Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (42 page)

“Sorry. Agent Leopard was used to control the enemy senior officer Knocke. You will remember that we held his wife as a hostage, and that she apparently died in circumstances that were possibly dubious.”

Beria had more direct knowledge than
Stalin did, but this was the first time that he had heard of any doubts about the Primorsk matter.

Nazarbayeva surged forward.

“GRU and NKVD investigations apparently revealed that an errant SS unit had attacked the NKVD troops in Primorsk, during which attack the Knocke family were killed...”

“
Apparently, Comrade?”

“
Comrade Marshal, I raised my concerns at the time. I felt it far-fetched that an SS unit would have remained silent for so long, and would have selected such a target as its first action.”

Clearing her throat, she took the opportunity to drink a little more water.

“Comrade Pekunin did not agree with me, so the report was ratified and accepted, despite my views on that and other issues.”

“
It’s a hasty man that doesn’t listen to your words, Comrade Nazarbayeva,” Stalin chuckled his way through the statement, ignoring Beria’s demonstrable surprise at the unexpected and, in the circumstance, decidedly out of character humour.

“
Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I must say that I’ve kept an eye on the region, and there have been no further attacks attributed to a roving group of SS soldiers.”

“
Nothing?”

“
Yes, Comrade Marshal, there have been attacks, but they are all verified as being opportunist elements seeking rations, or ex-military groups trying to disrupt our forces. Nothing at all SS.”

“
I understand your suspicions, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Is there more?”

“
Comrade General Secretary, I have always had concerns over the identification of the bodies of Knocke’s family. They were all burnt, a fate that befell few of the occupants of Primorsk, and something that was very convenient in making identification difficult. According to the GRU report, the bodies of the two girls were found together in their house, which, circumstantially, was seen as sufficient proof of identity for the investigators.”

Another sip of water relieved the growing dryness.

“The wife’s body was exhumed and identified by jewellery found on the corpse. Such items are easily placed on a body. In short, I find the evidence unsatisfactory and, looking at the actions of the legion units that were supposed to be controlled by Knocke’s blackmail, there seems little evidence of any positive influence exercised by our agent at all, Comrade General Secretary.”

She drained the rest of the glass.

“Comrade General Secretary, my investigations continue, but I have yet to find conclusive evidence that Comrade Pekunin acted in betrayal of the state, although there is some doubt over the effectiveness of some of his agents. Certainly, I find myself questioning some of the decision making, but that may just be hindsight.”

Stalin
’s affability and tolerance seemed to disappear in one noticeable breath and he, very deliberately to both watchers, extracted another cigarette and went through the motions of tapping it down and lighting it before speaking.

“
Comrade General. Your investigations must continue. Your efforts to keep secret these matters is noted... and the State thanks you.”

Beria seemed to want to say something
, but lost his chance.

“
Two of your sons are dead, and that is a personal tragedy. There is nothing I can do to change that. Both have died for the Rodina, and the Party, one as a soldier hero, the other in a way that is wholly regrettable... but it
was
necessary, Comrade.”

Stalin stood and pulled his tunic into place, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, reflecting his peasant roots.

“Comrade Nazarbayeva, I wish I had a thousand like you, soldiers who do their duty without question and without fear for their own position. Continue your investigation, and send me your final written report when it’s complete. Dismissed.”

Remember that upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.

Alexander the Great

“Hold the light steady, man!”

Desperation and tiredness made the surgeon shout at his helper
.

“
Damn it! Clamp.”

“
We have no more clamps, Sir.”

“
The pegs, give me a peg.”

Needs must, so the wooden peg was quickly inserted into the inner thigh of the Sikh Corporal who lay dying on the crates that counted as a surgical table in Camp 130.

Imprisoned in six houses on the southern outskirts of the town, formerly the old Jewish Ghetto, seven hundred and eight Allied prisoners were miserable, cold, and badly treated. Most worked for fourteen hours a day, reconstructing the large airfield, as well as creating new military and industrial areas around the Red Air Force site.

They had been nearly a thousand when the work had started
, but the harshness of the regime and the climate took their toll. The work was now complete, but for a few minor matters that the POW’s strung out as best they could, purely on the basis of ‘better the devil you know’.

Seven hundred and eight became seven hundred and seven, as blood loss and shock claimed the Indian soldier, victim of
heavy kicks from a rogue horse.

The Sergeant orderly r
elinquished his hold on the man and stepped back, allowing the mean light to illuminate unblinking eyes.

“
He’s gone, Sir.”

Dryden cursed.

“All for the fucking want of the right kit. Another fucking life lost. For God’s sake!”

His helper,
Hany Hamouda, an Egyptian 2nd Lieutenant, started to remove the equipment from the huge thigh wounds, incisions made by Miles Dryden in an attempt to patch up the arteries that had been torn by the shattered bones of both femurs.

As he did so
, he spoke the inventory aloud, a routine agreed by the medical staff to avoid leaving valuable equipment in a casualty.

