Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I love all three versions!
Of course, nothing illustrates better the desperate shortages of the Red Army in men, rifles and ammunition, than the one-man firing squad! (sorry for the irony!)
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It Ended in Moscow
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Of course, nothing illustrates better the desperate shortages of the Red Army in men, rifles and ammunition, than the one-man firing squad! (sorry for the irony!)
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 07
Hotel Metropol, Moscow, Russia, 11 pm Wednesday, 3rd January, 1940.
"Oh fuck, Barb. That's good ... so good …"
Fräulein Mohr’s mouth left Henry’s hard shaft long enough for her to shoot him a grin. His slender frame was so sexy, and despite their recent lovemaking, she still wasn't satisfied. It had been so long since anyone had touched her tenderly, even when she became the concubine for Oleg Vladimirovich, he had only wanted it hard and rough, brutally so at times.
Although Barbara’s lover had told her that they needed rest, she had other ideas. Who needed rest when another orgasm was just a touch or two away?
The chartered flight over to Moscow had felt like déjà vu, and she and Henry had been a lot more wary on this occasion than the last. However, when they landed, they had been allocated a room at the Moscow Metropol, a renown ‘Red’ hotel – weren’t they all in Moscow? And so, Barb and her lover, even knowing that there were guards outside their room, had relaxed, recuperated and then fucked the insides out of one another.
Maybe this time would be different?
His moans sent warm sensations through her, like little explosions, and with a sigh, Barbara returned to her work, as her bobbing head fell into a rhythm.
Taking just his crown in her mouth, Henry could see that his girl was as turned on from this as much as he was, and that fact manifested itself when her right hand snaked between her own legs, one finger, then a second, sliding inside her dripping slit.
"Nghhhhhh fuckkkkkk, Henry baby!!!" She came as she curled her touch, stretching her soft folds and pressing hard against her clit.
Barbara’s mouth left his cock as she shuddered, but when Henry attempted to pull her upwards towards his mouth, she was having none of it. Not until she had milked him of his seed once more, and so she jammed her mouth back on him again, feeling his shaft throb and swell.
Three deep throats took him to where she wanted him and, once she was sure she had reached her goal, she gave a final long, hard suck, before flopping flat onto her stomach looking up at her ardent lover, so that he knew to fire upwards into her mouth, erupting like a fire hose.
Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre, Moscow, Soviet Union, 11:30 am Thursday, 4th January, 1940.
"Ma'am, can you please remove your jacket?" Barbara turned and smiled at the young Russian guard whose English was excellent, and it was the first time that anyone had addressed her so politely for a long time.
Barbara and Henry had been transported from the Metropol Hotel to the Lubyanka Detention Centre following a light breakfast and they were to be prepared for ‘questioning’.
The request to remove her jacket, however, was a little unnerving given that she and Henry were here to be ‘interviewed’ at the pleasure of the Vozhd himself, and on the promise of being treated well.
Left with little choice, and with Henry watching just a few feet away, Barbara unbuttoned her jacket, took it off and handed it to the guard.
It was surprisingly chilly in the small cell like interview room, and as she stood in her short-sleeve blouse, goosebumps formed on her arms. In addition, she was not wearing a bra, the Russians had not provided one, and with the air being so frigid, the outline of her nipples was clearly visible through the thin material.
“Hands flat against the wall please ma’am,” he now instructed.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Henry sounded more than a little disconcerted, but the Mosin–Nagant Carbine rifle that suddenly appeared in front of him, stopped any protests from developing further.
“We must do a weapons search on both of you, but the girl is first.”
“Weapons? Where do think I got a weapon from? Maybe I have a particular sharp hat pin inside my panties?” Barbara’s sass was not going to get her an easier time, and that much was proven when the boy-man guard pushed her into position, pulled out her ass via her hips and kicked her feet apart.
“Owwww, fuck!” Barbara moaned, and so he kicked her ankles again, widening her stance even more, such that the material of her skirt began to tighten and ride higher on her legs. The young guard smirked, and then he moved to stand beside the prostrated girl, whose head hung down now between her shoulders.
His smile widened as he looked directly into the gaping neck of her blouse, with Barbara’s pendulous breasts and hardened nipples on clear display to him. Henry could see this, and it filled him with jealousy, anger, and a desire to protect, but he was in no position to do anything about it.
The guard reached out to feel along the length of Barbara’s arms, even her bare skin, and then he came to her chest, whereupon, with a smirk he took his time, pressing the thin fabric of her blouse to the bare skin of her breasts underneath, cupping, feeling, fondling and Barbara found it hard to supress an unwitting moan.
Henry could see how Barb held her breath only to release it when the guard moved to her ass, where he proceeded to feel every perfectly peachy inch over the tight skirt, before bending to reach her bare legs at the knee.
Slowly he moved upwards, under the fabric and Barbara’s eyes closed as he went higher and higher, taking the skirt with him, until … he stood, shaking his head.
"Ma'am your skirt is preventing me from doing an adequate frisk for weapons. I would like to rearrange it to prevent it from interfering."
“Are you really asking me?” Barbara responded. He wasn’t, of course, and he grasped the bottom of her skirt with both hands, quickly pulling it up to bunch at her waist, exposing her ass in a pair of very large undignified white Russian cotton panties.
She did not move an inch despite knowing that the left side gusset of the panties had ridden up into her ass, exposing most of the left cheek.
The guard squatted down, and encircled her right leg with both hands before bringing them up together, travelling slowly up her limb, past her knee, and then onto Barbara’s thigh. She shuddered slightly as the edge of his hand brushed her cotton covered mound, and he repeated the exact process on her left leg, before pulling her skirt back down.
"You can stand up straight, ma'am," he told her, and then handed her back her jacket.
Barbara took the garment and slipped it back on as she watched Henry now take his turn before being led away for separate questioning.
That same small cell in the presence of Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, NKVD, Moscow, 1 pm Thursday, 4th January, 1940
“But where are my manners?” the Commissar said. “Sit down, Fräulein, sit down. Are those handcuffs really necessary, boy?” he turned to the young guard, his words more of a command than a question.
“I was only following orders, Comrade Commissar,” he responded.
“Hmm. We are surrounded by paranoia. But sit down anyway, Fräulein.”
Barbara sank on to the chair. The guard took up a position behind her.
“And while you are here,” the Commissar continued, “I am your friend. Remember this.”
“I will,” Barbara said. Popov smiled at her. “But you must only speak when you are asked a question. It is a rule, do you understand.”
