Chapter Ten.

Down at NKVD Headquarters; Tartakow had received Evgenya Tarasova's phone call informing him that the two guests had returned to the hotel, and were in their rooms. Tartakow was in a quandary. All his professional instincts told him that he should have them picked up. His gut feeling though, was quite different. You just didn't fuck about with someone who carried a card titled "Special Section OO-GUGB. Moscow"... not if you preferred to breathe through the normal orifices, rather than through the whole front of your face; which is how you most certainly would, after you'd won a Nagant or Tokarev bullet in the back of the head.

While he struggled with this dilemma, a black ZIS 101 Limousine pulled up to the kerb outside the Hotel Europe. The driver climbed out; followed by two "Praporshchiki"... Warrant Officers of the Internal Troops of the Main Directorate of State Security... the GUGB; armed with PPD-34 sub-machine guns. The two Warrant Officers took position across from the Reception desk from where they could cover the foyer and the hotel entrance. The driver stepped up to the desk and stared at the receptionist Evgenya Tarasova. His tone was civil, but his grey eyes were distrustful, and admonitory. He spoke softly...

'The First Secretary of The Supreme Soviet of Belarus has requested that I collect Fräulein Doktor von Seringen and her companion. If you would be so kind to page them.'

Evgenya Tarasova looked at him; she glanced at the two Warrant Officers who stared back at her with menacing, cold expressions. She felt a surge of fright, which swiftly turned to terror as she saw them tighten their grip on their sub-machine guns, and slip their index fingers towards the triggers. The driver's voice was still civil, as he added,

'Now; if you please.'

She felt the first trickle of fear seeping down the inside of her thigh as she snatched for the telephone. Her mind was whirling. They were on to her. They knew she was a whisperer... an NKVD informer. There was no love lost between the Main Directorate of State Security; GUGB, and the NKVD; but everyone loathed a whisperer. She threw a timid, frightened glance at the two impassive Warrant officers who watched her with cold, intimidating stares. Her legs began to tremble as she clutched at the telephone handset; willing room No. 87 to answer. She could almost feel the bursts of sub-machine gunfire tearing into her body.

The driver was getting impatient. She was mentally pleading with room No. 87 to pick up the phone, and as she did so; her intuition was screaming at her that maybe, her choice to become a whisperer was not the best way to remain healthy and enjoy a long life. She decided there and then; that she would hand in her notice at the end of the week and go home to Gomel.

Thank God; at last... an answer. She passed on the message and put down the phone. The driver nodded. She turned away; terrified by the icy expression in his eyes... even though his smile was pleasant; it was the smile of a predator poised to strike. She began to fumble with the guest record cards, willing her legs not to give way. Then, came the murmur of the lift. The doors slid open and the Doktor and her tall, handsome companion stepped out into the foyer. The driver saluted and motioned them to the door.

The two GUGB Warrant Officers turned and followed. As the trailing one stepped outside; he turned, and gave Evgenya Tarasova one last, sinister stare, that said "I shall remember you." Her heart nearly stopped, and she began to tremble uncontrollably, as the ZIS swept away from the Hotel, out onto Lenin Square; turned left, in front the huge, ten-storey monolith of Government House, under the gaze of the huge statue of Lenin; and disappeared.

At the end of Sovetskaya Street, the limousine turned left onto Novo-Moskovskaya Street; and, sweeping under the railway bridge; accelerated through the sparse traffic down to where Novo-Moskovskaya Street forked into the straight avenue of Chkalova Street that led down to the Airport. The driver swung left onto Chkalova Street without reducing speed, and sped down the last half-kilometre to the broad expanse in front of Minsk Airport terminal building. Instead of stopping, he turned the limousine in through a side gate directly onto the concrete pavement, where a Red Air Force Tupolev PS-9, marked with bright Red stars on its silver wings and fuselage, sat with its twin M-17 engines idling.

The limousine stopped alongside the aeroplane; where an aviator in military flying clothes opened the car door for Karyn. She, and Sacha, and the two GUGB Warrant Officers were ushered to the cabin door on the port side of the aircraft. Clambering inside; they saw the seats were wicker chairs; four to the port side and five to starboard. Each chair had folding armrests facing the centre aisle, and the windows were fitted with curtains. Settling them into the very comfortable chairs, the pilot folded down the armrests that reached the full length of the seat, and locked them onto the backs of the chairs in front. The two GUGB Warrant Officers settled themselves in the rearmost chairs and tossed their PPD-34 sub-machine guns into the adjacent unoccupied seats.

