U-806 broke above the surface. The sunlight glinted off her lines, giving her a menacing aspect. She had been built in Hamburg in a top-secret dock away from the main Kriegsmarine shipyards and, on completion, berthed in Saint-Nazaire away from the main North Atlantic wolf-packs. She had slipped out under the cover of night unnoticed as the French Resistance was focusing its intelligence on the main Atlantic U-Boat fleet.
She now cruised toward the rendezvous point three miles off the fortified Finnish island of Suomenlinna. Remaining above the surface allowed her batteries to recharge and gave the crew a few hours to enjoy the sunlight and fresh air.
A prototype designed for this mission, her forward bulkheads were reinforced and the interior stripped down to the most basic of requirements. The exceptions were the bridge, her torpedo room and the forward hold. These were designed to house and maintain the sarcophagus on its final trip.
Kincaid had paid for U-806's construction in gold bullion and had spared no expense throughout this enterprise, right down to the hand-picked crew. All were seasoned North Atlantic submariners. Her Finnish Captain; Jakko Ahtisaans, knew the surrounding eight islands and sounds like the back of his hand. He had hunted down and sunk three Russian U-Boats during the invasion two years earlier. Though not a supporter of Nazi-ism, he did relish the command of a state-of-the-art German boat and a very generous pay-day if he was successful. Even Kincaid knew that this team for the final leg wasn’t expendable.
She was above all sleek and swift, her design spec to cut and run deep rather than stand and fight. As she had been ‘chartered’ by Kincaid from Bormann and Hitler, the Kriegsmarine was unaware of her operational status. Outside of the Propaganda Ministry and Himmler’s staff headquarters no-one knew anything about her. As far as Admiral Doenitz was concerned, she was still on a drawing board in an office somewhere.
From the conning tower Ahtisaans scanned the surrounding sea with high powered binoculars, pipe wedged tightly in the corner of his mouth. A few fishing vessels and transports were visible on the horizon but, apart from them, for miles there wasn’t a ship in the vicinity. To the west he spotted a bank of clouds. Probably the remnants of a storm over Russia; it hung menacingly out to the horizon.
Enjoying the taste of tobacco between draughts of fresh air and sea salt, Ahtisaans checked his watch; it was 8.40am. His beard was tobacco stained and his teeth were the colour of the pipes that pumped the water through the vessel. Below, the radio operator had locked onto the flying boat’s signal and was guiding it in.
The clear azure sky above thundered as the four 1,400 hp Bristol Hercules engines brought the flying boat down onto the sea, its wake surging back making the U-Boat see-saw momentarily. The fresh provisions would be transferred first, then the delicate operation of transferring the sarcophagus would begin. Ahtisaans nodded to his radio operator to notify Berlin that they had made the rendezvous. He cranked the coding device and began transmitting directly to the Reichschancellry
In a private dining room below the Reichschancellry, Himmer, Goebbels and Goering raised their champagne glasses in a toast. By sheer luck and perseverance, Vladimir Illich Lenin was in German hands. Kincaid and Regan had done it. This was going to be the big surprise for Hitler, a tribute from the glorious forces fighting in the East. Each man was gambling on this tipping Russia toward capitulation or at the very least a steep ransom.
Intelligence out of Moscow had been compromised which meant the train had been found. The high ranking mole was probably dead or talking at the hands of the NKVD. Somehow Schenker’s intelligence about Eva hadn’t come to light. Her true identity was still being dredged up from the floor of a torture room of the S.S. Hauptamt.
As it stood, Russia was still playing catch-up.
The first of Regan’s sealed cameras had been returned and were being processed for shipment to Hollywood for editing and distribution.
Goebbels outlined the next stage of the mission, in Oslo, where the sarcophagus was to be unveiled in the Nobel Academy. It was to be hailed as Germany’s contribution to peace and freeing Europe from the spectre of Bolshevism.
Goebbels had already dispatched Nazi Party journalists and propaganda film units to Norway's capital. As they enjoyed the champagne and canapes, the troika knew that if this worked, the Fuhrer would look favourably on them and they would continue to ride high in the echelons of power.
