Chapter Seven.

Willi Hettinger eased the throttle back until the Heinkel was cruising at an indicated two hundred and ninety-five Km/h. This was the most economical setting, and he didn't much like the look of the fuel contents gauge. The fuel warning light was still out, but Willi had a nasty feeling it would soon start winking at him. He checked his instruments again. Everything was settling down nicely. He looked up, and his heart nearly stopped. He made out three more black dots coming in fast, from the east. Willi stared out of the side window of his cockpit. He cursed under his breath…

'Oh, Zum Teufel noch mal... nicht noch einmal!'... 'Oh, for fucks sake… not again!'

The three dots rapidly materialised into three gull-winged fighters that were turning in towards him... PZL's. Had those Eagle-Owl bastards come back to have another attempt to force him down? Willi's hand was already on the throttle, and then he pulled his hand away. If he tried to run, he knew his tanks would run dry long before he reached Wilhelmsdorf, and a wheels-up, dead-stick landing in some God-forsaken Prussian field... if he was lucky; held little appeal. Then, there were his girl passenger and Rudi to think about. A bent Heinkel Blitz was notoriously difficult to get out of in a crash. He remembered the fatal crash of Blitz: D-UVOR at Breslau in 1935. It had taken them hours to recover the charred bodies from the wreck. That one was down to pilot error… or at least, that's what they'd called it. He gave a wry half-smile as he remembered the old, International aviators' adage:

"There are Old pilots and there are Bold pilots... but there are no Old, Bold pilots… and Isaac Newton always wins."

Willi decided to bluff it out with them. He would hold his course and speed, and let them decide whether they wanted to create a Diplomatic incident. After all, he was a clearly marked Deutsche Lufthansa civilian flight.

The PZLs were curving in towards him. They overflew the Heinkel, still holding formation. The Polish flight leader, Major Andrej Wronski of the 1st Fighter Squadron of the 3rd Air Regiment had been patrolling the border, and was just about to turn for Modlin... his home base, about twenty kilometres north of Warsaw, when he saw the glint of sun on metal some fifteen kilometres ahead, and off to port. He decided to investigate; and as his flight closed, he saw it was a Deutsche Lufthansa mail plane heading for the Prussian border. He also saw the thunderstorm tracking away to west, over the Danzig Corridor.

Forty-two year old Wronski was a career aviator. He had flown Spad XIIIs in the last War, and knew how just how easy it was to be blown off course, or to have an instrument failure in such conditions. He had lost count of the number of civilian aeroplanes that he had escorted out of his patrol corridor. He had drummed into his young pilots that, in spite of the stance of the Army Command concerning flights straying into Polish airspace... that was: to force them down; they were not to display aggressive or intimidating behaviour towards such flights. After all, they were all members of the Brotherhood of Aviators; and Politics faded into insignificance compared to flying with the Angels.

The flight of PZLs came around on Wronski's signal, and stationed themselves off the port wing-tip of the Heinkel. Willi watched them, cautious and alert. He saw that they carried no triangle insignia on their fuselages; so they were not the same ones that had bounced him earlier. The pilot of the PZL nearest looked across and raised his arm. Willi caught his breath... not again! This time, the pilot didn't jerk his thumb earthwards; instead, he extended his hand, and, with a chopping movement; pointed to the north. He obviously wanted Willi to head for the border. Willi raised his hand in acknowledgement, and the PZLs slipped into echelon formation off his port wing tip. They were going to shepherd him out of Polish territory!

The formation flew north for something like ten minutes. Then; out of the corner of his eye, Willi saw the nearest PZL rock its wings. He glanced across, and saw the Polish pilot give him a "thumbs up." The PZLs broke formation to port in a perfect, climbing echelon turn, and were gone. The Heinkel was, at last, in Prussian airspace! Willi breathed a sigh of relief, and as he did so... the fuel warning light blinked on. He pressed the switch on his throat mike,

'Rudi, the fuel warning light is up. Give me the figures, and try not to give me a fucking heart attack at the same time.'

While Rudi was working with his book of tables, slide rule and maps, Willi began to ease back on the Heinkel throttle... just to be on the safe side. His earphones crackled into life as Rudi responded...

