Hurricane Legacy Read online

  Contents

  cover

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Karelia Region - Russia 1942

  CHAPTER TWO Karelia 1989

  CHAPTER THREE Sussex - Present Day

  CHAPTER FOUR A Medallion Enigma

  CHAPTER FIVE Oh, those Russians!

  CHAPTER SIX A Very British Institution

  CHAPTER SEVEN The FSB

  CHAPTER EIGHT Those Russians - Again!

  CHAPTER NINE The Perturbed Police

  CHAPTER TEN Berwick House

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Assassination.

  CHAPTER TWELVE Her Majesty's Secret Service

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Dordogne

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Le Chateau de la Jarthe

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN A Brush with the Law

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Tomar

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Moscow

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Castle Tour

  CHAPTER NINETEEN The Russians are coming

  CHAPTER TWENTY Sightseeing on Sunday

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE The Russians are Here

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO I have a Cunning Plan

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Plan

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR A Warning

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE A Hijack

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Diamonds are Forever

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN A Man in a Hat

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The French Connection

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Saint-Léon-sur-Vézère

  CHAPTER THIRTY The next day

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Noose Tightens

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Russian Roulette

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE On Her Majesty's Secret Service

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Cressac St Genis

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE The Commandery of Dognon

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Lost in the Mists of Time

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The Great Escape

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT An Ancient Burial

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE La Motte à Dognon

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  CHAPTER FORTY Henry's Legacy

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  To David my brother and Suzannah, my sister-in-law,

  both of whom corrected, edited and provided much-needed

  guidance during my first foray into writing.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Karelia Region - Russia 1942

  Senior Lieutenant Nikolay Urosov sat huddled in the cockpit of his Hurricane fighter aircraft sheltering from the bitterly cold wind. He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d survive this day to see tomorrow's dawn. In the current weather it was unlikely that he would be sent out although he could see and hear the ground crews pre-heating other aircraft around him in readiness. Rarely did they get any more than a few minute's notice of the imminent arrival of those accursed Finnish aircraft.

  He'd been stationed in Vaenga-2, close to Murmansk within the Arctic Circle, with his squadron for nearly six months now. During this time he had encountered enemy aircraft on only two occasions and both times failed to score any hits with his guns. On the plus side, he had also returned to base without injury or damage after every sortie so far, long may it continue he thought. It was clear though that the air war over Karelia, between the Finnish border and Murmansk, was definitely hotting up. Not only were some of his fellow pilots coming home celebrating and claiming occasional `kills’ but he couldn't help notice that there were now a few vacant seats at briefings and political meetings.

  “Heinkels” came the cry over the RT, “Scramble” and with that Nikolay hit the boost cutout, magneto switches and pushed the starter. The V12 Merlin engine spat and rumbled into life belching a cloud of white smoke from both sides of the front cowling. No time for a proper warm-up, Nikolay rapidly checked the movement of the control surfaces and gently pushed the throttle forward. The Hurricane bounced across the roughly flattened snow and lumbered into the air. Undercarriage up and the ground controller directing his flight West to intercept the enemy who had already dropped their bombs and were returning to base as fast as they could manage.

  "Always too late," Nikolay muttered into his oxygen mask, "Why do we never get sufficient warning?"

  Chasing enemy aircraft as they ran for home was such a futile exercise. Taking off almost 5 minutes after the bombers had passed, and taking another 5 minutes to gain altitude, the Hurricanes typically started the chase from over 20 miles behind. With a speed advantage of only 80mph without overheating their Merlin engines, the Hurricanes would finally catch their adversary over 50 miles West of Murmansk, deep into the Arctic Karelia region and within range of the dreaded Messerschmitt fighters.

  With a quick glance at his wingman, Nikolay eased the throttle forward keeping a careful eye on the boost and oil temperature gauges. Several minutes of peering through the thick windscreen, and doing gentle slip turns to check through the more transparent side canopy and there, through a break in the clouds above, were the bombers.

  “Climb to starboard - now!” Nikolay radioed to his wingman as he shoved the throttle forward. With the gap between himself and the tail of the He-111 reducing rapidly, Nikolay pushed the firing button on his ShVAK canon. As the bomber slid across his reflector sight he had the distinct satisfaction of seeing the lines of tracer rounds impact across the wing root and fuselage of the aircraft which immediately dived to the left trailing pieces of debris. Nikolay couldn’t resist, he turned his aircraft to port and throttled back, tightening his to keep inside the bomber’s turn radius and pushed the firing button again. His three-second burst marched tracer rounds across the fuselage right to left and over the wing of the Heinkel to the engine which immediately spluttered and poured smoke. Suddenly the port wing detached itself from the fuselage amidst a trail of debris and spun slowly away.

  Nikolay watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as the bomber spun uncontrollably like a sycamore seed. He banked his Hurricane in a tight turn and, watching over his port wing, saw the bomber impact the ground. No parachutes had emerged. The centrifugal force of the spinning aircraft pinning the airmen to the sides of the fuselage where they were and preventing them getting out.

