A/N: This story requires some historical background to be properly understood, so I'll give you the quickest summary I can.

During the Holodomor ("Extermination by hunger") in 1932-33, the Soviet Union starved to death between 6 and 7 million ethnic Ukrainians in an effort to wipe out Ukrainian nationalism once and for all. Eight years later, during the Soviet retreat at the beginning of Operation Barbarossa, 100000 political prisoners- including approximately 25000 Ukrainians- were massacred by the retreating NKVD.

In April 1943, when the bulk of this story takes place, the Nazi government requested the formation of the Katyn Commission to investigate the mass graves they had discovered containing the corpses of 22000 executed Polish military officers. In an effort to prove to the world that it was the Soviets and not the Nazis who were responsible, they went so far as to take along Allied POW officers. These events form the basis of this story.

"Are you sure we can't-"

"Yes, I'm positive you twit. We're not here on a social visit, we're working. We've got to meet General Whats-his-name-ich and get back to camp before noon."

"General Tsorrosikovich," Andrew provided. Newkirk rolled his eyes; trust Carter to forget everything but how to tie his shoes and then remember the world's most absurdly over-spelled name.

"Whatever." He slipped easily into character as he and Carter approached the reception desk, adjusting his false glasses. He greeted the receptionist cordially. "Good evening, ma'am, I am looking for a business friend of mine, Mr. Otto Hermann. Could you tell me which room he is in?"

The receptionist scanned her book before answering politely, "Room 25, sir."

"Thank you." The two men headed for the stairwell. "I ruddy well hope this general's got something worth sneaking out in broad daylight for."

"If he didn't London wouldn't have sent us," Carter replied with easy reasoning. "And besides, it's always nice to get out for a while." They stopped talking as soon as they opened the stairwell door; English would be too risky.

Room 25 was smack in the middle of the hallway and the two agents eyed each other- not exactly an optimal location if anything were to go wrong. The thick carpet muffled their footsteps and inexplicably Newkirk felt the hairs raising on the back of his neck. He looked at Carter.

"Are you gettin' the willies like I am, Andrew?" he muttered softly. Carter nodded.

"Something's not right," the American replied. "It smells funny." Newkirk sniffed heavily.

"You're right mate." He reached out carefully and knocked on the door, keeping himself off to one side. Nothing. The two men glanced at one another and reached an unspoken agreement, drawing their sidearms. Newkirk knocked one more time and then turned the handle quietly before pushing the door open. The faint smell from before hit them both full force and suddenly they knew why they had been so alert.

It was the smell of blood.

Newkirk entered the room silently, motioning for Carter to check the bathroom off to the right. The sergeant nudged open the door and pointed his gun into the room, empty save for a few bloodstains in the porcelain sink where someone had tried to wash themselves clean. But there was no sign of the general. "Carter." Newkirk's voice sounded slightly strangled. "I found our General Whats-his-name-ich."

"Yeah?"

"Well I found his body anyhow. C'mere into the main room." Andrew didn't really want to. He was more than willing to just take Peter's word for it that Tsorrosikovich was dead. All the same, he put away his gun and joined the Brit. "Nobody in the bathroom?" Andrew shook his head. "Well, he's not been dead that long."

The general's body was spread eagle on the floor beside his bed, blood staining the creme-colored carpet a deep brownish red. Out of his chest protruded the hilt and last two inches of a long knife. There was a gun belt on the side table with an empty sheath and they would have bet good money that the killer had gotten his weapon from it.

"What do we do now, Peter?" Carter stared at him, wide eyed. Newkirk turned their limited options over in his head and selected the one he thought best.

"We get the ruddy hell out of here is what we do," he replied, putting away his own gun. Making sure not to touch anything, he made for the door. Andrew followed him, looking nervous.

"Seems kinda rude to just leave him there."

"Someone else'll find him mate. Someone who has real papers and won't be recognized when the Gestapo come sniffing around this place." Leaving Tsorrosikovich behind them with respectful nods the POWs left the hotel as quickly as they could without attracting undue attention. The receptionist looked at them oddly, no doubt wondering why their visit had been so brief. Carter gave her a shy, honest smile and a shrug.

"Our friend must be out right now; we will have to come back and see him later." The ride back to the motor pool was tense. "Who d'you think killed him?" Newkirk shrugged.

"Could've been anybody. What I'm worried about is, did his killer know he was coming here to meet with us and did he get the information the general had?"

"What if he did?" Newkirk glanced at his companion.

"Then we might be in for a permanent change of scenery." Silence fell between them; both men were worried about the implications of their discovery. Once they'd returned the car to the motor pool and snuck back into camp, Hogan met them at the base of the ladder.

"So what did our Russian friend have to say?" Carter glanced at Newkirk and shook his head slightly. You get this one, buddy. Newkirk shot him a dirty look before he turned back to the colonel.