“Yes, comrade. Ohhh!” A sharp pain had entered Barbara’s shoulder and raced down her arm. She twisted her head and gazed at the boy-man guard’s cold face, and at the small, wand-like cattle prod he carried; she had not noticed it before.
“It’s the rule,” Popov reminded her. “Now let us see.” He opened his briefcase and took out a file, then spread this out front of her.
“Your name is Fräulein Barbara Mohr. May I call you Barbara?”
This was definitely a question. “Yes, Comrade Commissar.” Barbara’s voice was low; her arm and shoulder still ached.
“Any attempt to try and escape or be otherwise obstructive, would be very counter-productive. For two reasons. One is that if you look up at the top of that wall you will observe a little box. That is a camera that is filming your every moment in here. The moment I give the signal, this room will become filled with men, do I need to spell out what will happen then?”
“N…no Comrade,” Barbara stuttered her reply. She knew only too well what would happen.
“And the other reason, of course, is that if you prove to be difficult, you would make me your enemy instead of your friend, and I really want to be your friend. Don’t you want me to be your friend, Barbara?”
“Yes, comrade.”
“Good, that makes me so happy. Well, boy, as our guest understands the rules quite clearly, I think you can take off the handcuffs … please.”
The key clicked, and the handcuffs were removed. Barbara rubbed her wrists together, wincing with pain at the returning circulation.
“Now,” Popov said. “I would like you to take off your clothes.”
Barbara’s head jerked, and Popov smiled at her. “I want to look at you. I do like looking at pretty things, and you are exceptionally pretty.”
Barbara could not stop herself looking up at the cameras.
“Oh, they like looking at pretty things too,” Popov agreed. “… and those poor men, get so few pleasures.”
Barbara sighed, stood up, and removed her skirt, then hesitated.
“Everything,” Popov reminded her.
With closed eyes and a heavy sigh. Barbara removed her blouse, unable to cover her exposed breasts when she was also called upon to slide down the oversize, cotton knickers that she had been forced to wear. Kicking off her shoes she stood, now able to cast one arm over her breasts and a hand over her exposed pussy.
“Exquisite,” Popov agreed. “Please retake your seat, and we can begin.”
Barbara sat nervously down, arm still over her breasts, thighs squeezed tightly together, and the Commissar smiled.
“Okay and so now we will play a little game Fräulein. I will ask you about the information you state that you have and every time you tell me something useful that I believe to be true then you get an item of clothing to put back on, but whenever you refuse to answer a question or I think that you’re lying to me then you will take an item off …”
Barbara looked at him and felt compelled to ask. “But what if I am naked already and you think I am lying?”
Popov grinned and said, “Then Fräulein, that is why my guard carries the electric shock prod with him …”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 2pm Thursday 4th January 1940
“Vyach my dear man.”
“Joachim, come in, come in.”
The German Foreign Affairs Minister, Joachim Von Ribbentrop, was welcomed into his Soviet counterpart’s office.
“It’s good to see you,” the Russian Commissar said, pouring two glasses of Stolichnaya and handing one to Ribbentrop.
“Thank you my friend, we have much to discuss.”
“We do indeed. Trade between our two countries is booming and now we have Poland to discuss, but first let’s eat.”
While Ribbentrop and Molotov enjoyed fine wines and the best Russian food, the German minister’s personal guard, a small team of highly trained SS Brandenburger Kommando’s, were bedding down per prior diplomatic arrangement in their allocated billets in the Lubyanka prison block.
TBC
Hotel Metropol, Moscow, Russia, 11 pm Wednesday, 3rd January, 1940.
"Oh fuck, Barb. That's good ... so good …"
Fräulein Mohr’s mouth left Henry’s hard shaft long enough for her to shoot him a grin. His slender frame was so sexy, and despite their recent lovemaking, she still wasn't satisfied. It had been so long since anyone had touched her tenderly, even when she became the concubine for Oleg Vladimirovich, he had only wanted it hard and rough, brutally so at times.
Although Barbara’s lover had told her that they needed rest, she had other ideas. Who needed rest when another orgasm was just a touch or two away?
The chartered flight over to Moscow had felt like déjà vu, and she and Henry had been a lot more wary on this occasion than the last. However, when they landed, they had been allocated a room at the Moscow Metropol, a renown ‘Red’ hotel – weren’t they all in Moscow? And so, Barb and her lover, even knowing that there were guards outside their room, had relaxed, recuperated and then fucked the insides out of one another.
Maybe this time would be different?
His moans sent warm sensations through her, like little explosions, and with a sigh, Barbara returned to her work, as her bobbing head fell into a rhythm.
Taking just his crown in her mouth, Henry could see that his girl was as turned on from this as much as he was, and that fact manifested itself when her right hand snaked between her own legs, one finger, then a second, sliding inside her dripping slit.
"Nghhhhhh fuckkkkkk, Henry baby!!!" She came as she curled her touch, stretching her soft folds and pressing hard against her clit.
Barbara’s mouth left his cock as she shuddered, but when Henry attempted to pull her upwards towards his mouth, she was having none of it. Not until she had milked him of his seed once more, and so she jammed her mouth back on him again, feeling his shaft throb and swell.
Three deep throats took him to where she wanted him and, once she was sure she had reached her goal, she gave a final long, hard suck, before flopping flat onto her stomach looking up at her ardent lover, so that he knew to fire upwards into her mouth, erupting like a fire hose.
Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre, Moscow, Soviet Union, 11:30 am Thursday, 4th January, 1940.
"Ma'am, can you please remove your jacket?" Barbara turned and smiled at the young Russian guard whose English was excellent, and it was the first time that anyone had addressed her so politely for a long time.
Barbara and Henry had been transported from the Metropol Hotel to the Lubyanka Detention Centre following a light breakfast and they were to be prepared for ‘questioning’.
The request to remove her jacket, however, was a little unnerving given that she and Henry were here to be ‘interviewed’ at the pleasure of the Vozhd himself, and on the promise of being treated well.
Left with little choice, and with Henry watching just a few feet away, Barbara unbuttoned her jacket, took it off and handed it to the guard.
It was surprisingly chilly in the small cell like interview room, and as she stood in her short-sleeve blouse, goosebumps formed on her arms. In addition, she was not wearing a bra, the Russians had not provided one, and with the air being so frigid, the outline of her nipples was clearly visible through the thin material.