The pilot ensured that his passengers were securely seated, and moved forwards up the aisle to the cockpit. He pulled the dividing curtain that separated the cabin from the cockpit closed, and strapped himself in. A swift glance across his instruments, and he pushed the throttles open. The Tupolev began to move; trundling out towards the runway. With a jolt, it stopped on the apron at the threshold of the runway.

The pilot began his final pre-flight checks; revving the port engine until the aeroplane quivered as he performed his magneto-drop check. He flicked the port mag switch back up as the roar of the engine died away to a gentle idle. The starboard engine picked up as he repeated the check. Again, came the shudder through the fuselage as he pushed the throttle up to the safe rev limit, then flicked the starboard magneto switch down; watching for the amount of rev drop-off. Everything OK, and within limits. Flicking the magneto switch back up, he pushed the throttles forward; and pressed down on the right rudder pedal, swinging the nose of the Tupolev out to the right. A green lamp blinked from the window of flying control... Clear for take-off. He centralised the rudder; pushed the throttles fully open and released the brakes. The Tupolev gathered speed; its wheels thumping over the joints in the concrete runway. The tail came up, and Kapitan "Aviatsii"... Captain of Aviation, David Khavin eased back on the control column. The thumping diminished and stopped. They were airborne.

As the Tupolev climbed out of Minsk Airport; turning into the east over Minsk Railway station; two "Chyornye Voronki," the dreaded NKVD "Black Ravens" screeched to a halt outside the Hotel Europe. Four NKVD goons piled out and burst into the reception, intent on arresting this Doktor bitch and her companion. Tartakow had finally come to a decision. He knew there was something not quite right about her. A little persuasion might reveal the truth. The goons were not amused to find that their prey had flown. Their informant had failed them. Where was she?

Evgenya Tarasova was missing. She had eventually managed to compose herself, and had complained that she was suffering from "Women's troubles." Like all men; the manager had become embarrassed and had not pressed her. He had told her to go home. In receipt of this information, a swift phone call was made to NKVD Headquarters. Her address was known, and a watch would be kept on her route home. She had some explaining to do.

The manager had no idea where the Doktor and her companion had gone; only that a limousine with two armed GUGB Warrant Officers had collected them about an hour ago. The Lejtenant in charge of the arresting party snarled out an order. They would do a snap search of the Academy. Even if they were not there, somebody could be intimidated for information. In true NKVD style, the snatch detail descended on the Academy in search of Surta, and - or the old Librarian. They found neither.

Upon his return from the Hotel Europe; Surta had rounded up Sergei and his wife; and together with their personal possessions, had spirited them out of the city. As the NKVD squad burst into his office; Surta's GAZ was half-way to his Dacha on Lake Vezhkhne. He had left a message with the concierge of the Academy that, should he be required, he would be at his Dacha near Cherkasy. As he had planned, the NKVD automatically assumed this was the city of Cherkassy in the central Ukraine... not the grubby little rural village named Cherkasy, thirty-five kilometres north of Minsk. As they drove north; Surta handed a thick envelope to Sergei; saying,

'If anything should happen to me; and God knows, in these days... in my position, it may well do so; these are the deeds to the Dacha. When they come calling... as they are eventually certain to do; just tell them you are the new owner, and show the deeds to them. They are bound to believe you; for when did you ever hear of a Belarusian giving away anything... let alone a Dacha set in eighteen double versts of prime forest?'

Sergei nodded;

'I shall keep them safe for you, Comrade President; and shall be overjoyed to return them to your hand when the time comes.'

The Tupolev droned on into the northeast. They had just flown over Smolensk. The two GUGB Warrant Officers had relaxed and were chain-smoking Machorka cigarettes; which were basically, a hollow cardboard tube extended by a thin cigarette paper tube, filled with tobacco made from stems of the tobacco leaf; cut up finely, and resembling sawdust. They stank.

Sacha laughed as Karyn wrinkled her nose;

'They're for hard bastards and Siberian brown bears only... or so they say.'

Karyn pulled a face. One of the Warrant Officers leaned forward and offered her one. She looked at Sacha for a moment, then turned and accepted it. The Warrant Officer offered her a light from a lighter that appeared to be made from a Mosin ammo cartridge with a separate flint tube and wheel fitted on one side. Then, he sat back and waited for the fun to begin. This was much more than a matter of bravado; this was a matter of acceptance.

