Barb really has to be more careful. These guys entire idea of tactics is to get her to remove her clothes. I suppose if they get her 'kinis off they figure they've won the war.
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It continued in London
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Never used that line, myself. I suppose context is important.
I can imagine it might have been used often enough back in 1939.Never used that line, myself. I suppose context is important.
So, the British don't know that we know that she's a double agent work for them, but we don't know if they know that we know that she's a double agent working for them, and we know that they think she'll be useful to them, because they know we know she'll be useful to us.
Thank you so much for clearing that up, @Jollyrei.So, the British don't know that we know that she's a double agent work for them, but we don't know if they know that we know that she's a double agent working for them, and we know that they think she'll be useful to them, because they know we know she'll be useful to us.
I understand now.
I think...
So, the British don't know that we know that she's a double agent work for them, but we don't know if they know that we know that she's a double agent working for them, and we know that they think she'll be useful to them, because they know we know she'll be useful to us.
Perfectly clear … no bones about it
Right!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
ExactlySo, the British don't know that we know that she's a double agent work for them, but we don't know if they know that we know that she's a double agent working for them, and we know that they think she'll be useful to them, because they know we know she'll be useful to us.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Never used that line, myself. I suppose context is important.
Right on the nail, but in a somewhat different phrasing! UK, August 1939:I can imagine it might have been used often enough back in 1939.
Chapter 21
Mulfinger Kaffeehaus, Kameruner-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin. 11:30 am, Saturday 5th October, 1939
A few puffy white clouds had sailed calmly over the horizon as the train, a small light S-Bahn steam locomotive, had wheezed into the station. The sky had a clear blue fresh look about it that made ridicule of any suggestion that there was a war on.
Henry had heard the guard call out ‘’Bitte verlassen Sie hier den Zug Richtung Wedding,” and he stood, preparing to disembark.
Outside, on the platform, he’d looked around in an attempt to quickly get his bearings, and then almost jumped out of his skin as a fusillade of bangs … the carriage doors closing … hammered through his head.
Wedding S-Bahn station had looked old and just a little dilapidated, and proved to be just that. Built in 1872 it was a part of the Berlin Ringbahn, the ring road around Berlin City, and a direct stop from Berlin Friedrichstraße station, which had made Henry’s journey straight forward thus far. Having passed the ‘paper’s inspection’ on the train from Copenhagen he had been accosted by two Gestapo officers at Friedrichstraße where his impeccable German combined with his typically British demeanour of superiority and entitlement ensured that once again, he’d been waved through, his way clear to boarding the train bound for Wedding.
But now, seated in the double window fronted Mulfinger Kaffeehaus he was a little lost as to what to do next.
The Red Resistance were supposed to be on the side of the Allies, weren’t they? But Underwood knew that the only thing that Britain had in common with anything Communist, was a hatred of the Nazi’s. However, given that the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, initially designed for economic benefit between the USSR and Nazi Germany, had very recently being modified to incorporate political ideology too, Henry doubted that the Russians could be relied upon at all.
“Fuck …” he said to himself, now nursing a warm, milky coffee in the bustling mid-morning surrounds of the Kaffeehaus. What was left of the Red Resistance might well now be aligned by implication with the Nazi’s, and so Barb had been rescued from the frying pan, only to jump right back into the fire!
He looked up at the pretty waitress, ‘Bettina‘, her name tag said. “Kein Kaffee mehr, danke, nur der Scheck.“ He had done drinking coffee and needed to settle his bill and move on.
Captain Underwood knew that he needed a plan, and quickly, because there literally was no time to lose. Slipping his hand inside his trench coat pocket he felt for the small camera, and sighed with relief when he felt its presence. Whilst his priority was to rescue Barb, he also knew the importance of getting copies of the rocket blueprints and accompanying notes back to Britain as soon as possible.
31 Kameruner-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin. 10:35 pm Saturday 5th October, 1939
When the door to Emma’s back bedroom opened Barbara was uncertain whether she was asleep or awake … dead or alive.
… Do not do this to me. Please... please… PLEASE do not do this to me … thoughts not words, as her mouth was gagged with an old rag and tape and her head bagged in an act of deliberate sense depravation, and she hated it.
Her body was numb. Tied in a painfully tight hogtie, the captive girl had spent the past few hours trying to decipher the few words she had overheard through the layers of her imprisonment.
“… distrust … take her out of the city … interrogate … dispose …” It was the end for her, that much she knew.
Then out of nowhere, a sudden light shone painfully into her eyes as the bag was removed and there, kneeling by her prostrate body, was the fifth man and standing behind him was Gerhard.
“This is Comrade Dimitri,” Gerhard announced. “He needs to speak directly with you.”
Strange words to describe further interrogation, she thought.
“Hello Barbara Mohr,” he said in heavily Russian-accented English, his grinning face spoke calmly in a tone loaded with menace. Barb whimpered at the soothing sound of a man by her side who was talking to her humanely.
She began to breathe rapidly underneath her gag.
“There, there, calm down little one …”
Barbara felt tears fill her eyes, but then Dimitri, quick as a flash, gripped her hair in his left fist to hold her steady, cocked his right arm and slapped her across the face. She never saw it coming and was helpless to avoid the blow that landed heavily.
“Nggghhhhhhoooo,” the bound girl whined as she sagged, her head hanging low, partially hidden by the curtain of her tangled hair.
But he was not done, and quickly slapped her again, this time with a harsh, hard backhand ... The sound of his hand hitting her face produced a cruel sound that reverberated around the run-down tenement room.
Dimitri seemed to be making a cruel game of it, slapping her time after time and the brutal sound of his hands hitting her across her face went on and on.
The poor girl groaned and cried out under the gag as he beat her methodically, until he finally finished. As he stood, Barbara, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks, could see his booted foot and feared he was about to begin kicking her.
But instead, he shoved her with his toe-end, causing her to tumble over and onto her back, and produce a sickening scream into the gag as her arms were crushed under the weight of her own body.
