Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan. Peter Cave

Piggy told him.

      ‘Right.’ O’Neill cast his eyes quickly around the jeep, finding a length of cord used to lash down fuel cans and fashioning it into a makeshift slip-noose. Dropping it over the German’s neck, he pulled it tight and secured the loose end to the mounting of the spare wheel. Satisfied with his work, he crawled into the passenger seat and primed both the Vickers for action.

      Piggy felt a little easier now, but there was just one last little precaution to take. He reached to the floor of the jeep and hefted up his heavy M1 Thompson sub-machine-gun. Slamming a fresh magazine into place, he slipped off the safety-catch and leaned out over the side of the jeep, jamming the weapon into a makeshift holster formed by the elasticated webbing round the spare water cans. The weapon was now concealed on the blind side of the Russian troops, and ready for action if it became necessary.

      There was not much more he could do, Piggy thought. He glanced sideways at Wellerby. ‘Right, take us in – nice and slow.’

      The two jeeps approached the Russian roadblock at a crawl. Despite Winston Churchill’s eventual conviction that Stalin was one of the good guys after all, there was still a deep-seated mistrust between the two armies.

      As Wellerby brought the leading vehicle to a halt, Baker studied the line of twelve Russian soldiers some ten yards in front of him. They stood, stonily, each cradling a PPS-41 sub-machine-gun equipped with an old Thompson-like circular drum magazine. If it had not been for the uniforms, they would have looked exactly like a bunch of desperadoes from a Hollywood gangster film.

      There was something about their stance which made Baker feel even more uneasy. In the heady aftermath of victory, most Allied soldiers had tended to let discipline relax, and embrace a general feeling of camaraderie. These Russians looked as though they were fresh out of intensive training and ready to ship out to the front line.

      He stood up in the jeep, scanning the line for any sign of an officer. There was none. ‘Who is in charge here? Does anyone speak English?’ he asked in a calm, authoritative tone.

      There was no response. The Russian soldiers continued to stare straight through him, virtually unblinking. Several seconds passed in strained silence.

      Inside the cab of one of the covered Russian personnel carriers, Tovan Leveski examined the occupants of the two jeeps thoughtfully. He too had been a little confused about their uniforms from a distance, having been briefed to expect a standard British Army patrol. Now, at close hand, he could see that these were no ordinary British soldiers. Clad in dispatch rider’s breeches, motorcycle boots and camouflaged ‘Denison’ smocks, they could have been anything. But it was their headgear which finally gave the clue. The beige berets, sporting the unique winged-dagger badge, clearly identified them as members of that small, élite force which had already started to become almost legendary. Clearly, even four SAS men were not to be taken lightly.

      Quietly, Leveski murmured his orders to the eight more armed soldiers concealed in the truck behind him. Satisfied, he opened the passenger door and dropped down to the ground.

      Piggy regarded him cautiously. Although the man ostensibly sported the uniform and badging of a full major in the Red Army, he seemed to lack a military bearing. However, the 7.62mm Tokarev TT-33 self-loading pistol in his hand certainly looked official enough.

      ‘I am in charge of this detachment, Corporal,’ Leveski said in flawless English.

      It was a sticky stand-off situation, Piggy thought to himself. Even with the incredibly destructive firepower of the Vickers to hand, he and his men were hopelessly outnumbered – and there was no way of knowing how many other armed troops were inside the vehicles which made up the roadblock. Besides, military bearing or not, the officer still outranked him. For the moment there was nothing to do except play it by ear. They were no longer in a war situation, after all. Apart from the Germans and Italians, everyone was supposed to be on the same side now.

      ‘Do you mind telling me the purpose of this roadblock?’ Piggy demanded.

      Leveski smiled thinly. ‘Certainly. My orders are to monitor all military movement on this road, Corporal. Perhaps you in turn would be so good as to tell me the exact nature and purpose of your convoy.’

      Piggy considered the matter for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. His orders had been specific, but were not, as far as he was aware, secret. He could think of no valid reason to withhold information, yet something rankled.

      ‘With respect, Major, I fail to see what business that is of the Russian Army.’

      Leveski shrugged faintly. ‘Your failure to understand is of absolutely no concern to me, Corporal. What does concern me, however, is your apparent lack of respect for a superior officer and your refusal to cooperate.’

      Piggy conceded the point, grudgingly and despite the dubious circumstances. ‘All right, Major. I am leading a four-man patrol to escort a German prisoner of war to the railway marshalling yards at Brandenburg. And, since I have a strict schedule to adhere to, I would appreciate it if you would order your men to clear the road so that we can continue.’

      ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ the Russian said in a flat, emotionless tone. ‘You and your men are in breach of the Geneva Convention, and I cannot allow you to continue.’

      Piggy stared at the Russian in disbelief, starting to lose his temper.

      ‘Since when has it been against the rules of the Convention to transport prisoners of war?’

      ‘Military prisoners are one thing, Corporal. Civilians are another matter,’ Leveski informed him calmly. ‘You do have a civilian in your custody, do you not? One Klaus Mencken – Dr Mencken?’

      ‘Doctor?’ Piggy spat out the word, in a mixture of loathing and ridicule. ‘My men and I have come directly from Buchenwald concentration camp, Major. This “doctor” was in charge of horrific, inhuman experiments on Jewish internees there. His speciality, I understand, was removing five-month foetuses from the womb for dissection. The man is a war criminal, Major, and is on his way to an international trial to answer for those crimes against humanity. So don’t quote the Geneva Convention to me.’

      The impassioned speech seemed to have had no effect on the Russian, who continued to speak in a calm, emotionless voice. ‘I must insist that you hand Dr Mencken over to me.’

      ‘By what damned authority?’ snapped Piggy, openly angry now, having had more than a bellyful of the Russians.

      ‘By the authority of superior strength.’

      The new voice came from a few yards away.

      Baker’s eyes strayed to his right, where a Russian captain had just jumped down from the back of one of the personnel carriers. The man walked unhurriedly towards the leading jeep, being very careful to stay out of the line of fire of the Vickers.

      ‘I am Captain Zhann,’ he announced. ‘You and your men are in the direct line of fire of no less than eighteen automatic weapons. Now please, Corporal, I must ask you to move back from that machine-gun and order your men to step calmly out and away from your vehicles. If you do not comply, my men have orders to open fire. You would be cut to ribbons, I can assure you.’

      It was a threat that Piggy found easy to believe. Assuming that the remainder of the concealed troops also carried the thirty-five-round PPSh-41 sub-machine-guns which were on display, the Russian captain had the cards fully stacked in his favour. Each individual weapon had an automatic firing rate of 105 rounds a minute, and in a full burst, a cyclic firing rate approaching 900 rounds a minute. And the 7.62mm slugs were real body-rippers. At that range, they would all be dead in the first five seconds. Still, there remained time for at least a token show of defiance.

      ‘And if I refuse?’ Piggy asked.

      Zhann shrugged. ‘Then you and your men will be slaughtered needlessly. A pointless gesture, wouldn’t you say?’

      Piggy could only stare at the Russian in disbelief. The whole thing was crazy. It was peacetime, for Chrissake. They had all