by Colin Gee
Then, whilst he didn’t fully understand, he understood more… maybe.
Nazarbayeva also suddenly had a moment of light, as her mind clawed deep into its recesses and prompted her to bring forth a memory of words written on a piece of paper by her long-dead mentor..
‘V.K.G.? Can it be him?’
The out of place presence of a Christmas tree gave her the opening she needed.
Nazarbayeva gestured at the thinning spruce.
“When this is all over, Comrades, I look forward to next Christmas with my family once again. Perhaps somewhere other than home. I’ve heard that there is nothing like Christmas in Krakow.”
Only the silent nods of men with bittersweet memories of home returned her enquiry.
‘Not him then.’
Obukov broke from his thoughts first.
“May we all have that opportunity, Comrade General.”
It was ten minutes to midnight before the man named on the paper was shown into a small workshop that had been set aside for Nazarbayeva’s use.
The escort moved away, as instructed by Golov, and left the two alone.
Salutes were exchanged, as they always were, regardless of their status in other surroundings.
“Comrade Starshina.”
“Comrade Mayor General.”
Saluting hands relaxed, as did the voices.
“Husband.”
“Wife.”
The two hugged and kissed before settling down on a padded bench.
“What are you doing here, my woman?”
Part of him feared the worst, the sudden sadness in his wife’s eyes declaring her as the bringer of bad tidings before she uttered a word.
“Is it Ivan? Ilya? What is wrong?”
Tatiana shook her head slowly.
“As far as I know they are both safe and well, Yuri.”
Confused that he had misread his wife’s face, Yuri Nazarbayev looked again.
The pain was still present, etched all over her pretty face.
“My love, what is wrong? What is it?”
Taking his hand, and the deepest of deep breaths, Tatiana Nazarbayeva started her story.
Yuri Nazarbayev listened, without interruption, as his wife told him all that had happened on that December day, or at least, all she believed had happened…
…and only up to a point.
She spared him some of the more delicate matters, purely through her own embarrassment.
When she finished, the silence was oppressive, her eyes filled with tears and concern as she watched her husband wrestle with the enormity of her words.
Almost as if waking from a trance, Yuri frowned and looked at the woman sat beside him.
“So how did you manage this little enterprise then, wife?”
“Does it matter, Yuri?”
“I’m just curious.”
She produced the document that had caused such an effect on Obukov and Golov.
It had once been issued to her husband by a magnanimous leader wishing to assist a concerned husband to reach his wife’s side in timely fashion.
Yuri Nazarbayev read it aloud.
“In the name of the Soviet Government and the Bolshevik Party, I command all persons, civil, military, and political, without exception and distinction of rank, to assist the bearer of this document, … …Comrade Nazarbayeva... in the carrying out of their proper instructions, and thereby guaranteeing the bearer’s freedom of movement and action as they see fit to discharge any and all orders given to them on matters of extreme state importance.
Issued by my hand on behalf of the Soviet Government and the Bolshevik Party, 20th August 1945.
He brought the paper closer to his eyes.
“You changed it, Tatiana.”
She shrugged, unsure as to what was happening and why her husband was examining the minutiae of her tampering with the document when there was the enormity of her transgression to deal with.
“Just a single A, my husband.”
Which had been all that was needed to make it applicable to her; the addition of a single A.
Handing the document back, he composed himself, as he had been trying to do since the mother of his children had revealed everything of her shame.
Taking her hand in his, he spoke softly, but with conviction.
“It is done, and we both wish it was not so, but it is. It cannot be undone, my wife, and both of us will carry it like a burden from now onwards.”
Tatiana nodded.
“There was no intent, my love. You did not set out to defile our marriage. It just happened. The rich food… the company… the wines…”
A crackle of emotion stopped him speaking further, and he coughed gently, willing himself to a less emotional state so he could continue and say exactly what he wanted to say, and in the way he wanted to say it.
“Wife, we will put this behind us and never speak of it again.”
Taking her face gently in both hands, he spoke his final words.
“We… you and I… we’ve already lost too much, Tatiana. We will lose nothing more to this. If you seek my understanding, then you have it.”
Both of them cried.
“If you seek my forgiveness, then you have that too… both without condition.”
He kissed her on the lips, and on her cheeks, absorbing her tears.
“You are my wife, and my love. This will not stand between us.”
They hugged in silence.
2111 hrs, Monday, 20th January 1946, OSS British Headquarters, 70-72 Grosvenor Street, London.
The great man had only just arrived but, as was his dynamic style, instead of taking the opportunity to shower and eat, he had swung straight into action.
He sat at Rossiter’s desk, listening to the latest snippets that had been added to the information that had brought him from the States to England.
“So no-one else knows what we got here, Sam?”
“Some of the RAF boys know the basics of the numbers, but not names, and I had my troops clean up the raw intel at Archdale, just to make sure the name wasn’t mentioned. I believe we’re clean, General.”
Major General William J. Donovan, head of the OSS, trusted his man, but the prize was so tantalising that he had to ask some basic questions.