Freya Fuchs Bar, Tegeler-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin, 11:10pm Saturday 5th October 1939
Henry Underwood was still uncertain of his next move, but he knew that whatever it was, it needed to be soon. He had been silently procrastinating for too long, and sitting here in a bar around the corner from the Red Resistance Safe-House at 31 Kameruner-Strasse drinking glasses of Berliner Weisse, was not helping either.
Leaving a handful of the Reich’s marks on the table, Henry stood and meandered his way to the end of Tegeler-Strasse and then looked right onto Kameruner-Strasse. His fedora was pulled low on the front of his head, the brim shadowing his face as he moved further along the road towards number 31.
If only I had a gun, Henry bemoaned, but knew full well that his long train journey from Copenhagen would have been nowhere near as smooth if he had been caught with a secreted weapon.
Gas lamps were dotted along the way, Berlin is said to have some ninety thousand gas street lamps. They gave the whole street an eerie glow. The day’s temperature had been up into the mid twenty degrees C with not a sign of rain, but now cooler night air had kicked in, causing Henry to pull his trench coat into his body as he walked slowly along Kameruner-Strasse.
As he approached the tenement in question, the place that had initially seemed like a safe haven but now seemed hellish, the door sprang open, letting a band of internal light out onto the street.
A hooded female figure, hands manacled, breasts cruelly exposed to the cool night air, appeared … cajoled haltingly forward between the two Red Resistance fighters, Johan and Paul.
Henry dived into the shadows.
“Barb?” He whispered, as the stumbling figure covered only partially by a loose blanket, head bagged with a large flannel-hessian covering cinched tightly at the neck with a belt, was pushed along by Johan and Paul before being thrown into the back of an Opel Blitz … THE Opel Blitz that had come to the assistance of he and Barbara just a few days ago.
Moving more quickly in the shadows, Underwood came closer and closer to the van.
And then …
His luck was in. A Zundapp KS750 motor cycle stood near the entrance to a passageway between buildings as he passed by. As the Blitz started up and pulled away from the shadows, Underwood swiftly sprang to the Zundapp and managed to hot-wire the machine to get it started. Moving smoothly out onto the road, he mounted the cycle and took off in pursuit of the nearly vanished van.
As he caught up and drew near he knew he’d need to be careful when following. But stealth was his job and he would do whatever it took to rescue Fräulein Barbara Mohr.
TBC
Mulfinger Kaffeehaus, Kameruner-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin. 11:30 am, Saturday 5th October, 1939
A few puffy white clouds had sailed calmly over the horizon as the train, a small light S-Bahn steam locomotive, had wheezed into the station. The sky had a clear blue fresh look about it that made ridicule of any suggestion that there was a war on.
Henry had heard the guard call out ‘’Bitte verlassen Sie hier den Zug Richtung Wedding,” and he stood, preparing to disembark.
Outside, on the platform, he’d looked around in an attempt to quickly get his bearings, and then almost jumped out of his skin as a fusillade of bangs … the carriage doors closing … hammered through his head.
Wedding S-Bahn station had looked old and just a little dilapidated, and proved to be just that. Built in 1872 it was a part of the Berlin Ringbahn, the ring road around Berlin City, and a direct stop from Berlin Friedrichstraße station, which had made Henry’s journey straight forward thus far. Having passed the ‘paper’s inspection’ on the train from Copenhagen he had been accosted by two Gestapo officers at Friedrichstraße where his impeccable German combined with his typically British demeanour of superiority and entitlement ensured that once again, he’d been waved through, his way clear to boarding the train bound for Wedding.
But now, seated in the double window fronted Mulfinger Kaffeehaus he was a little lost as to what to do next.
The Red Resistance were supposed to be on the side of the Allies, weren’t they? But Underwood knew that the only thing that Britain had in common with anything Communist, was a hatred of the Nazi’s. However, given that the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, initially designed for economic benefit between the USSR and Nazi Germany, had very recently being modified to incorporate political ideology too, Henry doubted that the Russians could be relied upon at all.
“Fuck …” he said to himself, now nursing a warm, milky coffee in the bustling mid-morning surrounds of the Kaffeehaus. What was left of the Red Resistance might well now be aligned by implication with the Nazi’s, and so Barb had been rescued from the frying pan, only to jump right back into the fire!
He looked up at the pretty waitress, ‘Bettina‘, her name tag said. “Kein Kaffee mehr, danke, nur der Scheck.“ He had done drinking coffee and needed to settle his bill and move on.
Captain Underwood knew that he needed a plan, and quickly, because there literally was no time to lose. Slipping his hand inside his trench coat pocket he felt for the small camera, and sighed with relief when he felt its presence. Whilst his priority was to rescue Barb, he also knew the importance of getting copies of the rocket blueprints and accompanying notes back to Britain as soon as possible.
31 Kameruner-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin. 10:35 pm Saturday 5th October, 1939
When the door to Emma’s back bedroom opened Barbara was uncertain whether she was asleep or awake … dead or alive.
… Do not do this to me. Please... please… PLEASE do not do this to me … thoughts not words, as her mouth was gagged with an old rag and tape and her head bagged in an act of deliberate sense depravation, and she hated it.
Her body was numb. Tied in a painfully tight hogtie, the captive girl had spent the past few hours trying to decipher the few words she had overheard through the layers of her imprisonment.
“… distrust … take her out of the city … interrogate … dispose …” It was the end for her, that much she knew.
Then out of nowhere, a sudden light shone painfully into her eyes as the bag was removed and there, kneeling by her prostrate body, was the fifth man and standing behind him was Gerhard.
“This is Comrade Dimitri,” Gerhard announced. “He needs to speak directly with you.”
Strange words to describe further interrogation, she thought.
“Hello Barbara Mohr,” he said in heavily Russian-accented English, his grinning face spoke calmly in a tone loaded with menace. Barb whimpered at the soothing sound of a man by her side who was talking to her humanely.
