKVD raid on his establishment? How long before they came for him, and dragged him off for harbouring an Enemy of The State? Those in the foyer, whose gaze caught their glance, paled, and quickly turned away.

Surta's black GAZ was waiting outside. No one could possibly tell that it was not one of the dreaded "Chyornye Voronki," the NKVD "Black Ravens." Climbing in, Surta reached into the back seat and lifted out a blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Furashka, which he pulled onto his head. The deceit was complete! With Karyn beside him, he started the engine, crashed in the gears and pulled away. As he came onto the main thoroughfare of Zakharievskaya Street, a civilian policeman waved him out, saluting as he did so. He glimpsed Sacha in the back seat. Another poor bastard for the meat-grinder... and, if he was lucky, the trip out to Brod Woods. That had to be a better fate than a session in the NKVD Prison on Volodarski Street.

Many times, as he patrolled his sector, he had heard the screams echoing from inside that dreadful place. He tried to avoid patrolling Volodarski Street... especially at night; preferring to keep to the better-lit thoroughfares. He shivered, and turned to continue his patrol, thanking God that he was just an ordinary policeman whose hardest task this day would be probably turning the dead-beats who had got pissed-up on bootleg vodka the previous night, out of the children's park; or breaking up some Jew-baiting brawl down in Mebelny Lane.

Surta brought the GAZ to a screeching halt outside the towering portico of NKVD headquarters further down Zakharievskaya Street. He leapt out and opened the rear door under the watchful gaze of the two NKVD guards standing rigidly at either side of the main entrance. Karyn climbed out of the car and stalked up the wide steps towards the main entrance beneath the towering, white pillared portico. She brusquely returned a salute as the guards crashed their heels together and smartly presented arms with their PPD-34 sub-machine guns.

Walking purposefully to the reception desk, she produced her pass to the startled clerk, and snapped,

'I wish to see Senior Major of State Security Tartakow, immediately. Kindly inform him I am here.'

With the fear written plainly across his face, the clerk snatched at the telephone on the desk and blurted out her request to whoever was on the other end of the line. He then made a great pretence of shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him, frantically trying not to make eye contact with her. A couple of minutes passed in dead silence, and then, from above, came the clatter of boots on the marble floor at the head of the sweeping Baroque staircase.

A figure appeared, tugging down his tunic. She saw it was Sergeant of State Security, Tretyak; the other half of the pair who had come to take Sergei into custody at the Academy. Who faltered, with the blood draining from his face as he recognised her. All his worst fears of what might result from the actions of that crazy bastard Lifshen had now come to pass. What a fuck-up. He was already mentally picturing himself as a guard in some God-forsaken Gulag up in the Arctic Circle. Forcing a winning smile, he approached the ominous figure.

'Comrade Doktor, welcome. Comrade Senior Major of State Security Tartakow will see you immediately. If you would please follow me.'

As he turned, he saw her unbutton her leather service coat; a service coat that carried no badges of Rank. As it opened, he saw the uniform. He saw the "Petlytsi"... collar patches bearing the single diamond pip indicating the rank of Senior Major of State Security. He saw the three Orders above her right breast pocket: The Order of Lenin, The Order of the Red Banner, and The Order of The Red Star, and his stomach turned over. Maybe, his fear of becoming a Gulag guard was the least of his worries. His mind whimpered and cringed at the memory of what had occurred in the Academy Library. If she had been really pissed off with their performance there, he might very well end up as an inmate of the Gulag he feared he might be guarding.

As he led her up the staircase, he struggled to stop his legs buckling, so overwhelming was his sense of foreboding. After what seemed like an eternity, he arrived at Tartakow's office. He knocked, and ushered Karyn inside. Tartakow sat at a huge mahogany desk overlooked by an equally huge portrait of Josef Vissarionovich Stalin, "Blestyashchiy geniy chelovechestva"... "Brilliant genius of humanity." Karyn noticed that even in the painting, Stalin's eyes were hard, calculating, and cold.

Tartakow motioned that she was to sit. He was not what Karyn had expected. She had imagined that he would be a typical Belarus: dark haired, high cheek-boned, and grey or blue-eyed. He was nothing of the kind. He was about fifty, and resembled a Prussian... very handsome, with sparkling green eyes, greying hair and a strong, almost jutting jaw line with a deeply cleft chin. He leaned back in his chair, rested his chin on his hands, and studied her. He looked at her decorations and raised an eyebrow; then, he spoke. His voice was soft and cultured.

