Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan. Peter Cave

‘The demands of this war, and sheer Nazi fervour, have resulted in one of the greatest explosions of science and technology this world has ever known. Those scientific breakthroughs are the key to the future – the richest and most precious spoils of war. At this very minute the Allies are picking their way across Europe like scavengers, snatching up the juiciest morsels. Physicists, rocket experts, engineers, designers, the finest brains of Germany – all falling into capitalist hands. Any day now the Western powers may have the secret of the atomic bomb. In a matter of a few years, the power to deliver it across oceans and continents. In a decade, world domination in their pockets. And if that happens, comrade, we might as well sell our bodies and souls back to the Tsars, because we will have lost everything this great nation has struggled and bled for. Something the Russian people would never forgive, General. And perhaps more important to you, personally, something that I would never forgive.’

      The gauntlet was down. Oropov struggled to control a nervous shiver, and failed. His voice was little more than a croak.

      ‘What do you want me to do, comrade Leveski?’

      The man was now regarding him with undisguised contempt. ‘I’m glad that you finally realize how high the stakes are, General. And, no doubt, the penalties for failure. I want a short-term plan. A definite and positive strategy to ensure that Russia snatches some worthwhile prize from this war. Give me a phoenix from the ashes, General – that is all.’

      Leveski turned on his heel and moved towards the door. He delivered his parting shot over his shoulder, without turning round. ‘You have forty-eight hours, General. I expect to see a detailed report on my desk by Thursday.’

      He closed the door quietly, almost gently behind him. Strangely, this seemed to reinforce the aura of menace he left behind him rather than lessen it.

      Alone now, Oropov gave up the uneven struggle to stop his hands from shaking. He delved into his desk, pulled out the vodka bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. Holding the bottle directly to his lips, he gulped down the harsh spirit. It did little to thaw out the icy chill he felt in the pit of his belly.

      He stared blankly across his office at the closed door through which Leveski had exited, racking his brain for a single optimistic thought. There was nothing. One realization swamped everything else. War, or at least his kind of war, was coming to an end, and a completely new kind of war was about to begin. With a terrible sense of resignation, he knew that he had little if any part to play in the waging of it.^fn1

       2

       Berlin – June 1945

      The two jeeps zigzagged through the rubble-strewn streets on the outskirts of what had once been the thriving city of Berlin. Another brilliant innovation from David Stirling, who had created the concept of the SAS in 1941, the small, nippy and versatile American vehicles were ideal for the war-torn terrain. Gutted, smashed and burned-out buildings formed an almost surrealist landscape which could have come straight from the tortured imagination of Hieronymus Bosch.

      Corporal Arnold Baker, known affectionately to his comrades as ‘Pig-sticker’, or usually just ‘Piggy’, in tribute to his prowess with a knife, surveyed the dead city from the passenger seat of the leading jeep.

      ‘Jesus, this was some savage fucking war,’ he said gravely, shaking his head as though he still could not quite believe the evidence of his own eyes.

      His driver, Trooper Andy Wellerby, sniffed dismissively. ‘Save your bleeding pity, Corp. When was the last time you saw London? Or Coventry, for that matter.’

      ‘Yeah.’ Piggy took the point, tearing his eyes away from the desolation and concentrating once more on the road in front of him. ‘What’s that up ahead?’

      Wellerby waved his arm over the side of the battered Willys jeep, signalling for the vehicle behind him to slow down. He tapped lightly on the brake and squinted into the distance. Just over a quarter of a mile further up the long, straight road towards Brandenburg, a line of military vehicles sealed it off. Wellerby could make out a line of about a dozen uniformed figures standing guard beside the vehicles. He groaned aloud.

      ‘Not another bleeding roadblock? Bloody Yanks again, I’ll bet. It’s about time somebody told those bastards that it was us Brits who invented red tape.’

      Piggy was also concentrating on the grey-uniformed soldiers. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, they’re not GIs, that’s for sure. Uniform looks all wrong.’

      Wellerby let out a slightly nervous giggle. ‘Maybe it’s a bunch of fucking jerries who don’t know the war’s over yet.’

      It was meant to be a joke, but one hand was already off the steering wheel and unclipping the soft holster of his Webley .38 dangling from his webbing. At the same time Piggy was checking the drums on the twin Vickers K aircraft machine-guns welded to the top of the jeep’s bonnet. In the utter chaos of postwar Germany, just about anything was possible. All sorts of armed groups were out on the streets, both official and unofficial, from half a dozen nations which had been caught up in the conflict. Quite apart from regular soldiers and covert operations groups, there were resistance fighters with old scores to settle and ordinary citizens with murder in their hearts. Even a shambling line of what appeared to be civilian refugees or released concentration camp prisoners might conceal one or two still dedicated and still fanatical Waffen SS officers who would kill rather than surrender.

      ‘Damn me. They’re bloody Russkies,’ Piggy blurted out, as he finally recognized the uniforms. He sounded indignant rather than surprised.

      ‘What the hell are the Russians doing setting up roadblocks?’ Wellerby wanted to know.

      Piggy shrugged. ‘Christ knows. Everyone’s getting in on the act. And I thought we had enough problems with the Yanks, the Anzacs and our own bloody mob.’

      It was the light-hearted complaint of a fighting soldier increasingly bogged down in the problems of peace. The war might be over, but Berlin was still a battleground of bureaucracy, with checkpoints and roadblocks everywhere and dozens of garrisons of different military groups still waiting for Supreme Allied Command to work out a concerted policy of occupation. For the time being, it was still largely a policy of ‘grab something and hold on to it’. Or just follow the orders one had, and muddle through.

      But even so, it did not pay to take chances. The intensive training, both physical and mental, which any potential SAS trooper had to undergo did more than just produce a soldier whose reflexes and abilities were honed to near-perfection. It developed a sixth sense, an instinct for trouble. And Piggy Baker had that instinct now. There was something not quite right about the situation – he could feel it in his bones.

      ‘Pull up,’ he muttered to Wellerby out of the corner of his mouth. As the jeep stopped, he turned to the second vehicle as it, too, came to a halt some six yards behind.

      Behind the wheel, Trooper Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Mardon looked up with a thoughtful smile on his face. ‘Trouble, boss?’

      Piggy shrugged uneasily. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But something smells.’

      Mad Dog grinned. ‘Probably just our passenger. The little bastard’s been shitting himself ever since we picked him up.’

      Piggy glanced at the small, bespectacled civilian sitting stiffly and uncomfortably in the rear of the vehicle. Stripped of its usual spare jerrycans and other equipment, the jeep was just about capable of carrying two passengers on its fold-down dicky seat. Just as he had throughout the journey, the German looked blankly straight ahead, ignoring Trooper Pat O’Neill, who guarded him with his drawn Webley held across his lap.

      ‘Pat, I need you up at the front,’ Piggy said. He nodded at the jeep’s own pair of Vickers guns. ‘On the bacon slicer, just in case.’

      O’Neill glanced sideways at his prisoner.