Karyn took a deep drag. The Machorka took her breath away. It smelled like hot tin, and tasted very much the same. She forced herself not to recoil; and, knowing the Russians' eyes were glued to her reaction, took another deep drag. She willed herself not to choke, be sick, or to let her eyes water. The Warrant Officers studied Karyn with admiration. They had both expected her to take one feeble puff and abandon the challenge; but she was sucking this crap down like a "pertsy"… one of the boys. Chernikova, the older of the two; rummaged inside his tunic and brought out a flask. He took a swig and held it out to Karyn. Sacha gave her a warning glance, and said, quietly,

'That will be full of "Samogon"... moonshine vodka; distilled from sugar beet, yeast and water. It's about one-hundred-and-forty- proof, and will blow your head off.'

Karyn laughed;

'Is that all? Back home in East Prussia, Old Jurek, our gardener used to make "Bimber"... the Polish moonshine, in a still in his potting shed. He made it from damsons. One of your charkas of that stuff, and you'd be "P'yan v stel'ku"... dead drunk... Pissed as a fart.'

Chernikova gave a great roar of laughter. He liked this girl. She should have been a Kuban Cossack! He tossed the flask to her. She flipped the top and took a long swig. The fiery liquid almost took the enamel off her teeth. She took another swig and tossed it back to him. Yes, he thought... she'd do. He sensed that there was much more to her than at first met the eye. At first glance, he'd written her off as a "Zvezda"... someone who thought their shit didn't stink; but now... he just knew she was a "Klassnaya Devchonka"... a first-class girl who could probably drink you under the table; smiling demurely all the while.

As the Tupolev cruised on towards Mojaisk; some hundred and ten kilometres to the west of Moscow; back in Minsk, Evgenya Tarasova had hurriedly packed a suitcase and was half-way down the dingy stairs of her apartment block when she met Vasilev, the caretaker.

'Off on a trip?'

He said, pleasantly. She forced a smile;

'Just a few days in Gomel; my mother isn't too well. I should be back by the weekend.'

He nodded;

'Well, take care; I hope she's better soon.'

As she closed the front door behind her, Comrade Vasilev reached for the telephone. He smiled slyly to himself as he rang NKVD Headquarters and reported her departure.

Evening was setting in as she hurried through the quiet streets, making for the station. As she came down Chkalov Street, she sensed that she was being followed. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw nothing. Only another half-a-kilometre and she'd be at the station... and safely away. As she came down onto the shadowy Lavskaya embankment bordering the Svislach River, the street lamps were just flickering on. She looked around. The whole embankment was deserted, except for a man in the distance, walking his dog. He looked rather young to be the owner of a Black Russian terrier... that breed was an old mans' dog. Still; it might belong to his father... but it still seemed a little odd.

She turned towards the station. He was walking in the same direction, with the little dog leaping and gambolling around on its leash. She began to relax; soon, she would be out of their clutches. She had been a fool to get mixed up with them in the first place.

They dragged her body out of the Svislach River, half-a-kilometre downstream from the embankment, early the next morning. They couldn't easily identify her. Her handbag... if indeed, she had been carrying one; was missing, and the bullet, which had been fired at close range into the back of her head, had blown most of her face away.

In his apartment on Kolia Street; twenty-three year old Mladshyi Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Junior Lieutenant of State Security: Stepan Morozov pushed his Black Russian terrier off the sofa where he was sitting cleaning his Tokarev TT Special. When he used the bloody "Bramit" suppressor it always fouled the barrel. It was something to do with the propellant back-pressure... and the fouling was an absolute sod to clean out of the rifling. This was, he thought; in the main... due to the ammunition he chose to use.

The Bramit really was a waste of time. You could only get off one really good, accurate shot with it; and after that; it so retarded the muzzle velocity, you could almost follow the bullet trajectory. The suppressor contained a pair of thick baffles made of a felt-like material halfway along the suppressor tube, and a pair of rubber baffles at the front end. This reduced the sound of the propellant detonation to something akin to the plop that a stone makes when it is tossed into water. This reduction in sound was only really good for one shot... but; he only ever needed one clear shot. These suppressors were only of any real use when a single, covert killing was the order of the day. Still, it had been a clean, silent kill from twenty metres distance... just the one shot, exactly mid-way between the Parietal and Occipital areas of the back of her skull. She hadn't known what had hit her.

He prided himself on his skill as a State Executioner. He'd seen the NKVD morons' handiwork in Brod woods. Bloody amateur butchers! They shoved the barrels of their Nagants right into the nape of their victims' necks. When the shot was fired; the high-pressure, high-temperature gases from the exploding powder load were forced into the skull behind the bullet, and out through the exit wound; spraying blood and brain matter all over the place. They didn't always die instantaneously; flailing and staggering about; shrieking and screaming.