She began to breathe rapidly underneath her gag.
“There, there, calm down little one …”
Barbara felt tears fill her eyes, but then Dimitri, quick as a flash, gripped her hair in his left fist to hold her steady, cocked his right arm and slapped her across the face. She never saw it coming and was helpless to avoid the blow that landed heavily.
“Nggghhhhhhoooo,” the bound girl whined as she sagged, her head hanging low, partially hidden by the curtain of her tangled hair.
But he was not done, and quickly slapped her again, this time with a harsh, hard backhand ... The sound of his hand hitting her face produced a cruel sound that reverberated around the run-down tenement room.
Dimitri seemed to be making a cruel game of it, slapping her time after time and the brutal sound of his hands hitting her across her face went on and on.
The poor girl groaned and cried out under the gag as he beat her methodically, until he finally finished. As he stood, Barbara, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks, could see his booted foot and feared he was about to begin kicking her.
But instead, he shoved her with his toe-end, causing her to tumble over and onto her back, and produce a sickening scream into the gag as her arms were crushed under the weight of her own body.
Freya Fuchs Bar, Tegeler-Strasse, Wedding, Berlin, 11:10pm Saturday 5th October 1939
Henry Underwood was still uncertain of his next move, but he knew that whatever it was, it needed to be soon. He had been silently procrastinating for too long, and sitting here in a bar around the corner from the Red Resistance Safe-House at 31 Kameruner-Strasse drinking glasses of Berliner Weisse, was not helping either.
Leaving a handful of the Reich’s marks on the table, Henry stood and meandered his way to the end of Tegeler-Strasse and then looked right onto Kameruner-Strasse. His fedora was pulled low on the front of his head, the brim shadowing his face as he moved further along the road towards number 31.
If only I had a gun, Henry bemoaned, but knew full well that his long train journey from Copenhagen would have been nowhere near as smooth if he had been caught with a secreted weapon.
Gas lamps were dotted along the way, Berlin is said to have some ninety thousand gas street lamps. They gave the whole street an eerie glow. The day’s temperature had been up into the mid twenty degrees C with not a sign of rain, but now cooler night air had kicked in, causing Henry to pull his trench coat into his body as he walked slowly along Kameruner-Strasse.
As he approached the tenement in question, the place that had initially seemed like a safe haven but now seemed hellish, the door sprang open, letting a band of internal light out onto the street.
A hooded female figure, hands manacled, breasts cruelly exposed to the cool night air, appeared … cajoled haltingly forward between the two Red Resistance fighters, Johan and Paul.
Henry dived into the shadows.
“Barb?” He whispered, as the stumbling figure covered only partially by a loose blanket, head bagged with a large flannel-hessian covering cinched tightly at the neck with a belt, was pushed along by Johan and Paul before being thrown into the back of an Opel Blitz … THE Opel Blitz that had come to the assistance of he and Barbara just a few days ago.
Moving more quickly in the shadows, Underwood came closer and closer to the van.
And then …
His luck was in. A Zundapp KS750 motor cycle stood near the entrance to a passageway between buildings as he passed by. As the Blitz started up and pulled away from the shadows, Underwood swiftly sprang to the Zundapp and managed to hot-wire the machine to get it started. Moving smoothly out onto the road, he mounted the cycle and took off in pursuit of the nearly vanished van.
As he caught up and drew near he knew he’d need to be careful when following. But stealth was his job and he would do whatever it took to rescue Fräulein Barbara Mohr.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
True! These carriages at the time with hand closed doors! Slamming! I have been traveling on such even in the 1980's.
Tasting bitter coffee
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 22
On the road to Potsdam, 12:45 am, Sunday 6th October 1939
On reaching the main road leading to the southwest, Captain Underwood moderated the speed of the Zundapp so as to keep the red taillight of the Blitz in sight but remain distant enough to not draw attention.
He’d spent the last three quarters of an hour tailing the Blitz as it wound its way out of Wedding and across Berlin. Dimitri and company had driven slowly and had doubled back more than once, clearly to avoid any run in with the authorities given the numerous after dark police checkpoints that had popped up since the onset of war. Barbara’s captors seemed to know that driving through the city that early on a Sunday certainly might attract unwanted scrutiny They obviously were being cautious.
As the Blitz neared the heavily forested expanses to the south and East of the Wannsee, it slowed as though looking for a turn. Henry suspected that they might be headed into the Grunewald, the large forested tract directly to the east of the popular Berlin holiday beaches on the Grosser Wannsee, but instead the Blitz left the main road, not to the right but to the left, following a little-used track into the less well frequented forest tracts that lay to the south.
Recognizing the danger of being spotted had increased, Henry chose to take advantage of the terrain versatility of the Zundapp and ride over different, rougher terrain than the Blitz while still keeping easily out of sight … a strategy aided by a brightly moonlit night as well as the frequent occurrence of heath openings … both of which allowed him to keep his quarry in sight. And luckily the distance covered was not too great. After about 15 minutes, the Blitz came to a halt next to a small clearing in which a waiting black car was parked, the red glow of a cigarette behind the windscreen signalling that it was occupied.
Hastily killing the Zundapp’s motor, Henry dismounted, laid the bike softly on its side and crept forward, circling off to one side and keeping his distance until he had reached a point where he was reasonably close and had a clear view of what was happening.
Three men had exited the cab of the Blitz. Henry recognized two of them as Johan and Paul, and the third as the unknown man he had seen earlier outside Emma’s tenement back in Wedding and who had seemed to be in charge.
While Johan and Paul dragged Barbara’s trussed and hooded nude figure from the back of the Blitz, their companion strode purposefully toward the parked car, illuminated in the Blitz’s headlamps and from which a fourth individual had emerged.
“Comrade Dimitri Pavlovich?” the new man on the scene said, a note of expectancy in his voice, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlamps.