Kincaid was shouting instructions all over the flying boat in preparation for the transfer. He was in a foul mood. He hauled Eva by the arm down into the hold and told her to start translating. Regan appeared at his elbow, his perpetual shadow. Zbarsky studied Eva carefully. Between her factual translation she was slipping words in that were out of context with the sentence. He pieced her words together in his head ‘We…..need…to…get…..out…… now.’ He nodded in understanding. The further they were away from Russia, the harder it was going to be to get back.
Kincaid’s attitude toward Eva had altered. He was terse and cold, no longer pandering to her. The endgame was in progress and he was tying up the loose ends. This meant Zbarsky, his technical team, and Eva were now on borrowed time.
Dressed in tweeds, Kincaid’s eyes were bleary from travelling and a hangover, and his florid face completed his resemblance to an English country squire. Eva had changed into warm clothing, allowing her to slip Schenker’s Luger into the pocket of her heavy overcoat. Its weight gave her comfort. She had used one before and had checked it out in her bathroom. It had a full clip, clear breech and the trigger action was smooth. The last time she’d used one was in Czechoslovakia two years earlier, saving De Witte’s life.
Kincaid span her roughly one too many times and she pulled her arm free of his grip. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Don?’ She stood her ground, jutting her jaw outward, staring up into his face.
Wrong-footed by her resistance, Kincaid worked himself up into a fury. He wasn’t used to being confronted, least of all by a woman. She rubbed her elbow knowing full well she’d bruise later.
‘Your job is to translate. Do it!’ He was shaking, running his hands through his hair, the rheumy eyes magnified behind their lenses.
Almost as a reflex he raised his hand to strike her but he stopped in mid-air. The radio operator was shouting down that the sea was becoming too rough to attempt the transfer. In the past hour, the wind had picked up.
Regan had stood by throughout and when Eva looked to him he winked with a sneer spread across his face.
‘Christ!’ roared Kincaid climbing up the stairwell out of the hold. He could be heard berating the crew above. The U-Boat captain wanted to move closer in-shore to calmer water. Imagine the consequences if the sarcophagus were to fall overboard between the plane and the submarine.
Eva and Zbarsky could hear the flying boat's engines starting up and the floor beneath them start to move. Looking out of the window, they could see the sky and sea beginning to turn grey.
‘Did we land or were we shot down?’ inquired Brandt as the American transport skidded to a halt.
The airstrip was a disused farm road that the pilot had been directed to by Chainbridge and De Witte. They were waiting with Captain Charles Fletchmore and four members of his commando unit from the Embassy. Fletchmore’s remaining commandos were on the islands around Helsinki looking out for a seaplane the size of a factory.
Brandt and his men descended the steps and were greeted with military salutes. An uneasy pause followed, Brandt and his men wary of armed commandos and vice-versa. Fletchmore’s German was fluent and quickly established a professional rapport. Chainbridge and De Witte stayed back and decided on remaining nameless. Fletchmore introduced them as ‘Messers Floyd and Jackson, from England.’ Brandt knew straightaway they were running the show — British Intelligence? The word Gestapo crossed his mind. Maybe Schenker had witnessed Kravchenko’s intervention. Maybe this was another deception. Mentally he noted every British commando’s position should the shooting start. Kant had unslung his rifle and the remainder of the unit took a small step back.
De Witte sensed the stand-off and stepped forward. He directed a question to Brandt. Noting De Witte was blind, Brandt, as a courtesy stepped roughly into line with De Witte’s nose.
‘The young lady accompanying Kincaid, Eva Molenaar, how is she?’ His tone tried to sound neutral but Brandt picked up on its intensity. He realised that Eva was involved with this man. He felt a jealous tug in his stomach. The man was clearly older, handsome, had a quiet charisma and was blind. He could see the attraction.
‘She’s alive, but I think she’s running on borrowed time. She witnessed everything.’
De Witte nodded solemnly. Part of him was always braced for the worst.
After Eva had returned from Munich two years earlier where she had met the Russian Attache, De Witte had activated a double-agent in Beria’s department, a Cossack of noble blood. He had fed the details of Lenin’s transport itinerary into Berlin’s intelligence community. These details had eventually led them to Kincaid. Now she was trapped on board his private aircraft with him.