These executioners were the lowest level of the NKVD. The new recruits who filled the ranks of the NKVD under Yezhov were mostly careerists with little or no political understanding, or even any interest in what was happening. Most of them were alcoholics who were given a large glass of vodka when they checked out their weapons in the morning. They then were trucked out to Brod woods to pits dug by criminal convicts, where they lined up their political prisoners and began shooting. Some became so callous in their attitude to what they were doing that they would line up prisoners sideways and try to see how many they could kill with a single bullet. At the end of the day, when they turned in their guns, they were supplied with as much free, cheap vodka as they could drink.

Stepan Morozov was in a totally different league. He was a first-rate specialist. He could effectively liquidate his subject from up to sixty metres distance with a single shot. He used the special, high-powered Tokarev one-hundred-and-ten-grains, half-metal-sheathed, hollow-point rounds. The target's head literally exploded from a hit with one of those. He hadn't a clue as to who the girl had been; the phone call from Headquarters only gave her precise description, and where she was likely to be at a specific time. Funny how heavy a young girl could be... deadweight. It was a bit of a struggle dumping her over the embankment wall into the river, but there was no one about to see her go. Just to tidy up; her suitcase and handbag had followed her into the river... as had the spent Tokarev cartridge case he had recovered from the footpath gutter where it had landed as it had been ejected. This was his operational signature in the Lubyanka Liquidators "club"... no traces that could possibly be identified by the local "Militsiya"... the civil police. Even if they managed to dig the bullet out of the victim, it would be so deformed that no ballistic tests could ever identify what sort of weapon had fired it. That was the beauty of the half-metal-sheathed, hollow-point rounds.

He finished cleaning and re-assembling the Tokarev, laid it down on the table, and stood up. He would draw a replacement suppressor from the local NKVD Headquarters armoury in the morning. Glancing down, he smiled;

'I suppose you're going to nag at me until I feed you; Lika,'

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He said to the dog that was prancing on her hind legs in front of him. He reached down; and stroked her head as she followed him into the kitchen.

14.45pm; Moscow time. Wednesday, 27th July, 1938. The twin-engined, Red Air Force Tupolev PS-9 banked gently over to starboard as the pilot; Kapitan "Aviatsii" David Khavin, of 54th Light Air Brigade, Leningrad, turned into the south to begin his approach into Khodynka Central Airport, some seven kilometres from the City centre. He smiled wryly; nothing but a bloody bus driver! No matter; just drop off his four passengers and then, back into his nimble little Polikarpov I-16 fighter for the flight back to the Gorelovo settlement to rejoin the 19th Fighter Regiment of "Free Hunters."

Some five kilometres ahead; he saw the new Khimkinskoye reservoir, formed only last year during the construction of the Moscow-Volga canal. He lined up the nose of the Tupolev with the centre of the huge earthen coffer dam at the southern end of the reservoir. Ahead, to starboard, was the green expanse of Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo Park, and a little more than three kilometres beyond; he could just see the junction of the Leningradsky and Volokolamsky Highways. Flaps down… ten degrees. The Tupolev was steadily losing height. Airspeed... a hundred-and-ninety knots; altitude... eight-hundred-metres. The road junction slid under the nose. OK; ease to port and follow Leningradsky Highway for a kilometre, then turn in to starboard on final approach. Khodynka Central Airport flying control crackled in his earphones granting him clearance to land, using his explicit code-name for this flight; " Morozko One."

David Khavin smiled briefly. These bloody stupid intelligence prima-donnas always used these preposterous code-names for everything. And now... his call sign was a character from an old children's folk tale! He responded to the permission and glanced at the airspeed indicator. A hundred and fifty knots. Time to turn in and wash off some speed. He eased the Tupolev into a starboard aileron turn, and then gently banked to port, executing a smooth "S" manoeuvre; lining up with the runway, and edging the throttles back as the needle wound down. One-forty... One-thirty... One-twenty. The altimeter needle was spinning down; Five hundred... Four hundred... Three hundred... Two hundred… One hundred metres.

At fifty metres altitude and with one-hundred-and-ten knots indicated; Khavin brought the Tupolev in over the threshold of the two thousand metre, north-south, concrete runway, designator 17-35. Sixty metres in-field; he eased the throttles back and the Tupolev sank gently. Coaxing the nose up, he flicked the mixture to lean and pulled the throttles closed. The two M17 engines settled to tick-over; and the satisfying squeal, thump, and rumble of the main undercarriage wheels making contact with the concrete shivered through the airframe. Gently applying the brakes, Khavin brought the Tupolev to a halt, two thirds of the way down the runway.