“Hands flat against the wall please ma’am,” he now instructed.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Henry sounded more than a little disconcerted, but the Mosin–Nagant Carbine rifle that suddenly appeared in front of him, stopped any protests from developing further.
“We must do a weapons search on both of you, but the girl is first.”
“Weapons? Where do think I got a weapon from? Maybe I have a particular sharp hat pin inside my panties?” Barbara’s sass was not going to get her an easier time, and that much was proven when the boy-man guard pushed her into position, pulled out her ass via her hips and kicked her feet apart.
“Owwww, fuck!” Barbara moaned, and so he kicked her ankles again, widening her stance even more, such that the material of her skirt began to tighten and ride higher on her legs. The young guard smirked, and then he moved to stand beside the prostrated girl, whose head hung down now between her shoulders.
His smile widened as he looked directly into the gaping neck of her blouse, with Barbara’s pendulous breasts and hardened nipples on clear display to him. Henry could see this, and it filled him with jealousy, anger, and a desire to protect, but he was in no position to do anything about it.
The guard reached out to feel along the length of Barbara’s arms, even her bare skin, and then he came to her chest, whereupon, with a smirk he took his time, pressing the thin fabric of her blouse to the bare skin of her breasts underneath, cupping, feeling, fondling and Barbara found it hard to supress an unwitting moan.
Henry could see how Barb held her breath only to release it when the guard moved to her ass, where he proceeded to feel every perfectly peachy inch over the tight skirt, before bending to reach her bare legs at the knee.
Slowly he moved upwards, under the fabric and Barbara’s eyes closed as he went higher and higher, taking the skirt with him, until … he stood, shaking his head.
"Ma'am your skirt is preventing me from doing an adequate frisk for weapons. I would like to rearrange it to prevent it from interfering."
“Are you really asking me?” Barbara responded. He wasn’t, of course, and he grasped the bottom of her skirt with both hands, quickly pulling it up to bunch at her waist, exposing her ass in a pair of very large undignified white Russian cotton panties.
She did not move an inch despite knowing that the left side gusset of the panties had ridden up into her ass, exposing most of the left cheek.
The guard squatted down, and encircled her right leg with both hands before bringing them up together, travelling slowly up her limb, past her knee, and then onto Barbara’s thigh. She shuddered slightly as the edge of his hand brushed her cotton covered mound, and he repeated the exact process on her left leg, before pulling her skirt back down.
"You can stand up straight, ma'am," he told her, and then handed her back her jacket.
Barbara took the garment and slipped it back on as she watched Henry now take his turn before being led away for separate questioning.
That same small cell in the presence of Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, NKVD, Moscow, 1 pm Thursday, 4th January, 1940
“But where are my manners?” the Commissar said. “Sit down, Fräulein, sit down. Are those handcuffs really necessary, boy?” he turned to the young guard, his words more of a command than a question.
“I was only following orders, Comrade Commissar,” he responded.
“Hmm. We are surrounded by paranoia. But sit down anyway, Fräulein.”
Barbara sank on to the chair. The guard took up a position behind her.
“And while you are here,” the Commissar continued, “I am your friend. Remember this.”
“I will,” Barbara said. Popov smiled at her. “But you must only speak when you are asked a question. It is a rule, do you understand.”
“Yes, comrade. Ohhh!” A sharp pain had entered Barbara’s shoulder and raced down her arm. She twisted her head and gazed at the boy-man guard’s cold face, and at the small, wand-like cattle prod he carried; she had not noticed it before.
“It’s the rule,” Popov reminded her. “Now let us see.” He opened his briefcase and took out a file, then spread this out front of her.
“Your name is Fräulein Barbara Mohr. May I call you Barbara?”
This was definitely a question. “Yes, Comrade Commissar.” Barbara’s voice was low; her arm and shoulder still ached.
“Any attempt to try and escape or be otherwise obstructive, would be very counter-productive. For two reasons. One is that if you look up at the top of that wall you will observe a little box. That is a camera that is filming your every moment in here. The moment I give the signal, this room will become filled with men, do I need to spell out what will happen then?”
“N…no Comrade,” Barbara stuttered her reply. She knew only too well what would happen.
“And the other reason, of course, is that if you prove to be difficult, you would make me your enemy instead of your friend, and I really want to be your friend. Don’t you want me to be your friend, Barbara?”
“Yes, comrade.”
“Good, that makes me so happy. Well, boy, as our guest understands the rules quite clearly, I think you can take off the handcuffs … please.”
The key clicked, and the handcuffs were removed. Barbara rubbed her wrists together, wincing with pain at the returning circulation.
“Now,” Popov said. “I would like you to take off your clothes.”
Barbara’s head jerked, and Popov smiled at her. “I want to look at you. I do like looking at pretty things, and you are exceptionally pretty.”
Barbara could not stop herself looking up at the cameras.
“Oh, they like looking at pretty things too,” Popov agreed. “… and those poor men, get so few pleasures.”
Barbara sighed, stood up, and removed her skirt, then hesitated.
“Everything,” Popov reminded her.
With closed eyes and a heavy sigh. Barbara removed her blouse, unable to cover her exposed breasts when she was also called upon to slide down the oversize, cotton knickers that she had been forced to wear. Kicking off her shoes she stood, now able to cast one arm over her breasts and a hand over her exposed pussy.
“Exquisite,” Popov agreed. “Please retake your seat, and we can begin.”
Barbara sat nervously down, arm still over her breasts, thighs squeezed tightly together, and the Commissar smiled.
“Okay and so now we will play a little game Fräulein. I will ask you about the information you state that you have and every time you tell me something useful that I believe to be true then you get an item of clothing to put back on, but whenever you refuse to answer a question or I think that you’re lying to me then you will take an item off …”
Barbara looked at him and felt compelled to ask. “But what if I am naked already and you think I am lying?”
Popov grinned and said, “Then Fräulein, that is why my guard carries the electric shock prod with him …”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 2pm Thursday 4th January 1940
“Vyach my dear man.”
“Joachim, come in, come in.”
The German Foreign Affairs Minister, Joachim Von Ribbentrop, was welcomed into his Soviet counterpart’s office.
“It’s good to see you,” the Russian Commissar said, pouring two glasses of Stolichnaya and handing one to Ribbentrop.
“Thank you my friend, we have much to discuss.”
“We do indeed. Trade between our two countries is booming and now we have Poland to discuss, but first let’s eat.”
