The moment he saw the lorry, he was left in little doubt as to what it would be.
Two guards dropped the tailgate and ordered him to get in. So this is it, Malenkoy thought, a bullet in the base of the head, and a shallow grave somewhere in the forest.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom under the canvas awning, Malenkoy saw he was not alone. Bundled up against the cabin of the truck, he recognized the faces of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov. Nerchenko, his face bruised and swollen, groaned in obvious pain. It looked as if he, at least, had been doing some talking to the NKVD.
The guards and the lieutenant hopped in the back and trained their Sudayevs on the four of them. Then the engine coughed into life and the truck began to move. Malenkoy’s fears were confirmed as soon as the lorry took the forest route up into the mountains. After about fifteen minutes, the driver turned off the track and drove a little way into the woods until he stopped in the middle of a clearing. The guards motioned for the small party to get out with sharp gestures of their sub-machine-guns.
Malenkoy was suddenly no longer afraid. It was a beautiful, peaceful place and if he were to die, better here than in some stinking effluent pipe on the outskirts of Berlin. The NKVD lieutenant ushered him round the side of the lorry where he saw a large staff car. The door opened and out stepped Shlemov, his new, swaggering transport mirroring the look of triumph in his eyes. To Malenkoy’s left, Nerchenko dropped to his knees, his face in his hands.
“Get up, Nerchenko,” Krilov hissed.
Malenkoy felt his head swim, but he checked his swaying in time to stop himself from falling over.
“So you thought we wouldn’t find out,” Shlemov said to them all, even giving Malenkoy a swift, disdainful glance. He strutted in front of the small, bedraggled line of men like a game-bird on a mating ritual. Shaposhnikov stared brazenly at the investigator. “Well you were wrong; we know everything. Partly because you are all amateurs.” He looked with disgust at Nerchenko.
He nodded to the lieutenant who, in turn, snapped his fingers. Two more NKVD soldiers appeared from the cabin of the truck and went over to Nerchenko, picked him off the ground and dragged him to the far end of the clearing.
“And partly,” the investigator continued, “because you have an informer in your midst.” He paused, revelling in their confusion.
“Comrade Beria was tipped off about Archangel,” Shlemov continued, registering the startled look on Krilov’s face. The investigator thought back to his radio conversation with Beria that had produced the last piece of the jigsaw. The NKVD was always grateful for anonymous information. This time they had been able to act on it fast.
“Doubtless, it was one of your ‘friends’ back in Moscow. We are still tracing them, but thanks to Nerchenko’s confession, I don’t think we should have too much trouble.
“Comrade Stalin does not like men who show… initiative,” Shlemov said. “But then, your plan Archangel wasn’t just for the good of the state, was it, Comrade Marshal? What would you have done when Comrade Stalin failed to support your plan?”
“We would have had him killed,” Krilov said.
“Thank you, Krilov. I didn’t think you of all people would be so co-operative,” he said sarcastically. “I always find a forced confession a most unattractive procedure, most unattractive.” He let his gaze fall on Nerchenko for a moment. “So what this all amounts to is a coup d’état, even if it is one that has been hatched by amateurs. Did you ever seriously think it would work?”
“The attack was scheduled for dawn tomorrow. Thousands of tanks, artillery, and aircraft, not to mention millions of men would have pushed Russia’s enemies off the face of this continent. Do you call that amateur?” There were tears of frustration in Krilov’s eyes.
“Kolya, do not give him the pleasure,” Shaposhnikov said softly.
Shlemov’s eyes lit up. “Comrade Marshal, it is so good of you to contribute to our little conversation. I was just coming to your true motives for hatching up this plan.”
“I was doing my duty.”
“So, you took it upon yourself to undertake this crusade, a full-scale attack on the British and the Americans as well as the fascists.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Comrade Stalin in the Kremlin has gone soft on us,” Krilov interrupted. He pronounced the word “comrade” with real disdain. “He negotiates with Roosevelt and Churchill; it is he who is the traitor to the ideals of the Revolution, not us. We would have been doing him and Russia a favour.”
“I see,” Shlemov said. “And I suppose Churchill and Roosevelt would have just sat on their fat behinds while your hydrogen cyanide rained down on their troops in Germany. I presume you gave some thought to their reactions the moment you were to unleash what you have stored at Branodz.”
“The chemicals were a contingency plan,” Shaposhnikov said, simply. “They were a weapon of last resort.”
“But if we had used them,” Krilov shouted, “the Allies would have spent days arguing about a response, such are the divisions in their command structure. And by that time we would have been on our way to victory.”
Shlemov finally lost his temper. “If you had fired just one of those shells, you would have started a chemical weapons exchange that would have turned Europe into a desert. Is that what we have fought so hard to achieve these last four years? Victory will come, but it will take time. The difference between us is that I will live to see it.”
Shaposhnikov took a step forward. “I doubt it, Shlemov. Archangel was Russia’s last chance for a united continent. You and your kind have ruined the best opportunity we shall ever have of achieving that goal.”
“Really,” the investigator said dismissively. He was fighting for the upper hand, but Shaposhnikov had stolen the initiative. He was tempted to play his trump card.
“Yes, really.” Shaposhnikov was cool, full of menace, even when faced with death. “After the war, the Americans will strengthen their position in Europe, you can be sure of that. By the time they are ensconced on the continent, there will be little we can do through military action to remove them.”
“And what do you think the Americans and the British would have done if you ever made it to the Channel ports? Just sit there and wait for you to go away? They would have come back in force.”
Shaposhnikov shook his head. “The stupidity of the NKVD,” he said slowly. “Just because we are not politicians do you think we had not thought the whole thing through? We had plans to negotiate a buffer zone. Our forces would have moved back to the Rhine, the Red Army remaining behind the river so long as no British and American troops ever crossed the Channel. We would have let communism take its natural course in France and the Low Countries. If the Allies behaved themselves we would have even released their POWs on a piecemeal basis to let them finish off the Japanese.”
Malenkoy saw the logic of Archangel strike home with Shlemov, despite the investigator’s attempts to hide it.
Across the clearing, Nerchenko’s groaning reached a crescendo. A momentary twitch of irritation appeared at the corner of the investigator’s left eye, then he cut the air with his hand, a swift final gesture.
Malenkoy tried not to watch, but he could not tear himself away from the awful spectacle of Nerchenko stretched out on his stomach, with one soldier standing on his hands, while the other dug a foot into the small of his back. As Nerchenko wriggled in desperation, the soldier applied more pressure onto his back. Then he drew back the bolt of his Sudayev, flicked the switch to single-fire and shot Nerchenko through the back of the head.