Instantly, everything was bedlam, as troops and civil guards raced towards the action.
A quick-thinking civil guard officer waved the Caudillo’s car and escort away, barring the day’s intended route down the Del Pardo a Fuencarral, deflecting the presidential cavalcade down the Avenida del Palacio.
President Francisco Franco gently sipped his fresh orange juice as the sound of the explosions still echoed through the palace.
“German Bastards,” he announced to no-one in particular, although the meeting room contained many ears waiting for his orders.
Major Mayakov was the first to die, a marksman’s bullet taking him full in the chest and wrecking his heart in an instant.
The machine-gunner was next, less than half a second behind, flung from his position by the double impact of bullets in the chest and neck.
The other Soviet ‘Guardia’ was killed within a few seconds, the whole ambush team slain without firing a shot. Presently sweating in the back of the presidential limousine was retired army corporal Jose Luis de Messia. Franco’s double was used to taking the risk, but today was clearly different. Buildings had been blown up, shots had been fired. He did not know that Death had already visited itself upon a dozen people and was not yet satisfied. He just knew enough to be petrified.
The quick-thinking officer who had altered the cavalcade’s route was actually Serzhant David Meyer, the group’s other German by birth. Acting according to the plan, he deflected the Caudillo down the ambush party’s path. Confused by the lack of activity from Mayakov’s group, he had hung around longer than he should have. Spanish uniforms almost surrounded him, confused voices seeking instructions and direction. Meyer ordered the growing group to follow the route taken by the President’s car. Taking the opportunity offered by their swift departure, he quickly heading off to where he had secreted a motor-cycle.
He pulled the tarpaulin off the Steyr-Daimler-Puch motorcycle and mounted it in one easy motion.
Almost instantly, Meyer found himself propelled off the bike as the impact of a rifle butt knocked him sideways.
He saw a vague shape through clouded eyes and went for his pistol holster. Slowed and disoriented as he was by the blow, he never reached it. A studded boot pressed down onto his right arm, fixing it in place.
A heavily accented voice shouted in the language of his youth.
“Oh no, you German bastard, none of that. We want a word with you!”
Rough hands grabbed Meyer and dragged him towards the main road, where a vehicle stood waiting.
With his hands quickly bound, he was thrown into the back of the small truck.
As his captors boarded, he tried to flick the capsule out from his cheek but it had gone, forced from its hiding place when the rifle butt took him in the head.
With fear and courage in equal measure, Meyer pressed his neck against a seat stanchion, cutting off the blood flow in an attempt to commit suicide.
Flushed with their capture and talking of the horrors that awaited the spy, none of the soldiers noticed that their captive no longer cared.
Unfortunately for Meyer, the suicide attempt failed, his unconscious head rolling to one side, restoring the flow of blood.
To the east, the NKVD bomber arrived breathless at the car, the earth and dirt where he had crawled up to the buildings apparent on his uniform.
“Clean yourself off quickly, Vassily, quickly,” the young officer pointed out the mess and turned back to watch the road, his eyes flicking to the firing spot from which he had slain the army unit, and where he had left the deadly PPSH.
Although he was puzzled by the absence of fire from the ambush party, Oleg Nazarbayev concentrated on his own and Vassily Horn’s successful evasion.
Snatching up his Star Z45 submachine gun, he heard the approach of a heavy vehicle from the north, presently obscured by the dust and smoke from the burning military buildings.
“Get your pistol working, Vassily, follow my lead.”
Dropping into cover behind the bonnet of the Peugeot 402, he fired two short bursts in the direction of the concealed firing point from where he had made his kills.
Horn understood immediately and triggered off three shots of his own, coinciding with the emergence of a military truck from the smoke.
The 1935 Chevrolet truck braked violently and halted in the road.
Nazarbayev fired another short burst and waved frantically at the lorry, indicating enemy in the direction he had fired.
The infantry commander understood and deployed his men immediately, a dozen riflemen swiftly oriented to flank the suspect position.
Both Russians fired again until the Spaniards were too close for comfort.
Reloading their weapons quickly, they watched as one of the infantrymen handed a PPSH to his officer, who waved it dramatically to his two ‘comrades’ on the road.
Nazarbayev acknowledged the man’s wave and indicated two more approaching trucks.
The first infantry officer ran to the road and within an instant a second, larger group of soldiers was on the hunt for the assassin’s, moving to the south of the road junction and immediately spotting the slain men.
The rearmost truck deployed its cargo, setting up a road block which faced in both directions, part of the Spanish plan to trap the enemy agents.
Almost immediately a fire fight broke out with the first group of soldiers, at least one going to ground hard. Such was the confusion of the hour that another party of Spanish soldiers had clashed with their own forces, with the poorly named ‘friendly fire’ claiming three quick victims, and providing a focal point for more units to in on in order to avenge fallen comrades.
Grasping the opportunity offered, the two Soviet officers immediately started their Peugeot and set off southwards and back towards Madrid.
By the time the Spanish had sorted out their mistake, thirteen of their number lay dead upon the field.
Akim Igorevich Vaspatin had never played poker, but his face was ideally suited to a game that requires no evidence or expression for the opponent to read.
His glass was empty, so he placed it on the crisp starched table cloth and waited for the bastard opposite to speak, the footsteps of the officer who had brought the verbal report still echoing on the marble floor.
“It would appear that we are in your debt, Colonel Vaspatin. Thank you for the timely warning.”
“I am glad that I could be of assistance, Generalissimo. Thankfully our intelligence service detected the plot in time.”
The Spaniard laughed the sort of laugh that does not have humour at its heart.
“Don’t be too modest, Colonel. Your role in my country is well known.”
For a man wearing many dangerous hats, such statements can be very worrying, and Vaspatin felt a momentary icy stab in his heart.
“You are Soviet Military Intelligence, this we know well, Colonel.”
Franco looked at his guest with genuine puzzlement.
“You didn’t think we didn’t know did you?”
Vaspatin smiled and shrugged, relieved that only part of his clandestine world was known.
“Now, we will see if any of the German swine have survived, and what they might tell of us of their reasons.”
The GRU/NKVD officer went to speak but was cut short by an imperious hand.
“We know what you have told us, at the behest and direction of your superiors of course.”
The last of Franco’s juice disappeared, and a waiter attempting a third refill was waved away.
“We want to hear what these assassins have to say for themselves.”