“Yes, it’s me,” responded Dimitri in Russian.
“And that’s the girl?” the Russian queried, pointing to Barbara as she was roughly tossed to the ground but a few meters distant of where he stood.
“Yes, Comrade, that is Fräulein Barbara Mohr, daughter of the Nazi industrialist, Joachim Mohr, and apparently a British spy too, oddly enough. Very stubborn little bitch. She’s told us nothing, even under extreme torture.”
“Well, we’ll have to see about that. Torture can be effective, but fear of dying perhaps even more so. When threatened with death the desire to live can be powerful. Choices properly presented can work wonders on the mind. Watch how I do it and you’ll see what I mean. Now, let’s get started. Order your men to tie Fräulein Mohr to that large tree over there.”
Turning to Johan and Paul, neither of whom understood a word of Russian, Dimitri relayed the order.
Barbara was soon manhandled across the intervening space between where she lay and a nearby conifer. There Johan and Paul untied her wrists from her ankles, backed her up in a sitting position against the base of the tree, yanked her arms back halfway around its stout trunk and bound them there with a length of rope tied to each wrist, before coming back around to remove her hood.
She blinked her eyes, startled and half-blinded by the glare of the Blitz’s headlamps which shone directly on her through a shifting miasma of low ground fog. Gulping in fresh air after the long ride under a stifling hood, she attempted to move her limbs but quickly found that to be quite impossible given the way in which she was bound with her back to the trunk of the tree and her ankles still bound tightly together.
Directly before her the figure of an extraordinarily large man loomed, his bulk partially blocking the glare of the headlamps.
As he leaned into her she saw a large meaty and pockmarked face under a bald dome. He wore a uniform greatcoat with brass buttons and red stars on the shoulder epaulets. His breath reeked heavily of alcohol and tobacco.
“Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, NKVD at your service, Fräulein Barbara Mohr,” he said in Russian while grabbing her by the hair and cracking her head back sharply against the tree trunk.
The image of his face swam in her head as she emitted a low groan.
“Sorry, my German very bad,” he said, abruptly switching to a terribly accented and fractured English. “You talk now or very sorry.”
No reply.
While lighting a cigarette, he regarded her thoughtfully before suddenly reaching out to grasp her right nipple between index finger and thumb. Pinching hard and pulling sharply upwards, he pressed the hot glowing tip of his cigarette into the soft fleshy underside of her breast.
She screamed loudly … loudly enough to cause a flock of birds nesting in a nearby thicket to suddenly and noisily take flight, and for everyone in the clearing to briefly turn their attention towards the unexpected commotion.
Henry took quick advantage of the disturbance to edge forward … taking up a position that afforded him a closer and better view. And as he did, he couldn’t help but notice for the first time the small diplomatic red hammer and sickle flag affixed to the fender of Popov’s GAZ-M1 “Emma” Embassy car. Nor could he help but acknowledge that Major Grand was right. The Russians were now fully in control of Red Resistance movement in Germany, such as it was, and appeared to have taken a sinister interest in the daughter of Joachim Mohr.
Little time passed before Popov returned his attention to Barbara. He regarded her thoughtfully for a while, head cocked to one side, cigarette bobbing between his pursed but silently moving lips, burning bright.
Dimitri, Johan and Paul hovered nearby, nervously and expectantly.
Eventually turning to Dimitri, he said in Russian while pointing at Johan and Paul, “have them dig her grave.”
Dimitri, turning to his underlings and translated the order into German. Whereupon Johan and Paul made haste to return the Blitz, then reappeared with shovels recovered from the vehicle, which they employed to dig an elongated hole in the soft, sandy soil.
Returning his attention to Barbara, Popov pulled a pistol from a greatcoat pocket, and said, “So, you brave English agent, yes? Well trained. No talk under torture. Very tough. Yes? But willing to die? Maybe so, maybe not. Good question.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Aha, very spirited! I like that. You know game called Russian Roulette, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Holding his gun before her eyes, he spun its revolving cylinder, carefully inserted a single bullet into one of the six chambers, and spun it again.
“But tonight we play game different,” he informed her, his facial expression turned very serious. Russian Roulette is game of chance. Two persons play. But here we play … one person … You!”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“I ask question. You answer. Easy question. No problem. We already know answer. So, you answer. Show cooperation. Willingness to work with me. Desire to live! Come with me to Moscow? Perhaps spy for us? Live in comfort with dacha. Or, if fail? Labor in gulag, Sad, but still alive. But what if you refuse answer question? Then I hold barrel to your head and pull trigger. Either you die or you live. Empty chamber? You live? Well? What then? I ask another question. Repeat. Six chances. Odds worse each time!”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Bad attitude! Alright. We begin. First question. Easy one. You English spy, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
She closed her eyes, felt the cold gun barrel pressed against her forehead, and then the hollow click resulting from the hammer striking an empty chamber. Barb shuddered involuntarily.
“Lucky that time, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Very fortunate! We try again. Second question. Easy one once again. Father is Nazi pig, Joachim Mohr, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Another empty chamber.
“Odds worse now, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Tougher question. English spymasters send you here on mission. For what purpose?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Empty chamber again.
“Hmmmm. Very poor odds now. Grave nearly dug. Ready for your corpse. Fourth question. Do you really wish to die, Fräulein Barbara Mohr? Tell me! Are English spymasters really worth dying for?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Brave, but crazy,” he muttered, taking the stub of his cigarette from his mouth and extinguishing it by grinding its tip against her breast bone.
Again she screamed.
And he laughed.
“Next question, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Why you willing to die for English spymasters? Perhaps you love one of them? Yes? You fuck with him?”
“Shit!” breathed Johan as he leaned on his shovel, awestruck by what was happening. Paul, on the other hand, standing next to him had turned away, revolted and unwilling to watch.
Dimitri seemed intrigued.
