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       Moscow – March 1945

      General Sergei Oropov sucked deeply on a thin, knobbly cheroot of black Balkan tobacco, inhaling the acrid smoke and attempting to savour it. Failing, he sprayed it out from between his clenched teeth, sending it jetting on its way with a convulsive, chesty cough. The faintly blue smoke rose towards the high ceiling of the large, overheated and airless office, blending into a murky pall made thicker by the steam escaping from a leaking radiator. The heating system, along with the ventilation fans, had been faulty for over three months now, and it was still impossible to find labour sufficiently skilled to fix it.

      ‘Thank God this damned war will soon be over,’ Oropov muttered testily, knowing that it could be merely a matter of weeks before Germany was finally forced to capitulate. Russian troops had almost reached the Oder, the Western Allies had established a firm bridgehead east of the Rhine and troopers of Britain’s already legendary 1 and 2 Squadron SAS ranged throughout Europe, organizing and arming local resistance fighters and carrying out long-range reconnaissance and sabotage attacks as far north as Hamburg and Lübeck.

      The remark was not really intended as dialogue, more as a private thought expressed aloud. Nevertheless, Oropov’s companion took it up, seizing on the opportunity for a mild rebuke to be administered, a propaganda point to be gained.

      Tovan Leveski’s thin lips parted slightly in a mirthless smile. ‘One