“A plant?”
“Not a chance, General. No way, no how.”
It hadn’t seemed likely in any case.
“And he is who he says he is?”
“The paperwork supports it. He describes his family as we know ‘em, and clearly doesn’t know about any promotions, probably ‘cos he was sort of outta the loop where he was.”
Donovan nodded his understanding, policing up the large folder that represented all they knew on their prisoner and his family.
“Right then, Sam. Let’s get down to brass tacks. I know you’ve developed some pretty good ideas on how we can use this gift horse. I’m going to leave you to run with this ball, but we’re going to share this with our cousins. That’s why I’m here, to help smooth matters as to why we didn’t let them know immediately.”
He held up his hand, silencing Rossiter’s protest in its infancy.
“I know you’ve worked hard to hang on to this, Sam, but it’s got to be shared.”
Rossiter held back his questions, but his expression spoke volumes.
“We have a God-given chance, one chance, to use this boy, and if we do it right, then we can affect how this war’s going to run. If we do it wrong, then there’ll be hell to pay, so bringing the British on-board means we get all the minds working on how to do this… and there’ll be no finger pointing if it goes to hell in a hand cart.”
Standing smartly, Donovan tapped the file.
“This is great work, Sam, and I want you to head up our side of this. I will brief the British in the morning, and sort out with General Menzies how we proceed.”
“Sir, if we’ve gotta share then I’d like to bring in the French too. I know a good man high up in the Burea
u.”
Donovan was surprised but didn’t show it.
“Give me his name and I’ll run it past Menzies. Wait until I give you the word though, Sam.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Rossiter quickly wrote out De Walle’s name and passed it to his boss, ending with a formal salute.
Replying in kind, Donovan also extended his hand.
“Good work, Sam. Now, I need something to eat… and a shower.”
“The Sergeant will show you to your quarters, General. It’s all sorted.”
“Thank you. Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, general.”
As soon as the door closed, Rossiter flopped into his seat, still warm from its previous occupant, and reached into the bottom drawer, extracting the bourbon and a glass.
He carefully poured a good measure and threw it down his neck in one action.
“Goddamnit!”
He patted the file as he poured another.
The cover was nondescript, bearing only the names ‘Achilles’ and ‘Thetis’, as well as the insignia of a top secret file.
Ancient Greek history was a favourite of Rossiter’s, so he had chosen appropriate names for those represented in the file.
Achilles was Thetis’ son, or in real file terms, Ilya was the son of a Major General in the GRU, one Tatiana Nazarbayeva, which represented a huge opportunity for Allied intelligence.
0401 hrs, Tuesday, 21st January 1946, Headquarters bunker, Motorised Anti-Tank Company, 1st Motorised Battalion, 9th Guards Mechanised Brigade, Fahrenkrug, Germany.
Nazarbayev took leave of his wife and returned to his unit, his outer calm hiding an inner turmoil.
Something that was his, exclusively his, had been lost, and could never, no matter what he said or tried to think, be returned to what it was.
His mind flicked between emotions, seeking the one that caused him most pain, or the one that could give him most comfort.
Grief, betrayal, love, family, sons, betrayal, memories, betrayal… betrayal…
And then, in a moment, they were gone, and only anger was left.
[Stalin’s signature was acquired from the public domain, under this attribution - By Connormah, Joseph Stalin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons]
Relative to the events within the Headquarters of ‘Camerone’, Gougenheim, Alsace, on Sunday 8th December 1945
Knocke had remarked how Weiss looked as white as a sheet on that early December Sunday evening.
Weiss was embarrassed inside, believing that his lack of colour and tiredness was due to the efforts of his ‘removal’ of Kowalski and the woman, and subsequent close shave with the room inspections.
He started to feel genuinely unwell, and pain spread through his head and eyes, growing every second.
Without examining the folder, Agent Amethyst had surrendered to the sudden onset of lethargy, using the continued presence of French Intelligence agents to justify his inactivity.
The midnight rapping on his door was most unwelcome, the more so as it yielded Sergeant Lutz, recently returned to light duties in the headquarters, who issued an immediate and non-negotiable summons to an interview.
Two members of ‘Deux’ trawled through Weiss’ actions for the previous evening, cross-referencing with other testimonies. Sat at the back of the room was Knocke, there solely to observe. Adjacent to him was the very beautiful French Capitaine that Weiss had dreamed of conquering ever since he had arrived at the Camerone headquarters, her attention clearly focussed on recording the full interview in shorthand.
Despite the fact that the German Officer was clearly unwell, the interview lasted for nearly forty-five minutes of detail, review of detail, and intense cross-examination, only being concluded when an orderly arrived with coffee. Encouraged to take his with him, Weiss had been permitted back to his room, where he took two aspirin and immediately collapsed onto his bed.
The arrival of coffee had been the pre-arranged signal that the task was complete.
In the office, De Walle could not spare Knocke’s discomfort, so simply placed the recovered folder on the desk and invited his man to speak.