Opening the throttles; he taxied the aeroplane off the main runway and headed for the Terminal building. Waiting there, were two groups standing apart from each other. The first group were waiting by a gleaming black Mercedes Benz 540K saloon with Diplomatic plates and a little blood-red Hakenkreuz pennant fluttering gaily from a slim mast attached to the left front fender. An Embassy car; maybe, even the German Ambassador's car. The second group stood around a black ZIS 101 Government Limousine. There were no uniforms to be seen in either group; although there were two military motorcycle escorts present.

Having left the aircraft followed by the two GUGB Warrant Officers; the party walked across the concrete apron to the waiting cars. Karyn was directed to the Mecedes Benz, and Sacha and the two Warrant Officers to the black ZIS 101 Government Limousine. With a howl of sirens, the two motorcycle escorts swept out of Khodynka Central Airport with the two cars in close convoy. Turning right onto Leningradsky Highway, the convoy sped away down towards Gorky Street. The journey should have normally taken about twenty-five minutes by car to the centre of Moscow; The speeding convoy; shepherded by the wailing Police motorcycles, would accomplish the distance in ten minutes. The sparse traffic scattered as the convoy sped down towards Pushkin Square; until recently, known as Strastnaya Square, and renamed for Alexander Pushkin in 1937; at the junction of the Boulevard Ring and Gorky Street. Here, the Mercedes and the ZIS parted company, with one motorcycle escort each.

The Mercedes turned right, onto Chaikovskogo, speeding on down past the Soviet Foreign Ministry, onto Zubovski Boulevard and crossing the Krymsky Bridge onto Krymsky Val, then turning right into Leninskiy Prospekt. A little further, and the Mercedes turned into the German Embassy Compound. The ZIS continued on down to Manezhnaya Square, where it would turn left for the short drive past the Bolshoi Ballet to its destination at the Lubyanka where Sacha would be de-briefed; perhaps, by Yezhov himself.

The ZIS swept onto Dzerzhinsky Square, which was dominated by the brooding, fifteen-ton, bronze monument of Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky… known as Iron Felix… the founder of the dreaded Cheka - the forerunner of the NKVD; and stopped outside the extravagant Baroque, yet sinister façade of the Lubyanka. Even innocent Muscovites shivered whenever they saw its steel gates slide open. Sacha was escorted across the main courtyard into the building through the elegantly carved, wooden main doors; their footsteps echoing on the beautiful parquet floors and pale green walls. One of his escorts announced their arrival to the uniformed desk clerk, who directed them to the third floor of the building, where the office of "The Poison Dwarf"… otherwise known as Nikolai Ivanovich Yezhov… People's Commissar for Internal Affairs - Head of the NKVD, was situated.

Entering the office, Sacha was surprised by the appearance of Yezhov, who sat behind a huge desk which made him appear even smaller than his diminutive stature. The fathomless, cold, dark-grey eyes, close-set in a rodent-like face… thin-lipped, with high, Slavic cheekbones and a prominent jaw line, studied him briefly. Sacha felt an involuntary shiver. Yezhov; Stalin's "Iron Fist"; Instigator of the Great Purge… the "Yezhovschina."

"We should shoot a pretty large number. Personally, I think it must be done in order to finally finish with this filth. It is understood that no trials are necessary. Everything can be done in a simplified process."

wrote Nikolai Yezhov to his master Stalin as he unleashed the Great Terror in 1937. And so it was...

Under Yezhov, the purges reached their height, with roughly half of the Soviet political and military establishment being imprisoned or shot, along with hundreds of thousands of others, suspected of disloyalty or "wrecking." Yezhov had also conducted a thorough purge of the security organs, both NKVD and GUGB, removing and shooting many officials who had been appointed by his predecessors Yagoda and Menzhinsky, but even including some of his own appointees as well. He maintained that it was worth having ten innocent people suffer rather than letting one spy get away.

The walls of Lubyanka's basement cells bore mute witness of Yezhov's purges... Many of them had been left indelibly splattered with the blood of thousands of Stalin's political rivals who had been arbitrarily dragged down to the basement and treated to the infamous "Lubyanka breakfast"... a cigarette, and a bullet in the back of the head.

