by Colin Gee
She frowned.
‘Today?’
Chewing the last piece of bread, Tatiana tidied up the folder, ready to return it to the filing clerk.
As her mind worked on arranging some meeting between her and Makarenko, certain notations on the file sleeve called out to her, unconsciously at first, but growing stronger, until they broke through her thought pattern and became foremost in her mind.
On the outer sleeve were a number of cross-reference sets, indicating other reports that had contributed to the totality of the main folder.
Perhaps she had missed seeing that number as she flicked through previously?
Perhaps it was in the later section that she had quickly skimmed?
The cross-reference set itself was wholly memorable, five of the same number and two of the same letter, which was what had drawn her attention in the first place.
‘55555CC.’
She was still searching the folder when her aide arrived in the office.
“Good morning, Comrade General Mayor.”
Preoccupied with her search, the normal pleasantries escaped the GRU general.
“This report is incomplete, Poboshkin. Two cross-referenced reports are not here.”
The Lieutenant Colonel leant around the desk as his commander pointed out the two omissions.
“55555CC and 55579MA are not here.”
Poboshkin was on the phone to the filing section within seconds and the order for the missing files was received by the Senior Filing Officer, who immediately understood that the rest of his career’s course depended on the swift execution of the instructions he received.
“My apologies, Andrey Ivanovich. Good morning to you.”
To further reinforce her contrition, Nazarbayeva poured the last of the samovar’s contents into two mugs and passed one to her man.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of one of the NCO clerks, complete with a folder.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik. The Mayor is still searching for one of the files, but directed that this one be brought to you immediately.”
The file changed hands and the young Corporal saluted, moving away at the highest available walking speed, namely just under a run.
“55579MA, Comrade General.”
Nazarbayeva consumed the short report avidly, the Army doctor’s findings on Makarenko’s condition using all the standard medical terminology such people always used to stress their own education and importance, although two sections speculating on his better than expected overall physical condition drew a second reading.
Consulting the documents prepared by GRU and NKVD physicians, such observations were notable by their absence.
“These two reports are dated 1st January and 3rd January respectively.”
Poboshkin nodded by way of agreement.
“Neither speak of his better than anticipated physical condition.”
“This one, however, dated the 25th December, carried out by a frontline doctor, shortly after Makarenko returned to our lines, reflects surprise at the General’s remarkably healthy condition.”
“Different standards, Comrade General?”
Nazarbayeva set the folder down gently and grabbed the sides of her desk.
“Or did the two doctors on the 1st and 3rd see a man who they expected to be that fit, or did they just not put two and two together, Comrade?”
The knocking interrupted the analysis.
The same corporal stood there holding 55555CC.
Saluting, his retreat was this time more leisurely and controlled.
Nazarbayeva sipped at the last dregs of her tea as she examined a three page report from an area agent, combining local gossip and acquired information on a modest and relatively unimportant area of the Alsace and Vosges Mountains, the latter location being the reason it had been cross-referenced in the first place.
She stopped, carefully placing the mug to one side, sliding the new report across to leave room for the main folder to be opened and for an examination of Makarenko’s interrogations to take place.
Her eyes flitted between the two documents, as she searched one section, then another, always seeking corroboration but finding none.
Makarenko had not mentioned Natzwiller.
Pushing 55555CC and the main file towards Poboshkin, she sat back, calculating the possibilities, waiting for her aide to come up with his own thoughts.
“Govno!”
Poboshkin suddenly remembered where he was.
“Apologies, Comrade Mayor General. This report is low-level of course, but should have been properly cross-referenced. The number indicates that the recipient identified a possible link, so clearly the absence is a procedural error.”
He shook his head slowly, the enormity of putting the two pieces of information side by side not lost on him.
“That’s for the future, of course, Comrade PodPolkovnik. For now, unless you can tell me that we have any other paratrooper Mayor Generals missing, then I can only assume that the man seen at Natzwiller on December 3rd was Makarenko.”
Nazarbayeva did not wait for a reply, immediately leaning across to the telephone and grabbing the receiver.
“Get me Marshall Beria immediately.”
0852 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, Office of the NKVD Deputy Chairman, Lyubyanka, Moscow.
“Deputy Chairman.”