'Estimated sixty kilometres out from Wilhelmsdorf Feld. Continue heading Zero-One-Zero. Estimate sixteen minutes flying time to join Wilhelmsdorf circuit. Fuel consumption is estimated at three litres per minute. The warning lamp illuminates when there are one hundred litres remaining. Reduce airspeed to two hundred and ten km/h. That should give us a reasonable safety margin for landing.'

Willi checked his compass heading and eased the throttle back until the airspeed indicator needle was hovering over the two hundred and ten km/h mark. He carefully moved the rudder pedals, first to port, then to starboard. The compass needle swung accordingly. Good… so there was no perceptible crosswind to drift him off track. They must be into the calm pocket of air that sometimes followed in the wake of violent storms. How long it would last... and how far it stretched; well… who knew? He glanced out of the cockpit starboard window. It was still quite bright up here, but he could make out the low band of dusk creeping up from the east. He glanced at the clock on the instrument panel... nearly eighteen hundred. Thank God, the nights were lighter now. They had left Tempelhof much later than he would have liked; and the flight had taken a little over three hours, allowing for the thunderstorm and the drift into Polish airspace.

Though it was still light up here; on the ground below, it might well be a very different thing. Willi had never flown into Wilhelmsdorf Feld. They might have a flare path... they might not. He called Rudi for visual points on their flight path. Rudi replied that the first should be the town of Sensburg, coming up on their starboard quarter in eight minutes. Then, they could begin a slow descent to pick up the Wilhelmsdorf circuit. If Willi overflew the turning point, and lost his geographical orientation in the vicinity of the aerodrome, he should assume Wilhelmsdorf was at heading zero-nine-zero degrees, and turn to starboard midway between the two largest lakes, then follow the road that ran parallel to the railway. Alternatively, he could use the northern railway line by assuming Wilhelmsdorf heading was two-twenty degrees, after reaching the railway line, and then head due west. Once in the circuit of the aerodrome on the Estate Wilhelmsdorf, the landing heading was two-eighty degrees.

Willi; now down to fifteen-hundred-metres, was becoming increasingly concerned as he nursed the Heinkel through the fading evening light. The fuel contents gauge pointer had been bumping on the empty stop for some time now, and the warning lamp was blinking faster. Theo reckoned they were no more than five kilometres out, and soon, he should be able to see the little town of Rastenburg ahead. Out to starboard, he could make out the Rastenburg-Angerburg road and the railway line following the edge of the Görlitz forest... and there, the branch line snaking off through Schwarzstein to the northeast. So, Rudi's calculations had been spot-on. Wilhelmsdorf Feld should be almost directly below them.

Out at about five degrees to port, he saw Rastenburg. He peered down, and saw, through the circular window in the cockpit door, the open space of Wilhelmsdorf Feld, bordered to the south by the little road to Weischnuren, with a sprawl of buildings in the northeast corner of the landing ground. OK, time to turn into the circuit.

He eased the Heinkel into a gentle bank to starboard, and as he did so... the fuel pressure gauge flickered. This was going to be close. He continued his banked turn, washing off altitude, until the Heinkel was lined up on compass heading two-eighty degrees, flying at two-hundred -metres, and two kilometres out on final approach. The fuel pressure gauge needle was dancing up and down, and the fuel warning light was now permanently illuminated. Willi began to milk down landing flap and ease back on the throttle; watching the airspeed indicator and altimeter unwind. Half-- kilometre out, and all looked good. They'd put out a smoke candle on the field; the smoke rose almost straight up. No perceptible ground wind... this was looking good.

Willi cranked up his seat. The Heinkel had almost no forward vision over the nose, once the wheels were on the ground. He reached across to the starboard side of the cockpit and lifted, and pushed the undercarriage lever forwards towards the instrument panel. With a hiss, the undercarriage rams pushed out the wheels, and he heard the double thump as the undercarriage engaged the locking latches in the wheel wells. The landing gear indicator stubs extending up out of the wing upper surfaces told him the wheels were both locked down. He eased out a little more flap to bring her down to landing speed... and then, the engine coughed... picked up, surged, and coughed again.