The old Bolshevik revolutionary and intellectual: Nikolai Bukharin; prior to his trial and execution by the NKVD, on March 15th, 1938; was alleged to have described Yezhov thus:

"In the whole of my long life, I have never met a more repellent personality than Yezhov's. When I look at him I am reminded irresistibly of the wicked urchins of the courts in Rasterayeva Street, whose favourite occupation was to tie a piece of paper dipped in paraffin to a cat's tail, set fire to it, and then watch with delight how the terrified animal would tear down the street, trying desperately but in vain to escape the approaching flames. I do not doubt that in his childhood Yezhov amused himself in just such a manner and that he is now continuing to do so in different forms."

Yezhov was speaking.

'Comrade Sergeyev; I am informed that you have accomplished some measure of success with this "Fashistskaya suka"... Fascist bitch in the translation of the three volumes found at Tunguska. Therefore, it has been arranged that you and she will travel out to Irkutsk on the Trans-Siberian Express this evening. You will be equipped in Irkutsk to embark on an expedition to the Podkamennaya Tunguska River. You will ignore this "Accord" that the Fascists have brokered, and gather such information as may be useful to the Motherland. Any such information will be returned to us exclusively, and you will liquidate the "Fashistskaya suka" upon the successful completion of your mission. Any deviation from this will result in a lengthy vacation in the welcoming Gulag Mining resort on the Kolyma River.'

His cold eyes studied Sacha, watching for some… for any reaction to this treacherous double-cross. Sacha remained impassive. Satisfied; Yezhov slid a buff envelope across the expanse of the huge desk.

'Your transit documents and rail warrants. Give me the Identity card you were issued with in Minsk. Here is a new one… and these.'

He reached into a drawer and brought out several paper tubes marked with the seal of The State Bank of the USSR. He studied Sacha.

'Your funds. Each of these contains fifty Gold Chervonets; the bullion equivalent of Ten thousand Gold Roubles. Spend them wisely, Comrade Sergeyev; we shall be watching. The two GUGB Warrant Officers; Comrades Chernikova and Nikolin, who accompanied you from your hotel, will travel with you. That is all, Comrade; you are dismissed.'

He waved a perfunctory hand at Sacha and bent over his next death list. Sacha gathered the envelope, identity card and bullion tubes, and turned to leave. As his hand touched the doorknob, Yezhov's voice followed his movement.

'Remember, Comrade; the old joke:

"Lubyanka - samoye vysokoye zdaniye v Moskvy; iz podvala vidno Sibir'. "… 'Lubyanka is the tallest building in Moscow; you can see Siberia from its basement.'

Outside in the corridor, Chernikova and Nikolin were waiting, slouched in chairs. As Sacha closed the door to Yezhov's office, Chernikova stood up and idly slung his PPD-34 sub-machine gun over his shoulder. His face was grim. He studied Sacha and then, quietly said…

'Did I hear correctly what that sadistic little shit said? That he has actually ordered you to liquidate the girl when the mission is complete? I don't think so, Comrade. She's too pretty to die at the whim of that evil little shit. We'll find you a way out at the end of all this.'

There was no love lost between the GUGB and the NKVD… too many of Tasha Chernikova's friends had been purged by Yezhov. Anton Nikolin nodded.

'We're with you, Sergeyev; we'll look after you and the girl. They're certain to send a couple of NKVD shadows after you. If they get too close, we'll "retire" them.'

Downstairs, in the foyer, Chernikova and Nikolin were issued with their travel warrants by the duty clerk. The Trans-Siberian Express would leave Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal on Komsomolskaya Square at 8pm that evening. That left them four hours to squander. Chernikova suggested that they go to get a meal in the café across the square. Over steaming bowels of Borscht… beef stew with red beet strips and vegetables, Chernikova laid his plot. If the NKVD sent their shadows out to trail the expedition, they would be dealt with somewhere out in the Taiga. Here; they would never be found, and would be presumed missing on operations. He said this as easily as a man idly swatting a fly.

The main course was Kulebiaka… a large meat pie made with yeast dough. Chernikova divided the pie into three; piling each plate high. Several bottles of vodka appeared. They should eat and drink well while they had the opportunity. The Trans-Siberian Express was not noted for its dining car cuisine… if indeed, there would actually be one attached to the train. The time passed quickly. Feeling warm and contented from the hearty meal, reinforced by several charkas of vodka; it seemed that no time had passed at all until the driver came and said it was time to move. Sacha walked unsteadily to pay the tariff, but the café owner refused any payment. They were GUGB, and he too, held small love for his NKVD neighbours across the square.