While Ribbentrop and Molotov enjoyed fine wines and the best Russian food, the German minister’s personal guard, a small team of highly trained SS Brandenburger Kommando’s, were bedding down per prior diplomatic arrangement in their allocated billets in the Lubyanka prison block.
TBC
twonines
LIMERICUS
A chance to become familiar with the sjambok?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
This country is at war, remember! It needs all resources for its defence! So, stop complaining about not having been provided such a tiny piece of cloth, of which the materials and workpower to produce it, could be much more useful for the war!
Funny game! This man has a career!
Oooh, that’s very fine, i still prefer @settantuno ’s original best. But I also feel this is a great use of AI, I’m using @tinaslut ’s chatbot AI to inspire writing, it’s been a pretty good tool or muse for that. You only get out what you put into it. Kicking off with a great sketch or detailed story plan makes for a far more engaging result..
Chapter 08
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 8 am, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Good of you to come on such short notice and this early in the morning, Ribbentrop. Please come in and take a seat.”
“Thank you. Am I correct in surmising that you wish to continue the productive discussion we were having yesterday on ways to increase friendship and cooperation between our two countries?”
“Yes, that. But a more pressing and delicate matter first.”
“I’m listening.” said the German Reichsminister of Foreign Affairs, crossing his legs as he settled in his seat and struck his practiced unruffled aristocrat pose.
“As you know, our NKVD has in its possession two spies we apprehended and spirited out of Berlin back in October.”
“Yes, the German government is well aware of the fact that your government has in custody Fräulein Barbara Mohr, daughter of the Hamburg industrialist, Joachim Mohr, and fugitive of the law in Germany for the crimes of espionage and treason. And as I informed you yesterday, when this matter came up in our discussions, the German government expects under the protocols of the present pact between our countries that we be given access to her. Indeed, I have brought with me to Moscow, again as you already know, an extra detachment of my own personal guard for the purpose of interrogating her. I expect that my men have been appropriately accommodated over the past night at your Lubyanka facility and that they are being granted access to Fräulein Mohr this morning, as agreed. Please do not tell me, my dear Molotov, that this meeting is to inform that this is not so!”
“I’m sorry, but I must inform you, Joachim, that this has turned out to be a rather delicate matter. A matter that Comrade Stalin, himself, takes a personal interest in. And during the past night, he has informed me of his intention to place certain restrictions on your access to Fräulein Mohr.”
“But we had an agreement!”
“Wait. Remain calm, and hear me out.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your Fräulein Mohr has said to us that she has knowledge of matters absolutely critical to the security of the Soviet Union. But she has not yet divulged, in any convincing manner, the full details of these claimed secrets, even under intense interrogation. And until she does, she must remain a closely guarded NKVD intelligence asset. Therefore Comrade Stalin has ordered that any access, granted to you or your people, must be closely monitored and supervised by our Lubyanka interrogators.”
“But …”
“Please allow me to continue. She will be made available at the Lubyanka for questioning by your people, as promised. We are not reneging on that arrangement. But everything your people might wish to ask of her and any means utilized to force answers from her must be approved beforehand and closely monitored. Commissar Popov and his NKVD team have been assigned to see that these instructions are set and scrupulously obeyed.
“I see …”
“But there’s another related matter I must apprise you of as well. This concerns her co-spy, who insists that he is a German with the name Heinrich Unterholz. We know that he is in fact a British agent, whose real name is Henry Underwood.”
“That’s not news! Our own security service, the SD, is already well aware of that.”
“Quite, but given the current European diplomatic situation, in which the Soviet Union maintains good relations with your enemies, including the British, Comrade Stalin has decided, as a diplomatic goodwill gesture, to send Underwood back to London … immediately. He’s to be put on an Aeroflot flight to Stockholm this very afternoon, in fact, and handed over to the Swedish authorities there.”
“I see. And I assume these arrangements with regard to Underwood are non-negotiable?”
“Yes, given that Stalin holds all the cards in this matter. I would say so. Now, with regard to Fräulein Mohr, he’s ordered that she be turned over to your people, under these arrangements, for questioning today. In fact, within the hour. Now … shall we turn our meeting over to discussions of other matters?”
“Of course.”
Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service, Stockholm, Sweden, 9 am, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Karl! This just in. Better take it straight in to Chief Hallgren,” said the desk officer, holding out a decoded message.
“What is it?”
“Seems the Russians are expelling a British spy through Stockholm. Our agent in Moscow says he’ll be on today’s Aeroflot flight into Bromma field. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Chief sends us out there to intercept and bring him in.”
“Right, I can well imagine the Chief wanting the British to have to come to us to get their man. And not before we’ve had a chance to find out what he knows.”
A Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre cell, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10 am, Friday, 5th January, 1940.
Barbara sat, knees brought up tight under her chin, at the rear of the narrow holding cell she occupied. She was naked and cold, an iron collar and chain secured her to the wall behind her. She’d been there since the early hours after midnight. They’d come in to bring her a watery bowl of soup earlier that morning, but since then she’d been left alone.
She’d surmised that the narrow horizontal window at the very top of the wall over her head suggested that her cell was just below ground level, and the early morning gunshots she’d heard through that window told her it was located on one of the Lubyanka’s inner courtyards to which prisoners were taken out at dawn to be executed … which was unsettling to say the least.
The previous day’s interrogation session with Commisar Popov had not gone at all as she’d expected. She’d assumed that the intelligence she possessed on German weaponry and hostile intentions would have been finally and thankfully accepted. She’d not been prepared for being stripped naked and subjected to a brutal interrogation. Moreover, she’d not expected to be subjected to Popov’s ‘you tell me something I want to hear and I may not hurt you’ approach. Thinking back now on the way he had cruelly tormented she and Henry in that wooded clearing outside of Berlin back in October, she should have known better! Popov could be sadistically cruel.
Consequently, for better or worse, thinking survival might ultimately depend on it, she chose … despite the pain Popov would inflict on her … to dribble out information as slowly as possible and to withhold key facts and sources. She’d suffered terribly for daring to do that during the long interrogation session the previous day, but because of it she was still alive this morning, and she hoped that Henry was too.
Those thoughts abruptly vanished to be replaced by a renewed sense of fear as keys were inserted and the steel door of her cell swung open. It was Popov, backed by two of his NKVD thugs.
“Guten Morgen, Fräulein Mohr!” He boomed in his heavily accented German. “I have good news. You have guests come to see you this morning. All the way from das Vaterland!”
She looked at him blankly and said nothing.