'Impressive decorations and rank for one so young, Comrade Doktor. Now, who exactly are you? We can trace no record of you ever having existed. This is a curiosity which I mean to resolve. You speak excellent Standard Moscow Russian, although there is no trace of you to be found in their archives. What exactly are you doing in Minsk?'

Karyn smiled; though her eyes were cold. She quietly laid the pass on his desk and watched his face stiffen as he read the title: "4th Department. Special Section. OO-GUGB." She watched his jaw muscles tighten as he read the signatures. He looked up, and she locked her icy-cold, blue gaze upon him.

'You have received the Directive from Moscow Central? Then you should be aware of my presence in your fine city, and the specific instruction that you, and your officers are not to meddle in my affairs. As for my grasp of Russian, it is not surprising, for it is my mother tongue. You are permitted to know only this: After working with Comrade Vassili Zarubinan, the Illegal Rezident in Germany, and his wife, Yelizaveta, creating the underground anti-fascist groups, I became his Deputy from 1935, until his recall and reassignment to the Soviet Embassy in Berlin.'

Tartakow's mind was racing. An "Illegal" was an officer working without Diplomatic cover; often, but not always, under a false identity. "Rezident" was the chief of the NKVD or GUGB Station in a specific country. She watched him as he reflected on this revelation. So, she had been, at some point, a Deputy Head of Station. He need now be very, very careful with this pretty blonde. She was speaking again,

'It was not difficult to assume the identity of Karyn Helle von Seringen. It is not my true name. As you have already said, you have checked, but you have found no file on me. There is no file available for an Officer at your level to find. Who I am, is for me to know, and for you not to concern yourself with. I am engaged on business of The Supreme Soviet'.

She paused to let this disconcerting nugget of information sink in; and continued in a cold, ominous tone of voice;

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'Now to the reason of my visit. Two of your apes came to the Academy on the pretext of arresting my appointed archivist, Comrade Sergei Kivikoski. Their pretext was that he had been denounced for conspiring with Trotskyite and "Rightist" elements. This is a patent nonsense. More likely, he was denounced for having sufficient funds to purchase caviar and vodka. It was not his money. It was from my Moscow incidental expenses. I sent him out to buy these things for a party we were throwing at the Academy to celebrate a milestone in the business that we are conducting there.

As of now, Comrade Kivikoski and his family are under my protection. This however, is not the reason for my visit. Your lackey, by name of Lifshen, actually dared to threaten me with his side arm. This is not acceptable to me, and most certainly will not be acceptable to Comrade Kommissar Bochkov, 4th Department; Special Section. OO-GUGB. Moscow.'

She watched him as he paled, and a pulse throbbed in his temples. Suddenly, Tartakow was frightened. Now, he knew something of how it felt for the poor bastards he ordered to be rounded up in his "Black Ravens." She was only the same rank: Senior Major of State Security, as him... but her authority appeared to be omnipotent, compared to his. One wrong step, one attempt to shift responsibility to someone else; and, if he was fortunate, his fate would be incarceration in one of the less barbaric Gulags, in grudging recognition of his services to The State… rather than a ride out to Brod Woods and a bullet in the back of the head.

Tartakow was panicking, thinking fast. The quickest way out of this would be to sacrifice Lifshen. But, the NKVD would never arrest one of their own. They could never admit to a mistake. This bitch was different; she was out for blood, and it sure as hell wouldn't be his. He forced a subservient smile.

'Leave it with me, Comrade Doktor. I shall attend to this unfortunate state of affairs immediately. You and your associates will not be troubled by my staff again. You have my assurance in this matter.'

Karyn stood, and reached across his desk for her pass. He leapt to his feet and handed it to her. As she turned, he saw the special holster at her belt. He had not noticed it before. He saw the two bulges under the holster flap where the special suppressors, called "Bramit devices" were stowed. There were two, because one suppressor was good for only three, or four shots, and then, didn't reduce the sound effectively. He had seen these "Bramit devices" only once before. They were used by NKVD Assassin specialists and some Red Army special forces… mainly, the "Razvedchiki"... Scouts.

His blood ran cold. She must be a "Likvidator"... a "Liquidator" from the "Special Department"... a State Assassin from the Moscow Academy of Murder and Mayhem... The Lubyanka. Into his mind sprang an early Soviet guideline that helped to establish the Terrorist State:

"Better that nine innocent persons suffer than one guilty escapes retribution."

