At that point a light breeze rippled the grey curtain and they saw a guard lounging against the rough wooden planks that some peasant farmer had carelessly fashioned into a barrier for keeping cows in at night. Shlemov caught a glimpse of an immense wooden blockhouse beyond the gate, at least twice the height of the two metre stone walls of the surrounding sheds. It was only after the wind died and the veil was drawn shut once more that he realized the wooden fortification was the focal point of his quest.
There could be three hundred crates or more in there.
“Give me a minute, then do something to get that guard’s attention,” Shlemov said. “If that cattle yard contains what I think it does, I don’t want Comrade General Nerchenko to know that the net is drawing in around him.”
Malenkoy wanted to ask how he should go about the task of diverting the guard, but Shlemov had already slipped away, positioning himself on the corner of the corral, out of the sentry’s line of sight. He counted the seconds down, trying to suppress the questions that kept bubbling up into his mind, until it was time to make his move. He adjusted his cap and marched purposefully over to the private.
The gate creaked as the soldier pushed himself away from his leaning post and stiffened to attention.
“Open up,” Malenkoy said, “I need to go in there.”
“I’m sorry, Comrade Major, that is not possible. The colonel gave orders that no one is to be allowed in.”
“And which colonel would that be?” Malenkoy asked.
“Marshal Shaposhnikov’s aide, Colonel Krilov,” the guard said, resolutely.
Just as Malenkoy felt his own resolve flag, he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy form stealing between the bars of the gate, as stealthily as a poacher after chickens on a peasant’s smallholding.
“I have to go in,” Malenkoy pressed. “I believe I dropped my papers here yesterday while those crates were being unloaded. I supervised that operation myself, Comrade.”
The guard seemed unimpressed.
To his immense relief, Malenkoy saw the form dart behind the nearest of the crates. Somehow he had to keep this oaf talking long enough for Shlemov to find what he was looking for and then get out the way he had gone in.
Inside the corral, Shlemov heard Malenkoy continuing to badger the sentry. For a moment he was worried that the private would relent and escort him in, only to find an intruder there as well. But Shlemov knew what was in the crates, he felt it in his bones, and with it came the realization that there was no possibility of anyone receiving access to the cattle yard, other than Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov and, perhaps, some of their cronies who had delivered the stuff.
He worked his way round to the rear of the boxes. In places, he had to squeeze between them and the walls of the sheds, because there were so many it left little room for manoeuvre. He looked up and noticed that, for the most part, the crates had been stacked five high, or roughly as many metres from the ground to the camouflage netting that had been thrown casually over the top. The entire collection looked innocent enough. Stencils had been applied to each crate, marking them as ‘sanitation fluid’, so Shlemov knew that it did not matter which one he prised open — they would all yield the same result.
He took his knife and carefully levered out the tacks that had been hammered into the lid of a box lying on the ground beside him. A dozen metres away, he heard Malenkoy telling the guard that he was going to have to report his insubordination to General Nerchenko, a threat that appeared to cut little ice. Shlemov knew that he only had about two minutes left to find what he was looking for. Malenkoy could not hold out much longer.
The last tack pinged out of the top of the box, making a noise that sounded like a ricocheting bullet. He paused for a second, listening for a change in the tempo of Malenkoy’s monologue, but there was none. He lifted the lid carefully off the box and plunged his hand down into the layer of straw that packed the case.
He felt something metallic and cylindrical. His fingers darted left and right with the dexterity of a blind man’s, until he felt another and then one more. He brought his right hand up slowly from the base of the box, parting the straw with his left.
The leaden nose of the shell seemed to thrust from the crate like a spire rising from the rooftops of the Kremlin Palace. He pulled more packing away until he could see at least ten of the specialized munitions, each one longer than his arm from its flat base to the fuse in the tip. He didn’t really need to see more, but he peered in, searching for the lettering he knew to be stencilled on the side of each round.
The initials ‘VKhV swam before his eyes. He remained transfixed for a moment, then broke himself out of the trance and replaced the lid of the box, pushing as many tacks as he could find back into the holes with his thumb.
Then he stole off back towards the gate.
Malenkoy was still berating the private for obstructing his access into the crate compound, when he felt a tap at his shoulder and turned to find himself staring straight into the face of Shlemov.
“Come with me, Comrade,” the NKVD man said, before Malenkoy could show any surprise at his escape from the corral.
Shlemov tugged Malenkoy back towards the checkpoint where they had entered the square.
“What is it?” Malenkoy asked, frightened at the expression on the investigator’s face. “What the hell did you find in there?”
They passed by the checkpoint. Already the mist was beginning to lift.
“Have you got access to a transmitter?” Shlemov asked him, ignoring the questions.
“There’s a field radio in the tent.”
“I need range, you fool, something with power.”
Malenkoy racked his brains. The obvious place for transmitting and receiving all long range signals was only metres away from them, there in Branodz, within the HQ of the 1st Ukrainian Front, but that was clearly something Shlemov wanted to avoid. Any signal sent from the HQ would be witnessed by at least half a dozen, people.
There was one other place, manned by soldiers he could trust to keep their mouths shut.
“My maskirovka has all the morse and encryption facilities you would need. We use them for sending false signals into Germany.”
“There’s no time for coding, I’m just going to have to risk using the radio-telephone. Can you connect me with Moscow on a frequency that would not be monitored at Front HQ?”
“I can put you through to Vladivostock with the equipment we’ve got back there,” Malenkoy said proudly. “Frontal headquarters is too busy talking with commanders at 1st and 2nd Belorussian to listen to what we’re doing at Chrudim. As far as they’re concerned we are just a deception and disinformation unit whose job is to keep the fascists from pinpointing the main thrust of the final attack.”
They arrived at the parked GAZ and Shlemov motioned for Malenkoy to get in and drive. The major of tanks gunned the engine into life.
“Chrudim and fast,” Shlemov said. “I believe there is no time to lose.”
“For what, Comrade?”
“For whatever it is that Shaposhnikov and Nerchenko have planned in their nightmare scheme.” He held on tightly as Malenkoy threw the jeep into a bend in the track.
“The Marshal is involved?” Malenkoy’s eyes widened.
“Yes.”
“What would a man such as he want with sanitation fluid?”
Shlemov gritted his teeth as Malenkoy tried to edge past a slow-moving troop lorry, then swerved suddenly to avoid an oncoming vehicle.
“Do you really think I would have come all this way on the express orders of Comrade Beria to investigate these men for improper conduct over a few damned delousing baths? Those crates contain enough shells to wipe out every man, woman and child within a radius of a hundred and fifty kilometres. I saw what was in there with my own eyes, Malenkoy. I touched those damned things with my bare hands.” He was shouting over the slipstream.