“Answer question, please, Fräulein Barbara Mohr!” Popov growled, pressing the gun barrel tightly to her forehead. “Live! You’ll like Moscow. Very nice city.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
But before Popov could pull the trigger, Henry, realizing that there was only one thing for it, shouted “Stop!” And springing to his feet, walked out into the clearing with his hands up.
TBC
On the road to Potsdam, 12:45 am, Sunday 6th October 1939
On reaching the main road leading to the southwest, Captain Underwood moderated the speed of the Zundapp so as to keep the red taillight of the Blitz in sight but remain distant enough to not draw attention.
He’d spent the last three quarters of an hour tailing the Blitz as it wound its way out of Wedding and across Berlin. Dimitri and company had driven slowly and had doubled back more than once, clearly to avoid any run in with the authorities given the numerous after dark police checkpoints that had popped up since the onset of war. Barbara’s captors seemed to know that driving through the city that early on a Sunday certainly might attract unwanted scrutiny They obviously were being cautious.
As the Blitz neared the heavily forested expanses to the south and East of the Wannsee, it slowed as though looking for a turn. Henry suspected that they might be headed into the Grunewald, the large forested tract directly to the east of the popular Berlin holiday beaches on the Grosser Wannsee, but instead the Blitz left the main road, not to the right but to the left, following a little-used track into the less well frequented forest tracts that lay to the south.
Recognizing the danger of being spotted had increased, Henry chose to take advantage of the terrain versatility of the Zundapp and ride over different, rougher terrain than the Blitz while still keeping easily out of sight … a strategy aided by a brightly moonlit night as well as the frequent occurrence of heath openings … both of which allowed him to keep his quarry in sight. And luckily the distance covered was not too great. After about 15 minutes, the Blitz came to a halt next to a small clearing in which a waiting black car was parked, the red glow of a cigarette behind the windscreen signalling that it was occupied.
Hastily killing the Zundapp’s motor, Henry dismounted, laid the bike softly on its side and crept forward, circling off to one side and keeping his distance until he had reached a point where he was reasonably close and had a clear view of what was happening.
Three men had exited the cab of the Blitz. Henry recognized two of them as Johan and Paul, and the third as the unknown man he had seen earlier outside Emma’s tenement back in Wedding and who had seemed to be in charge.
While Johan and Paul dragged Barbara’s trussed and hooded nude figure from the back of the Blitz, their companion strode purposefully toward the parked car, illuminated in the Blitz’s headlamps and from which a fourth individual had emerged.
“Comrade Dimitri Pavlovich?” the new man on the scene said, a note of expectancy in his voice, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the headlamps.
“Yes, it’s me,” responded Dimitri in Russian.
“And that’s the girl?” the Russian queried, pointing to Barbara as she was roughly tossed to the ground but a few meters distant of where he stood.
“Yes, Comrade, that is Fräulein Barbara Mohr, daughter of the Nazi industrialist, Joachim Mohr, and apparently a British spy too, oddly enough. Very stubborn little bitch. She’s told us nothing, even under extreme torture.”
“Well, we’ll have to see about that. Torture can be effective, but fear of dying perhaps even more so. When threatened with death the desire to live can be powerful. Choices properly presented can work wonders on the mind. Watch how I do it and you’ll see what I mean. Now, let’s get started. Order your men to tie Fräulein Mohr to that large tree over there.”
Turning to Johan and Paul, neither of whom understood a word of Russian, Dimitri relayed the order.
Barbara was soon manhandled across the intervening space between where she lay and a nearby conifer. There Johan and Paul untied her wrists from her ankles, backed her up in a sitting position against the base of the tree, yanked her arms back halfway around its stout trunk and bound them there with a length of rope tied to each wrist, before coming back around to remove her hood.
She blinked her eyes, startled and half-blinded by the glare of the Blitz’s headlamps which shone directly on her through a shifting miasma of low ground fog. Gulping in fresh air after the long ride under a stifling hood, she attempted to move her limbs but quickly found that to be quite impossible given the way in which she was bound with her back to the trunk of the tree and her ankles still bound tightly together.
Directly before her the figure of an extraordinarily large man loomed, his bulk partially blocking the glare of the headlamps.
As he leaned into her she saw a large meaty and pockmarked face under a bald dome. He wore a uniform greatcoat with brass buttons and red stars on the shoulder epaulets. His breath reeked heavily of alcohol and tobacco.
“Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, NKVD at your service, Fräulein Barbara Mohr,” he said in Russian while grabbing her by the hair and cracking her head back sharply against the tree trunk.
The image of his face swam in her head as she emitted a low groan.
“Sorry, my German very bad,” he said, abruptly switching to a terribly accented and fractured English. “You talk now or very sorry.”
No reply.
While lighting a cigarette, he regarded her thoughtfully before suddenly reaching out to grasp her right nipple between index finger and thumb. Pinching hard and pulling sharply upwards, he pressed the hot glowing tip of his cigarette into the soft fleshy underside of her breast.
She screamed loudly … loudly enough to cause a flock of birds nesting in a nearby thicket to suddenly and noisily take flight, and for everyone in the clearing to briefly turn their attention towards the unexpected commotion.
Henry took quick advantage of the disturbance to edge forward … taking up a position that afforded him a closer and better view. And as he did, he couldn’t help but notice for the first time the small diplomatic red hammer and sickle flag affixed to the fender of Popov’s GAZ-M1 “Emma” Embassy car. Nor could he help but acknowledge that Major Grand was right. The Russians were now fully in control of Red Resistance movement in Germany, such as it was, and appeared to have taken a sinister interest in the daughter of Joachim Mohr.
Little time passed before Popov returned his attention to Barbara. He regarded her thoughtfully for a while, head cocked to one side, cigarette bobbing between his pursed but silently moving lips, burning bright.
Dimitri, Johan and Paul hovered nearby, nervously and expectantly.
Eventually turning to Dimitri, he said in Russian while pointing at Johan and Paul, “have them dig her grave.”