Willi quickly glanced at his airspeed; one-hundred-and-ten knots… a little fast for landing, but… if this was going to be a dead-stick, then he needed all the speed he could get. The Heinkel had a reasonable sink rate, but there could be no telling if, and when, she might simply stagger out of the air.

Rudi had been watching his instruments and knew that all that Willi had was an even chance of pulling this one off. He quickly flicked the switch on his cabin intercom.

'Fräulein Doktor, we are on final approach, Please move to the rearward facing seat and put on the seat belt, Danke.'

He knew she would be at much less risk in the rearward-facing seat if Willi didn't succeed in pulling off a safe landing..

The Heinkel began to settle. Swiftly, Willi milked up five degrees of flap. The airspeed was dropping off... if the engine failed now, the drag of the fixed-pitch prop could easily bring them down to stalling speed. Willi was sweating again as he nursed the Heinkel down on her committed final approach. The engine coughed again... surged, spluttered, banged a couple of times, and stopped. The Heinkel ghosted in over the perimeter of Wilhelmsdorf Feld with the prop windmilling, at twenty-metres altitude, and an indicated five knots below its safe landing speed. Willi was nursing her in, balancing her on flaps and elevators. A little too much flap and she'd nose in, a little too much elevator and she'd stall, and drop out of the sky like a bloody great grand piano.

At twenty metres in-field, and at five metres altitude, Willi gently eased back on the control yoke to get the tail down. Without engine power, he knew that the only hydraulic pressure he had was what was left in the hydraulic accumulator. The hydraulic pump was driven off the engine, and with no engine, there was no reserve pressure. He was going to have to try for a three-point landing... colloquially known as a "Greaser" to every aviator. Bringing the Heinkel down on both main wheels and the tailskid at the same time should, in theory, slow her enough, so that what remaining hydraulic pressure there was would be sufficient to brake to a standstill before he ran out of landing space. The shoe on the tailskid would hopefully, plough a furrow and act as a sort of anchor. The aerodrome controller wouldn't be too happy about this, but one furrow compared with a wreck was a fair price to pay in Willi's book.

Forty metres in; and at two metres indicated altitude, he eased back on the control yoke. The Heinkel gently flared; her nose rising, and her tail sinking. She floated on for about ten metres like this, and then, came the gentle thump and rumble as she settled onto the grass. Willi began to apply the brakes gently... all he needed was a ground loop or nose-in at this stage. The accumulator was hissing as the hydraulic pressure drained, and the rudder pedal brakes were becoming softer and soggier under his feet. Willi thought, thank God this was one of the older Heinkels. The newer versions had a tail-wheel in place of the skid. If he'd been flying one of those, he'd never be able to stop her in time. As it was, the aerodrome boundary fence was approaching frighteningly fast.

He judged the speed was just slow enough not to tip her onto her nose, and literally stood on the brakes. The remaining hydraulic pressure vanished and his rudder pedal brakes went slack. Was it enough? With the boundary fence looming, he kicked right rudder and heaved the control column yoke to starboard. The rudder banged over as the ailerons bit into the remaining airflow over the wing surfaces. An aileron turn on the ground... neat trick! But, it worked.

The Heinkel gently rolled to a stop; her nose at ninety degrees to her landing heading. Willi sank into his seat. The sweat was pouring off him. It hadn't been a textbook dead-stick landing by any means, but as they always said...

"Any landing you can walk away from is a good one."

Breathing a great sigh of relief, Willi composed himself and began to go through his post-flight checklist. Magneto switches... Off. Throttle... Idle. Mixture... Idle Cut-Off. There didn't really seem much point; the prop certainly wasn't going to "Hot-kick" without any fuel/air vapour mix to accidentally fire a cylinder in the engine. Master Battery Switch... Off. Flap lever... Up. Brakes... Set. Again; not much point with no hydraulic pressure; but a checklist was a checklist.

Rudi, meanwhile; had clambered out onto the wing root to open the cabin door for Karyn. As she stepped onto the wing walkway, she smiled… completely unperturbed! Rudi led her down to the trailing edge of the wing, and, as there were no steps; jumped down onto the grass and held out his arms to help her down off the wing. She handed him the RF-SS Attaché case, which he carefully put down on the grass. She allowed him to put his hands to her waist, and he swung her down off the wing. She smiled sweetly at him and saw the blush rush to his face as he quickly let go of her waist. Willi clambered out of the cockpit door. He came down the wing and jumped to the ground, pulling down his goggles and taking off his flying helmet, running his hand over his sweat-soaked hair. He then wandered around the Heinkel checking that nothing was bent, broken, or missing.