“Good morning, Comrade Kaganovich. Mayor General Nazarbayeva of GRU speaking. I’ve been diverted to you as Marshal Beria is uncontactable.”
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, good morning. Comrade Marshal Beria is with the General Secretary this morning, making medal presentations and receiving ambassadors. Can I help?”
“You must, Comrade Kaganovich. I have reason to believe that one of the medal recipients may not be what he seems. There are some inconsistencies in reports that have only just come to light. I believe that he must be detained until we can be satisfied that he is a good and faithful servant of the Motherland.”
As much a man of action as his Chairman, Kaganovich started writing notes, flicking his fingers to get the attention of the NKVD Colonel sat opposite.
“Mayor General, you say… ah. Yes, I know the man.”
The junior NKVD officer lifted the other telephone as the senior man scribbled his large letter notes and instructions, nodding by way of confirmation of his understanding.
“Put me through to the Kremlin Guard commander immediately.”
The information coming from Nazarbayeva’s office in Germany hit the jotting pad, and was immediately relayed to the suddenly attentive Kremlin Guard commander.
“Yes, Comrade, I’ll act immediately. The presentations are due to start at nine. Yes, I’ll ring you back with any news.”
The NKVD officers finished their calls simultaneously, and both men’s eyes strayed to the large wooden wall clock, whose monotonous ticking advanced the hands inexorably towards nine o’clock.
Five seconds later, the deputy chairman’s office was empty, echoing to the receding shouts of worried men calling soldiers about them.
0900 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, The Georgievsky Hall, Grand Kremlin Palace, Moscow.
Unusually, Stalin had arrived late, held up by the latest production figures from the Ploesti refineries, figures that did nothing to improve his temper. The Allies continued to bomb the site mercilessly, and it now contributed little more than a dribble to the Soviet war effort.
Avoiding the normal pleasantries, the General Secretary strode into the magnificent vaulted room, constructed in a different age, when the need to impress visitors of the Czar’s greatness was translated into opulence of epic proportions. The magnificent white stone walls, gold leaf, superbly ornate floor and stunning chandeliers created an impression on anyone exposed to the hall’s delights.
Taking station in front of the NKVD leader, Stalin whispered an aside, whilst nodding in recognition at members of the gathering lining the long walk that each recipient would have to undertake to get their piece of metal.
Beria leant forward, his hand automatically masking his mouth.
“Not quite, Comrade General Secretary. Our first man is one we had not expected to see again. It was considered appropriate that, given his feats, he should receive the award from your hands. I was not informed until this morning.”
Leaning backwards, the Soviet dictator risked a quick look at his man.
“Go on.”
“Makarenko.”
Recovering his poise, Stalin pursed his lips.
“And this has happened how?”
“I will know within the hour, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin’s terse reply was lost as the military band struck up the national anthem, and the dignitaries and guests set about their singing with great gusto, the harmonics of the great hall adding to the sense of patriotism and occasion.
As usual in these managed presentations, the master of ceremonies announced each recipient in turn, and they were marched in at the bottom end of the hall, their parade step repeated back off the walls, even though they were required to march up a central protective strip, set in place to prevent damage to the inlaid floor.
Protocol demanded that medals were awarded by level of award and then by rank, so today’s first hero was a Major General of Soviet Paratroops.
Once in position in front of the presentation party, today consisting of the entire GKO, the recipient was subjected to an account of his worthy actions, as the assembly was apprised of the official citation and, more often when there were visiting dignitaries that needed to be further impressed, first-hand accounts of the winning of the award.
Both Stalin and Beria examined the man stood a precise six metres in front of them, the man they had sent to what they had thought was certain death all those months ago.
For his part, Makarenko stood ramrod straight, and his eyes never left those of the man he had come to kill.
The account of the Chateau assault and subsequent adventures culminated with the return through Soviet lines and, as was customary, the assembly clapped their hands in appreciation of the soldier’s efforts.
An NKVD Major moved forward, cradling a cushion on which sat the Hero of the Soviet Union award, ready for the General Secretary to pin the medal high on the paratrooper’s left chest.
The newly created hero marched forward, in perfect step with the two flanking guardsmen.
Doors flew open and armed men flooded into the room.
