‘Sophie?’
The accent was abominably thick, the word only just recognisable as a name. Squeezed into a narrow space between a dresser and a far corner of the room, Revell watched the door gradually open further and a boyish looking junior sergeant hesitantly step into the stone floored room. He clutched the haversack to his chest, and bore a look that suggested if anyone said ‘boo’ to him he’d die of heart failure on the spot. He listened. The absence of an expected reception, and of noises elsewhere in the establishment that might have explained it, obviously puzzled him. A few muttered words were exchanged with the second man, still just outside the door, and then he too came in.
Growing more confident the junior sergeant put his pack down on the table dominating the middle of the room and made a joking remark to his friend, who was quietly closing the door.
Both whirled round as Revell leapt out and Hyde crashed back the door of the storeroom where he’d been hiding. For a second they stared, uncomprehending, at the strange figures that had surprised them, then the last to enter, faster on the up-take or more stupid than his companion, reached for his holster. He never even touched it.
The barrel of Hyde’s pistol smacked into the back of his neck and he went down as if pole-axed. His helmet flew off as his face hit the floor sickeningly hard.
Sheer terror, partly from the fright he’d received and partly from the expectation of having the same treatment meted out to himself, had immobilised the young NCO. All colour had drained from his face and he was visibly shaking. Eyes wide, mouth opening and closing soundlessly he raised his hands and clamped them together on top of his helmet without being told. Revell took his pistol. With the toe of his boot Hyde nudged the head of the man on the floor. It lolled back and forth without any resistance, revealing a sluggishly forming pool of pink bubbled blood. ‘Broken neck, I didn’t think I’d hit him that hard. Must have been when he nose-dived.’
He bent down and turned the corpse over to investigate an expanding pool of what looked like water, issuing from the haversack lying partially hidden under the body. Broken glass chinked as he picked up the dripping bag. He caught some of it on his fingers, and tasted it. ‘Vodka. Looks like they were planning a party.’
From the bag on the table he took out two long plump sausages, a loaf, ajar of what appeared to be apricot jam and two more bottles. ‘Funny isn’t it. Now and again we get Ruskies coming over to us just so they can get a decent meal, what food they get is rotten; but they can always manage to get hold of a little extra when it suits them. They’re a crafty lot of buggers, I wouldn’t fancy one for a neighbour or workmate.’
The surviving Russian swallowed loudly as for the first time he caught a full view of Hyde’s .horror mask, and he clenched his eyes as if in the hope that the apparition would go away.
‘How is your command of Russian, Sergeant?’
‘What little there is, rather rusty. Like I said, we haven’t taken prisoners in a while.’
‘Well between us we should be able to cobble a few relevant questions together and understand the answers, if we get any.’
Hyde gestured threateningly with his pistol. The junior sergeant’s gaze followed every movement. ‘If we start right away I think the problem will be slowing him down, not getting him to talk.’
‘Right, so let’s get him up to the attic where we won’t be disturbed. Time’s getting short. And bring the bag. I’m not too keen on that firewater of theirs, but I don’t want Kurt’s men getting hold of it. They’re a big enough risk already.’
Browning automatic in one hand, bag of food and drink in the other, Hyde herded the Russian ahead of him as they followed Revell back to the attic.
They passed Andrea on the way up. Revell noted the taut line of her mouth, accentuating her high cheeks, as she watched the Russian. He wouldn’t be putting her in sole charge of their prisoner, certainly not until they’d got what they wanted from him, and possibly not even then. There was cruelty in the lovely face, as much as he had ever seen in any man, and more than in any woman. Seeing her he understood a little more.
It wasn’t love or passion or jealousy that would bring animation and intensity into those superb dark brown eyes: hatred might do it, fury could, killing would. She wasn’t with Kurt and the other East Germans, they were with her.
ELEVEN
Organisation and equipment scales of Soviet 97th Technical Support Battalion.
Commanding officer Major I. V. Pakilev
Officers 27
Men 460
This is regarded among the Soviet forces as an elite unit of its type. All of the officers, and most of the senior sergeants are known to be drawn from the staffs and top graduates of Technical Training Academies in the USSR. All of the personnel are Russian nationals.
Equipment scales for this unit are lavish by Russian standards.
24 ZIL-157 six-wheeled trucks fitted out as mobile workshops.
12 heavy trailers similarly equipped.
2 MAZ-535 eight-wheeled trucks fitted as mobile radar/radio repair shops.
2 ZIL-135 eight-wheeled trucks fitted as mobile cranes. Rated 20 tons.
6 URAL-375 six-wheeled trucks fitted with comprehensive gas and arc welding kits.
3 BTR-50 eight-wheeled armoured personnel carriers converted for medium recovery work.
2 T72 armoured recovery vehicles.
87 other vehicles and trailers.
The 97th is unusual in that it has a light anti-aircraft battery permanently attached for low level air defence. For medium and high level defence it comes under the umbrella of whatever Division it may be attached to.
The sketch plan of the workshop layout looked a lot more informative now. A mass of detail had been added to it, and while there was no way they could check the veracity of the Russian’s answers, if he had made it all up on the spur of the moment he had done a quite remarkable job, the whole dovetailed together very neatly.
Once they had persuaded him to confirm that he was with the 97th the rest had come almost easily, if not eagerly. The junior sergeant was not more than twenty, and it was only his second week in the Zone. This was not something he’d expected to happen to him, and it had taken little persuasion from Hyde for him to forget what seemed at that moment the lesser fear of his superiors and succumb to the aggressive bullying of the hideous Britisher.
‘You’ve missed your vocation, Sergeant.’ Revell checked the strips of cloth securing their prisoner’s arms behind his back. ‘You should be working as an interrogator with Field Intelligence.’
‘I’ve got a job, busting tanks, or I had.’ Hyde couldn’t make up his mind if there was an implied criticism in the comment. ‘If that load of nut-cases in your G2 want a monster to frighten people with, let them fry one of their own blokes.’
Better to let it drop, thought Revell. It had been a stupid mistake he’d not make again. ‘It’s about time you and Libby set off to collect the others. Could take you a good three hours to reach the woods, and you still have to brief them and steal some transport on the way back.’
‘I’d be a lot quicker travelling on my own.’
‘We’ve gone over this already, Sergeant. Both of you go, that way if you run into trouble one of you should still make it. ‘Your aim though should be to collect them and get them back here without causing any sort of ruckus in the process. Unless the Ruskies miss the three guys cluttering the cellar, or our shit-scared comrade here, there’s a decent chance they won’t have an inkling that we’re around until we hit them with all we’ve got. Make sure you borrow that transport at the last possible moment in case you’re spotted or it’s missed, and go for the sort of thing Kurt would be tempted by, a supply wagon of some sort. That way if the alarm is raised there’s a chance it’ll be put down to the refugees, or deserters, and the alert might not spread as far as the workshops.’