“
Three clamps.”

“
Check.”

“
One stainless steel retractor.”

“
Check.”

“
Four wound hooks.”

“
Check.”

Handmade from deer antler, they hooked into the flesh
of the casualty and held open wounds for Dryden to work.

Simple but effective.

“Scalpel.”

The officer removed it from Dryden
’s hand, the naval surgeon seemingly reluctant to give up the blade; it had been a huge concession by the camp’s commander.

“Wound frame.”

The frame was a simple folding square that served the same purpose as the hooks, holding open an area for the sca
lpel to work.

“
Four needles.”

“
Check.”

“
Horse hair thread, one bob.”

And so the list continued, not one that would have graced a proper surgical facility, but the prisoners had done well to acquire the few bits that offered Dryden and Hamouda even the smallest opportunity to save lives.

“Soldering iron.”

“
Candle.”

“
Six body straps.”

“Check...check...check...”

“List complete, Sir.”

It
did not take long to inventory the medical equipment in Camp 130.

“
Ask the senior Sikh NCO to come and see me immediately please, Hany.”

“
Sir?”

“
They have their own ways with their dead. I would not wish to cause offence.”

As a Muslim, Hamouda could understand fully
, and was surprised at himself for not thinking of it.

“
Sir.”

The Lieutenant left, to be replaced by the hospital dogsbody.

“Tea, Sir, milk, and two sugars, as normal.”

A mug of something steaming made its way into Dryden
’s hand; it wasn’t really tea, just a concoction flavoured by some of the local flora. Milk and sugar were nothing but distant memories to all the prisoners in 130.

Drinking the warming brew, Miles Dryden watched the nimble Egyptian pick his way across the snowy landscape
before entering the hut set aside for the Sikhs and Gurkha soldiers.

The Egyptian Officer had no place on the battlefields of Europe; his presence
in 130 was a pure freak of happenstance.

He had become a prisoner of the Germans during the first
Battle of Alamein, and endured a long captivity, only to be freed by British forces in April 1945. For some reason, known only to Hamouda, he avoided returning to his homeland, and somehow attached himself to the 15th Scottish Division’s medical services in Lubeck, post-war.

He was captured by the Red Army on the second day of the new war, when his small hospital was overrun.

Dryden’s own path to Camp 130 had been less fraught, as his naval detachment in Murmansk was bloodlessly taken into captivity on the 6th August.

The two shared the medical responsibilities for their charges, although the
naval man did the majority of the surgery, Hamouda’s broken glasses hindering him too much for the delicate work.

The senior Sikh arrived
with a bearer party shortly afterwards, and they took their kinsman away.

His ward round completed, Lieutenant Commander waited for the card school to form, the
‘hospital’ being the only place where light in the dark of night would not draw unwelcome attention from the guards.

The players arrived together as usual
, and the pack of cards, dirty and damaged, was dealt out four ways.

To Dryden
’s left was Acting Major Kevin Roberts, a Canadian, wounded and taken prisoner at Tostedtland on 13th August.

“
Pass.”

The next to act was Albert Barrington, a Canadian Lieutenant taken prisoner in the same battle.

“One heart.”

The next in line made a great play of examining his cards.

“Aye, I’ll pass.”

RSM Robertson looked at the naval man, challenging him silently, which challenge Dryden met with a deadpan face.

“One spade.”

“
Pass.”

His partner could not resist a dig.

“Any chance of ye playing the game, Major, Sah?”

Roberts grinned.

“No speech play, RSM. You know the rules.”

The grins were universal.

“Two diamonds,” Barrington announced with considerable gusto.

“
Ah’ll double ye, Sah.”

Dryden laughed the sort of laugh that could easily be imagined to
originate from a vulture circling a dying beast.

“
Three spades.”

Robertson was fit to burst
, and his partner’s pass did nothing to assuage his concern.

Barrington
milked the moment.

“
Four spades.”

“
Get ye the fuck, Lieutenant, Sah!”

Dryden leant forward.

“I’m unclear about that terminology. Is that a pass, Sergeant Major?”

Robertson looked down his nose in mock anger.

“Aye, that it is, damn your black hearts!”

“
Good. Pass.”

Roberts accepted the NCO
’s scathing glare for his final pass.

The hand was never played.

Within moments, the doors of the hospital flew open and in charged members of the security detail, shouting, screaming, sometimes lashing out.

“
Collect up everything now, Doctor.”

“
What?” Dryden sat there in the midst of chaos, still clutching his hand of cards, staring at the Soviet officer.

“
You’re leaving tonight, Doctor, so get everything you need ready... in ten minutes. These men will help. Dawai”

Before dawn
started to spread its light across the land, the four bridge players, Hamouda, the two orderlies, and four guards were onboard a small freight wagon, heading southeast.

Behind them, the seven hundred
prisoners of Camp 130 were efficiently liquidated.