He signaled to his men, who promptly removed her collar. And taking an arm each, dragged her out from the cell and down the corridor to an interrogation room. There she was forced to sit on a metal chair, and subjected to being wired, at nipples and clitoris, to a dynamo-electric device.
“Willkommen meine Herren,” breathed Popov to the three men then escorted into the room, his look of absolute disdain belying the courteousness of the greeting. “She’s yours to question and shock, but know that I will line listening to your questions critically and will stop you should I disapprove, and any application of electrical shock must also meet my approval. You may begin when ready. I will listen and observe.”
SS-Standarten Führer Berger exchanged nervous glances with the two younger members of his SS Brandenburger Kommando Special detachment accompanying him into this potentially perilous situation. Under the circumstances, their orders to abduct and liquidate Barbara Mohr seemed utterly impossible, not to mention suicidal. They’d already been forced to surrender their sidearms, and the place was crawling with NKVD security personnel.
Under his breath, Berger cursed all high-ranking Nazi fools like Von Ribbentrop, while thoughtfully fingering the poison capsule resting deep in his uniform jacket pocket. His only chance, he reasoned, was to find some way to force her to bite and swallow it, and then leave … a virtually impossible thing to do.
Barbara, for her part, eyed the SS men with unease. The very last thing she needed were SS torturers! It appeared that her already nearly hopeless plight was about to get far worse.
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 9 am, Friday, 5th January 1940.
Major Laurence Grand looked up with a start. For standing unannounced before his desk until that moment was his secretary.
“Yes, Mrs. Greene, what is it?” He snapped irritably. The woman had an unsettling ability to sneak up on him.
“A message received this morning by the communications section,” she responded matter of factly while tossing it on his desk. “I suggest you read it!”
He unfolded the paper, and as he read his expression changed from one of irritation to elation. For the message said that the Russians had released Underwood and were sending him home. He’d be on today’s Aeroflot flight into Stockholm.
Knowing all too well that Hallgren, the Chief of the Swedish security service would undoubtedly know of this too, Grand asked Mrs Greene, who was still standing there, to put in a call to Stockholm.
TBC
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 8 am, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Good of you to come on such short notice and this early in the morning, Ribbentrop. Please come in and take a seat.”
“Thank you. Am I correct in surmising that you wish to continue the productive discussion we were having yesterday on ways to increase friendship and cooperation between our two countries?”
“Yes, that. But a more pressing and delicate matter first.”
“I’m listening.” said the German Reichsminister of Foreign Affairs, crossing his legs as he settled in his seat and struck his practiced unruffled aristocrat pose.
“As you know, our NKVD has in its possession two spies we apprehended and spirited out of Berlin back in October.”
“Yes, the German government is well aware of the fact that your government has in custody Fräulein Barbara Mohr, daughter of the Hamburg industrialist, Joachim Mohr, and fugitive of the law in Germany for the crimes of espionage and treason. And as I informed you yesterday, when this matter came up in our discussions, the German government expects under the protocols of the present pact between our countries that we be given access to her. Indeed, I have brought with me to Moscow, again as you already know, an extra detachment of my own personal guard for the purpose of interrogating her. I expect that my men have been appropriately accommodated over the past night at your Lubyanka facility and that they are being granted access to Fräulein Mohr this morning, as agreed. Please do not tell me, my dear Molotov, that this meeting is to inform that this is not so!”
“I’m sorry, but I must inform you, Joachim, that this has turned out to be a rather delicate matter. A matter that Comrade Stalin, himself, takes a personal interest in. And during the past night, he has informed me of his intention to place certain restrictions on your access to Fräulein Mohr.”
“But we had an agreement!”
“Wait. Remain calm, and hear me out.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your Fräulein Mohr has said to us that she has knowledge of matters absolutely critical to the security of the Soviet Union. But she has not yet divulged, in any convincing manner, the full details of these claimed secrets, even under intense interrogation. And until she does, she must remain a closely guarded NKVD intelligence asset. Therefore Comrade Stalin has ordered that any access, granted to you or your people, must be closely monitored and supervised by our Lubyanka interrogators.”
“But …”
“Please allow me to continue. She will be made available at the Lubyanka for questioning by your people, as promised. We are not reneging on that arrangement. But everything your people might wish to ask of her and any means utilized to force answers from her must be approved beforehand and closely monitored. Commissar Popov and his NKVD team have been assigned to see that these instructions are set and scrupulously obeyed.
“I see …”
“But there’s another related matter I must apprise you of as well. This concerns her co-spy, who insists that he is a German with the name Heinrich Unterholz. We know that he is in fact a British agent, whose real name is Henry Underwood.”
“That’s not news! Our own security service, the SD, is already well aware of that.”
“Quite, but given the current European diplomatic situation, in which the Soviet Union maintains good relations with your enemies, including the British, Comrade Stalin has decided, as a diplomatic goodwill gesture, to send Underwood back to London … immediately. He’s to be put on an Aeroflot flight to Stockholm this very afternoon, in fact, and handed over to the Swedish authorities there.”
“I see. And I assume these arrangements with regard to Underwood are non-negotiable?”
“Yes, given that Stalin holds all the cards in this matter. I would say so. Now, with regard to Fräulein Mohr, he’s ordered that she be turned over to your people, under these arrangements, for questioning today. In fact, within the hour. Now … shall we turn our meeting over to discussions of other matters?”
“Of course.”
Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service, Stockholm, Sweden, 9 am, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Karl! This just in. Better take it straight in to Chief Hallgren,” said the desk officer, holding out a decoded message.
“What is it?”
“Seems the Russians are expelling a British spy through Stockholm. Our agent in Moscow says he’ll be on today’s Aeroflot flight into Bromma field. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Chief sends us out there to intercept and bring him in.”
“Right, I can well imagine the Chief wanting the British to have to come to us to get their man. And not before we’ve had a chance to find out what he knows.”
A Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre cell, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10 am, Friday, 5th January, 1940.
Barbara sat, knees brought up tight under her chin, at the rear of the narrow holding cell she occupied. She was naked and cold, an iron collar and chain secured her to the wall behind her. She’d been there since the early hours after midnight. They’d come in to bring her a watery bowl of soup earlier that morning, but since then she’d been left alone.
She’d surmised that the narrow horizontal window at the very top of the wall over her head suggested that her cell was just below ground level, and the early morning gunshots she’d heard through that window told her it was located on one of the Lubyanka’s inner courtyards to which prisoners were taken out at dawn to be executed … which was unsettling to say the least.
