Sam Eastland - The Beast in the Red Forest

‘I might not be leaving, after all,’ said Pekkala.

The stick froze in Barabanschikov’s hand. Slivers of smoke rose from the blackened wood. ‘I thought that your mind was made up.’

‘It was until Maximov appeared.’

‘What did he say to talk you out of it?’

‘It’s not what he said,’ answered Pekkala. ‘It’s what he is doing that convinced me. He left behind everything that was safe to come back here, even though the only thanks he is likely to get is to be killed by the very people he has come to help.’

‘You’ve been on that same journey all your life,’ said Barabanschikov.

‘There were times,’ admitted Pekkala, ‘when I thought that journey would end here in these woods.’

Barabanschikov slapped him gently on the back. ‘We have managed to survive so far, haven’t we? I am no longer afraid of death, Pekkala, only of squandering the memory of every good thing I have achieved in this life by burying it beneath terrible deeds that I have done to stay alive.’

‘You have saved more lives than just your own,’ Pekkala told him.

‘And will it be enough?’ asked Barabanschikov.

‘There is no judgement that an honest man should fear,’ Pekkala told him.

‘That is an easy thing to say, Inspector, but how can an honest man live in a country whose leaders are not?’

‘The answer,’ replied Pekkala, ‘is to tread softly, to stay alive and to do whatever good you can along the way.’

‘No matter what happens from now on,’ said Barabanschikov, ‘let us promise to live by those words.’

*

‘I made that promise to him,’ said Pekkala, as the memory of that day faded back into the darkness of his mind.

‘So you are coming back to Moscow?’ stammered Kirov.

‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala, ‘and I would have told you so earlier if you’d given me the chance.’

‘But that is excellent news!’ In a moment, Kirov was back on his feet. He slapped Pekkala on the back, raising a haze of dust from the soot-powdered wool of the Inspector’s coat.

Their conversation was interrupted by the tearing sound of heavy machine guns followed, soon afterwards, by the roar and clank of armoured vehicles.

‘Could those be ours?’ asked Kirov.

Pekkala shook his head. ‘There is no Soviet armour in Rovno.’

‘So the enemy has broken through.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘which means we need to find a place to hide, if it isn’t already too late.’

*

Luther Benjamin moved cautiously through the woods, passing through the deserted town of Misovichi on his way to the rendezvous site. He had set out before sunrise that morning, hiking south to clear the combat zone before turning east and crossing into enemy territory. Although he had met with no difficulties so far, Benjamin had been warned by Skorzeny that the cabin was difficult to spot and he was worried that he might miss it altogether in this wilderness. If it had been anyone other than Vasko, Benjamin might have considered turning back before travelling any further.

But Vasko was a friend.

He and Benjamin had gone through training together at the School of Special Weapons and Tactics, located in the Berlin suburb of Zossen, before Benjamin was transferred to the SS, while Vasko was chosen for service in the Abwehr. Of the fourteen men and women in that class, he and Vasko were the only ones still living.

In the case of Luther Benjamin, that was due to nothing more than luck. He had just returned from three months’ recuperation after being injured in a gunfight after his cover was blown in Zagreb and he barely escaped with his life. Although Benjamin had made a full physical recovery, according to the medical report, his mental state was such that the doctor recommended he not be sent on any further missions.

Recalled to duty in Berlin, Benjamin had expected that his tasks would, from then on, be no more arduous than filing reports, but when Skorzeny came to him and explained the mission, Benjamin knew that he couldn’t refuse.

Skorzeny had his doubts as to whether Benjamin was fit for active duty, but he had orders from Canaris to act immediately. Given that Benjamin was the only agent available at the time, it was only a matter of hours before Vasko’s old friend was on his way.

Since then, Benjamin had been travelling with advance units of the 27th SS Grenadier Division ‘Langemarck’, which had been tasked with recapturing Rovno. The Division was made up mostly of Flemish volunteers, whose language, unintelligible to Benjamin, sounded to him like men trying to speak with pebbles in their mouths.

Benjamin did not know how long it would take Vasko to carry out his mission, so he was not unduly alarmed as the days passed with still no message from Skorzeny.

When the signal eventually came through, ordering him to proceed, the Flemish Grenadiers were still heavily engaged west of Rovno and it was unclear whether the hoped-for breakthrough would come about. At the time Benjamin set out, the Langemarck Division was at a standstill outside the village of Yaseneviche, still some distance from its intended destination.

When Benjamin read that he was to return alone if Vasko was not at the meeting place, he suspected that something must have gone wrong, but he had no choice except to go through with the mission.

In spite of the dangerous situation, Benjamin succeeded in making his way through the lines, carefully noting the territory as he moved along, in preparation for his return journey.

Benjamin had been on the point of giving up when he finally spotted the cabin, almost hidden among the trees. Pausing a short distance from the structure, he unbuckled his rucksack, which contained ammunition, a radio and medical supplies in the event that Vasko might be wounded. Benjamin hid the rucksack in a hollow in the ground, where a tree had been uprooted long ago, then drew his sidearm, a Walther P38, and advanced towards the cabin.

Cautiously, he peered in at the window. In the gloomy light of the interior, he could see a table in the centre of the room and a bunk in the corner. A blanket crumpled on the bunk was the only sign he could detect that the cabin might be occupied.

Benjamin crept around to the back and tried the door. It was unlocked and swung open with a creak. He could smell the smoke of a recently extinguished fire. Standing to one side, he whispered Vasko’s name into the gloom.

There was no reply.

Benjamin could feel the stillness of the place, as much as he could see it with his eyes. Slowly, he stepped into the cabin, his gun held out. A single glance told him that the place was no longer occupied, although it was clear that someone had been here recently. Lying on the table were a few dried pieces of black Russian army bread, as well as a Soviet military canteen in its primitive cloth cover.

As Benjamin inspected the contents of the room, he discovered a small radio of the type issued to German field agents, hidden under a tarpaulin. Then he knew he had found the right place. Although his orders were to return immediately if Vasko was not at the rendezvous point, the presence of the radio was a clear indication that Vasko had been there. Faced with the thought of abandoning his friend, Benjamin decided to wait a while and see if Vasko showed up.

Benjamin sat down at the table, picked up a piece of the Russian bread and gnawed off a mouthful. After chewing for a couple of seconds, he spat it out on to the floor, wondering how humans could subsist on food like that. Then he reached for the canteen, intending to wash out his mouth. He was just about to unscrew the cap when he felt something underneath the canteen cover which made him pause. It might just have been a twig that had worked its way between the metal and the cloth, but something about it made Benjamin uneasy. Gently he shook the canteen. Water splashed about inside. Then he undid the single metal button which held the cloth cover in place and removed the canteen. As he held up the metal flask, he spotted what he had originally mistaken for a twig. It was a thin copper wire, soldered to the base of the canteen and running all the way up to the cap. The wire had been taped to the metal with black electric tape.