BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 35)


By KATZMAREK ©


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and
interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are
entirely contestable.


This remains my property and may not be used for gain without
my express permission in writing.


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John and Jana both listened as a Tu-4 droned overhead. Its four massive radial piston engines rumbled as it passed over. The Tu-4 was due for retirement from the DA-V.V-S (Dal'niya Aviatitsya-Voenno.Vozdushniye-Sily = Long Range Aviation of the Soviet Air Force). A faithful reproduction of the American Boeing B-29, it had been the mainstay of the Soviet strategic bomber force in the early 50s.


The lovers both looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking. 'Height, destination?' Aviation ran in their blood like red corpuscles.


"Night navigation training out of Tushino," John told her.


"Cross country to Ilmen Ozero and back," she agreed, "I know *that* one very well. We ended up over Leningrad and had to repeat it the next night."


"Oh dear!" smiled John, shaking his head, "compass error?"


"Calibrated 15 degrees off!"


"They always pull that shit. I'm surprised you fell for it."


"It taught me to always double-check. Even we instructors get caught out."


"Never mind, they would've turned you back before you reached Sweden."


"Either that or the PVO-Strany would've shot us down over the Baltic."


"That would be a first," laughed John, "the PVO actually intercepting something!"


"That sounds like inter-service rivalry to me," Jana remarked, "I'm sure even your precious Frontal Aviation screw up from time to time."


"Haven't you heard? We in the FA-V.V-S are the elite!"


"Boasting is not your strong point, John. Are we going to waste this opportunity?" she said, advancing towards him.


They shared a long, passionate kiss. John's hands reached down and clutched her around the bottom, pulling her into him. Jana squirmed against his growing bulge in the front of his trousers.


"Mmm," Jana hummed as they broke for air, "you're still one of the best kissers I've come across."


"I keep in practice," he told her, "and you? Are you keeping in practice?"


"Like riding a bicycle," she said, "one never forgets." She moved in for another kiss, mouth open and a sultry, lustful expression on her face. She was mildly affected by the booze they'd drunk, but it only served to release a few more pheromones. She slipped a hand down and gave him a little rub. John caught his breath and drew his fingers over her chest.


"Have you taken anyone else?" he asked. John couldn't believe that someone as beautiful as Jana would be living the life of a nun.


"Jealous, John?" she asked, rubbing him more urgently. John's big hands began to caress Jana's chest insistantly.


"Curious."


"There's little time for such things," she told him, "but I've had the odd adventure."


"Oh? Tell me more?" he said, bunching up her long dress and sliding a hand up her leg.


"Pervert," she grinned, "voyeur! In any case, there's not much to tell. I went out a couple of times with a colleague, that's all. We had a drink... a little grope in a doorway, maybe? Nothing much!"


"A grope?" Jana parted her legs a fraction as John found the front of her panties. John's cock twitched beneath Jana's hand.


"A grope," she confirmed, "you know groping? It's when a man and his date have had a little to drink and they want to feel the goods."


"Of course! And a man's dick gets too big for his trousers," he grinned.


"Yes, big boy, so she pulls it free, like this... doesn't she? She holds his big cock in her hand... strokes it like this... feels how hard she has made him..."


"Oh, yes Babe. And the man pulls down her panties... Shit! I can't get them down, they're stuck! Fucking Russian elastic!" With that, they both broke out in a fit of the giggles.


Later, they were naked on the bed. Jana sat on John's legs, he was on his back and grinning up at her. His skin shone from the oil Jana had been spreading all over his skin. It was a special formula Jana had obtained on one of her overseas trips. It was scented with Rose essence and Jasmin.


John watched fascinated as Jana spread some of the oil over her big, jiggling breasts. Some oil ran down her flat stomach, leaving glistening trails down her skin. Her blond hair was unclasped and flowed in a cascade over her shoulders.


"You have such a beautiful body, General," she hissed, "I have always thought so."


"And you, Captain," he replied, "have grown more sexier with the years."


"You flatter. Have you not noticed how my breasts sag a little more?"


"I have not stopped noticing your breasts, my love," he told her, caressing her nipples, "and I'm sure your 'date' did too."


"My 'date,' as you put it, never got the chance. He is a gentleman, unlike you." Jana took his cock in her oil-slippery hand and began to stroke.


"So what... did he grope, then?" Jana shuffled up and pressed his cock against her pussy. She undulated, caressing his dick with her pussy and hand.