He suddenly felt a warm sensation in his crotch. He glanced down and saw, to his horror and mortification that his bladder had involuntarily emptied into his breeches while he was wracked by this terrible, clawing fear of what that "Yobanyi karas"... that fucking moron Lifshen might have unleashed upon the Minsk office. She was turning away, putting on her service coat. Quickly he sat down, perhaps she hadn't noticed. She turned, solemn faced.

'I shall leave this state of affairs in your hands, Comrade Senior Major of State Security Tartakow. I bid you good day. "Slavsya, Rodina Mat!"... 'Be Glorious, our Motherland!'

Then, turning on her heel, she stalked out of his office and slammed the door.

In the corridor, she could barely control herself from laughing out loud. She had seen the dark stain in his breeches, and his futile attempt to conceal it. Deliberately, she walked with heavy, forceful steps along the marble floor of the corridor that led to the head of the staircase, so that her footsteps would echo the lofty reception hall below. At the head of the stairs, she paused, as if adjusting her service belt. Exactly as she had anticipated, all eyes were turned to her... all eyes scrutinised her decorations, her rank, and the unusual Nagant holster. All eyes... that is, until she made eye contact. Then they immediately looked away, seeking anywhere other than to be trapped by her icy, blue stare.

As she came down the stairway, buttoning her brown leather service coat, there was total silence. No one moved, or even twitched a muscle. The desk clerk sat hunched over his papers as if he had been turned to stone. She stalked towards the door, each echo of her high-booted stride across the marble floor sounding like the crack of doom to their ears. Then she was gone, and all there who had cringingly watched her passing, breathed a great sigh of relief.

Gabbling in their relief, they asked of one another, who the hell was that? Nobody knew... save Tretyak. He only knew a small part of it, but even that small part was enough to make his guts knot up in fear and the bile rise into his throat.

Waiting outside in the black GAZ, Surta and Sacha saw the sinister, slim figure appear in the great doorway under the towering portico of the NKVD Headquarters building. The two guards snapped to attention as she passed between them. She returned an immaculate salute; striding down the wide flight of steps and across the broad pavement to the waiting car. Surta was standing with the passenger door open for her. He saluted as she climbed in. Closing the passenger door, he hurried around the front of the GAZ; climbed into the driving seat, started the engine, and drew away, knowing that every movement was being watched.

With squealing tyres, the GAZ made a sharp U-turn in the middle of Zakharievskaya Street and accelerated away; the rasp of its exhaust echoing back from the high buildings lining the wide, deserted street. As he drove, Surta was holding his breath. His eyes flickered from road to rear-view mirror all the while. Half-a-kilometre up Zakharievskaya Street, he let his breath out in a great sigh. They were clear! No one was following.

Back at NKVD Headquarters, Tartakow had regained his composure and changed his breeches. Now, he summoned Lifshen to his office. Lifshen stood before Tartakow at attention. There was no offer to sit down. Lifshen stood rigid, his eyes on the portrait of Stalin. OK, so it was to be a bollocking, but they were both old "Chekista"... so it wouldn't be too bad. But, Tartakow was not assuming his usual stance this morning. Normally, he would sit with his elbows on his desk, resting his chin on his hands in the manner of some schoolmaster admonishing an errant pupil. Today, he sat with Lifshen's file open on his desk before him, writing some comment on the service history page. Lifshen felt a cold sensation between his shoulder blades and a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, which filled him with sudden apprehension. After a suitably nerve-twisting pause, Tartakow looked up.

'Well, Lifshen; you've really fucked up this time. Your antics yesterday at the Academy of Sciences have dropped you so deeply into the shit that there is very little that I can do about it.'

Lifshen's brain was working overtime. What the fuck was he saying? Had someone actually had the balls to try to denounce him? That soft bastard, Surta... the President; and that old fart of a Librarian wouldn't have the nerve. What about the young Moscow Archaeologist? No… his file was spotless, and, he was under Moscow Central control. It must be that German bitch, if indeed she was German. There was something frighteningly sinister about her. Tartakow was speaking again.

'I have managed to keep this affair within my jurisdiction by assuring the Comrade Doktor that the situation will be resolved at this level. You, above all, should know that you don't piss about with the GUGB. You should have known she was bloody dangerous, for Christ's sake; but oh no, you blunder in, waving your cannon about and bad-mouthing her. If she'd had her way, you'd be on a one-way trip out to Brod woods to be presented with a nine-gramme, lead headache pill by now. You have left me no choice, Lifshen. I am transferring you to the new Krasnoyarski ITL located in Kansk with immediate effect. You will assume command as Camp Commandant on your arrival. I'm sorry, Stanislav, but there is nothing else I can do, but put you out of sight, and out of mind.'