The previous day’s interrogation session with Commisar Popov had not gone at all as she’d expected. She’d assumed that the intelligence she possessed on German weaponry and hostile intentions would have been finally and thankfully accepted. She’d not been prepared for being stripped naked and subjected to a brutal interrogation. Moreover, she’d not expected to be subjected to Popov’s ‘you tell me something I want to hear and I may not hurt you’ approach. Thinking back now on the way he had cruelly tormented she and Henry in that wooded clearing outside of Berlin back in October, she should have known better! Popov could be sadistically cruel.
Consequently, for better or worse, thinking survival might ultimately depend on it, she chose … despite the pain Popov would inflict on her … to dribble out information as slowly as possible and to withhold key facts and sources. She’d suffered terribly for daring to do that during the long interrogation session the previous day, but because of it she was still alive this morning, and she hoped that Henry was too.
Those thoughts abruptly vanished to be replaced by a renewed sense of fear as keys were inserted and the steel door of her cell swung open. It was Popov, backed by two of his NKVD thugs.
“Guten Morgen, Fräulein Mohr!” He boomed in his heavily accented German. “I have good news. You have guests come to see you this morning. All the way from das Vaterland!”
She looked at him blankly and said nothing.
He signaled to his men, who promptly removed her collar. And taking an arm each, dragged her out from the cell and down the corridor to an interrogation room. There she was forced to sit on a metal chair, and subjected to being wired, at nipples and clitoris, to a dynamo-electric device.
“Willkommen meine Herren,” breathed Popov to the three men then escorted into the room, his look of absolute disdain belying the courteousness of the greeting. “She’s yours to question and shock, but know that I will line listening to your questions critically and will stop you should I disapprove, and any application of electrical shock must also meet my approval. You may begin when ready. I will listen and observe.”
SS-Standarten Führer Berger exchanged nervous glances with the two younger members of his SS Brandenburger Kommando Special detachment accompanying him into this potentially perilous situation. Under the circumstances, their orders to abduct and liquidate Barbara Mohr seemed utterly impossible, not to mention suicidal. They’d already been forced to surrender their sidearms, and the place was crawling with NKVD security personnel.
Under his breath, Berger cursed all high-ranking Nazi fools like Von Ribbentrop, while thoughtfully fingering the poison capsule resting deep in his uniform jacket pocket. His only chance, he reasoned, was to find some way to force her to bite and swallow it, and then leave … a virtually impossible thing to do.
Barbara, for her part, eyed the SS men with unease. The very last thing she needed were SS torturers! It appeared that her already nearly hopeless plight was about to get far worse.
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 9 am, Friday, 5th January 1940.
Major Laurence Grand looked up with a start. For standing unannounced before his desk until that moment was his secretary.
“Yes, Mrs. Greene, what is it?” He snapped irritably. The woman had an unsettling ability to sneak up on him.
“A message received this morning by the communications section,” she responded matter of factly while tossing it on his desk. “I suggest you read it!”
He unfolded the paper, and as he read his expression changed from one of irritation to elation. For the message said that the Russians had released Underwood and were sending him home. He’d be on today’s Aeroflot flight into Stockholm.
Knowing all too well that Hallgren, the Chief of the Swedish security service would undoubtedly know of this too, Grand asked Mrs Greene, who was still standing there, to put in a call to Stockholm.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
And he should be called "von Ribbentrop"!
Yes! A mission impossible! Barb's abhorrence for swallowing is legendary!
I’ve been thinking @Barbaria1 should consider a new outfit for her current job working as a double agent- cut out the middleman, Barb, just wear handcuffs behind your back and stay nude because it’s going to happen in the next five minutes anyway? How does a feisty youngster who dresses so immodestly in the 1940s manage to fall afoul of the Soviets (twice) the Finns AND the Nazis by only chapter 8? I doubt if she should make it back to England that Winston Churchill himself won’t order her naked interrogation in bondage as well..,
And I see old Flashy Underwood is returning to the safety of old blighty now
Is the revised title now “Flashman knocked out of the Great Game?”
And I see old Flashy Underwood is returning to the safety of old blighty now
Is the revised title now “Flashman knocked out of the Great Game?”
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Not that safe! He probably has to explain a few of his moves against his orders, during his assignment in Berlin!
And the Swedes are getting involved now too!
Kathy
Terra Nova Tramp
Of course they are. We wouldn’t want to leave anyone out now, would we?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Especially considering the particular affection, Barbara Moore has for Sweden!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Stalin, Ribbentrop, Molotov, Churchill, Heydrich, Himmler,....That Stalin chappie can be so unreasonable.
Barb cannot complain, she does not get the attention of all those bigwigs!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 09
A Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre cell, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10:30 am, Friday, 5th January, 1940.
SS-Standarten Führer Berger exhaled a heavy sigh. This was a nothing of a mission in his eyes. This wretched little Fräulein was of no use to anyone, and she had clearly suffered enough. As he looked at the girl, bound to the chair, her breasts and genitals wired to the dynamo, he felt a pang of unidentified emotion.
In a different life, seeing her in the Hofbräuhaus in München he would have approached her and used his charm to woo her. But these were not those times, and here she was naked and vulnerable and about to be tortured under his instruction. Berger was angry - he was a Brandenburger Kommando, not a fucking SS lapdog.
His orders were not to question her but to find her and kill her. Once more he fingered the cyanide capsule in his pocket, before addressing the trembling girl tied to the chair.
"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked, his voice thick with the need to delay the inevitable useless torture, his question motivated by the fact that any retching that the torture induces will be way more messy with a full stomach.
"No,” Barb replied with a weary lament.
Berger nodded and then spoke.
"The man you were captured with is not your compatriot, he is a British spy. Are your loyalties with the British?"
Barb watched his face, then replied, " It would seem you have more information than I do."
"Such a pretty girl!" Berger said as he traced her cheek with his leather gloved finger. "Are you a good spy Fräulein Mohr? Loyal, brave? Do you follow orders well, pretty girl?"
The question was a taunt and Barbara kept her tongue still as the SS-Standarten pressed his hand into her upper thigh.
"You can see that my choices are very limited Fräulein Mohr. A good girl would get her rewards at this stage,” then he paused before whispering into her ear, “… but you are not answering my questions."
“You have not asked me any, instead you try to tell me what I am.”
He straightened up and slapped Barb’s face sending her head spinning to one side, unfettered hair flying in its wake. Popov made as if to intervene and then thought better of it.