"*He* didn't, I did. I gave him a little 'relief' with my hand. Poor man was quite stiff and uncomfortable. But," she added, breathing hard, "he had nothing like this!" With that, Jana rose and fitted the bulb of his cock into her vagina. She sighed as she sat back down on him.


They'd paced themselves well, having had long experience at pleasing each other. John had not long pounded Jana to her second orgasm, on top with her long legs clasped tightly over his back, when Benin appeared.


She stood for a while watching as the two of them lay on their backs, legs spread and glistening with the oil and their lovemaking. Slowly Benin took off her clothes stitch by stitch till she was as naked as the two lovers. She had a long kiss for each of them before they made room in the middle for her.


Jana imediately took her into a long clinch, while John spread some of the oil onto her back. Soon Benin was squirming and sighing with arousal by John and Jana's ministrations.


John watched as Benin rolled onto her back and spread her legs. Her brown thatch was now matted with moisture as Jana molested it with her fingers. Jana sucked at her breasts as she rubbed the little bud of her clitoris. Benin's hips rose from the mattress and thrust against Jana's fingers, mouth open and whimpering.


Later on that night, Jana woke as the bed rocked furiously. John, having recovered from the earlier activities, was furiously fucking his wife. 


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Some days later John and Benin had a visitor. Rhykov was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel in Spetznaz (Special Forces} and came with a bottle of the very best vodka. It was 'Absolut,' distilled in Sweden and normally unseen in the USSR.


His hair was greying and his wasteline a little wider but otherwise he was still the powerfully built spy they remembered.


Rhykov worked for the KGB's First Chief Directorate, responsible for overseas operations. There were 16 Chief Directorates in the KGB at this time covering the roles performed by the US's CIA, FBI, Government and Presidential Security Services, Special Forces and a Hell of a lot more. The GULAG, although supposed to be a separate organisation, was, in reality controlled by a Directorate of the KGB.


Benin and John had not seen him in years. His strong arms crushed Benin in an embrace and thumped John so severely it nearly sent him flying.


"So good to see you," he gushed, "been too long!"


"What's this?" John said, stumbling back, "another purge?"


"Of course not," he laughed, "besides, that's another department. You stay out of politics and you'll be all right."


"Like you?" Benin asked.


"Of course. I just do my duty and don't meddle in things that don't concern me. Come, we drink, yes?"


Some time later Rhykov came finally to business, as both Benin and John were sure he would. Visits from Rhykov always had a purpose in their long experience with the man. "John," he said, "why do you think the Australians are trying to get in touch with you?"


John was flabbergasted by the question, and a little worried. He knew how things were in the Soviet Union; paranoia about espionage, dissidence and disloyalty. Each new major political promotion seemed to signal a wholesale clearing out of the previous encumbent's supporters from every branch of Government. "I have no idea," John replied, "what's this all about?"


"I hear things. One of their intelligence people want to see you about something. We don't normally allow this, you understand?"


"Of course," John agreed.


"But on this occasion the First Directorate has agreed to a meeting under certain conditions."


"What are those?" asked Benin.


"Well," he replied, "our people will be monitoring the meeting."


"Naturally!" Benin commenting, her voice cynical.


"Naturally," Rhykov smiled wryly, "and I think it would be a good idea if I sit in with you. The meeting will take place in one of the Second Directorate's apartments."


"Which will have microphones?" Benin asked.


"My dear, it will be wired so thoroughly it will deflect a magnetic compass. Should this surprise you?" There was a slight tone of exasperation in his voice.


"No."


"Well then! You think the West doesn't do the same?"


"Probably," agreed Benin, "but it's all bullshit, just the same."


"Yes, but bullshit that could get someone killed. I don't want that to happen, Benin, and I don't want the silly fuckers in the Second Directorate getting the wrong idea. If they thought you were planning to defect to the West they'll be all over you like flies to shit, understand? And Benin?" he added hastily, "the Western intelligence people would do precisely the same thing if one of their's was considering a shift of allegances. Besides, John, do you realise the Government of New Zealand considers you a traitor?"


"What? Me?" John said, aghast. He added, after a moment's consideration, "well I suppose that figures. It's strange, though, I never meant..."


"Of course not," Rhykov said, "no-one could've predicted how things were going to turn out. But you're in it now, for better or for worse. You chose to remain in the Soviet Union..."


"How could we have got out?" Benin interrupted, "especially now with our children at your mercy. We cannot leave, ever, or it'll be our family who'll suffer."