Dimitri, turning to his underlings and translated the order into German. Whereupon Johan and Paul made haste to return the Blitz, then reappeared with shovels recovered from the vehicle, which they employed to dig an elongated hole in the soft, sandy soil.
Returning his attention to Barbara, Popov pulled a pistol from a greatcoat pocket, and said, “So, you brave English agent, yes? Well trained. No talk under torture. Very tough. Yes? But willing to die? Maybe so, maybe not. Good question.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Aha, very spirited! I like that. You know game called Russian Roulette, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Holding his gun before her eyes, he spun its revolving cylinder, carefully inserted a single bullet into one of the six chambers, and spun it again.
“But tonight we play game different,” he informed her, his facial expression turned very serious. Russian Roulette is game of chance. Two persons play. But here we play … one person … You!”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“I ask question. You answer. Easy question. No problem. We already know answer. So, you answer. Show cooperation. Willingness to work with me. Desire to live! Come with me to Moscow? Perhaps spy for us? Live in comfort with dacha. Or, if fail? Labor in gulag, Sad, but still alive. But what if you refuse answer question? Then I hold barrel to your head and pull trigger. Either you die or you live. Empty chamber? You live? Well? What then? I ask another question. Repeat. Six chances. Odds worse each time!”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Bad attitude! Alright. We begin. First question. Easy one. You English spy, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
She closed her eyes, felt the cold gun barrel pressed against her forehead, and then the hollow click resulting from the hammer striking an empty chamber. Barb shuddered involuntarily.
“Lucky that time, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Very fortunate! We try again. Second question. Easy one once again. Father is Nazi pig, Joachim Mohr, yes?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Another empty chamber.
“Odds worse now, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Tougher question. English spymasters send you here on mission. For what purpose?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
Empty chamber again.
“Hmmmm. Very poor odds now. Grave nearly dug. Ready for your corpse. Fourth question. Do you really wish to die, Fräulein Barbara Mohr? Tell me! Are English spymasters really worth dying for?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Brave, but crazy,” he muttered, taking the stub of his cigarette from his mouth and extinguishing it by grinding its tip against her breast bone.
Again she screamed.
And he laughed.
“Next question, Fräulein Barbara Mohr. Why you willing to die for English spymasters? Perhaps you love one of them? Yes? You fuck with him?”
“Shit!” breathed Johan as he leaned on his shovel, awestruck by what was happening. Paul, on the other hand, standing next to him had turned away, revolted and unwilling to watch.
Dimitri seemed intrigued.
“Answer question, please, Fräulein Barbara Mohr!” Popov growled, pressing the gun barrel tightly to her forehead. “Live! You’ll like Moscow. Very nice city.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
But before Popov could pull the trigger, Henry, realizing that there was only one thing for it, shouted “Stop!” And springing to his feet, walked out into the clearing with his hands up.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I hope that this is a well considered strategy, and that Johan and Paul will not have to dig two graves!
Chapter 23
The heavily forested expanses to the South and East of the Wannsee, Southwest Berlin, 1:32 am Sunday 6th October 1939
10 minutes before Henry Underwood gave himself up
Once again, from his camouflaged vantage point, Henry saw the gun barrel click over, the sound it made was loud against the backdrop of late night silence in the woods. Henry had to hold back his bile. This was a sick game and Barbara looked crazed beyond all reason, each snap of the trigger taking away a large slice of her sanity, as her eyes grew wider and her bound body shook relentlessly.
That was four attempts, two more left and he knew there was a bullet in there because he had watched the Russian slip a shot into one of the slots, so unless he did something she was about to die.
Feeling for the camera in his trench coat pocket he took it out. Looking round he needed a marker, and then in the moon light he saw an old overgrown plaster bust. Moving to it he read the inscription …
“Hans Joachim von Zieten Kavalleriegeneral und Held Preußens. Gestorben Berlin 1786”
Henry knew enough Old German to know who this was and that he had been a Prussian Cavalry General who died in Berlin in 1786. The plaster head and shoulder statue looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years. Perfect.
Taking a nearby large broken branch he dug a shallow hole at the side of the bust, and then took out the camera, wrapped it in his tie and placed the small parcel into the hole before covering it with twigs and leaves.
He quickly turned his attention back to the appalling vignette in the dimly lit clearing before him.
“Answer question, please.” Henry heard the Russian growl, as he pressed the gun barrel tightly to Barb’s forehead.
“Live! You’ll like Moscow. Very nice city. Or die like …”
“Go fuck yourself!” Barbara was using the last dregs of her defiance.
But before Popov could pull the trigger, Henry realizing that there was only one thing for it, shouted …
“Stop!” And, springing to his feet, walked out into the clearing with his hands up.
Heads turned as Captain Henry Underwood walked calmly out of the undergrowth, hands held high at either side of his head. Barbara stared, saying nothing but shaking her head as if to indicate she would rather him have taken the blueprints and documents safely back to Britain.
“And who …”
“He is Henry Underwood, another British spy,” Johan spoke in his pidgin English so that he and his Russian colleagues could communicate at least in some little way.
“… and he is man who would give himself up for girl,” grinned a smug faced Popov. As soon as she heard these words Barbara lowered her head in dismay.
“Is she whore for you Mister Underwood,” the Russian almost laughed, “… does she open pussy for you, huh?”
“Please, let her go,” Henry said with calm British enunciation of his words.
Popov laughed and said, “Strip him.”
Henry closed his eyes. He suspected they might do this, partly to humiliate him but more so to ensure that he wasn’t in any way armed.
Johan and Paul nodded, and while the latter aimed his gun at Underwood’s chest, the former began to divest him of his clothing.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Henry backed away whilst keeping his hands high. “Let me use my hands and I’ll take my own clothes off.”
Popov shook his head, the sneer now seemingly permanently affixed to his lips. “You stand still, keep hands high Englishman.”
And so Henry was forced to endure as Johan stripped away his clothing piece by piece until the Secret Service Captain stood naked with his hands still held high in the air.