Across the aerodrome came the sound of a vehicle engine. Turning to look in the direction of the sound, they saw an ancient Opel saloon bumping towards them trailing a thick smokescreen from its exhaust. The little Opel stopped beside them in a fragrant cloud of bluish castor oil smoke. Even by the standards of the far reaches of East Prussia, it was old. Once, in the dim, and distant past; its coachwork... if that was a word that could now be plausibly used to describe it... had been painted a sort of bilious green. Now, between the riveted plates that covered the larger holes, it was a delicate shade of rust, which actually, was an improvement on the original colour. The door creaked open and a young mechanic clambered out. He gave Willi a wry smile.

'Welcome to sunny Wilhelmsdorf. Nice dead-stick landing.'

He wandered around under the nose of the Heinkel. Then he turned to Willi.

'No oil leaks; so… Mag-trouble? Fuel blockage?'

Willi grinned sheepishly.

'No, the tanks are bone dry. We came in, running on fresh air. That thunderstorm drifted us into Polish territory and we got bounced by the "Eagle-owl" boys.'

The mechanic nodded,

'Yes, they're quite partial to that. You were lucky; they normally force strays down and impound the aeroplanes.'

Willi laughed,

'Yes, but we had a bit of help from the Luftwaffe...'

The mechanic nodded again,

'I'll bet they were the "Richthofen" boys from Jesau, they're good like that. But, anyway... now you're here, and now your troubles really start. The Duty Controller is a "Verfluchtes Arschloch"… a Fucking Arsehole, and he's already jumping up and down because you didn't have the correct clearance permissions to land. So, you'd better be prepared for "Einen Zusammenscheissen"… a real bollocking.'

They all clambered into the little Opel. Willi and Rudi crushed into the back seat and Karyn sat in the front. With a grinding crash of gears, the little Opel moved away, bumping across Wilhelmsdorf Feld towards the lair of "Der Verfluchtes Arschloch."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Outside the little flying control building, the mechanic said he would get the tractor out and tow the Heinkel in. Then he would give her a complete check over. He switched off the little Opel... the engine ran on for about a minute, coughing out castor oil smoke which floated merrily away across the landing ground in a fragrant blue cloud.

They entered the building to be faced with the Controller… Friedrich Schiemann, a diminutive, rat-faced individual in his fifties; with a large, bristling Prussian moustache; and wearing in his lapel, the ubiquitous, red-and-white, NSDAP Parteiabzeichen… a basic party badge. He was, to all appearances, a typical "Das Angstbrosche"… "Scary Badge" hero; so called by the Old Guard of the Party because they regarded these new members with contempt; seeing their climbing on board the Party wagon as more opportunism than idealism.

He immediately began castigating Willi and Rudi for their unconventional arrival on "His Aerodrome." He ranted and raved, not permitting either of them to respond. Meanwhile; Karyn had excused herself and walked to what might loosely be described as the lavatories, farther along the dingy corridor.

She overheard this unnecessary, and quite unfair tirade, and decided to give this nasty little man a taste of his own medicine. Opening the SS Attaché case; she slipped off her jacket and strapped on the shoulder holster holding the Walther PPK. She pinned Das Kleine Goldene Ehrenzeichen der NSDAP, which she had removed at Tempelhof, to the throat of her blouse, and slipped the SD identity card and the Gestapo Pass into her inside jacket pocket. Now, if she had reason to show either the card or the pass, no one could fail to see the weapon as she opened her jacket. No woman in Germany carried a concealed weapon unless she was Kriminalpolizei... or something much worse. The SD identity card would confirm that this pretty Fräulein was something VERY much worse.

She walked back along the corridor and entered the room. Schiemann was still raving, and heaping threats of suspension of licences and official complaints to Deutsche Lufthansa upon the shoulders of Willi and Rudi. She'd had quite enough of this... she was just about to intervene, as Schiemann used the "My Aerodrome" again; when a soft voice behind her, said,

'Actually, Schiemann… it's MY Aerodrome.'

