“And how would I be able to confirm that you are who you say you are?”
“Do you have a radio?”
“Maybe.”
‘And now we get to it…’
There was no maybe. The Shields had a number of radios available to them, all of which could be used to contact the Allies.
A sudden hissing sound stopped the three in mid-conversation.
The hissing died away to be replaced by nothing.
…just silence…
…but a silence full of approaching malice and terror.
The silence was replaced by birdsong and engine sounds.
One of the lookouts dropped next to his leader.
“One armoured car and a lorry stopped up the lane. The soldiers are out and on foot, the armoured car is following them up. Two hundred metres and coming our way.”
“How many?”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Straight at us?”
“Not quite, but if they move a few metres to one side they’ll fall on top of us.”
It took but a moment.
“Pass the word. Total silence. We stay… but everyone’s to be ready.”
The sound of the armoured car’s engine growling in low gear started to invade everyone’s senses, almost like the approach of predatory tiger in search of a fine meal.
Janina checked that Karelis was still watching the two women and, in her concentration, was startled by the voice next to her ear.
“We can fight. Give us weapons.”
It was Greim who had spoken, and in that second Janina saw the eyes of a killer pleading for the means to kill.
“No. I think not. Maybe when we know who you are. For now, just shut up and pray.”
‘For the moment, I’ll stay my hand.’
A low moan caught everyone’s attention, but the wounded man’s sounds were quickly silenced by a dirty hand.
Janina was at the wrong end of the site, and had no idea how close the NKVD soldiers came to finding the group, but she sensed and saw relaxation in the stiff bodies, and then realised that the sounds of the engine were now fading.
Still, the partisan group remained in hiding for another fifteen minutes, holding its collective breath until Janina decided it was safe to move.
“Pick everything up. We move immediately.”
She turned her attention back to the two women.
“You two walk?”
They nodded and rose to their feet.
“Good. We’ll soon see if your stories are true. If not, I promise you an interesting time.”
The threat was left hanging.
“Audra, these are your responsibility.”
The ‘Shield of St Michael’ moved off towards safety.
Throughout the Baltic States, special units of NKVD troops used a variety of tactics to lure partisans into the open, with a great deal of success.
Many groups were wiped out completely, and the vast majority were badly damaged and driven underground to lick their wounds.
‘The Shield of St Michael’ was one of the very lucky ones that managed to disengage without being brought to heel, and compounded its luck with moving rapidly into an area that had just been declared as ‘partisan-free’ following the total destruction of the resident resistance fighters group, mainly because it had been infiltrated by turncoats.
The patrols in their new area were few and Mikenas decided to try and establish some sort of contact with the Allies before exposing her group again.
2017 hrs, Sunday, 15th September 1946, Mir Castle, Mir, USSR.
It was the first time they had been together for a very long time and it was not going well.
They sat in silence, eating their way through a very average meal, drinking a very average wine, the best fare that the senior officer’s guest centre could find in austere times.
Uniforms were rare in the restaurant, most visitors preferring to relax in civilian clothing and leave behind the pressures of military life.
Those who didn’t know her by sight simply assumed that the beautiful woman was merely the trophy wife of the thin officer who sat opposite her, whereas it was she who was there by right, and he who was her guest,
Yuri Nazarbayev was a changed man; gaunt and lacking the humour and compassion that had marked him aside from other suitors when he had pursued the woman of his dreams.
Tatiana Nazarbayeva played with her food, the newfound coolness between them so stark and clear that she found so little in common with the man who had fathered her children.
They had made love, or as she felt, rutted their way through a sexual act that carried no great meaning and was simply an animal release, which had never their manner.
Yuri had made officer rank of his own accord, although there were rumblings from those jealous or simply being provocative, that he secured his position through the support of his GRU wife.
Whether the possibility of it or the suggestion of it contributed to the wall he seemed to have constructed was unknown to Tatiana.
The wall was very real, and had been built slowly since she had revealed the events at the dacha in Moscow.
In truth, she had even built a version for herself, perhaps as some sort of coping mechanism.
Whatever was happening, there was something solid and inexorable between them, an obstruction that neither he nor she tried to surmount, and one that neither seemed inclined to overcome.
During their walk around the castle that afternoon, they had hardly spoken a dozen words and the distant atmosphere was tangible.
After dinner, they adjourned to the bar and drank heavily, probably as much to avoid the need to talk as any need for drink.
They staggered to their first floor bedroom and simply collapsed on the bed without ceremony or exchange.
Yuri Nazarbayev woke alone, a simple note informing him of his wife’s early recall to duty.
It was a lie and he knew it, but was relieved that it saved him the awful and strained goodbye he had anticipated.
Beria chuckled as he read.
A recent report from his main man in the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps had recorded great success, as NKVD lackeys goaded the newly fledged Lieutenant with stories of his wife’s affair in Moscow, constructing rumours about her sexual proclivities, as well as spreading reports about her involvement in his promotion.
The latest report, hotly arrived from Mir Castle, amused him greatly as it was quite clear that he had driven a huge wedge between the woman and her husband.
He laughed again, this time loud enough that it could be heard by his secretary through closed doors.
It was not a pleasant laugh.
‘Fuck with me and pay the fucking price, bitch!’
1054 hrs, Saturday, 21st September 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
As was her new habit, Nazarbayeva arrived ahead of schedule to get through the security in good time.
The metal detectors had been augmented with searches beforehand, and more intimate pat-downs afterwards.
Today the time plan had gone to pot, as the political governor of Ukraine set the alarms ringing.
Errors were frequent and the man pleaded his innocence, stating he had simply forgotten that there was a clip of pistol ammunition in his greatcoat pocket.
Beria’s deputy, Lieutenant General Kaganovich just happened to be passing and stepped forward.
“Now, now, Comrade Commissar… you should know better than that.”
The guard commander was about to summon an arrest detail, as per standard procedure.
He was waved to stand down by Kaganovich.