Lifshen exploded.

'For fuck's sake, you are actually exiling me for a run-in with some German slut?'

Tartakow's face hardened and his voice became soft and ominous.

'Your "German Slut" is out of the Lubyanka "Administration of Special Tasks." She is awarded The Order of Lenin, The Order of the Red Banner, AND The Order of The Red Star. She carries a silenced Nagant. Get the shit out of your ears; she's a bloody State Assassin! Your stupid, fuck-brained antics could have got us all lined up amongst the pine trees doing the Kurapaty two-step. You are rapidly becoming a loose cannon in the Minsk Administration. I cannot afford to risk keeping you here. You have four hours to put your affairs in order before you catch your train. Here is a rail warrant. You are dismissed!'

Lifshen turned to leave. He was incandescent with rage. Those "Pizdoboli"... those fucking liars at the Academy would regret crossing him... Tartakow's voice cut into his seething fury,

'And don't get any ideas about taking a reprisal squad up to the Academy. There's still a vacant cell in Pischalovskij Castle that could easily have your name on it.'

A little later, Tretyak was summoned to Tartakow's office. He was informed that, although he had no part to play in Lifshen's debacle, he was to be transferred to the Chief Directorate of Border and Internal Guard, and detached to the Finnish Border Administration at Ohta.

Although, on the face of it; this posting would appear to be merely a facet of Tartakow's strategy to preserve the integrity of his office; it would prove to be an unforeseen death sentence for Tretyak. Two years later, he would die horribly in the opening phases of the Winter War at the hands of a Finnish sniper employing what came to be known as their "Kylmä-Kalle"... "Cold-Charlie" tactic.

A shop mannequin, or cunningly-made scarecrow would be dressed as a tempting target… such as an officer sloppily covering himself. Soviet snipers, such as Tretyak had become; were usually unable to resist such a target. Once the Finns had determined the hide of the sniper by observing the angle of the incoming shot, a heavy-calibre 20mm M/39 anti-tank rifle or similar weapon was fired in the Soviet sniper's direction to kill him. They never found very much of Tretyak… just a few splintered bones and shreds of flesh.

Lifshen was put onto the Moscow express with two plainclothes NKVD escorts who would ensure he transferred from the Minsk train to the Trans-Siberian Express for his long, and lonely journey to Krasnoyarsk, four-thousand, one-hundred-kilometres east of Moscow. From his change of trains at Smolensk, to his arrival at Belorussky railway station, he was closely escorted. Two Lubyanka operatives drove him across Moscow to Komsomolskaya Square and the Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal to catch the Trans-Siberian Express. His escorts stood on the platform until the train pulled out. His compartment was shared with a woman. She was the notorious Yelana Komarov; a covert, plainclothes NKVD "Facilitator" from the Lubyanka, with a Korovin TK pistol fired by a Bowden cable, concealed up her sleeve, just in case Lifshen decided to attempt to abscond from the train.

The same night, back in Minsk, a black GAZ-AA staff-bus screeched to a halt in front of the premises of old Abram Likhta, the Jewish fishmonger down on Zybitskaya Street. Eight NKVD thugs jumped out and kicked in the door of the shop. Likhta and his entire family were dragged out and thrown into the bus. The thugs then set fire to the shop. After a little roughing up in the NKVD Prison on Volodarski Street just to get them to confess to having spread "Provocative rumours," they were shipped off, fourteen-hundred-kilometres north in cattle trucks to Solovetsky fortress monastery prison on the remote island of Solovki in the White Sea.

Thousands upon thousands of inmates passed through Solovki prison, many of whom perished, killed by their gaolers. At the end of 1937, the surviving inmates and fresh arrivals to Solovki began to be moved to Leningrad, as the Gulag was to be shut down in 1939 to make way for a naval base. In Leningrad these survivors were formally re-tried, after which, they were shot... usually within a fortnight of sentence being passed, at the Toksovo execution grounds near the Rzhevsky artillery range, thirty-two kilometres to the north-east of the city. There, they were despatched with a bullet being fired into the nape of the neck... the typical execution method used by the NKVD.