She turned to see a tall, elegant man, aged about fifty, standing behind her. His Goldene Ehrenzeichen der NSDAP gleamed in his lapel. She turned, and he caught sight of hers, glittering at her throat. He immediately gave a Hitlergruss, which she returned. This was Manfred von Prosch, Industrialist, and owner of the remains of the old Wilhelmsdorf Estate. He had been driving to the home of his mistress in Karlshof, just east of Rastenburg, when he saw the Heinkel heading for his aerodrome with its engine popping and banging. He had immediately turned around and headed back to see that all was well. Now, he stood and listened to all this nonsense. He didn't much like Schiemann, but controllers were not that plentiful, this far east. He spoke,

'I am sorry, but there appears to be little I can do to help you. Most of the staff have gone home, and then there is the question of payment for services. I doubt we could raise the main Deutsche Lufthansa office at this time of night, in any case.'

His voice was still pleasant, but the tone was condescending.

Schiemann gave a smug smirk. His boss was backing him up against these smart-ass Lufthansa flyers… and who was this bloody woman? Karyn stepped forward. She banged the RF-SS Attaché case down on the desk, opened the flap, and drew out an envelope.

Schiemann's eyes were suddenly glued to the sinister, black Attaché case that sat in front of him. Its flap; embossed with an Eagle in gold, with out-spread wings, and clutching in its talons, a laurel wreath containing a Hakenkreuz… The Hoheitsabzeichen; flanked with the embossed letters RF to the left side of the Eagle, and SS to the right; glittered ominously in the thin yellow light from the flyspecked, dim light bulb. Jesu! The SS… his eyes darted to this woman, dressed in black; with Das Kleine Goldene Ehrenzeichen der NSDAP at her throat, and he felt a sudden clutch of cold fear in the depths of his bowels.

She handed the envelope to von Prosch, and asked him to read the contents. He slipped the document out of the envelope, unfolded it, and began to read. It was doubtful if he had ever seen a Führerbefehl, let alone held one. To his credit, he didn't give the slightest flicker. He read the document in its entirety, carefully re-folded it, and slipped it back into the envelope. He spoke; his voice was still calm,

'Fräulein Doktor; in view of this document, I must ask you for confirmation of identity.'

Karyn smiled sweetly at him and unbuttoned her jacket. The butt of the Walther PPK with the special PL Grips embossed with the High Insignia of the NSDAP came into view, snug and menacing in its shoulder holster. Four pairs of eyes were dragged to it as it nestled against her bosom. She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and drew out the two cards, handing them to von Prosch.

This time, he did flicker. His eyes widened as he read the signatures… real ink signatures, not just rubber stamps. He spoke again, but this time, his voice was not quite so calm and condescending...

'Vielen Danke, Fräulein Doktor von Seringen; your credentials are hopelessly impeccable.'

He turned to Schiemann, who sat there dumbfounded and deflated, with fear written all over his rodent-like features; and spoke coldly.

'The Heinkel will be prepared for flight by eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Schiemann.'

Then turning to Karyn, he smiled; an obsequious smile... but still a smile.

'May I offer you, and your crew the hospitality of Rastenburg?

The following morning; the drive to Wilhelmsdorf Feld was somewhat fraught. Manfred von Prosch had obviously had his fortune told in no uncertain terms, by someone... probably the District Gauleiter; and was… well, fawning wasn't a strong enough word. Karyn kept him at an icy distance, and most of the journey was accomplished in complete silence. She was relieved to see the Heinkel was flight ready when they arrived. Friedrich Schiemann, the controller, was even worse… all Heil Hitlers and Hitlergrusses.

The only one, who seemed anything like normal, was the young mechanic, who gave Willi his flight plan, and said that Minsk Kontrol had been contacted concerning their flight. Their initial heading would be zero-nine-five degrees, take off to the southeast; then zero-nine-zero degrees east to Lotzen and Treuburg, crossing the border between Ringen and Neschki. Then, they would turn back onto bearing zero-nine-five degrees east, all the way into Minsk… some four-hundred kilometres.