  He checked over his right shoulder and had the satisfaction of seeing his wingman rolling over the top of another Heinkel which had smoke pouring from both engines and was trailing a line of white parachutes with the crew hanging beneath.

  “Thump, thump, thump” and then a loud clang followed by a searing pain in his left ankle and numbness in his back where a bullet had impacted the rear of his seat armour. Instinctively Nikolay pushed the stick hard over to the right and shoved the rudder pedals with his good right foot. The Messerschmitt zoomed passed, it’s work done. Nikolay could barely see out of the windscreen and canopy which was rapidly becoming coated with oil. More oil was leaking into the cockpit from around the instrument panel. Full rich mixture, throttle back, boost cut and Nikolay heaved on the canopy handles sliding it back. There, some 1000 metres below and to port, was a rare flat area devoid of trees. Nikolay put the flaps and undercarriage down and gently side-slipped down to the frozen lake.

  There was a reassuring double thump of the main wheels touching down and then, with the stick pulled back, a gentle third jolt as the tailwheel settled onto the ice. Nikolay pushed both mag switches and pulled back the mixture control to stop the engine simultaneously squeezing the brake lever. The Hurricane suddenly spun to the right, the port wing dropped until the wingtip hit the ice and the aircraft slewed to the right and came to a sudden, l
urching stop. With a crash the canopy slid forward on its rails, shutting with a loud bang. In the sudden quiet that had enveloped the aircraft Nikolay realised that he must have pushed the rudder pedal with his good right foot as he braked and the port undercarriage had punched through the ice when the plane wheeled round to the right.

  Taking stock of his situation, he undid his belts, unclipped his oxygen mask and looked down at his hot and painful left ankle which refused to move. “Not good!” he said to nobody in particular “walking back will be somewhat tricky”. Nikolay reached across to grab the canopy handles and pulled back, nothing happened. Now with both hands he yanked both handles harder turning in his seat to get more leverage, still no movement. Panicking he hit the handles with both hands. Suddenly the aircraft lurched to the left causing Nikolay to bang his head on the canopy. He sat up straight and held his breath. The movement came again, and he saw that his aircraft wingtip was now below the level of the ice. There was a sudden cracking noise and the whole front of the Hurricane dipped several feet until Nikolay was staring straight out across the lake where previously there had been only engine cowling and propeller. With horror he realised that the heat from the engine was melting the ice and the whole aircraft was inexorably sinking into the lake. Nikolay set about hammering the canopy again with renewed, and slightly manic, vigour. Another lurch and he felt the shock of his right boot filling with freezing water. He took his gun from the holster strapped to his waist and fired a volley of shots at the canopy locks without apparent effect. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he heard the gentle ticking of rapidly cooling metal. Nikolay reached towards the top of the instrument panel where he kept his lucky charm but couldn’t locate it. It must have come loose during the landing from where he always wedged it. Water now lapping at the bottom of his flight jacket, the inevitability of what was about to happen washed over him. He closed his eyes wishing he had just one bullet left in his gun. Another sudden drunken lurch and the Hurricane slid gently sideways into the lake.

  Within the hour the ice had reformed across the ragged scar in its surface and the wind had deposited snow across the lake’s frozen surface obscuring all evidence of the recent violent events. The memory of Senior Lieutenant Nikolay Urosov would become just another line in a forgotten report, an all too familiar, and regular, sad statistic of this crazy war.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Karelia 1989

  Flies, flies and yet more flies!

  Peering through the viewfinder of the video camera Tom Stroud could see little of his current associates as they set about unloading the helicopter. They were setting up camp despite the clouds of hungry mosquitoes that had descended on them as soon as the engine had stopped and they had exited the helicopter. Tom and his team were the only fresh food for miles around and the mosquitoes were obviously not going to ignore such a potential feast. The hideous insects blanketed everything, even the camera lens, presumably waiting for their turn at the small areas of exposed flesh each of the party was reluctantly showing. This forsaken place was absolutely alive with them. Tom, who prided himself on having skin too tough for flies to bite, was already a mass of itchy red sores and they’d only landed here less than an hour ago. The rag tied hastily around his lower face to avoid ingesting too many muffled his muttered obscenities. This part of Russia was one of the most inhospitable places on Earth and for the n’th time Tom cursed his perpetual enthusiasm for projects which landed him in situations he’d rather have avoided if only he’d just stopped and considered the consequences before opening his mouth. As for his current situation, and location, he cursed the demon drink and desperately tried to remember what he’d said or done which had landed him in this, his current predicament.

  Just two days ago he’d enjoyed a convivial dinner, and copious quantities of dubious vodka, with his friend Oleg and his family. Their tiny flat was on the 7th floor of a dismal concrete apartment block adorned with graffiti near the ring road and without benefit of a working lift. Tom was sent to Moscow by the electronics company he worked for to visit a potential supplier of components. Unfortunately by the time the government agency Intourist had arranged his visa and booked the flight and hotel on his behalf, the urgency of the supply requirement had somewhat passed. He had gone to Russia anyway, not only for the experience but also to visit Oleg who he’d first met at the Farnborough Air Show two years ago. He had used his Moscow time visiting the Kremlin, travelling the fabulous underground system and doing what any self-respecting tourist would do. Far better than the somewhat dreary World of electronics distribution.