“Okay so no weapon apart from the one that girl wants …”
“No,” said Barbara, “… he’s not … we’re not …”
“Move to her Underwood. Stand with your cock near her mouth.”
“Oh God,” Henry whispered to himself.
With Paul’s rifle pushing at his back, Underwood walked slowly towards where she was tied to the tree, her head at a perfect height for his groin.
“Okay now you suck him whore, then we ask you question again.”
“No, please, we’re not …” she weakly remonstrated. But Popov’s gun at Henry’s temple forced her actions and she leaned forward to take Henry’s rapidly swelling cock head into her mouth.
"That's it, whore! Suck!" The Russian urged her with an evil chortle.
It didn't take much from her warm lips wrapped around the head before Henry's cock was rock hard.
"I'm sorry Barb!" Underwood whispered.
She said nothing … she couldn't, her mouth full of Henry's hard shaft.
"All of it!" Popov growled, leaning forward and prodding her shoulder with the gun barrel, "Take all of it in, deepthroat.”
In a panic she pushed downward, sliding all of Henry's cock into her mouth, gagging then pulling back as the seeping crown hit the back of her throat.
"Yes whore! Give him really good blow job before you both die.”
It took Barbara a few minutes before she found a rhythm: all the way down until she touched his pubic hair with her lips, then back out until only the head was in her mouth.
Just do it … Just do it … was the Mantra inside her mind, and the revulsion she had felt at first slowly disappeared. After all, Henry was being forced to do this just as she was. And at least it was her lover’s cock …
So, by the time Henry groaned, "Ohhhh f … f … fuck, I'm sorry Barb, I … I … I'm going to cum,” she was kind of ready.
Popov laughed and then growled, "When he cum, swallow. Swallow it all! Don't spill any or I hurt him …”
Barbara’s eyes widened and her cheeks bulged as she felt the early release oozing into her mouth. Swallowing and trying her best to keep her jaw relaxed whilst breathing through her nose, she continued suck hard.
But Henry could take no more and with a stiffening of his entire body along with a dramatic arching of his spine, he thrust hard and his cock exploded, twitching, spasming, blasting rope after rope of thick cum down her throat. She gagged, then swallowed, trying desperately not to let any spill out the sides of her mouth. After five thrusting ejaculated jets, she felt his cock quiver, then weakly spasm again two or three times.
Barbara kept lapping at his solid shaft, not wanting Popov to hurt him, until finally Henry staggered backwards, his cock dripping with residue from the very public forced blowjob he had just received.
She looked up, gasping for breath, cum dripping from her mouth and chin onto her beaten and welted breasts.
The menacing Russian grinned, while his compatriot, Dimitri, stood before the GAZ-M1 simply enjoying the show.
“Beautiful whore.” Barbara could tell that the appalling Russian’s cock was now also hard and she could only guess what was coming next.
But she was wrong.
“Okay,” Popov said, “… now, whore, you admit you’re spy and then you tell me why you over here bitch, or I shoot his cock off!” Popov slipped the gun under Henry’s softening shaft and held the flaccid organ up.
“I … I …” Barbara had lost the spirited defiance that she had found pre Henry’s appearance.
“I have information you want,” Henry spoke up loudly and clearly.
Popov narrowed his eyes at the captain, then his mouth broke out into the now familiar sardonic grin. “Oh, you do? Okay tell.”
With a deep breath the naked secret service Agent began to speak.
“The girl you have is Fräulein Barbara Mohr, her father is Joachim Mohr, the entrepreneurial industrialist. He is helping to fund the development of highly explosive long range rockets that Germany can use when they extend their front line into Britain and beyond Poland into Lithuania and the Soviet Union.”
Barb stared open mouthed … but Popov narrowed his eyes.
“Germany not fight USSR?” But the sentence came out as a question not a statement.
Henry sensed the impact he had made and continued with a more confident assertion. “Not today, but tomorrow? You think Hitler wants to share everything with Stalin?”
Popov took a deep breath. “You have proof?”
“Not currently other than what Fräulein Mohr knows because she is his daughter. If you keep us alive then we can help you …” said Henry evenly. He was not about to tell the Russian anything about the camera he had hidden.
Now Popov was nodding, as he replaced the gun in his shoulder holster.
“Untie the whore and let her put her blanket back on. Give him his pants and shirt, then tie them both. I’m taking them back to Moscow.”
TBC
The heavily forested expanses to the South and East of the Wannsee, Southwest Berlin, 1:32 am Sunday 6th October 1939
10 minutes before Henry Underwood gave himself up
Once again, from his camouflaged vantage point, Henry saw the gun barrel click over, the sound it made was loud against the backdrop of late night silence in the woods. Henry had to hold back his bile. This was a sick game and Barbara looked crazed beyond all reason, each snap of the trigger taking away a large slice of her sanity, as her eyes grew wider and her bound body shook relentlessly.
That was four attempts, two more left and he knew there was a bullet in there because he had watched the Russian slip a shot into one of the slots, so unless he did something she was about to die.
Feeling for the camera in his trench coat pocket he took it out. Looking round he needed a marker, and then in the moon light he saw an old overgrown plaster bust. Moving to it he read the inscription …
“Hans Joachim von Zieten Kavalleriegeneral und Held Preußens. Gestorben Berlin 1786”
Henry knew enough Old German to know who this was and that he had been a Prussian Cavalry General who died in Berlin in 1786. The plaster head and shoulder statue looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years. Perfect.
Taking a nearby large broken branch he dug a shallow hole at the side of the bust, and then took out the camera, wrapped it in his tie and placed the small parcel into the hole before covering it with twigs and leaves.
He quickly turned his attention back to the appalling vignette in the dimly lit clearing before him.
“Answer question, please.” Henry heard the Russian growl, as he pressed the gun barrel tightly to Barb’s forehead.