Karyn paid the fuel and landing fees bill from her incidental expenses, and walked out to the Heinkel waiting on the concrete apron in front of the little flying control building. Von Prosch and Schiemann followed them out, and when they reached the aeroplane; came rigidly to attention; throwing out their right arms in a synchronised Hitlergruss.

Willi was strapped in, and had already gone through his flight checks. He primed the fuel system and pressed the engine start button. The engine whined, coughed, belched blue smoke and roared into life as the prop-wash whipped the cloud of fuel-rich blue smoke back over the wings. After the slipstream had cleared it, the young mechanic helped her up onto the wing to where Rudi was waiting. He gave her a laconic grin, and, with an almost imperceptible movement of his head and eyes back towards the two men, standing rigidly to attention; frozen in their best, patriotic Hitlergruss postures; spoke quietly.

'Bloody amazing how an Official briefcase, two identity cards, and a pretty little PPK can turn a pair of anally-retentive, arrogant bastards like those two, into faithful Nationalsozialistische "Arschkriechern"... ass-crawlers; especially when they think that you are from IV2a Gestapo Special Section. Schiemann's piles almost dried up when he saw your shoulder holster. He's one of those real party nuts who's ready to shout "Heil" at a sheep with its head cut off if he thinks it might just be one of the Austrian Corporal's buddies in disguise.'

Karyn gazed quietly at his cheerful, honest face.

'How do you know that I'm not what they think I am? You could be taking an awful risk, speaking to me like that.'

The mechanic grinned again.

'You haven't got a swamp German's accent. Yours is local, and Gestapo Ironheads are as easy to find in this part of the world as Joey Goebbel's chance of finding the right size in shoes at Wertheim's on Alexanderplatz.. I know you East Prussian girls. You're not one of those Hitler hags who shower him with flowers while screaming "Ach der schöne Adolf,"... "Ah, the beautiful Adolf!" or write sycophantic letters, begging him to have babies with them.'

Karyn was hard-pressed not to laugh. She bent to enter the cabin, and glanced back at von Prosch and Schiemann still frozen in their Hitlergrusses. Karyn responded with the mere raising of her right hand, and stepped into the cabin. As Rudi strapped her into her seat, the young mechanic, who had clambered onto the wing behind them, gave a grin, and shouted above the crackle of the exhausts… "Hals-und Beinbruch"… "Break a leg," the universal aviator's "Good Luck" saying.

Rudi closed the cabin door and clambered into his little cabin. In the cockpit, Willi proceeded to go through his mag-drop checks as Karyn heard Rudi's door slam and the mechanic waved to her with a smile as he jumped down from off the wing. Satisfied with the final pre-flight checks, Willi throttled up, and the Heinkel began to roll. Out on the field, he turned into the wind, and pushed the throttle fully forwards. The Heinkel gathered speed, bumping across the grass. Karyn felt the tail lifting as the engine and exhaust noise filled the cabin, drumming and crackling in her ears. The bumping stopped abruptly as the Heinkel clambered into the bright blue sky above Wilhelmsdorf Feld. She felt the double thump as the wheels came up and locked into the wing wells; her ears popped, and then, they were turning into the east as the morning sunlight danced across the cabin interior, shimmering off the silver wings; with the engine noise diminishing as Willi settled the Heinkel into cruise revs.

The flight to the east was uneventful. Once, just east of Orsha, a stubby little gull-winged Russian Polikarpov I-15 "Chato" bi-plane fighter came and stooged around them for a while, but other than that, the sky was all theirs. A little less than one-and-a-half hours out from Wilhelmsdorf, the outskirts of Minsk came into view. Willi started to lose altitude as he flew over the city from the north-west. As he came in to Minsk airport on finals, Willi was surprised to see the line of U-2 Military bi-planes lined up on the grass. Perhaps it wasn't a civil airport after all... but then, who could figure out Russians anyway?

The Heinkel ghosted in to a perfect landing, and turned off the single runway onto the perimeter track. Willi gently taxied round to the building that served as the Terminal and switched off the engine. Waiting alongside the low, single-storey Terminal building was a black ZIS Government limousine with Diplomatic plates. As Rudi helped Karyn down from the wing, a tall, young man in a dark overcoat climbed out of the rear of the car and walked to meet her. Holding out his hand, he spoke,

'Heil Hitler! Fräulein Doktor von Seringen? Welcome to Minsk. I am Hans von Herwarth, Second secretary at the Moscow Embassy.'

