“Go on.”
“If we can establish when they plan to launch, we can initiate a pre-emptive strike of our own.”
“I agree with you, Yuri. The McKinley puppet would like nothing better than to push the nuclear button and obliterate our motherland. You must initiate your plans immediately. Don’t forget to use the army’s GRU assets.”
“I will, Comrade General Secretary. I won’t rest until I know what they’re up to.”
“Now to other matters, Yuri. I want to talk to you about Poland.”
Chapter 2
The black Range Rover came to a halt on the eastern side of the barrier, which quickly lowered behind them. The barrier had the new vertical struts intermittently spaced along its length, which had been introduced after an escapee had accelerated their car, a low, open-top sports car, beneath it, escaping from the German Democratic Republic to the American Sector of Berlin in the Federal Republic of Germany.
A Grenztruppen officer, as usual, stood opposite the passenger door and looked at the two occupants inside. After waiting a few moments, he did a circuit of the vehicle, going through the pretence that he could make the decision to prevent the representatives of the British Government from passing into East Berlin. He came back to the passenger’s side window and looked in again. He stood proud in his grey uniform, green piping on his jacket and cap, along with a band around his lower left sleeve declaring him to be Grenztruppen der DDR.
“He’s new, Jacko,” the mission commander said to his driver, a member of the Royal Corps of Transport. He was an experienced driver who knew how to handle the 2,000-kilogram heavyweight vehicle at speed, particularly when the Soviet or East German Army attempted to prevent them carrying out their tasks by ramming them, or attempting to block them in with various vehicles.
“His uniform looks pretty new,” responded the driver. “Straight out of officer training school, I reckon.”
“He’s certainly making a meal of it,” chided Bradley who was in command of the operation they were going to conduct today. He too was badged as Royal Corps of Transport, RCT, but was in fact from the ‘Section’, the specialist unit tasked with intelligence gathering and acquisition in the Eastern Sector of Berlin.
“Here we go,” informed Jacko. He put the vehicle into gear, as the border guard raised the barrier and indicated with a flick of his wrist that they were free to pass through.
Jacko manoeuvred the black, four-wheel drive Range Rover around the chicane of concrete blocks, wire fencing and barbed wire. Once free, he went through the gears as they increased speed leaving Checkpoint Charlie, situated on the junction of Friedrich Strasse, Zimmer Strasse and Mauer Strasse, behind them. “Where are we going?”
“Karlshorst.”
“Sneak around their railway sidings, eh?” Jacko changed down and swung right onto Leipziger Strasse, slotting in with the small blue and white Trabants and the occasional Skoda or Moskovich car that were going about their day-to-day business. The occasional Trabant rattled past, its 500cc, air-cooled, two-stroke engine sounding like a demented sewing machine, their occupants peering up at the black vehicle that towered above them; some putting a hand up in a discrete wave.
“Let’s hope the bloody dogs aren’t out today,” responded Bradley.
“I think even the transport police are afraid of them. Just a poke around?”
“Yeah, we’ve not been for a couple of weeks. Just a quick in and out visit; then I want to try Pankow sidings.”
Jacko pulled out and overtook a few cars before slotting back in again, heading east along Spittlemarkt, Gertrauden Strasse, crossing the River Spree, a long barge passing beneath them.
“I’m just going to check in. Phoo, phoo.” Bradley blew into the black handset, initiating a signal. “Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over. Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”
“Three-Zero-Bravo, this is Three-Zero-Alpha. Go ahead, over.”
“En route. Delta, Hotel, Zulu, Echo; then Papa, Yankee, Kilo, Lima. Roger that, over?”
“Roger that. Go easy. Three-Zero-Alpha, out.”
Bradley placed the handset back in its cradle.
“The big cheese, eh?” Asked Jacko.
“Yes. He thinks there’s something up.”
“He’s always had a good nose for the Russkies’ tricks. We’ve got company.”
“Where, Jacko?”
“About four cars back. One’s a black Skoda and the other a cream Lada. Two-up in each.”
Bradley peered in the additional mirror he had fixed by the side of his sun visor, giving him a better view of what was behind them. “Got them. They wouldn’t happen to be wearing black leather jackets would they?” He laughed.
“How did you guess?” Jacko grinned. “What do you want to do?”
“Leave them for a while. Let them get a bit slack then we’ll make our move.”
“Karl Marx?”
“Yes.”
Bradley didn’t need to look at the map. He had been operating in East Berlin for over a year now. However, he could always find their position on the map, just in case they had problems and needed assistance from the West. Jacko changed down, passing the ‘House of Teachers’, or the ‘Congress Hall’, on their right, the aluminium-coloured dome distinctive, and shortly after turning right into Karl-Marx-Allee. The dual carriageway was a little busier; East Berlin was starting to wake up.
“Still with us?”
“Yep, still two cars, but they’ve swapped the cream Lada for a white one.”
“Looks like they may have a full team on us today then.”
They shot round a roundabout and past the fountain in Strausberger Platz.
“Keep your speed steady, Jacko.”
Jacko looked to his right with a grin. “Are we taking them up the slope then?”
Bradley returned the smile. “Why not? It’s about time we introduced them to this one. They never learn.”
They continued east, passing ugly, grey concrete blocks of flats. The Section referred to them as Lego. The components for the blocks were brought into the city by train, on flatcars. The pre-fabricated sections appeared to be of three types: one blank, one with a window, and one with a doorway. They were then assembled into ugly concrete towers where eventually some fortunate East German would make one of the flats their home.
Karl-Marx turned into Frankfurter Allee as they drove past the Frankfurter Tor. They crossed the bridge taking them over the S-Bahn railway line which ran north-east to south-west beneath them. They would normally have turned right down Am Tierpark to get to Karlshorst but they needed to shake off their tail first.
So, Jacko turned left into Rhin Strasse, passed the Friedrichsfelde-Ost S-Bahn station, right onto Allee der Kosmonauts, through two long S-bends, forking right down a narrow, hard-packed, dusty road, Elisabeth Strasse, until they came out opposite the Kienberg. The pine mountain, as it was known locally, was in the district of Marzahn-Hellersdorf. Families often went there at weekends or during the school holidays. It was a mere sixty metres high, but it would serve their purpose.
“See them?”
“Just make them out through the dust.” Jacko laughed.
The Range Rover ground to a halt as Jacko expertly applied the dif-lock, locking the front and rear drive shafts together, which would give them better grip for what they were about to do. Foot on the accelerator, the four-litre V8 engine growled and pulled the vehicle forwards, rapidly gaining speed. They crossed the dirt road in front of them, headed straight through the treeline ahead and proceeded to climb at a forty-degree angle up the side of the hill. The jacked-up suspension bounced the cab violently, but gave them better clearance, Jacko gripping the steering wheel tightly for fear of losing control of his charge. The armoured plate beneath, fixed to the underside of the vehicle, ground against the earth and rocks as they passed over them, but it protected the vulnerable chassis from any impact.