The following day both B-29 and ShCh 307 made their landfall at Glenlara, B-29 beating Kalinin’s boat in by two hours precisely. Standard procedure required the submarines to stay on the bottom during daylight hours, and surface at night when prying eyes could not see them. Kalinin dropped ‘307’ to the bottom and ordered ‘minimum crews’ on watch so his men could rest as best they could. ‘39’ ignored instructions and surfaced close to shore, the Senior Lieutenant deciding that the risk was worth getting proper medical attention for his wounded comrades, amongst whom was a gravely ill Rybin, whose depressed skull fracture needed urgent care.
Carried out under the watchful eye of the Soviet Marine commander, Senior Lieutenant Masharin, the medical transfer was swift and well drilled, and the three submariners were quickly in the small hospital facility onshore.
B-29 then sank to the bottom, where her crew also rested under the protective gaze of their IRA allies.
The Commander had been to Madrid once before, so he expected the heat. None the less, he still recoiled on leaving the protective coolness of the lobby, discretely shadowed by Vassily Horn, one of the two members of the team who had joined the group in Madrid.
Both new men were German-born communists, official residents of the Spanish capital, and long time NKVD agents.
Strolling out of the Hotel Regina, the expected contact was immediately apparent, struggling as she was with her two large suitcases. Taking a second to study the shapely form, he approved of the simple but classy red dress with crocodile leather shoes and a patent white leather bag. Her ensemble was completed by a classically Spanish white silk bow at the back of her head, bringing her long jet black hair into a solid line down her back.
She turned round and the Russian was slightly disappointed.
However, although not beautiful by any estimation, her make-up was well applied and achieved much, and the middle-aged woman still presented some charm to the eye.
Horn was settled into a raffia chair adjacent to the main entrance, and seemed engrossed in the latest edition of ‘ABC’. Appearing the gentleman, Mayakov offered his assistance, exchanging code words satisfactorily, and took charge of both cases, following the woman through the hotel foyer and into the lift. Nothing further was said until both were safely behind the door of his attic suite.
Pleasantries complete, he confirmed that his contact was one Maria Paloma. He already knew that and more besides. The woman was an NKVD sleeper agent, born of good communist stock, and activated solely for this mission. She knew better than to ask whom he was.
Professional in her approach, she confirmed that all requirements had been met, even down to hand drawn extras that should be of great assistance.
“If only you could give me some idea of your mission, Comrade, I am sure I could do more.”
Nodding in acceptance of her efforts, he examined her map work as he listened and, seemingly at random, Mayakov selected the relevant one and relaxed back in his chair as she continued.
“My job gives me access to most of what you required. The hardest items to obtain were the boots, Comrade, but they are all there, and all the correct sizes. Do you want to check?”
He smiled and shook his head gently.
“I am sure you have performed your duties, Comrade Paloma.” Indicating the plan in his hand, he praised her extra work.
“Just quickly, Comrade, this market area here,” he indicated a patch of land immediately adjacent to the road junction.
She looked briefly just to confirm where he meant.
“Yes, that’s the El Pardo market, held every Tuesday and Friday. Very well attended. I go regularly myself, which is how I know this area.”
“Thank you, Comrade, I need keep you no longer.”
Holding out an arm to steer her away from the table, he rapped the knuckles of his other hand on the wall three times.
“Comrade, if that place is of interest to you, perhaps you should know that it is not far from the Presidential Palace, and that the Caudillo travels that very road to Madrid nearly every day.”
The NKVD Major looked at the woman with feigned surprise.
“General Franco? Really? Then we must be extra careful with our planning.”
The room door rattled to four firm knocks and another man was admitted.
“This is Vassily. He will take you where you need to go, and thank you once again for your service to the Motherland, Comrade Paloma.”
Switching his attention to the raffishly handsome young officer, who normally went by the name of Oleg, he cautioned him as a father to a son.
“Don’t do anything to attract attention, and make sure you are back here by three o’clock at the latest, Leytenant.”
“Yes, Comrade Major. Shall we go, Comrade?”
More pleasantries were exchanged.
Opening the door, he stepped back to allow the woman through first, his eyes catching those of his commander, confirming understanding of his instructions.
Just after eleven o’clock in the evening, two Guardia Civil troopers were walking down the narrow path leading away from the Estanque Del Retiro, a circular pond within Madrid’s most popular park. The elder of the two checked around quickly and made his excuses to his younger comrade, as he disappeared into the bushes to answer his call of nature.
The younger but senior man taunted his comrade for his weak bladder, but took advantage of the situation and slipped a cigarette between his lips.
He drew in the smoke, welcoming its rich flavour and, content with his lot, casually examined his surroundings.
His eyes looked but did not see, and it was not until the third time of looking that his brain registered what was drawing his attention.
Hanging from a bush on the other side of the path was a white bow. Or at least most of it was white, as the moonlight betrayed the random presence of a darker, more sinister colour.
He drew a torch from his belt, flicking the switch and illuminating the ground, immediately revealing signs of disturbance.
His comrade returned, silent and alert, focussed on the revelations in the torchlight.
Both guardsmen gasped as one when the beam swept over a dainty foot. They moved forward in an instant, but the woman was well past help.
Face down in the dirt and devoid of any clothing, she was long dead, although the signs of rape and sodomy were still clear for anyone to see, as were the scratches and cuts from her vain resistance. Less apparent was the bruising to her neck where she had been strangled prior to the other indignities that had been heaped upon her, in the name of providing ‘motive’ and providing the young Leytenant perverse satisfaction.
Had NKVD Major Mayakov used his real name and stated any other time but three o’clock, then Maria Victoria Paloma would still be alive, and Oleg Nazarbayev’s sadistic sexual urges would have remained unsatisfied.
Chapter 57 – THE FRONT
Never give in… never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.
The RAF’s 616 Squadron had spent its last few months like nomads, moving from base to base with the German withdrawal and now, falling back with the Soviet advance. Having received attention from ground attack aircraft on the 6th August, they had left their field at Lubeck and fallen back to Quackenbrück, southwest of Bremen, a former base that they knew was adequate for their needs.