A large Russian wearing an olive-coloured greatcoat with maroon collar tabs and a blue-topped, red-banded NKVD Service cap appeared behind him. The Russian held out his hand towards Karyn's Attaché case and snapped his fingers. Von Herwarth explained that the NKVD officer required her to hand over her documents for verification. Karyn handed von Herwarth the Führerbefehl - the Führer Directive, and watched the colour drain from his face as he read it. Turning swiftly to the NKVD officer, he spoke quickly in Russian...

"Izvinite, eto za predelami polya. Eto diplomaticheskaya pochta."... "Sorry, it's out of bounds. This is a diplomatic Pouch."

She watched the Russian's eyes on her. Then the Russian nodded and walked away. She ordered von Herwarth to arrange for her flight crew to be fed, and the Heinkel made ready for their return flight. He almost fell over himself to obey. She walked over to the black ZIS. The NKVD officer opened the rear door for her and, as she climbed into the rear seat, snapped to attention, giving her an impeccable salute. Having carried out her orders, von Herwarth climbed into the rear of the ZIS, a little pink-cheeked, and with nervous eyes. He snapped a command to the driver, and the ZIS moved away, sweeping out of the aerodrome and turning almost due north towards the centre of Minsk.

Von Herwarth was quiet on the three-kilometre ride up to Lenin Square… too quiet. It was almost as though he was scared of Karyn. She was puzzled by this; but no matter… there was her hotel, The Hotel Europe. It was big… six floors, built in a sort of Neo-Baroque style. Waiting in the Hotel foyer was a handsome young Russian. In acceptable German, he introduced himself as Aleksandr Anatoly Sergeyev. He was the archaeologist with whom she was to share the research. He handed her a buff envelope. It contained an NKVD service identity card with the text in Cyrillic, and affixed with her photograph … over-stamped with the same rubber impression she had seen on her visa. The signatures were also the same. Sergeyev smiled.

'No need to hand in your passport now you have this. You are now an esteemed guest of the Soviet Union. How… I cannot imagine; but no-one will dare challenge you, now that you have this card.'

The porter came to carry her suitcase to her room, No.87, on the third floor. Sergeyev turned to her.

'A pleasure to meet you, Fräulein Doktor von Seringen, I shall call for you in the morning to accompany you to the Academy.'

In her room, Karyn wondered exactly how the NKVD had managed to get hold of her photograph. But, of course! She had provided Himmler with five photographs and he had used only four. The fifth must have been forwarded on to whoever had issued this identity card. This had been hatched at the highest level... the first manifestation of the so-called 'Tissue of Deception'... a complex, interwoven series of deceptions that would stand any scrutiny in depth and was totally convincing. A little bemused, and apprehensive, she gazed out of her window across the wide Lenin Square towards the huge, ten-storey monolith of Government House, fronted by the equally huge statue of Lenin. Oh well, She'd see what the morning brought.

Six months later, the wind was gusting in over the Pripet marshes, carrying the first of the winter snows that November morning. Old Sergei, the Academy librarian, had brought an ancient samovar into the reading room. The heating was conspicuously rustic in the Academy… gently gurgling through ancient, cast-iron pipes; and the hot, sweet tea was a blessing. At about ten-o'clock, Sacha came into the reading room. Karyn smiled,

'Hello Sacha, come and sit down. I've more or less finished the first translation. It really is weird. I'm not even sure it's for real, any more. It seems more like a fairy tale.'

Sacha looked puzzled.

'What's all the fuss about then? It must be for real….otherwise…'Karyn smiled;

'Oh, Sacha, you are an old romantic! Pour yourself a glass of tea, and I'll read it exactly as it is written… then decide for yourself.'

And opening the great volume, she began to read her translation aloud. After the passing of a couple of hours reading, she looked up from the volume and studied Sacha's face.

'So, what do you think?'

Sacha looked at her,

'I just don't know. It sounds like one of Ivan Krylov's fables… but it can't be. Let's have a look at the second volume. Maybe, we'll get some sort of clue as we work through it.'