"Probably," Rhykov agreed, "but, be honest, what would you do there? You two would be nothing but show ponies for their propaganda people. A Soviet General defects? Imagine the headlines in the 'New York Times'? They will never leave you alone and I doubt they'll ever let you near any of their military aircraft. Like it or not, your lives are far more comfortable here than they ever would be in the West."


"Besides which," Benin added, "John would have to be protected day and night or he'd 'disappear.' 'Snatched' back maybe? Or perhaps quietly dropped off the Brooklyn bridge with lead weights around his ankles?"


Rhykov shrugged. "I don't know. It depends on the security risk he'd pose. 1st Directorate would do an assessment... then , who knows? John would have a lot of Military information... it's conceivable they could order a hit. But, this is theoretical because John is not going to the West, are you John?" John shook his head. "because, my friends, it would be genuinely painful for me to have to deal with that situation."


"Your head may roll?" suggested Benin.


"Maybe," he sighed, "I'd be in deep trouble, that's for sure."


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Ralph Furness was ACIO Officer at Canberra's Moscow Embassy. He'd had to overcome a lot of official unwillingness to set up this meeting with General Khrinov. His New Zealand opposite number had insisted on attending, as had an officer from the British MI-6.


The three men were collected by a black sedan of the KGB's 2nd Directorate outside the Australian Embassy. Passersby were used to such goings on and paid no attention. 


They took the three men to an apartment not far from KGB Headquarters in the old Lyubyanka palace. Two Spetznaz Guards in plain clothes stood outside the door with stolid, blank expressions and bulges at their hips. No doubt their Czech CZ-52 pistols would make short work of the meeting if things turned ugly.


The room was brightly lit, probably for the benefit of the cine camera concealed behind the two-way mirror. John stood blinking and fidgeting nervously alongside Rhykov at one end of the room. Rhykov, himself, was in a similar state of agitation, surprising for one so used to be in harm's way.


But this was different from liaising with a group of Cuban revolutionaries or even sniping at Fascists in Spain and Byelorussia. On those occasions the walls weren't packed with Second Directorate operatives and all their spying apparatus. Rhykov was conscious that everything the two of them said or did would be analysed and cross-analysed at the Lyubyanka afterwards.


There was a round of introductions at which Rhykov called himself 'Maxim.' John was convinced he was the only one in the room to use his real name. The three strangers described themselves as 'coming from the Embassy.' They, too, were no doubt conscious of the camera and microphones.


"General," the first man spoke in English with a distinctive Australian accent, "so good of you to meet with us."


"No problem," John replied.


"I bet it's a long time since you saw anyone from the old country?" another man asked, in English with a New Zealand twang.


"A while," John told the man, guardedly. There was an uncomfortable pause while all five men fished for something to say.


"Ok," the Australian spoke at last, "to business, eh? General, do you recall an Aussie pilot by the name of 'Oz' Callaghan?"


"'Oz'? Sure!" John replied brightly, "where is the old bastard? Is he in trouble?"


"Well, we're not too sure," the Australian told him, "apparently he's not been heard from since being taken prisoner in Korea. There is a suspician from our side," he continued, glancing at the mirror, "that he's in the hands of Soviet Union."


"That right?" John asked Rhykov in Russian, mindless of the camera.


"I don't know, General," Rhykov replied, "that is a question for GULAG. I'm unaware of any Korean War prisoners in Russia."


"Could you find out?"


"Maybe! But I think you might try asking Major-General Lobov. He was in command there and might know something."


"This Lobov was in command?" asked the Australian in English, "are you telling me there were Russian units in Korea?"


"Of course not," Rhykov replied, hastily, and conscious of making a gaffe. "General Lobov commanded an Air Force Unit in Mongolia. He may be more aware of the Korean situation than I."


"I see?" the Australian said, "perhaps, General, in that case could you make some enquiries? He has family, a wife, that would be relieved to know his fate."


"Of course," John told him, unthinking, spontaneously.


The three Western agents left shortly after. Rhykov took John down the hall where they could talk in private.


"John," Rhykov told him, "you know, this Callaghan may be dead. I know the GULAG held some people for awhile but I thought they'd all gone home. It could be that the North Koreans shot him, we don't know."


"But you could find out?"


"I'm not sure of that either. After 1953, and Beria's demise after Stalin's death, the GULAG was reorganised. Many of their top people were cleared out... records destroyed. It may be hard finding anybody that'll know or admit to anything."


"Perhaps," thought John, "if we found out to what camp they were sent..."


