“Thus ended the lives of Badunov and Vorontin, also,” Shlemov said dramatically, the shot still echoing through the forest.
Krilov lunged for the investigator, but took no more than a pace before a guard crashed a rifle butt down on his head, sending him sprawling at Shlemov’s feet.
“Archangel would have given Russia everything she could have wanted,” Krilov muttered defiantly, as he struggled back on to his feet. “An impregnable divide between us and the capitalists, without bartering anything. But Stalin had to do worthless deals and betray us all. Comrade Shaposhnikov would have made him pay with our plan.”
“Is that what you believe, Comrade Marshal?” Shlemov asked.
Shaposhnikov said nothing. He stared impassively at the investigator.
“Shame on you,” Shlemov said to him, “for leading these idealists astray.”
Krilov turned to Shaposhnikov and caught his eye. He looked imploringly at the Chief of the General Staff.
“Perhaps I can speak for him,” Shlemov said softly. “I know enough to surprise even you, Krilov,” Shlemov added, pulling his notepad from his greatcoat. He began to read the jottings of his radio communication with Beria.
“In the early part of 1918, Shaposhnikov was a young militiaman fighting the Czarists in the Pomoroskiy marshlands, to the north of St Petersburg. He was encouraged in his endeavours, no doubt, because he was not just defending the principles of the Revolution; he had a more, shall we say, local and quite understandable interest in defending the region against the enemy. Is that not right, comrade?” Shlemov turned to the marshal.
Shaposhnikov said nothing.
“Prior to the Revolution, before the last war in fact, Shaposhnikov had worked hard on the land around the hamlet where he had been brought up, a few scattered houses made of mud and straw on the banks of the Onega Estuary.
“It’s a desolate sort of place. The swift waters of the river keep the White Sea open for most of the year, but when winter really bites, even the ocean freezes and then the place becomes truly inaccessible, by land or sea. But to Comrade Shaposhnikov, it was home. And just before the outbreak of the Kaiser’s War, he had saved enough money to buy his plot of land and build a house for his bride-to-be.
“He finished it just before he was pulled away to the battlefields of Europe, where he fought against the Prussians and achieved distinction for three long years. When the October Revolution broke, Shaposhnikov marched back to the mouth of the Onega and was reunited with his wife and three-year-old son. By all accounts, they were a rather happy little family.”
“What has all this to do with now?” Krilov asked.
Shlemov ignored him. He was in full flow.
“In the spring of 1918, the Czarists attacked the Pomoroskiy sector, but were rallied in the West by a militia force, which had been honed into a highly effective fighting unit by Shaposhnikov. Your mentor, as you are undoubtedly aware, Krilov, routed the infinitely superior forces of the Czar and pushed them back to the Urals. But in the meantime, the British Expeditionary Force in support of the Czar which had landed earlier in the year, mainly at the instigation of one Winston Churchill, was fighting its way back to the northern ports. Our revolutionary forces, skilled in the ways of fighting a winter war, made short work of the British who, by the time they clawed their way to the little hamlet on the banks of the Onega, cold and hungry to a man, mutinied against their commander, General Ironside.”
Shlemov seemed to relish the confusion on Krilov’s face for a moment, before continuing.
“Militiaman Shaposhnikov, returning home after his triumphant push to the Urals, found a mutinous enemy occupying his beloved district. His forces attacked and the British retreated, but not before they had raped every woman and girl in the hamlet. It was unfortunate for Shaposhnikov that he arrived at his house too late to save his wife and child. In retaliation for Shaposhnikov’s counter attack the British burned every building in the village; they found his family days later charred to a crisp in the smouldering ruins of his house. In the meantime, the British renegades retreated to their home port, where they turned themselves in to the authorities. The name of that port should be familiar to you Krilov; it, too, was called Archangel.”
Krilov looked over to Shaposhnikov. “Tell me it’s not true,” he said.
Shlemov smiled slowly and gestured to the man standing silently before him.
“Look at your Marshal. Yesterday he was the great leader, rallying you all to a cause in which he himself did not believe. And now he is nothing. That is what revenge does to you, Krilov; it drives you for so long — and then it burns you out.”
Shlemov turned to the trees and waved his hand in the air. The guards pushed the marshal and his aide to the edge of the clearing. Shlemov then moved to the back of the truck, out of sight.
Malenkoy saw Krilov turn to Shaposhnikov as the Sudayevs were levelled at their bodies.
“Who informed on us?” the colonel asked, his voice cracking.
Shaposhnikov dropped his head. “It was Stalin himself, Kolya,” the Marshal whispered.
Malenkoy saw the incomprehension etched on Krilov’s face even after the guns had barked and the two bodies fell as one onto the carpet of pine needles.
When the ringing echo had subsided, Shlemov wandered over to Krilov’s body and flicked it over with his foot. There was no movement.
The Marshal let out an almost imperceptible groan and opened his eyes.
“There’s just one to go now, you realize that,” the investigator said.
“He is nothing to do with us,” Shaposhnikov whispered, the pain carving deep lines into his face. He turned his gaze to Malenkoy with a supreme effort.
Shlemov followed suit. “I know,” he said. “But it is important to Russia that no one ever finds out what happened here today, you know that. The NKVD can be trusted to keep the secret of Archangel, but he… well, he is just a major of tanks. He knows nothing about codes of silence.”
“He won’t talk. Look at him.” There was a rattle in Shaposhnikov’s throat.
“Why should I believe what you—” But when he looked back, Shaposhnikov’s eyes had rolled into his forehead. Shlemov shook his head and walked away from the body.
“Bury them in the woods,” he said to the senior NCO of the party. Then he gestured towards Malenkoy and spoke softly to the NKVD lieutenant. “Put him in the back of the truck and go back to Branodz. The killing is over.”
The hum of the air-conditioning vents sounded loudly over the silence that fell upon the underground room.
“We all believe in the effectiveness of the EAEU,” Welland said, somewhat patronizingly, “but there is still the possibility that your man in Reisen has put too much faith in this Luftwaffe transmission interception.”
Staverton rubbed his eyes. “Cochrane’s a good man. We were damned lucky he was there when the FW 189 came in. The German was scared out of his wits. He literally fell into Cochrane’s arms and said he was turning himself in because the Soviets had deployed chemicals at a place in western Czechoslovakia called Branodz. By the time Cochrane had developed the Uhu’s film and had conducted a thorough debrief, he believed him. Only then did he put a call through to the Bunker.”
“But these crates next to the HQ, how can you be sure that they contain the hydrogen cyanide?” Deering asked.
“We can’t be a hundred per cent. But we know what Shaposhnikov is planning at Branodz and we know that he’s capable of anything. Then some Luftwaffe reconnaissance aircraft makes an emergency landing at one of our airfields in southern Germany with its crew babbling about Russian chemical weapons being stored in the very same place. Why should they make it up? We have to believe it — we can’t afford not to.