Karyn nodded, and reached for the second great volume. Gently opening the front cover-board, she began to translate the enigmatic script.

Four days later, on the morning of Wednesday, November 10th, 1937, Karyn and Sacha sat in the reading room studying a large map of the Soviet Union, spread out upon the great, mahogany reading table. The first of the winter snows had been blowing in from off the Pripet marshes to the south-east for almost a fortnight now. The winds were turning into the east, and soon, the full force of the Russian winter would come howling in off the Urals, choking Minsk in a freezing, white shroud. Once it really started, winter would last for four months... until the end of March; and was notorious for its sub-zero temperatures and transportation difficulties.

There wouldn't be any more strolling to and from the Academy with Sacha, to Karyn's Hotel on Lenin Square... not in temperatures as low as minus thirty degrees centigrade. Still, her two NKVD shadows wouldn't be able to trail along behind them all the way down Zakharievskaya Street, with the black GAZ saloon... the dreaded "Chyornye Voronki," the NKVD "Black Raven" creeping along twenty metres behind them. Old Sergei had said that when the snows really started, he would arrange for one of his old friends to transport them to and fro in a "Troika"... the traditional sleigh pulled by three horses.

Since May, Karyn had been deciphering and translating the first of the three ancient volumes. From what she had discovered in the first translation, that, which had been assumed, at first to be a chronicled history of a lost people, had read as though it was some fantasy... some fairy tale. Sacha, however, wasn't so sure. There must be more to it than that... or why were both the Soviet and the German Authorities so interested? Karyn was deciphering the second volume. It was a continuation of the first. They had thought to try to pinpoint where the events were taking place... hence the map. If they used their imaginations, it might be said that the plot was thickening.

In the first volume, there was mention of a range of mountains called "The Grey, Flinty Mountains" to the west. Might this allude to the Urals? There was mention of "The Far Western Ocean"... might this be the southern reaches of the Baltic Sea? There was more. The descriptions of the land in which the tale contained in the volumes was set... this land called "Amriath" could well be the Siberian Western Plateau; The Plain of Malphaers could be the Central Tungus plateau. To the north, The Realms of Khallis and Shandalar might be the upper part of the Central Siberian Plateau leading to the North Siberian Lowlands. The lost Realm of Erinthor could be somewhere beyond the Laptev Sea, up in the Arctic Circle. It was an enigma; there were no common place-names. It might all be conjecture.

Karyn shook her head,

'There's no way of telling, Sacha. This could all be nonsense. I need to get on with the deciphering. Then perhaps, we might make some sort of sense out of it.'

Sacha gazed at her. She was tired. There could be no expedition until the early spring, and even then, the journey into the Siberian Tunga would be fraught with difficulties. There was plenty of time to build castles in the air over what was, or wasn't the truth of these volumes. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Come on, Laskovaya moya... lets leave it for now. I've a little surprise for you tonight... Something to relax you.'

He pressed the bell push for old Sergei to come to lock the volumes away... as he did, every night. Karyn glanced up,

'And what might it be that will "Relax Me," Sacha?... as if I didn't know.'

She knew full well, that he was attracted to her, and that it would only be a matter of time before he made his move. As soon as the words had fallen from her lips, she regretted them. She saw his fleeting, hurt expression. Embarrassed, he said softly,

'No, I didn't mean... It's just that I've managed to get a pair of tickets for the visit of the Bolshoi tonight. They're performing Swan Lake at the Yanka Kupala National Theatre, just around the corner from your hotel; and Marina Semyonova, the supreme classical dancer of Moscow's Bolshoi Theatre is playing Odette-Odile. This is a rare chance to see her, and I just thought you might like to come.'

Blushing furiously, and feeling very ashamed, Karyn reached up and laid her hand over his, which was still resting on her shoulder.

'Oh, Sacha, I am so sorry. Of course, I'd love to come.'

Outside, the wind was turning into the east and the snowflakes were getting bigger. Hunching into their coats, Karyn and Sacha turned down Zakharievskaya Street, heading for her hotel. Behind them, they heard the crunch of the frost-crusted snow beneath the boots of the two NKVD shadows, who trailed them as they headed for the city centre.