After Likhta's premises on Zybitskaya Street had been fired, the Minsk Fire Guard took more than twenty minutes to arrive… even though the fire station was only two kilometres away. This might have had something to do with the fact that the Minsk Fire Guard was NKVD controlled, and had been; since it had taken over the tasks that were traditionally assigned to the Ministry of the Interior ... the MVD. It also might have had something to do with the fact that the Brandmaster was a drinking crony of Stasilav Lifshen. Whatever the reason, by the time the Fire Guard arrived, half the street was burning. Bravely they fought the flames... bravely; they struggled as the water pressure dropped. Eight businesses burned to the ground. No one lost their lives, but the properties were gone. It was an unfortunate shame; but after all, they were only Jewish businesses.

Back in the Academy, Karyn, Sacha, and Ivan Surta locked themselves in the library with Sergei, and finished off the last bottle- and-a-half of Moskovskaya Osobennaya vodka, to steady their nerves. Surta couldn't believe what Karyn had just pulled off. For Christ's sake, you didn't just stroll into NKVD Headquarters and give the District Chief Officer a thorough going over. They did that to other poor bastards. What she had done was unheard of. Sooner or later, it would dawn on Tartakow that he had been thoroughly stiffed by this slip of a girl. Then, the shit would really hit the fan.

Tartakow's goons were probably going through Karyn's room at the Hotel Europe at this very moment. Unfortunately, for them, all Karyn's German documents and her RF-SS Attaché case containing the Walther PPK were in the Library safe. All they would find in her room would be her clothes with Berlin labels... and this would confirm her story to Tartakow concerning her connection with Vassili Zarubinan, the Illegal Rezident in Germany, to whom she had been Deputy Head of Station until his recall and reassignment to the Soviet Embassy in Berlin.

In view of this likelihood, it was decided that now was as good a time as any to inform Moscow of their progress with the ancient volumes. Surta said that Karyn and Sacha should use the direct telephone line in his office. This way, the phone messages would bypass the Academy switchboard. It wasn't that he doubted the operators, but who knew who might have been coerced by the NKVD to pry on unusual calls?

Karyn sat at the austere desk in Surta's office. She was waiting for the connection to the German Embassy in Moscow. She gazed around the room. One wall was lined with bookshelves sagging under the weight of great, leather-tooled volumes, their gold-leaf, Cyrillic titles bright in the sunshine streaming in through the window that overlooked the huge, curving arc of the tall colonnade guarding the Academy from the bustle on Zakharievskaya Street. On the wall behind the desk was another vast portrait of Stalin, portrayed as the "Great Leader," staring into the early morning sun against a background of harvesting machines in the great Russian grain fields. It was titled: "Utro Nashej Rodiny"..."The Morning of Our Motherland."

The telephone handset came alive. The words came, distant and crackly...

'Hans von Herwarth, Second secretary at the German Embassy, Moscow. How may I help you?'

Karyn spoke swiftly, she told of their progress, and that they were as ready as ever they would be to embark on their expedition. She also told of the troublesome interest that the local NKVD office was taking. The line was silent for a little while, and then von Herwarth came back onto the line. Karyn discerned that there was a curious tone in his voice. It sounded strained... almost frightened. Brusquely, he said that she and Sacha should return to their hotel and stay there. A flight to Moscow would be arranged for that evening, and a car would collect them. The hotel tariff would be settled by the Embassy. Nothing must be done or said to suggest that they were leaving Minsk. Abruptly, the line went dead.

She replaced the receiver on the phone. How very odd. There was something obviously troubling von Herwarth... but then; he had been nervous on the previous occasions they had met… almost as if he had something to hide. Sacha came into Surta's office. Karyn stood up from behind the desk.

'They're moving us to Moscow tonight, Sacha. There's something going on here, beyond our research. I think we need to be very careful from here on in.'

Sacha frowned,

'There's been something odd going on for some time now. I'll call Moscow and see if anything has happened that we don't know about.'

He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled the number they had given him, back in Moscow. Although he didn't know it, this number bypassed all Moscow exchanges and switchboards, and connected directly to the First Secretary of the Central Control Commission of the Politburo in the Kremlin. The voice on the other end of the line was authoritative and cold,

'First Secretary Shvornik of the Politburo, Orgburo, and Secretariat, speaking. What is your business with this office?'

Sacha was a little taken aback by this cold, reproachful tone, but swiftly composed himself, and replied,

'Good afternoon Comrade Shvornik. I am Aleksandr Anatoly Sergeyev, of the Moscow faculty of The State Academy for the History of Material Culture. I am speaking from the Academy of Sciences of Belarusian SSR, Minsk. I am instructed to advise you that "Masha's pies are in the basket."