He put his feelings to one side and turned to Kravchenko. He started speaking fluent Russian, making him feel welcome, commending him on his escape.
Chainbridge watched, appraising the Russian as a commando was cleaning and dressing his hand. Could he be persuaded to join them? Being a NKVD Internal Elite officer meant he was hand-picked by Stalin, implying he had some insight to the man. De Witte, Chainbridge and members of British Intelligence had suggested they themselves keep Lenin. Churchill wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We are not grave robbers, sirs!’ he had barked.
The point was moot as Stalin couldn’t be found and The Politburo was scattered throughout Russia. With no-one to threaten, Churchill had called the sarcophagus ‘a Nazi pig-in-a-poke’.
Brandt sipped the piping-hot beef tea and chewed cold hard bread, sizing up the situation. He made eye contact with Kravchenko who nodded slightly in understanding. He checked his watch. It was 13.00hrs. The flying boat would’ve been in the Gulf of Finland for over three hours now.
The window was closing to catch Kincaid. Time was also running out for Eva. He was impatient to do something. He looked around to this unit. Olga stayed close to Kant, a heavy blanket wrapped around her small frame, eyeing the American plane in terror.
The commandos and Germans stood smoking, speaking in broken English, using hand gestures for emphasis. They were beginning to relax in each other’s company, grateful not to be facing one another in combat.
Fletchmore was tall, soft-spoken and rake-thin to the point his uniform appeared oversized. His eyes were deep-set and brown beneath ginger beetled-brows. A razor-thin mouth was lifted by a full moustache. Brandt assumed he was a Sandhurst graduate, his deep tan suggesting he had been posted in foreign climes. Fletchmore in turn had skimmed Brandt’s file and viewed him as an equal.
The problem was three-fold: finding the flying boat, getting close enough to disable it and then to storm it. Then the U-Boat; she wasn’t on any intelligence file anywhere, a prototype that had slipped through. No-one knew where she had departed from or where she was heading. The Enigma code had yet to be broken and, until it was, they had no way of tracking her.
One of Fletchmore’s men had a large radio strapped to his back. It crackled into life. Fletchmore was over in three strides. The soldier handed him the headset. Fletchmore stared ahead in concentration. It was a single codeword, ‘Bootleg’. He handed it back with a curt nod. ‘Captains Brandt, Kravchenko, we’ve found the bugger. She’s off the Island of Suomenlinna.’
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.
The third dinghy was heading to the U-Boat. The commandos, led by Kravchenko and Bader, began firing at the crew on deck. Men started falling into the water as Ahtisaans reversed the boat clear of the drifting behemoth. The U-Boat’s gun was trained on the wildly pitching dinghy and plumes of spray soaked the commandos as it opened fire. Brandt, using hand signals, ordered Olga and Kant’s dinghy to the U-Boat to assist Kravchenko.
‘Looks like we’re taking the flying boat, chaps!’ shouted Fletchmore to his commandos. Sea salt covered their features and peppered Fletchmore’s moustache as his face creased into a smile.
The wind and spray had given Brandt and Hauptmann the wake-up they needed. They were close to thirty-six hours now without sleep. As the dinghy was steered closer, Brandt and Hauptmann fired grappling hooks and lines from hand-held launchers onto the vast wings.
Once they found purchase, the outboard engine was shut down, and Brandt and Hauptman clambered up quickly hand-over-hand.
Kincaid stared in total disbelief. This is not how it was supposed to end! His pilots lay crumpled on the floor of the cockpit, dead. The instrument panels and joy sticks, rendered useless from machine-gun fire, smouldered and sparked. The radio operator had dived clear into the lounge below but was wounded and bleeding heavily on the polished floor having managed to dispatch a mayday to Berlin. Looking out at the wings through the windows, Kincaid could see the engines on both sides smouldering and leaking fuel.
Shots were ringing out below, echoing around the plane’s interior. He dashed to the other side and could see U-806 swinging slowly out into deeper water with the dinghies zipping around it. Crewmen were scrambling below and the two heavy hold doors were closing slowly. This was Kincaid’s only chance of escape and it was sailing away from him.
Regan appeared up the gangway from below. He had a deep gash across his face and was clutching a machine gun.