“Live! You’ll like Moscow. Very nice city. Or die like …”
“Go fuck yourself!” Barbara was using the last dregs of her defiance.
But before Popov could pull the trigger, Henry realizing that there was only one thing for it, shouted …
“Stop!” And, springing to his feet, walked out into the clearing with his hands up.
Heads turned as Captain Henry Underwood walked calmly out of the undergrowth, hands held high at either side of his head. Barbara stared, saying nothing but shaking her head as if to indicate she would rather him have taken the blueprints and documents safely back to Britain.
“And who …”
“He is Henry Underwood, another British spy,” Johan spoke in his pidgin English so that he and his Russian colleagues could communicate at least in some little way.
“… and he is man who would give himself up for girl,” grinned a smug faced Popov. As soon as she heard these words Barbara lowered her head in dismay.
“Is she whore for you Mister Underwood,” the Russian almost laughed, “… does she open pussy for you, huh?”
“Please, let her go,” Henry said with calm British enunciation of his words.
Popov laughed and said, “Strip him.”
Henry closed his eyes. He suspected they might do this, partly to humiliate him but more so to ensure that he wasn’t in any way armed.
Johan and Paul nodded, and while the latter aimed his gun at Underwood’s chest, the former began to divest him of his clothing.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Henry backed away whilst keeping his hands high. “Let me use my hands and I’ll take my own clothes off.”
Popov shook his head, the sneer now seemingly permanently affixed to his lips. “You stand still, keep hands high Englishman.”
And so Henry was forced to endure as Johan stripped away his clothing piece by piece until the Secret Service Captain stood naked with his hands still held high in the air.
“Okay so no weapon apart from the one that girl wants …”
“No,” said Barbara, “… he’s not … we’re not …”
“Move to her Underwood. Stand with your cock near her mouth.”
“Oh God,” Henry whispered to himself.
With Paul’s rifle pushing at his back, Underwood walked slowly towards where she was tied to the tree, her head at a perfect height for his groin.
“Okay now you suck him whore, then we ask you question again.”
“No, please, we’re not …” she weakly remonstrated. But Popov’s gun at Henry’s temple forced her actions and she leaned forward to take Henry’s rapidly swelling cock head into her mouth.
"That's it, whore! Suck!" The Russian urged her with an evil chortle.
It didn't take much from her warm lips wrapped around the head before Henry's cock was rock hard.
"I'm sorry Barb!" Underwood whispered.
She said nothing … she couldn't, her mouth full of Henry's hard shaft.
"All of it!" Popov growled, leaning forward and prodding her shoulder with the gun barrel, "Take all of it in, deepthroat.”
In a panic she pushed downward, sliding all of Henry's cock into her mouth, gagging then pulling back as the seeping crown hit the back of her throat.
"Yes whore! Give him really good blow job before you both die.”
It took Barbara a few minutes before she found a rhythm: all the way down until she touched his pubic hair with her lips, then back out until only the head was in her mouth.
Just do it … Just do it … was the Mantra inside her mind, and the revulsion she had felt at first slowly disappeared. After all, Henry was being forced to do this just as she was. And at least it was her lover’s cock …
So, by the time Henry groaned, "Ohhhh f … f … fuck, I'm sorry Barb, I … I … I'm going to cum,” she was kind of ready.
Popov laughed and then growled, "When he cum, swallow. Swallow it all! Don't spill any or I hurt him …”
Barbara’s eyes widened and her cheeks bulged as she felt the early release oozing into her mouth. Swallowing and trying her best to keep her jaw relaxed whilst breathing through her nose, she continued suck hard.
But Henry could take no more and with a stiffening of his entire body along with a dramatic arching of his spine, he thrust hard and his cock exploded, twitching, spasming, blasting rope after rope of thick cum down her throat. She gagged, then swallowed, trying desperately not to let any spill out the sides of her mouth. After five thrusting ejaculated jets, she felt his cock quiver, then weakly spasm again two or three times.
Barbara kept lapping at his solid shaft, not wanting Popov to hurt him, until finally Henry staggered backwards, his cock dripping with residue from the very public forced blowjob he had just received.
She looked up, gasping for breath, cum dripping from her mouth and chin onto her beaten and welted breasts.
The menacing Russian grinned, while his compatriot, Dimitri, stood before the GAZ-M1 simply enjoying the show.
“Beautiful whore.” Barbara could tell that the appalling Russian’s cock was now also hard and she could only guess what was coming next.
But she was wrong.
“Okay,” Popov said, “… now, whore, you admit you’re spy and then you tell me why you over here bitch, or I shoot his cock off!” Popov slipped the gun under Henry’s softening shaft and held the flaccid organ up.
“I … I …” Barbara had lost the spirited defiance that she had found pre Henry’s appearance.
“I have information you want,” Henry spoke up loudly and clearly.
Popov narrowed his eyes at the captain, then his mouth broke out into the now familiar sardonic grin. “Oh, you do? Okay tell.”
With a deep breath the naked secret service Agent began to speak.
“The girl you have is Fräulein Barbara Mohr, her father is Joachim Mohr, the entrepreneurial industrialist. He is helping to fund the development of highly explosive long range rockets that Germany can use when they extend their front line into Britain and beyond Poland into Lithuania and the Soviet Union.”
Barb stared open mouthed … but Popov narrowed his eyes.
“Germany not fight USSR?” But the sentence came out as a question not a statement.
Henry sensed the impact he had made and continued with a more confident assertion. “Not today, but tomorrow? You think Hitler wants to share everything with Stalin?”
Popov took a deep breath. “You have proof?”
“Not currently other than what Fräulein Mohr knows because she is his daughter. If you keep us alive then we can help you …” said Henry evenly. He was not about to tell the Russian anything about the camera he had hidden.
Now Popov was nodding, as he replaced the gun in his shoulder holster.
“Untie the whore and let her put her blanket back on. Give him his pants and shirt, then tie them both. I’m taking them back to Moscow.”
TBC
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