This was a coded phrase, taken from an old Russian Folk-tale called "Masha and the Bear," that he had been issued with, when he first came out of Moscow. It meant that the enigma of the ancient volumes had been solved, and the first part of the Convention was complete. There was a pause, and then Shvornik gave the counter coded phrase: "I will sit on this stump and eat the pies." His voice changed.

'Comrade Sergeyev; much has happened here, since you left for Minsk. A series of national operations of the NKVD are in progress. The "whisperers" are everywhere. The purging of the "Elites" of the opposition is in full swing, and the Politburo is being dissembled from within. I have just received a communication from the German Embassy in Moscow, informing me of your success. Stay where you are, and I shall arrange for the Belarusian Communist Party's Central Committee in Minsk to send a car for you, and the German Doktor, to convey you to Minsk Airport where the flight to Moscow will be waiting.'

The phone went dead. Sacha turned to Karyn. His expression was troubled.

'There's some sort of panic in the Government. They're sending a car to the hotel for us; and your Embassy has arranged a flight to Moscow this afternoon. We must get back to the hotel now.'

Karyn nodded,

'That's more or less what the Embassy intimated to me. I'll ask Surta to drive us there.'

They walked back to the Library. This was a worrying situation. Had Karyn's deception with the NKVD been uncovered? There was no way of knowing. In the Library, Surta and Sergei were deep in conversation. As they entered, both men stopped talking. Surta came across to Karyn and Sacha. His expression was grim. He held out a woman's civilian coat.

'You'd better put this on; we must get you away to your hotel. My contacts tell me that the NKVD Office is stirred up like a wasp's nest that has had a boot kicked into it. We'll go out the back way; they're bound to be watching the front of the Academy.'

The three-kilometre ride up to Lenin Square passed without incident. Surta dropped them off at the hotel as if nothing had happened. The coat that he had borrowed from Sergei's wife concealed Karyn's uniform completely. The hotel receptionist smiled as they entered the foyer and walked to the lift to go up to their rooms. As the lift doors closed, and she heard the hum of the lift motor, Evgenya Tarasova, Hotel Europe receptionist and NKVD whisperer, picked up the telephone on her desk; glanced around as she dialled a number and began speaking furtively into the handset.

In her room, Karyn stripped off the NKVD uniform and hung it in the closet. She dressed in her normal clothes, and combed out the severe bun that she had wound her hair up into when she had impersonated the NKVD officer. As Sacha paced nervously up and down, she calmly applied her make-up and brushed her hair back into the golden bell with which he was so familiar. This done, she opened the RFSS Attaché case she had collected from the safe in the Academy library and brought out the little Walther PPK.

Sacha stared as she ejected the magazine and the chambered round, pulled the slide back to cock the little weapon, and completed the test firing cycle by squeezing the trigger. Satisfied, she thumbed the loose round into the magazine and slipped it up into the pistol. Again, she pulled back the slide and chambered the first round. She flicked on the safety lever and slipped the weapon into the shoulder holster. As she stood up to put on the shoulder holster, Sacha drew in his breath, and blurted,

'What the hell are you doing with that?'

Karyn smiled,

'If that surprises you, Laskovaya moya… just wait until you see what comes next.'

She rummaged in the Attaché case and brought out the Fairbairn and Sykes close-combat fighting knife that Wolff had insisted she carried; snug in the special scabbard attached to the harness that the young SS-Sturmmann had crafted back in the leather shop of the Lichterfelde Kaserne. As she hitched up her skirt and fastened the straps around her thigh, so that the black chrome leather scabbard pad lined with the softest kid, lay against her stocking top with the hilt of the knife pointing down; Sacha gasped,

'Surely you wouldn't use that?'

Karyn wasn't smiling now. He saw a cold look come into her pretty blue eyes, and he shivered. She looked steadily at him. He shivered again.

'If I had to, I would use it. It's a wild, and Godless place we are heading for. If I were you, I'd take that Nagant. You never know when you might need it, and the effect that special holster with the silencer pouches has, when people see it, might just make all the difference.'

She turned to the closet, and unpinned the three decorations from the "Gimnasterka" uniform tunic. She slipped them into the Attaché case.

'These might come in useful out there in Siberia. Oh, don't look so worried, Sacha. My pass frightens them to death. Senior Major of State Security Tartakow at NKVD Headquarters actually wet himself when he saw it!'