  Oleg was a Colonel in the elite rocket forces and enjoyed the benefits of rank and station. Being occasionally paid at least some of his salary being one of these perks. He supplemented this meagre, and infrequent, income for both himself and his subordinates by utilising military machinery, equipment and soldiers under his command to undertake various somewhat nefarious activities for a variety of `foreigners’ in exchange for the occasional wad of illicit US Dollars and cartons of cigarettes. His lovely, and long-suffering, wife Erina was an unemployed Professor of Physics reduced to child minding to make ends meet, such was the parlous state of the final days of the Soviet Union.

  “Your car is here” came a heavily accented woman’s muffled voice

  “YOUR CAR IS HERE” somewhat louder and irritated

  Tom fell unceremoniously out of the battered bed with the darned sheets in the `luxury` hotel Intourist had allocated him. He gathered his thoughts in a haze of vodka-induced hangover and grunted the response “Coming” through arid lips.

  The enormous `Madame` who had heaved her bulk reluctantly from her Floor Manager’s desk outside the lifts to bang on his door slumped back on her chair and lifted the phone.

  Tom, with little recollection of his journey from Oleg’s kitchen table to his hotel bed, fell into the shower. Having dressed and checked off the essentials; passport, legal roubles exchanged at the airport, illegal dollars stuffed in socks and money belt, camera etc. Fourteen minutes later he entered the rickety lift under the disdainful gaze of the huge woman redolent of the Marvel Comics character `The Hulk`.

  From the rather comical line up of identically dressed men peering from behind their newspapers who filled the foyer’s chairs wearing black shirts, black trousers, black leather jackets with patch pockets, black socks, black shoes and black Stalin-esque moustaches, Tom’s allocated tail uncoiled himself and prepared for another boring traipse through the tourist sites of Moscow.

  “Good Morning Mr Stroud, please” this from a smartly uniformed soldier standing alongside a small Moskva parked outside with a little flagpole on each front wing. “Colonel Dudin, we go see”

  Tom wondered what on Earth he’d agreed to last night whilst under the influence however Oleg’s name reassured him somewhat and besides which he wanted to see the look on his tail’s face when he got into a military vehicle and drove away.

  Across Moscow they drove until Tom recognised their route and surroundings. Ten minutes later they were on the familiar long approach road to Sheremetyevo Airport. He assumed the worst and, on the assumption he was about to suffer the indignity of being summarily ejected from Russia, thanked his lucky stars he’d bought his cash and passport with him. Instead of taking the departures ramp however, the car swerved right and went through a gate in the boundary fence onto the apron. Across the apron, past parked aircraft and close to the end of the runway Tom nervously concluded that their destination was undoubtedly an enormous and imposing Mil 26 military helicopter. It was sitting adjacent to the runway end on the turning area with a heat haze streaming from its running engines and surrounded by uniformed soldiers.

  What had he done or said last night that warranted this?

  Did the gulags still exist?

  Would the British Embassy ever find him?

  Did the British Embassy even care?

  “Greetings Tom, how is the head?” This from an impressively erect, uniformed Oleg be-decked w
ith medals standing in a trench coat alongside the Mil. “We go now, don’t open mouth, other passengers not druz’ya”

  Tom slid into a strap-webbing seat and sat with a stupid, nervous grin on his face for the entire noisy flight. Thankfully conversation was just about impossible anyway because of the racket inside the enormous belly of the helicopter.

  On landing Oleg sidled over and said "just leave aircraft and stand by me, talk to no one."

  Tom couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to with his teeth chattering through both trepidation and the cold and with residual kinks in his spine from the strap seating causing him to groan with every movement.

  A small open pickup truck appeared across the tarmac which Oleg got into trailing a bemused Tom like the proverbial limpet. It lumbered along the taxiway to a smaller apron where an ancient Mil Mi-8 helicopter stood in a faint, but growing puddle of unidentifiable fluid which presumably had bled from the rickety looking machine.

  Five rather tough looking characters, with an enormous Alsatian type dog, were loading barrels into the helicopter when they spotted Oleg with a wave.

  “Where are we?” Tom finally uttered through chattering teeth

  “Petrozavodsk” Oleg replied

  “What, where’s that?” Tom asked

  “In” commanded Oleg, ignoring Tom’s question. With no apparent option other than to do as instructed, Tom jammed himself between two of the burly blokes with his feet and knees hard against the steel barrels which seemed to fill the entire area between the facing rows of seats along each fuselage side. It was then he noticed the almost overpowering stench of fuel.

  The last flight was noisy, but this one was deafening. Even the dog seemed to be in some distress although its howling was drowned out by the appalling din from the helicopter. The overpowering stench of fuel, wet dog and sweaty soldiers started uncontrollably stimulating Tom’s gag reflex. As he was casting his eyes around for a suitable receptacle Oleg, in the co-pilots seat, shouted, “There!”

  Thoughts of imminent vomit suspended, Tom spun round on his seat to look out of the window. And there was… nothing!