Warren Adler, James C. Humes
Target Churchill
The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination….
Chapter 1
From the shattered window of the German warden’s former office, General Ivan Vasilyevich Dimitrov observed the crowded yard; men packed like sardines, freezing in the icy late-February cold, a sorry, stinking lot of traitors awaiting transport to oblivion. He chuckled at the euphemism, rubbing the stubble on his chin, squinting from the smoke of the cigarette hanging from his lips.
Following in the wake of the advancing combat troops, Dimitrov always chose the largest prison in town for his temporary Narodny Kommisariat Vnutrennikh Del command post, invariably an annex to a now-abandoned Gestapo headquarters with its underground cells and thick-walled torture chambers, the interior tailor-made for his purposes.
Dimitrov’s NKVD rifle regiments had trailed the path of General Zhukov’s astonishing offensive now heading swiftly towards Berlin. Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria, NKVD Chief, had directly ordered them to show no mercy, to concentrate on anything with the barest stench of collaboration or disloyalty. As soon as Zhukov’s combat troops rolled out, Dimitrov’s job began. He had ordered his commanders to not put a fine line on discriminating between the Germans and Russians, men, women or children.
“Find them. Waste no time on guilt or innocence. If there is the slightest suspicion of collaboration, consider them all guilty, especially Germans and deserters. Take what you want. Do what has to be done. We are entitled to the spoils,” he told his officers. “Exact revenge. Remember what the Nazi bastards have done to us. Remember Stalingrad. And don’t spare the women. Fill them to overflowing with hot Russian sperm. They need a lesson in humiliation.” Beria had told Dimitrov how much he enjoyed his verbal reports.
“They will regret what they did to our country for generations to come,” Beria had asserted, adding how pleased Marshal Stalin had been with his reports of Dimitrov’s successes. For his work, Dimitrov had received a Hero of the Soviet Union citation from Stalin himself.
A compact man with a long angular face creased deeply on either cheek, dark eyes that turned downward at their edges, thin mobile lips that could curl into a deceptively warm half-smile, and a prominent pointed chin that he used effectively to signal a demand, Dimitrov patted the side pocket of his heavy overcoat where he had put the file. The confidential papers had come by courier directly from Beria’s office in Moscow.
Nodding with satisfaction, he knew he had been on to something. The information in the file had confirmed the man’s story. Dimitrov marveled at the reach of the NKVD intelligence operatives.
Beria had scrawled a comment on the top of the document: Mole?
Dimitrov knew what he meant.
A sharp knock broke his concentration. He looked toward the door.
“Come.”
“The transport is ready, comrade. The excavation of deserters completed,” the man said, standing stiffly, wearing the uniform and NKVD insignia of his rank of Major.
Dimitrov nodded, pointing his chin in the direction of the prison yard, a mixed bag of deserters and civilians. Some had even dressed as women to escape detection.
Dimitrov laughed. Heaven will have to receive them with sore assholes.
“Nearly one thousand traitors in the group,” the officer said, understanding the gesture.
“Names and numbers?”
“Duly recorded, comrade.”
Dimitrov nodded. The relatives of the deserters would receive their colorful “death in action” notices signed by Stalin himself, suitable for framing. It would be displayed for generations like a diploma — another brainstorm by Beria.
The man was a genius, Dimitrov acknowledged.
He had learned from the Katyn event, which liquidated twenty-one thousand bastard Poles. No more shots to the back of the head, the typical NKVD execution method. No more old German bullets — too transparent if discovered, although that was highly unlikely. Since then, they had used only recently captured German mounted machine guns and modern ammunition.
Dimitrov had run the operation to then eliminate the liquidators of Katyn. A thorough job, he remembered, earning Beria’s deep respect, and proving his loyalty to the head of the NKVD. They were both Georgian, both from the Sukhumi district, which counted a great deal in matters of trust as far as Beria was concerned.
The Georgians were always given the tough jobs; the deportations and executions. Where the Germans had occupied, traitors were endemic and had to be rooted out. Executions were commonplace and vast populations had to be deported. Dimitrov had done his duty with skill and efficiency and had come to Beria’s attention early in his NKVD service. Promotions and decorations had come his way. He was the youngest General in the NKVD.
“Always remember,” he was told after he had accomplished his first assignments. “You are Beria’s man now. You are responsible only to me. We must be forever on the lookout for traitors in our midst. Intrigues are everywhere, even those who we think are our friends. That is why I must demand total obedience, and absolute loyalty without question. Do you understand, Ivan Vasilyevich? Our goal is to rid our nation of all of its enemies, real and potential, without mercy, without hesitation, without remorse.”
Beria’s words had been an inspiration. If he believed in God, they would be a Holy Writ.
“And the others?” Dimitrov asked the waiting captain.
“In the holding cell below as ordered.”
“How many?”
“Forty-two.”
Dimitrov had cut them from the pack — randomly selected SS officers — for special treatment. It would be a test of the man’s purpose.
“We move in the morning,” Dimitrov said, looking at his watch. “They are advancing like lightning. The front is already fifty kilometers ahead. I think Zhukov will be in Berlin in ten days, two weeks at the most.” He looked at his watch. “Say 0600 hours.”
“We will be ready, comrade.”
They had been busy for three days, rounding up deserters and German prisoners. They had “processed” a decimated division of the SS, and interrogators were working them over in the honeycombs below.
“Be merciless. Think of Stalingrad. Think of the millions slaughtered. Show them what we Russians think of the master race. Save some for show. Pick carefully.”
Except for the information garnered for Beria’s eyes alone, whatever military intelligence had been gathered was sent to Zhukov’s people. Not that it mattered. It was a complete rout, the German army in full retreat, running like frightened rabbits.
“We must look ahead now, Dimitrov,” Beria had told him in their last conversation as the troops rolled through Poland in the first days of the new offensive that had begun in January.
For Dimitrov, the occasion had been festive, bonding him and his Chief further. Beria had chosen a villa for his overnight stay, formerly occupied by a captured turncoat Pole who had been recently executed. The Pole’s wife and her twin thirteen-year-old daughters still lived in the villa and acted as servants to the Russian brass passing through.
Dimitrov had reported his progress with the deserters and German prisoners. Beria was deeply impressed with the body count. It had always struck Dimitrov how scholarly Beria looked, with his pince-nez spectacles and small balding head. With his low voice and precise, slow sentences, he seemed more like a university professor than the powerful head of the NKVD.