‘Where’s Zbarsky and the girl?’ Kincaid barked. He was looking around, trying to come up with a plan. He needed to get to the U-Boat and the only way now was one of those dinghies.
‘Below in the lounge,’ Regan said, reaching for a crystal decanter and pouring a generous finger of whiskey which he downed in one.
‘Get them.’
Regan headed below. Gunfire and ricochets echoed and seemed to be getting closer. The hold where Lenin had been loaded was over-run. Commandos had killed the two S.S. guards and Kincaid’s men were pinned down.
Regan appeared with Eva and Zbarsky ahead of him. Eva still had her big coat on and Zbarsky looked visibly shaken from the battle going on below. Kincaid grabbed Eva by the throat, his grip almost causing her to faint. Regan shoved Zbarsky into an aisle seat and pointed the machine gun into his face.
Brandt and Hauptmann vaulted into the shattered cockpit and peered below into the lounge area. The radio operator lay where he had landed, blood pooling around him, slipping in and out of consciousness. They moved cautiously down into the lounge where Kincaid stood with Eva in front of him.
A pistol was pointed to her head and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Brandt.
Regan had his gun pointed under Zbarsky’s chin, pinning him against the lounge window. He did a double-take at the sight of Brandt and Hauptmann. A loud blast shook the flying boat below followed by silence. Imperceptibly, the floor seemed to shift underfoot. Hauptmann and Brandt exchanged a glance. The flying boat had been hulled and was starting to sink.
‘Now no-one is going to do anything stupid,’ said Kincaid. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself.
Olga and Kant appeared on the stairs behind him and paused. Kincaid turned, looking back at them. A smile danced across his features. ‘Thought we’d gotten rid of you lot!’ His smile cracked into a high-pitched laugh.
Regan had pulled Zbarsky out of the seat and was using him as a shield. Olga raised her rifle and pointed it toward Regan.
‘Drop it, bitch!’ hissed Kincaid, pressing his pistol closer into Eva’s head.
Olga’s gaze never left Brandt’s. Kant had positioned himself behind Olga where his hands were out of sight. He’d unsheathed a knife and calculated the throwing distance to Kincaid’s forehead. Brandt shook his head at Olga. Blood was starting to pour down the side of Eva’s face where Kincaid’s barrel had broken the skin. Olga hadn’t lowered her weapon. Her eyes slipped from Brandt’s gaze to the sight at the end of the rifle. Kincaid’s temple was in the cross-hairs as he released his grip on Eva’s throat,
‘Tell them to call back the boats,’ he whispered into her ear. Her perfume and terror was beginning to arouse him. It was hypnotic. She croaked out the demand. His grip was like a vice and she was taking breaths of air in gulps.
‘No,’ replied Brandt coolly.
Eva was losing consciousness. She was going to faint under Kincaid’s grip. She slipped a free hand into her pocket, searching for the Luger. Once she found it, she slowly shifted its weight against her hip and pointed the barrel toward Kincaid. Another explosion rocked the flying boat as one of the engines caught fire and the fuel line ignited. Kincaid lost his footing, falling backwards with Eva landing on top of him. She fired the Luger. The bullet tore into Kincaid’s thigh and he shrieked. Eva prised his hand away and dragged herself up, clutching the handle of the aisle seat. Kincaid was trying to shoot but the gun had caught on the leg of the opposite seat frame. Eva staggered up, span and fired again through the coat pocket. Kincaid’s head slammed into the floor from the force of the shot to his chest. Olga swung fractionally and fired. Regan slumped behind Zbarsky who skipped sideways, allowing Olga a clear sight. Without hesitation, she fired again. Regan was catapulted into the seat and sat there, head resting on his chest as if asleep.
Eva wiped the blood from her face. Brandt was over to her, holding her arm gently and examing her injury. She looked at him square, her hair falling over one eye and her breathing beginning to slow down. For a moment they just stared, then Brandt pulled her close and kissed her. Eva pulled back blushing.
‘Sorry,’ Brandt whispered. ‘Thirty-six hours without sleep,’
She smiled, returning his gaze below her eyebrows. Brandt noted her eyes were mesmerising. She was incredibly beautiful and his lips were tingling with the kiss. With her heart ringing in her ears she pulled him toward her and returned his kiss.
