the
heart of the Bavarian lake district was shrouded in low cloud and mist. No more
than a runway and a collection of wooden huts that had once belonged to the
Luftwaffe's crack Southern Air Command, it now housed the CIA's Soviet
Operations Division in Germany.
As Jake Massey came out of the Nissen hut
that served as the Operations Room he looked up at the filthy black sky, then
pulled up his collar and ran across to a covered army jeep waiting in the
pouring rain. A fork of lightning streaked across the darkness and as he slid
into the jeep the man sitting in the driver's seat said, "A night for the
bed, I'd say. With a good woman beside you and a bottle of Scotch."
Massey smiled as the jeep started along a
tarmac road. "You could do worse, Janne."
"So who have I got tonight?"
"A couple of former Ukrainian SS men
bound for Moscow, via Kiev."
"Charming. You always did keep the
best of company, Jake."
"It's either work for us or they
face a war crimes trial. Nast@ types, both of them, part of an SS group who
executed a number of women and children in Riga, but beggars like us can't be
choosers."
"That's what I like about working
for the CIA, you get to meet the most interesting people."
The man beside Massey wore a pilot's
leather flying jacket d a white silk scarf. He had a cheerful face and although
he was short and stocky his straw-blond hair was unmistakably Nordic.
At thirty-one, Janne Saarinen had already
seen more trouble than most men. Like some Finns after the Winter War with
Russia in '40 who saw their country's allegiance with Hitler's Germany as a
chance to get even with Moscow, Saarinen had thrown in his lot with the Germans
but paid a price.
His right leg had been blown off below
the knee by a Russian shrapnel burst that tore into the cockpit of his
Luftwaffe Messerschmitt at five thousand feet during a Baltic skirmish, and now
he had to make do with a wooden contraption that passed for a leg. There was
still a piece of the Russian metal somewhere in the ugly mass of scar tissue
where the German surgeon had sewn the stump together, but at least Saarinen was
still walking, even if with a pronounced limp.
The jeep drove down to a runway situated
near a rather large lake, a collection of hangars nearby, the doors of one of
them open and arc lights blazing inside.
Massey climbed out of the jeep and ran in
out of the rain, followed by Saarinen.
Two men were sitting in a corner by a
table, parachutes beside them, smoking cigarettes as they waited near a
black-painted DC-3 aircraft with no markings which was parked just inside the
hangar, a flight of metal steps leading up into the open cargo door in the side
of the fuselage.
One of the men was in his late twenties,
tall and thin, a nervous look on his anxious face, which already looked brutal
despite his relative youth.
The second was older, a rough-looking
specimen and heavily built, with red hair and a hard face that seemed hewn out
of rock.
He had a look of insolence about him and
he stood up when he saw Massey enter the hangar, and as he walked across the
man tossed away his cigarette.
He said to Massey in Russian, "No
night for man or beast, let alone flying. Are we still going,
Americanski?"
"I'm afraid so."
The man shrugged and quickly lit another
cigarette, his nerves obviously on edge, then looked back toward his whitefaced
companion.
"Sergei here has a bad case of the
frights. From the look of him he thinks we're doomed. And on a night like this
I'm inclined to agree. If the Russian radar doesn't help put us in an early
grave, the lousy weather probably will."
Massey smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say
that. You're in good hands. Say hello to your pilot."
Massey introduced Saarinen but because of
regulations didn offer the Finn's name and the two men shook hands briefly.
"Charmed, I'm sure," said the
Ukrainian. He looked at him!
"seriously," a small nervous
grin flickering on his face. "A small point, but your pilot's got a false
leg. I just
heart of the Bavarian lake district was shrouded in low cloud and mist. No more
than a runway and a collection of wooden huts that had once belonged to the
Luftwaffe's crack Southern Air Command, it now housed the CIA's Soviet
Operations Division in Germany.
As Jake Massey came out of the Nissen hut
that served as the Operations Room he looked up at the filthy black sky, then
pulled up his collar and ran across to a covered army jeep waiting in the
pouring rain. A fork of lightning streaked across the darkness and as he slid
into the jeep the man sitting in the driver's seat said, "A night for the
bed, I'd say. With a good woman beside you and a bottle of Scotch."
Massey smiled as the jeep started along a
tarmac road. "You could do worse, Janne."
"So who have I got tonight?"
"A couple of former Ukrainian SS men
bound for Moscow, via Kiev."
"Charming. You always did keep the
best of company, Jake."
"It's either work for us or they
face a war crimes trial. Nast@ types, both of them, part of an SS group who
executed a number of women and children in Riga, but beggars like us can't be
choosers."
"That's what I like about working
for the CIA, you get to meet the most interesting people."
The man beside Massey wore a pilot's
leather flying jacket d a white silk scarf. He had a cheerful face and although
he was short and stocky his straw-blond hair was unmistakably Nordic.
At thirty-one, Janne Saarinen had already
seen more trouble than most men. Like some Finns after the Winter War with
Russia in '40 who saw their country's allegiance with Hitler's Germany as a
chance to get even with Moscow, Saarinen had thrown in his lot with the Germans
but paid a price.
His right leg had been blown off below
the knee by a Russian shrapnel burst that tore into the cockpit of his
Luftwaffe Messerschmitt at five thousand feet during a Baltic skirmish, and now
he had to make do with a wooden contraption that passed for a leg. There was
still a piece of the Russian metal somewhere in the ugly mass of scar tissue
where the German surgeon had sewn the stump together, but at least Saarinen was
still walking, even if with a pronounced limp.
The jeep drove down to a runway situated
near a rather large lake, a collection of hangars nearby, the doors of one of
them open and arc lights blazing inside.
Massey climbed out of the jeep and ran in
out of the rain, followed by Saarinen.
Two men were sitting in a corner by a
table, parachutes beside them, smoking cigarettes as they waited near a
black-painted DC-3 aircraft with no markings which was parked just inside the
hangar, a flight of metal steps leading up into the open cargo door in the side
of the fuselage.
One of the men was in his late twenties,
tall and thin, a nervous look on his anxious face, which already looked brutal
despite his relative youth.
The second was older, a rough-looking
specimen and heavily built, with red hair and a hard face that seemed hewn out
of rock.
He had a look of insolence about him and
he stood up when he saw Massey enter the hangar, and as he walked across the
man tossed away his cigarette.
He said to Massey in Russian, "No
night for man or beast, let alone flying. Are we still going,
Americanski?"
"I'm afraid so."
The man shrugged and quickly lit another
cigarette, his nerves obviously on edge, then looked back toward his whitefaced
companion.
"Sergei here has a bad case of the
frights. From the look of him he thinks we're doomed. And on a night like this
I'm inclined to agree. If the Russian radar doesn't help put us in an early
grave, the lousy weather probably will."
Massey smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say
that. You're in good hands. Say hello to your pilot."
Massey introduced Saarinen but because of
regulations didn offer the Finn's name and the two men shook hands briefly.
"Charmed, I'm sure," said the
Ukrainian. He looked at him!
"seriously," a small nervous
grin flickering on his face. "A small point, but your pilot's got a false
leg. I just
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