"There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. All over Eastern Siberia, Sakhalin, the Arctic shore... He probably froze to death up there."


"Rhykov... you understand about looking out for your mates, your friends? You call us friends, but do you understand what it means? It means looking out for them when they're in trouble..."


"Ok, ok, don't go on!" Rhykov said, irritated, "I'll make some enquiries. You, maybe, ask Lobov? Maybe we can track him from there?"


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It was September 1956 and the first chill wind began to blow from the North. The bleak hills of the Khrebet featured a light crowning of snow on the tops. 'Oz' didn't want to spend yet another Winter in this place.


He woke early, as usual, to the banging and crashing of the ore trains as they headed down from the Tin mines at Chuman. He raked out last night's fire and set the kindling. A sack of good coking coal lay in the corner, obtained from the Railway depot. Slowly, he began to prepare the oat and barley porridge for breakfast.


He shared a hut with an American called Slovowitz. Like he, he'd been a fighter pilot in the Korean War. The man had once gone on about the VMF-98, a Marine Squadron, but rarely spoke anymore. Slovowitz was painfully thin, haggard, and wore a long, unkempt beard. 'Oz' had been concerned for him for a long time. He doubted he'd see out another Winter and suspected he suffered from undiagnosed pneumonia.


'Oz' checked in on him and found him alive, but asleep. His breathing rattled.


The camp, now, was nothing but a coaling station for the mining railway. About a half dozen Railway staff lived around the depot about a kilometre away. There was talk it was shortly going to be electrified and the depot closed. If so, there would be no more purpose for the tiny community.


There was now only one guard remaining at the camp. He took on the job as postmaster for both the camp and the Railway depot. Of the former inmates, there were only the two of them left. The rest had either died or gone home when the camp officially closed.


'Oz' had often gone down to the line and chatted to the locomotive crews as they watered and coaled the engine. It was the only way he could get any news of the outside world. Sometimes a crewman would pass on a book or a newspaper, but they were always long out of date by the time he got them. With the impending electrification, even that avenue for social connection would be lost. John had repeated asked the postman/guard, Ivan, whether he knew what was to become of them, but he had no idea.


"Moscow," he told him, "doesn't care about us."


'Oz' kind of felt sorry for Ivan as well. He was an amiable character and not like any stereotype of a prison guard. It did seem that the authorities at GULAG had forgotten them.


The 6am train screeched to a halt at the depot as usual in a flurry of exhaust steam. 'Oz' was waiting for it, he knew the driver would be his old mate,  a Siberian called Yung, and he had some English language newspapers for him. However, a stranger trudged up from the rear of the train with the guard. His name was Captain Boris Yevtushenko, he said, and he was from the Militia detachment at Skovorodino. He'd been ordered to take all the remaining camp prisoners and staff to Irkutsk.


"We going home?" 'Oz' asked the man, dully. He didn't know anything and 'Oz' didn't really expect him to.


It was nearly 1000 kilometres to Irkutsk, a journey that took them 36 hours by train. 'Oz' was still in a daze when they arrived and was met by an armed  squad and medical personnel. Slovowitz was stretchered off to an ambulance while he was taken by car to a medical clinic for a check up.


'Oz' spent a couple of days being probed and jabbed with needles. New food was slowly introduced to his system after so long living on wild game and meagre prison rations. After a week he began to feel better and his morale slowly improved. 'Oz' found the Russian Medical and Official staff couldn't do enough for him. Even old Slovowitz began to improve and his colour was better.


A week later a Government official came to see him. He explained that everything had been a dreadful mistake and the culprits responsible for his incarceration had been punished. He told him that arrangements were being made for his repatriation and that of the American. His wife and family had been contacted and given the good news, he said. 'Oz' thought that a very large bomb must have exploded under several arses at the Kremlin and a lot of minor officials were shitting themselves.


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'Oz's' meeting with his old friend John Greenhaugh had been brief. After arriving in Moscow, 'Oz' was installed in a hotel with a KGB minder for company. The man spoke English fluently and reminded John repeatedly how well he'd been treated after his discovery. 'Oz' shut him up by asking how come he'd spent 4 years in prison without anyone, apparently, being aware of it.


An Air Force Captain came to see him on the second day in Moscow. With little explanation he was escorted to a car and driven to an Air Base. 'Oz' figured it was Kubinka, although the car had blinds drawn down preventing him from seeing out.


He was whisked from the car and into a large waiting area in the administration building. After a few minutes John strode in accompanied by a couple of uniformed officers. He extended his hand and greeted 'Oz' warmly.