The flying boat was tilting alarmingly and smoke was filling the room. They neither seemed to notice or care. Kant cleared his throat loud enough the kill the moment. ‘Time to go, Captain …now … ’
Brandt and Eva held each other for a moment longer. They lost their footing as a starboard engine blew, shaking the plane. It separated from the wing housing, sliding elegantly into the ocean. The lounge was filling up with the smell of aviation fuel and smoke.
Hauptmann checked the Radio Operator, Regan and Kincaid. All three were dead.
Kant and Hauptmann moved toward the cockpit helping Zbarsky up and out onto the wing. Brandt and Eva moved next, followed by Olga. Below in the sea, Fletchmore and his commandos waited. They had lost one man and two more were injured. Fletchmore waved with a grin, glad to see the unit appear. The flying boat began to shudder. The hold where Lenin had been loaded was below water and the engines of the behemoth were ablaze.
They were too high to jump into the water and Brandt, Hauptmann and Kant jerry-rigged their lines to lower into the bouncing dinghy below. Eva and Olga were lowered first, Fletchmore gallantly welcoming them. Zbarsky followed, then Brandt held the lines for Hauptmann’s and Kant’s descent before the flying boat's tail section sheared off into the sea. The front of the flying boat pitched forward into the waves, knocking Brandt off-balance.
Regaining his feet, Brandt slid down the rope onto the dinghy as the commando at the tiller gunned the engine. As he looked back, he watched the vast plane engulfed in flames and slipping down into the sea, leaving a thick acrid cloud of smoke to mark its passing.
Kravchenko watched the Liberty Belle’s destruction from the deck of the U-Boat. He was sea-sick on the dinghy and boarded the U-Boat just to get off the thing. They had the conning tower in their sights and two U-Boat crewmen lay injured near it. Kramer had thrown magnetic charges at the hold’s doors and one had been successfully blown a few inches off its hinges.
Jakko Ahtisaans was many things, but he was firstly a practical man. The flying boat was gone and another dinghy was heading toward them. With the hold door damaged, he couldn’t dive and if he was to hit heavy seas, U-806 would sink like a stone. Ahtisaans signalled to everyone to surrender and stood on the conning tower with his hands raised.
Kravchenko climbed the tower and made a gesture with his fingers to his ear indicating a radio headset. Ahtisaans nodded and directed a British commando to the radio room who managed to get through to Chainbridge who was sitting by a large radio receiver in the farmhouse. He instructed them to proceed to the far side of Suomenlinna, where a deep-water dock was being prepared for the submarine.
The remaining dinghies pulled up, and everyone clambered aboard. The injured submariners were treated on the deck by a commando, one of them later dying from his injuries. The dinghies were raised onto the submarine's deck and secured, acting as gurneys for the medic.
Brandt was sitting against the conning tower when Eva had joined him. The sun had broken through, though it looked like it would squall again. The wind was blowing her hair and, despite the cold, the sun gave off a little heat. The side of her face was bruised but her cut had been attended to. With a splitting headache, she rested her head on his shoulder and dozed, finding the pulse of the engines soothing. Brandt put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer; it seemed a most natural thing to do.
The remainder of Brandt’s unit sat or lay napping, except Kravchenko and Zbarsky who were in the hold.
Lenin looked well under glass. Zbarsky scanned him with concern, looking for any deterioration. To his relief, the corpse seemed undamaged from the assault. An assistant had been killed during the battle, and Zbarsky wondered if it had all been worth it. Kravchenko had never seen Lenin lying in state, only heard stories about him from his father. His only plan now was to get Lenin to Tyumen. That of course now lay in the hands of British Intelligence.
Eva awoke with a start. The submarine was rounding the island and the deep-sea dock was becoming visible. De Witte would be waiting for her.
She looked up into Brandt’s eyes and smiled wryly. ‘I lost someone before the war. I’m telling you this as we’re probably never going to see each other again, Captain Brandt. I’m really not a very nice girl and my life is very, very complicated,’
Brandt smiled, and kissed her softly, savouring her mouth. ‘I know.’
In the afternoon light her hair shimmered. Without make-up she looked much younger. He kissed her again, probably for the last time. He could smell sea salt in her hair.