"What lies did you tell Commissar Popov about the intentions of his German Allies?” His voice got harder, despite the fact that in his own head he didn’t care one little bit what this slip of a girl might or might not have said. The Nazi war machine would roll on regardless.
"I am not on a spying mission. I was sent to live in Britain by Herr Himmler himself, who is a friend of my father’s. My mission for the Reich Commissioner, is to befriend the Allied Command, as high up as possible, and feed secrets back to the Fatherland. I was caught and arrested trying to get secretly back into Germany.”
"And you were with the man, why?”
“He is my lover. That is all, and he was accompanying me because he too has National Socialist sympathies. Please, you must believe me.”
“So, you were not here to share Nazi Command secrets with our Soviet friends?”
“I should not be here at all, SS-Standarten, I should be at my father’s home enjoying his hospitality.
Barbara looked down, refusing to answer and so Berger slapped her face again.
“You are telling me a confusing story Fräulein Mohr. I don’t know if you’re a brave compatriot or a treacherous traitor.”
Which is why I should simply be ending your life pretty girl, Berger thought to himself. He nodded at Popov who began to wind the handle on the dynamo.
Barbara stiffened and screamed as the electricity shocked her body into a rigid state.
“Higher …” Berger said. Popov nodded and the poor girl’s mouth opened as if to scream but no sound came out.
“More …” the SS-Standarten requested, and as Barbara’s body left the chair behind and arched as fully as the rope holding her wrists and ankles would allow, Berger knew that the next voltage increase would kill her. But he couldn’t do it like this, and nor would Popov let him. If only he could get the cyanide into her mouth then it would look like she had the tablet there all of the time, and had committed suicide, thereby conveniently confirming her status as a traitor.
Unseen by anyone Berger slipped the tablet under his own tongue and approached the virtually lifeless girl. Grabbing her hair he forced her head backwards, stretching her neck as his lips sealed over hers, feigning the lust fuelled passion in the kiss, and in so doing the noxious tablet was passed from his mouth into hers.
Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service (SGSS), Stockholm, Sweden, 2 pm, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Explain that again to me please.” Chief Anders Hallgren poured another small measure of Schnapps into Henry Underwood’s glass as the British Secret Service Agent continued to revitalise himself.
“Yes Henry, do please explain that again,” Laurence Grand leaned forward in his chair whilst taking a sip from The Macallan Single Malt in his cut glass.
Underwood had been flown without delay from Moscow to Bromma Field Airport and then moved quickly on to the HQ of the SGSS, where Grand had flown courtesy of the RAF from London to meet him.
Henry’s mind was a myriad of confused emotions. He was here in Stockholm with the Secret Service organisations of both Britain and Sweden, having been plucked out of a predicament that would almost certainly have resulted in his death, only to find that his lover and the love of his life, Barbara Mohr, had been left behind in the hazardous hands of both the SS and the Soviets!
“Please Laurence you have to rescue Barbara, she will most certainly be killed if we don’t go back for her.”
“Henry,” Grand snapped, “… you and I will talk about that girl soon enough, but might I remind you this is a time of war and I have asked you to repeat what you just said about the vulnerability of Sweden to both the Nazi’s and the Soviets.”
Underwood sighed and nodded. “We know for certain that the Germans are planning to invade Russia by opening up an Eastern Front via the Ukraine. Whilst Stalin, right now, refuses to believe that, which is why Barbara is in such danger, the evidence is too overwhelming for him to remain disbelieving for long. The Soviets are not stupid and they know that if there is an invasion, then Germany will also attempt to transport troops through Sweden.”
Henry paused, then added, “It is believed highly likely that Russia will launch air strikes on Swedish towns in the near future.”
“And you know this how?” Hallgren asked.
“I have been around the Russians for weeks and months now and then held captive in Finland too, I’m an intelligence agent and I piece snippets together.”
“Knulla,” the Swedish Chief spat the expletive, “… why did we not know this already. I must get my team working on the chatter more actively. Thank you, Captain underwood.”
A small conference area, in the Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service, Stockholm, Sweden, 3 pm, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Yes,” Henry said to his boss, and Head of Section D of the British Secret Service, now that they were alone. “… You know we have been lovers, and I sincerely hope we will be lovers again.”
“But she’s a Kraut, Henry, and it is highly likely that she is still acting on their behalf. And yet, knowing what you do about her, you can still …?”
Henry could barely hold back his anger.
“Sir, Barb does everything supremely well, and is loyal only to us.”
Grand digested this while he finished his drink.
“So, you reckon she won’t tell either the Nazis or the Red Army anything about what she might or might not have seen over here in London?”
“She will not Sir, and …” Henry had to pause while he swallowed a sob. “… If she isn’t dead already, she’ll be incarcerated in the Lubyanka. Nobody gets out of the Lubyanka except to go on trial and then be shot. And by the time that happens, if it happens, she will have been tortured into a mental state where she cannot tell white from black, sir!”
He paused and then continued. “Barb has put herself in this danger for us, for our cause. She stole secrets from her father who then sold her, sold us, out … we have to help her … Sir!” There was a crack, and Henry’s glass broke under the pressure of his fingers.
“Bloody hell, Captain Underwood, calm down man, you’ll do yourself an injury.”
“I’m asking for your help, Laurence.”
“For Barb,” Grand uttered the rhetorical question quietly while he pondered. And then, when he looked directly into Henry’s eyes and nodded.
“Very well, you shall have it. Tell me what you need to get Barbara Mohr safely out of Russia and back here to Blighty!”
TBC
A Lubyanka Prison and Detention Centre cell, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10:30 am, Friday, 5th January, 1940.
SS-Standarten Führer Berger exhaled a heavy sigh. This was a nothing of a mission in his eyes. This wretched little Fräulein was of no use to anyone, and she had clearly suffered enough. As he looked at the girl, bound to the chair, her breasts and genitals wired to the dynamo, he felt a pang of unidentified emotion.
In a different life, seeing her in the Hofbräuhaus in München he would have approached her and used his charm to woo her. But these were not those times, and here she was naked and vulnerable and about to be tortured under his instruction. Berger was angry - he was a Brandenburger Kommando, not a fucking SS lapdog.
His orders were not to question her but to find her and kill her. Once more he fingered the cyanide capsule in his pocket, before addressing the trembling girl tied to the chair.
"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked, his voice thick with the need to delay the inevitable useless torture, his question motivated by the fact that any retching that the torture induces will be way more messy with a full stomach.