The orderly, actually a ‘Deux’ man, spoke swiftly.
“Sir, Agent Guiges and I searched the room thoroughly and discovered a bent nail on top of the wardrobe. As it was not dusty, unlike the furniture it was on, we found it suspicious.”
Nervously coughing, conscious of the fact that he was the centre of attention for two extremely unhappy senior men, he tried to continue as quickly as possible.
“Guiges quickly found the under floor hiding place, which contained that folder, a silenced pistol, his documentation, and a copy of Thomas Mann’s ‘Der Zauberberg’. We replaced all the items, unloaded the pistol, and exchanged the contents of the folder for meaningless paperwork.”
“Thank you, Denys. If that’s all?”
It was, and Denys Montabeau beat a hasty retreat, nodding to De Valois on the way out.
“Scheisse!”
None of the room’s occupants were used to outbursts from Knocke.
“So it is Weiss who killed the Russian... and the woman agent.” Knocke’s mind was working on what other damage Weiss could have brought about and immediately started wondering if the reverses of Spectrum Black had been authored in a small bedroom upstairs.
De Walle understood perfectly and offered up his own knowledge on the matter.
“This piece of rubbish was a late arrival at Sassy, Ernst. According to records, he arrived with your command on...”
The German officer completed the statement.
“On the 3rd of December.”
De Walle was impressed.
Knocke also calculated that the timing would not have permitted Weiss to betray the operation to his masters.
However, De Valois had something to say on the matter.
“Mon Général, there is a problem here.”
She produced her notes taken during a telephone exchange with the senior Deux officer at Sassy.
“Weiss left the main camp on November 28th. At his own request, his travel documents permitted him to proceed to Gougenheim via Pfalzweyer.”
De Walle snarled immediately.
“And Pfalzweyer is close enough to Phalsbourg to make no difference, and a short hop to Sarrebourg eh? In that time he could have acquired a lot of information.”
Knocke steepled his fingers in front of his face, tapping his lips with the central spire, his face growing darker by the second, so much so that his silence became oppressive and stopped De Walle and Valois in their tracks.
“Pfalzweyer.”
Knocke’s tone indicated that he had developed a greater understanding.
“Why Pfalzweyer?”
De Walle’s question was partly answered by Anne-Marie.
“He told the Sassy Transportation Officer that he wished to visit the brother of one of his Hitler Youth soldiers, who was killed in Normandy. The TO is a former 12th SS man, so gave him the necessary travel permits immediately.”
De Walle pushed further.
“Did he recall the name of the man that Weiss intended to visit?”
“Not accurately. He remembers Bart or Bert, nothing more.”
Knocke sat forward in his chair, slowly unfolding his hands, drawing the others forward to hear his words.
“Norbert. Hans-Georg Norbert, Capitaine, Mountain Battalion.”
He had their undivided attention.
“Pfalzweyer was Rettlinger’s headquarters for the week before the attack.”
Another thought occurred, and it sent him into one of the drawers in his desk, searching for a casualty report.
The paper flicked noisily as Knocke consulted the painful document, reading names of those no longer alive. He suddenly closed it with a flourish and a noise that marked a moment of supreme horror.
Passing the list to De Walle, Knocke shook his head in anger and disbelief.
“He’s not there, Georges. He’s not on the li
st.”
De Walle checked for himself, which Knocke accepted was not an insult.
“Perhaps he is one of those as yet unidentified from the horror of La Petite Pierre, Ernst?”
“No, he is not. I am sure of it. His unit was at Neuwiller-lès-Saverne, and his body, and those of nine others, has not yet been recovered.”
“Merde!”
Both men looked at St.Clair, thus far silent, whose contribution, although unnecessary, summed up the situation.
There was a silence that, by unspoken agreement between St.Clair, De Valois and De Walle, only Knocke would break.
“This cannot go on. We must find a way to purge any problems within our own ranks before we become a liability.”
De Walle offered up a quick idea.
“There is someone who can help us, I’m sure of it.”
Thinking quickly, he decided that Anne-Marie was trusted enough to hear a name and some highly protected information.
“You have heard of Gehlen, Ernst?”
“Yes, but is this his area of expertise now?”
“Général Gehlen is now head of the German Intelligence apparatus, and has already had some success with discovering agent-provocateurs within the new Republic’s armies. He and I have... err... cooperated on some ventures, so he owes me a favour or two.”
There was no time for outrage or posturing, something that they all understood.
“Then get your favours returned as soon as possible, and put the trust back in my soldiers!”
Immediately he raised his voice, Knocke’s hands were on the way up in a placatory gesture. It was not necessary, as his angst was understood, and his faith in his troops undermined.
St.Clair, as hurt as Knocke by the revelations, tackled De Walle head on.
“So how do you intend to do this, Sir?”
Knocke answered in the Frenchman’s stead.
“That is not our concern for now, Celestin. We may not wish to know. So long as our operational efficiency is not affected, Georges.”
De Walle nodded back and ventured a suggestion.