"As a matter of fact, sir, not a lot. We found him in his hotel room with a knife sticking out of his chest. No sign of who put it there though, and we decided not to hang around and look." It was hard to take Hogan by surprise, but that piece of news did the trick. He rubbed his mouth, scowling at the tunnel wall.

"Somebody murdered him. Great. That's just great. The Russians'll be out for blood now. What about his aide?"

"Blimey, we forgot all about him. But there was no sign of him in the general's room." Hogan frowned.

"He was supposed to be waiting for you with Tsorrosikovich." Their contact had spoken only Russian, so he had brought an aide along with him to translate. Between the shock of finding the body and their rush to leave without drawing attention the second man had completely slipped their minds. Hogan swore. "We need to find him before the Gestapo set up camp. Come on, let's go tell the others." After they had changed into their uniforms everyone met in Hogan's office.

"Did you leave any evidence that you had been there behind?" Both men shook their heads.

"What about the receptionist? Would she recognize you?" Kinch asked from his spot by the window.

"Only if she turned her head and squinted, maybe," Carter answered him. "We made our hair so grey we looked like we escaped from the rest home. And besides, we only said a sentence each; she couldn'ta made us."

"That's good," Hogan replied, "but unless lightning strikes and we get lucky, they'll send in Hochstetter to deal with this. And the moment he finds out Herr Otto Hermann is actually Comrade Vasily Tsorrosikovich where's the first place he's gonna be?"

"But Carter's right though," Newkirk argued. "The receptionist barely even glanced at us. Out of disguise and back in uniform there's no way she could make the connection."

"Do you suppose it was the aide who did it?" LeBeau asked. "After all, he is a Boche. Maybe he decided his loyalties were different."

"But he was raised in Russia," Hogan replied. "If he was going to defect he would have done it a couple years ago. Still, he's our only suspect right now. Kinch, radio London. Tell them what happened and ask for more about the aide- and the general. Whatever he was up to got him murdered, and I'd sure like to know what it was."

It took London the rest of the day to reply back to Kinch's inquiry and when they did the information they sent could only be called scant from a charitable point of view. "Not much is known about the aide, sir," he told the colonel as he looked over the notes. The team crowded around the table as he spoke.

"Heinrich Schrieffer, a Volga German from a small town near the border. Drafted at eighteen in 1937, apparently an average soldier. When the Krauts invaded in 1941 he was transferred into what the Russians call the Trudarmii. They're pretty tight-lipped about the details on that but what's leaked out doesn't paint a pretty picture."

"So how did he end up as a Russian general's aide then?" Hogan asked, more to himself. "There's something off about all of this, Kinch. And I don't like it. What about Tsorrosikovich?"

"Now that is an interesting story," Kinch replied, cocking an eyebrow. "Our late general is actually a late captain, of the NKVD not the Russian army. Vasily Tsorrosikovich was born and raised in Moscow to ardently communist parents. Father died when he was in his early teens, no siblings, nothing special about the mother. He's been doing interrogations since the beginning of the war. This was his first undercover operation."

"Well, that worked out great for him," Hogan deadpanned. "NKVD, huh? That puts a whole new spin on things." Carter frowned.

"Why?" Hogan looked at him with a sigh.

"Let's just say the NKVD has a certain... reputation. Him being murdered in his hotel room is starting to seem a lot more understandable."

"But it would have been a small subset of people who even knew that," Kinch argued. "And none of them would have been in Germany. There's no evidence that even his aide knew who he really was."

"I don't think whoever did it planned to kill him though," Newkirk interrupted, cutting off the budding debate. "They grabbed the nearest thing they could find, stuck him in the chest with his own knife, scrubbed themselves clean, and scarpered. Seems more like a heat of the moment thing, not an assassination."

"You could be right," Hogan remarked softly. "Either way, we need to get to Schrieffer before the Gestapo does."

"Looking for a Kraut in a city full of Krauts. Sounds easy," LeBeau piped up.

"Have you got a plan yet, guv'?"

"Nothing yet," Hogan replied, "but let's watch ourselves. There's something about this one I don't like. For one, why was Tsorrosikovich lying about being in the Russian army, and why did he say he was a general? And how did Schrieffer go from a transfer to the sticks to undercover work? And most importantly, if he isn't the one who stuck a knife into the good captain, then who did, and what did they do with him?"

"But why would the killer go after Schrieffer?" Carter asked. "If he wasn't there when the general- er, the captain- got murdered, and he's not the one who did it anyway."

"That depends on the killer's motive," Hogan replied, running a hand through his hair. "If they want the information the captain had going after the aide's the logical conclusion. And if it was something else, well, then he might be in the clear for that but the Gestapo will still be on his trail and we have to help him."

"Well," Newkirk interjected as he slouched back against the table, "this is shaping up to be a good one, isn't it?"