"No,” Barb replied with a weary lament.
Berger nodded and then spoke.
"The man you were captured with is not your compatriot, he is a British spy. Are your loyalties with the British?"
Barb watched his face, then replied, " It would seem you have more information than I do."
"Such a pretty girl!" Berger said as he traced her cheek with his leather gloved finger. "Are you a good spy Fräulein Mohr? Loyal, brave? Do you follow orders well, pretty girl?"
The question was a taunt and Barbara kept her tongue still as the SS-Standarten pressed his hand into her upper thigh.
"You can see that my choices are very limited Fräulein Mohr. A good girl would get her rewards at this stage,” then he paused before whispering into her ear, “… but you are not answering my questions."
“You have not asked me any, instead you try to tell me what I am.”
He straightened up and slapped Barb’s face sending her head spinning to one side, unfettered hair flying in its wake. Popov made as if to intervene and then thought better of it.
"What lies did you tell Commissar Popov about the intentions of his German Allies?” His voice got harder, despite the fact that in his own head he didn’t care one little bit what this slip of a girl might or might not have said. The Nazi war machine would roll on regardless.
"I am not on a spying mission. I was sent to live in Britain by Herr Himmler himself, who is a friend of my father’s. My mission for the Reich Commissioner, is to befriend the Allied Command, as high up as possible, and feed secrets back to the Fatherland. I was caught and arrested trying to get secretly back into Germany.”
"And you were with the man, why?”
“He is my lover. That is all, and he was accompanying me because he too has National Socialist sympathies. Please, you must believe me.”
“So, you were not here to share Nazi Command secrets with our Soviet friends?”
“I should not be here at all, SS-Standarten, I should be at my father’s home enjoying his hospitality.
Barbara looked down, refusing to answer and so Berger slapped her face again.
“You are telling me a confusing story Fräulein Mohr. I don’t know if you’re a brave compatriot or a treacherous traitor.”
Which is why I should simply be ending your life pretty girl, Berger thought to himself. He nodded at Popov who began to wind the handle on the dynamo.
Barbara stiffened and screamed as the electricity shocked her body into a rigid state.
“Higher …” Berger said. Popov nodded and the poor girl’s mouth opened as if to scream but no sound came out.
“More …” the SS-Standarten requested, and as Barbara’s body left the chair behind and arched as fully as the rope holding her wrists and ankles would allow, Berger knew that the next voltage increase would kill her. But he couldn’t do it like this, and nor would Popov let him. If only he could get the cyanide into her mouth then it would look like she had the tablet there all of the time, and had committed suicide, thereby conveniently confirming her status as a traitor.
Unseen by anyone Berger slipped the tablet under his own tongue and approached the virtually lifeless girl. Grabbing her hair he forced her head backwards, stretching her neck as his lips sealed over hers, feigning the lust fuelled passion in the kiss, and in so doing the noxious tablet was passed from his mouth into hers.
Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service (SGSS), Stockholm, Sweden, 2 pm, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Explain that again to me please.” Chief Anders Hallgren poured another small measure of Schnapps into Henry Underwood’s glass as the British Secret Service Agent continued to revitalise himself.
“Yes Henry, do please explain that again,” Laurence Grand leaned forward in his chair whilst taking a sip from The Macallan Single Malt in his cut glass.
Underwood had been flown without delay from Moscow to Bromma Field Airport and then moved quickly on to the HQ of the SGSS, where Grand had flown courtesy of the RAF from London to meet him.
Henry’s mind was a myriad of confused emotions. He was here in Stockholm with the Secret Service organisations of both Britain and Sweden, having been plucked out of a predicament that would almost certainly have resulted in his death, only to find that his lover and the love of his life, Barbara Mohr, had been left behind in the hazardous hands of both the SS and the Soviets!
“Please Laurence you have to rescue Barbara, she will most certainly be killed if we don’t go back for her.”
“Henry,” Grand snapped, “… you and I will talk about that girl soon enough, but might I remind you this is a time of war and I have asked you to repeat what you just said about the vulnerability of Sweden to both the Nazi’s and the Soviets.”
Underwood sighed and nodded. “We know for certain that the Germans are planning to invade Russia by opening up an Eastern Front via the Ukraine. Whilst Stalin, right now, refuses to believe that, which is why Barbara is in such danger, the evidence is too overwhelming for him to remain disbelieving for long. The Soviets are not stupid and they know that if there is an invasion, then Germany will also attempt to transport troops through Sweden.”
Henry paused, then added, “It is believed highly likely that Russia will launch air strikes on Swedish towns in the near future.”
“And you know this how?” Hallgren asked.
“I have been around the Russians for weeks and months now and then held captive in Finland too, I’m an intelligence agent and I piece snippets together.”
“Knulla,” the Swedish Chief spat the expletive, “… why did we not know this already. I must get my team working on the chatter more actively. Thank you, Captain underwood.”
A small conference area, in the Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service, Stockholm, Sweden, 3 pm, Friday, 5th January 1940
“Yes,” Henry said to his boss, and Head of Section D of the British Secret Service, now that they were alone. “… You know we have been lovers, and I sincerely hope we will be lovers again.”
“But she’s a Kraut, Henry, and it is highly likely that she is still acting on their behalf. And yet, knowing what you do about her, you can still …?”
Henry could barely hold back his anger.
“Sir, Barb does everything supremely well, and is loyal only to us.”
Grand digested this while he finished his drink.
“So, you reckon she won’t tell either the Nazis or the Red Army anything about what she might or might not have seen over here in London?”
“She will not Sir, and …” Henry had to pause while he swallowed a sob. “… If she isn’t dead already, she’ll be incarcerated in the Lubyanka. Nobody gets out of the Lubyanka except to go on trial and then be shot. And by the time that happens, if it happens, she will have been tortured into a mental state where she cannot tell white from black, sir!”
He paused and then continued. “Barb has put herself in this danger for us, for our cause. She stole secrets from her father who then sold her, sold us, out … we have to help her … Sir!” There was a crack, and Henry’s glass broke under the pressure of his fingers.
“Bloody hell, Captain Underwood, calm down man, you’ll do yourself an injury.”
“I’m asking for your help, Laurence.”
“For Barb,” Grand uttered the rhetorical question quietly while he pondered. And then, when he looked directly into Henry’s eyes and nodded.
“Very well, you shall have it. Tell me what you need to get Barbara Mohr safely out of Russia and back here to Blighty!”
TBC