The journey across Moscow took hardly any time at all. Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal was only a couple of kilometres to the North-east, and the wailing siren of the motorcycle escort swept the traffic aside for the progress of the glittering black ZIS. Within ten minutes, they arrived at the entrance to the huge Terminal which was built in the Neo-Russian revival style, with a fairy-tale roof of spires, fortress turrets, and high tower-chambers.

In the German Embassy; Karyn had been briefed by Hans von Herwarth; Second secretary to the Ambassador. His instructions were much the same as Yezhov's. Berlin had intimated that the Russian Sergeyev was to be disposed of when his usefulness was exhausted. Under no circumstances were any discoveries to be passed to the Russians. The young Russian Archaeologist was to meet with some unfortunate and fatal "accident." Von Herwarth watched Karyn's face, she remained impassive. The classic Double-double cross… so typical of Himmler and his goons. If her companion was to meet such a fate, how was she to get out of Russia? Von Herwarth smiled.

'No problem; we shall arrange a detachment of our Bataillon Ebbinghaus special kommando to be dropped on the coast of the Barents Sea and infiltrate south to intercept you.'

Karyn said nothing. This was patent nonsense. How on earth could they ever hope to penetrate over three thousand kilometres in secrecy? She decided that she would completely ignore this hair-brained plot and take her chances with Sacha. Von Herwarth was speaking again.

'Now; come and have something to eat. The Russian railways are not noted for their gastronomic treats. A good German meal is in order before you are taken to the rail terminal. We have a couple of hours, and we would like to hear your theories on just what might be out there.'

In the Embassy dining room, Karyn and von Herwarth were served by white uniformed staff. Firstly, there was Gulaschsuppe… Goulash Soup with Brötchen… bread rolls. The main course was a delicious Rouladen… stuffed beef, followed by Apfelstrudel… Apple Strudel; washed down with two bottles of a 1937 Spätburgunder Troken...a highest quality Blanc de noir wine from the southern regions of Baden and Württemberg. Each bottle cost over Two Thousand Reichmarks. They certainly knew how to enjoy themselves in the hallowed confines of the Embassy. Karyn thought of the austere lifestyle of old Sergei and his wife back in Minsk; and for that matter; those less fortunate back in Berlin.

The orderly had returned with a large bottle of Steinhäger gin and two amber schnapps glasses; the cup-shaped bowls fashioned on hollow stems and bell-shaped bases. They were obviously antique, and decadently expensive. Von Herwarth filled the glasses to the brim and held his up for a toast.

'Fräulein Doktor von Seringen; Hals-und Beinbruch! Success to your expedition. For The Fatherland… Heil Hitler!'

He clanked the glass against Karyn's and tossed the contents down his throat. Karyn thought she had better do the same. As she stood the drained glass on the table, von Herwarth was pouring himself another. He motioned to Karyn to pass her glass. She declined. She needed to keep a clear head. Von Herwarth shrugged and emptied his glass down his throat. Fleetingly she saw the same look in his eyes that she had seen the first time she met him in Minsk.

There was something about von Herwarth; he was nervous… why else would he drink in such a manner? Her instincts were correct. Hans von Herwarth had a secret… a decidedly fatal secret for him, if he was ever discovered.

He, and his superior; Ambassador Friedrich-Werner Graf von der Schulenburg, had already tried to persuade Britain, France and the United States not to give in to Hitler's territorial demands. Hans von Herwarth was, in fact, the chief contact from the German Embassy in Moscow to those of the Western powers.

There was a knock on the door. A young under-secretary entered and handed an envelope to von Herwarth, saying the car was ready for the Fräulein Doktor's transfer to Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal. Von Herwarth passed the envelope across the table to Karyn.

'Your travel warrant and documents. I shall bid you farewell, and hope your expedition every success. I shall not accompany you to the Terminal. I have pressing business at the Embassy. Goodbye, Fräulein Doktor von Seringen; I hope we shall meet again.'

He poured himself another Steinhäger and slumped in his chair; gazing into the bowl of the schnapps glass.

Outside, in the Embassy compound; the Mercedes was waiting. The journey across Moscow would take about twenty minutes. Karyn was ushered into the rear seat, having exchanged the RF-SS Attaché case for a brown leather briefcase embossed with the Soviet star above a hammer and sickle. In addition to her weapons and funds, it contained detailed maps of the proposed expedition area… albeit, notated in the Cyrillic alphabet; and other sundry survival items. The driver wasted no time crossing Moscow, and within the quarter hour, arrived in front of Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal. He escorted Karyn into the main departure hall where Sacha, Chernikova, and Nikolin were waiting. The train agent... an arrogant, beery-faced Slav, checked all the queuing passenger's papers with a contemptuous sneer. He was flanked by two hatchet-faced, plain-clothes toughs who were obviously Militsiya; sitting at a table. They checked the papers again, against lengthy lists on their clipboards. The press of passenger stood docilely, accepting the intimidation of the three men with resignation and ill-concealed trepidation.

