Robert Craven - Get Lenin

De Witte’s heart jumped at the thought of hearing Eva's voice and the touch of her skin again.

Chainbridge smiled at the stroke of good fortune and turned to the American aircrew. ‘Can you get us over there without being spotted?’

The crewmen grinned back. The pilot, popping gum in his mouth, said ‘Just point us in the direction you want to go, sir!’

‘Great,’ mumbled Kant, lighting up one of Kravchenko’s cigarettes from his stub. He was beginning to acquire a taste for them along with Olga’s lichen tea. He met the eyes of his men. They all had the same look; the look of foot soldiers in a situation beyond their control.

Chainbridge and De Witte couldn’t shake the feeling that their luck was about to change, that they were all stepping into the firing line. Brandt and Kramer had briefly discussed defecting to Switzerland with the two men. Neither Chainbridge nor De Witte had made a commitment, merely saying they would pass on the request.

Bader piped up. ‘Sarge, what’s plan B?’

Kant looked to Brandt for feedback. He got a slight shrug as a response. ‘The same as ever, Bader, there isn’t one,’ Bader re-checked his machine gun, finished his last cigarette and made his way to the plane.

Kramer caught Brandt’s attention and summoned him over. ‘Captain, I know that man.’ He was staring at De Witte. ‘I saw him in Barcelona in ’37. He was keeping tabs on a fellow comrade in my unit, George Orwell. I remember him because he was blind and travelling as a writer or journalist.’

‘Did you catch a name?’ Brandt studied De Witte as he headed back to a waiting car. This was getting messy with spies — as if it could get any messier.

‘Mr. White I think, Witte maybe,’ Kramer replied. ‘He haunted The Plaza Espana.’

‘Stay alert, Kramer. We have to make every move count in our favour.’ Kramer grinned ruefully and nodded. ‘As always, sir,’

Fletchmore strode toward them, and motioning toward his commandos said in a clipped tone, ‘We need to pick up some equipment first and rendezvous with my remaining men.’

A disused barn nearby had been requisitioned for equipment and ammunition. Ropes, harnesses and abseiling paraphernalia, along with Finnish Navy dinghies fitted with Seagull outboard engines, were loaded up. The next issue was uniforms. They couldn’t have any rank or insignias on display. For the third time in thirty-six hours, Brandt changed uniform; this time it was Finnish army clothing.

Kravechenko’s soiled and blood-stained clothes felt cheap and shoddy once he had dressed into the new clothing. His hand was throbbing under the clean dressing and the beef tea had refreshed him. What they all needed badly was sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen just yet. Exhaustion meant his reflexes would slow and he was gambling on adrenalin to push him through. They boarded the American transport and within minutes were skimming feet above the choppy waters to the large fortified island, the starboard engine sputtering a smoke trail like a kite’s ribbon.

Chainbridge and De Witte headed back to Helsinki, deep in thought in the back of the embassy car.

U-806’s top deck had opened out, revealing a wide yellow maw. Two telescopic cranes mounted at either end of the doors swung out with a metal basket between their arms. The submarine was alongside the flying boat in an isolated cove. The current was strong, making alignment difficult.

The cranes were cranked manually, extending into the opened side of the aircraft. The crew, with the exception of the pilots and radio operator, reached out and guided in the basket. They were being tossed about and balance was near impossible. With a screech of soles on wet metal, some slipped on the floor. The danger was if someone fell into the water they’d be crushed between the vessels or die from hypothermia within minutes. This was the third attempt and the weather was deteriorating. The swell was becoming choppy and grey clouds drew closer, threatening rain.

Kincaid was prowling, shouting, berating and urging the crews to load the coffin. Ahtisaans shouted below to start the engines on a slow rotation as the U-Boat was swinging away from the flying boat and in danger of shearing off its pontoon below the wing.

He couldn’t shake the thought that this should’ve been loaded from a harbour in shallower water. The clown with the camera kept shouting and trying to capture the whole thing on film, panning the camera on a tripod and trying to keep his balance. The U-Boat throbbed below the waterline as her engines began a slow rotation. The helm made incremental adjustments, bringing the bow closer in toward the open hold. With shouts, waves and then a few thumbs-up, the sarcophagus was loaded into the basket. Two U-Boat crewmen crawled over the arms and reached down at the end, fastening the sarcophagus securely.

The process of winding in the arms began. Lenin plummeted briefly before being hoisted upward, to everyone’s relief. Crewmen with grappling hooks latched onto the sarcophagus and hauled it in over the open doors. Waves surged over the decks and spilled into the hold as Ahtisaans reversed the U-Boat out from under the flying boat’s wing. The whole operation had taken nearly three hours.

Zbarsky and Eva watched the operation from the lounge. They couldn’t escape but had discussed in whispers their options. They counted ten of Kincaid’s personal staff, excluding the pilots and radio operator. In addition there were four S.S. storm-troopers who were on edge, leaderless after Schenker’s death. Two were guarding the open hold entrance, the other two guarding the body stored in the galley freezer. Kincaid had taken charge and they were happy to follow orders.

Whilst they were being well treated, Eva began to notice an atmosphere toward her and Zbarsky’s team. The unspoken question was simple — were they going to be allowed to board the U-Boat?

Olga was sixteen when she had killed her first Russian. Local villagers were being rounded up for deportation to Kazakhstan on one of Stalin’s whims. She, her grandfather and his bandits had attacked a NKVD patrol on horseback. The bandits were skilled riflemen and their ponies small and agile, allowing them to turn around tightly. The unsuspecting soldiers had been killed in seconds, unprepared for such an attack. Olga’s pony seemed to follow her thoughts, slaloming around rocks and bushes, responding to Olga’s heels.

Now on the prow of a dinghy, she was lining up the flying boat’s cockpit through her telescopic sight on the side opposite to the U-Boat. She thought back to that day and the movements of her pony. Pressing her legs tighter against the sides, she made herself as taut as possible as the plane loomed closer. It was an immense wall of white metal. The waves were cold as they came over the side. The Commandos with Kant were sitting behind her, Kant aiming his heavy machine gun at the cockpit also.

Once she was in range, she squeezed the trigger. The cockpit window shattered. The form of the pilot slumped forward. She fired again; missing the second pilot with the shot, paused, then caught him with the next one. He spun away before pitching forward off the flight deck. Olga grinned back at Kant, who tipped her a wink.

‘Now the fun begins!’ he shouted, as faces appeared at the windows below. The flying boat began to drift, its immense blades ticking over slowly. Kant opened fire and the cockpit’s framework shattered, sending shards of glass spilling into the sea. The Liberty Belle was now adrift, the U-Boat appearing on the far side of its vast wing.

In the second dinghy, Brandt and Fletchmore were shooting at the aircraft's engine housings. Black smoke began to billow from the cockpit and engines. Brandt watched the U-Boat as the crew loaded the sarcophagus into the hold.