'Oz' noted that he now spoke English with a distinct Russian accent. Sometimes he'd forget an English word and paused while he recalled. The other officers hovered and 'Oz' thought he was being careful about what he said. All in all, 'Oz' felt little warmth coming from John even though he was doing his best. This 'Cold War' he thought, had a lot to answer for.


"Were you in Korea?" he asked John.


"No," he shook his head, "I have never been to the East." 'Oz' wondered whether John knew there'd been a war there because he answered as if he was talking about his holidays.


"How is Benin?" Here he was on firmer ground and John was only too willing to share news of his wife. 


"Catalina? You've heard from her?" he asked. 'Oz' had received a letter from his wife the day before and told John about it. He seemed pleased, said that he'd try and get together with him before he left and disappeared back into the bowels of the building. With that, he was whisked back to the car and off.


"Say," he asked his driver, "I couldn't get a look at one of those new MiGs could I?"


"Sorry, not understand English," the driver replied, shaking his head.


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Outside Berlin, Ludwigsfelde featuring a huge Soviet Air Base. 'Oz' flew in on one of the first schedualled services of the new Tupolev Tu-104 jet airliner. Most of his fellow passengers were Soviet Military on posting to East Germany.


As the airliner ground to a halt, a car pulled up. It resembled an American Buick or Lincoln, and had blacked out windows. 'Oz's' minder passed him on to his opposite number then climbed back onto the Tupolev.


Inside the car were two men seated on a bench-type seat opposite 'Oz'. It was dark and he didn't recognise them until one turned on a light. To his astonishment it was John and one other who introduced himself as 'Rhykov.' Rhykov slid back the window behind him and indicated to the driver who promptly put his foot down on the gas so hard it sent each of them sprawling.


The car sped down back streets of Berlin so unbelievably narrow 'Oz' thought the Russian driver must mow down the line of telephone poles. Presently the car jolted to a halt and Rhykov wound down the window a fraction.


"Here we are," he announced.


"Where are we?" 'Oz' asked.


"They call them 'transit houses'," Rhykov told him, "it's where we do transfers of people going to the West. The Russian zone has similar, for those wanting to go East."


"I bet they'd be crowded," 'Oz' said, ruefully.


"Why don't you just take him to a checkpoint?" John suggested, "push him through the gate and say 'bye bye'?"


"It's not that simple, John. Their intelligence people and ours have to vet each one... it's procedure. Otherwise, we might send each other imposters, spies!"


"I bet that doesn't happen!" grumbled 'Oz.' This time, Rhykov smiled at his sarcasm.


"So what happens in these 'transit houses'?" John asked.


"They will have a couple of MI-6 agents who will ask him questions..."


"Poms?" 'Oz' asked.


"'fraid so, 'Oz'" John said.


"Can I stay?"


"What about the missus?"


"Yeah, well..."  Presently two men in plain clothes came to the door of the car and opened it. 'Oz' got out, shook John and Rhykov by the hand and left with them. "Drop me a line?" he said to John before turning back.


John and Rhykov watched him as he went up the steps and in the door. Rhykov then turned to John, "you know," he said, "you could go with him, if you want?"


"Wouldn't you have to shoot me?" John asked.


"Of course," he replied, "but I'm a very poor shot."


"Is this some test of loyalty?"


"Not at all! It's a very hard thing," he continued, "to be separated from your home. I know this, because I, too, have not been home for a very long time."


"And where *is* your home?"


"Norway."


"Oh bullshit!" John said, laughing.


"Maybe it is, maybe I lie. But *your* home, John, is a very long way away. You maybe think often of this 'Taranaki'? You maybe long for that mountain, yes? What is the name?"


"Egmont."


"Yes, Mount Egmont. It's a perfect cone, I remember. And the beach with the shellfish..."


"Pipis!"


"Pipis, yes, see, I remember all you tell me?"


"What about Benin and the children?"


"I'll see that they're all right, trust me."


"Jana?"


"Nothing will happen to them, I assure you."


"But they won't be allowed to follow me, will they?"


"Ah, well," Rhykov sighed, "that would be a problem."


"Then, if you don't mind, I want to go home... that way," he pointed back the way they'd come.


"If you're sure." John nodded and the KGB man tapped the window. They rocked in their seats as the driver set off in a hurry.


Secretly, Rhykov fingered his Tokarev pistol under his coat and eased on the safety catch.


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KATZMAREK ©