Nikolin saw Karyn and the driver approaching, and walked up to the three inquisitors. He flashed an Identity card and spoke brusquely. The three men snapped to attention, and Nikolin beckoned Karyn through the crush of passengers. No intrusive checks would be performed on this pretty blonde with the GUGB Special Section pass... not if they knew what was good for them.

Alongside the platform of track four stood the Trans-Siberian Express... The "Russiya" was a ten-coach train drawn by a huge, green 0-10-0 locomotive. The coaches had corrugated sides liveried in red. Steam swirled from the cylinder chests of the locomotive and drifted across the platform as the cold east wind moaned in through the arch on the permanent way end of the station. The party walked down the platform to coach number four, where a pretty, young female attendant… one of the "Provodnitsas" that each coach was serviced by, ushered them on board and settled them into their "Soft," First class compartment. Chernikova and Nikolin were allocated the next compartment forward.

Virtually all trains were night trains, so that the facilities offered always included some kind of sleeping accommodation. This varied from the "Soft" two-berth "Spalny vagon" compartments, which were quite rare, and reserved for important passengers; to four berth "Kupe" class compartments, (two up, and two down), and then, the very basic "Platskartny"... "Hard class" open coaches, which had a kind of semi-enclosed compartment on one side of the gangway, with six normal, and three longitudinal berths one above the other on the window side. All of the upper berths were capable of being folded away for daytime travel, though in practice, the Russians seemed to prefer to spend the whole journey in bed.

Sacha and Karyn were allocated a "Soft" two berth "Spalny vagon" compartment; as were Chernikova and Nikolin. Karyn's and Sacha's suitcases were already in their compartment which was fitted with two bunks against the wall. Over each bunk was a net rack for small, personal luggage. The compartment was fitted with a table covered with a linen tablecloth on which stood a slender lamp with a tasselled cloth shade. A Mongolian rug covered the floor, and faded, red-velvet curtains hung either side of the large compartment window, drawn back with tasselled rope drawbacks. The walls of the compartment were lined with mahogany-coloured wood panelling. On the wall next to the door was a brass bell push for summoning the Provodnitsa.

The train did include a restaurant car. Karyn thought that ten coaches of hungry passengers would overwhelm a single restaurant; but Chernikova said in fact most travelling Russians took most of their food with them, and thus, had no need for such facilities. In any case, at each station the train would be besieged by local Babushki… old country women known collectively as "Grandmothers," selling all manner of food and drink, so one would never go hungry. Also, for the most part, the Babushki would never try to exploit their customers from the train. They would always charge you the same price for their goods as they would give any local, so you didn't have to worry about having to haggle. He also told them of his experiences on long-distance trains. One problem of the restaurant car was that it was about eight coaches away, so reaching it became an interesting trek past the other passengers. The food on offer was basic, with no real choice of dish, but at least there was reasonably cold beer.

The Provodnitsa would generally supply tea on request for about five Roubles, and hot water was available free from the simmering samovar at the back end of each coach for those who brought their own tea or coffee. The Provodnitsa's duties also included the distribution of bedding to each compartment, although they would have to make up the beds themselves. One unwelcome aspect of this would be that the bedding was collected around one and a half hours before arrival at destination - not too bad when this was at a civilised hour, but when one was unceremoniously debunked at around 5am in the morning for that very purpose, it could be no laughing matter. Also the toilets were locked a good thirty minutes before arrival at any station… and would remain so until the Provodnitsa remembered to unlock them later… in order to avoid fouling the track in an urban area. This wouldn't seem to be a problem in Western Europe, but then, the tracks were not used as public footpaths. This inevitably meant an early-morning queue for the two toilets in each coach, which had to cope with up to thirty-six passengers. Karyn winced as she tried to imagine what it would be like in the "Hard" class!

Chernikova said that there were several other peculiarities of train travel in Russia, particularly for longer journeys. One was that Moscow time was observed throughout, so all timetables were at a constant time. The journey to Irkutsk would pass through two time zones, so their arrival time would actually be five hours later than "train time." Moscow time was also kept by all stations in Russia, so that stations and trains existed within a time warp. The further east you went, the worse it got. The whole trip would take four-and-a-half, to five days.