Chaos.
Shouts.
Screams.
Warnings.
Makarenko produced the concealed 4.25mm Lilliput pistol and took swift aim.
“For all those boys you’ve murdered!”
Gunfire erupted, the staccato sounds amplified by the great hall.
The cushion-carrying Major’s shoulder took the bullet intended for Stalin, the one hastily aimed at Beria missed the gaping Marshal by feet and clipped Bulganin’s ear on its way to despoiling the decorative wall behind.
The guns of the Kremlin Guards put seventeen bullets into the would-be assassin, and three into the personal secretary of the Bulgarian Ambassador, who just happened to be in the line of fire.
Both men were dead before their bodies hit the floor.
More Kremlin Guards flooded the room, ushering the GKO to safety and arresting the entire audience for questioning.
Safely tucked away in one of the former private chambers, the men of the GKO caught their breath and tried to regain their wits.
Tea arrived swiftly, hot and sweet, and each man was fussed over by the Kremlin’s medical staff, all under close supervision of a number of earnest looking guards.
Kaganovich arrived, coinciding with the Guard commander’s initial personal report to the General Secretary.
“The security team that should have ensured no weapons were carried are all in custody, awaiting rigid interrogation, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin’s face remained impassive. Their fate was already sealed, regardless of their culpability.
“The traitor is dead.”
“His family. All of them. Associates… everyone… round them up.”
No reply was necessary, as everyone present knew that the process would have already begun.
“The Bulgarian diplomat is also dead, but the ambassador understands no intent on our part.”
Stalin took another sip of his strong tea and offered no comment.
“An Armenian Colonel present to receive his own hero award has been found in possession of a cut-throat razor, so he’s on his way to the Lyubyanka.”
“Details, details. How did you know what was about to happen, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“I received a warning call from Comrade Polkovnik General Kaganovich, Comrade General Secretary.”
Kaganovich was able to assist a little, but only in pointing at Nazarbayeva as the originator of the warning.
Beria interjected, taking over the running from Stalin.
“GRU General Nazarbayeva rang you?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Just in time, so it seems. Any later and I fear things would have been very different.”
Beria’s eyes were fixed on something distant.
“She rang you... just... in... time.”
Kaganovich didn’t fully understand, but Stalin, whose adult life was built upon a foundation of mistrust and treachery, most certainly did.
“Lavrentiy, order Mayor General Nazarbayeva back to Moscow so she can present her report… personally.”
Now everyone in the room understood, in the context of ‘just in time’, exactly what that could mean for the GRU officer.
“Continue, Comrade Kaganovich.”
0937 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, GRU Briefing room, Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.
Once Nazarbayeva was satisfied that she had done all she could do about Makarenko, she immersed herself in the business of the day, and chaired the meeting that would start to unravel the singed folder passed on from Agent Amethyst in Alsace.
A team had been assembled to interpret what was written, and to try and work out what was missing, in order to put together a full version that could then be judged on its merits. Recent events had demonstrated that the Allies could be just as effective with their maskirovka as the Soviets believed themselves to be.
The work was no more than ten minutes old before the door burst open and a familiar, yet unwelcome face arrived.
NKVD Leytenant General Seraphim Dustov strode in, backed with the authority of Stalin’s direct order, and flanked by two NKVD soldiers with PPDs.
None of the GRU personnel moved a muscle and a sudden tension filled the room.
“Comrade Leytenant General Dustov? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
For all her astuteness in the world of military intelligence, Nazarbayeva was still very much a novice in the political side of matters, and had genuinely no idea as to why Dustov had presented himself.
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, I possess orders for you, direct from the Secretary General, orders that I am required to pass in person, and then assist you in fully discharging.”
Poboshkin accepted the document and, at a simple nod from Nazarbayeva, opened and read it.
The atmosphere in the room was extremely charged and the tension increased during the silent examination. More than one hand felt for a holster to reassure the wearer as to the presence of a pistol, and the response of the two NKVD soldiers, easing their sub-machine guns, was automatic.
“Comrade General, this order requires you to hand over to your deputy and return to Moscow immediately, in order to explain the events that culminated in this morning’s assassination attempt.”
He held out the message form to Nazarbayeva, who ran a cursory eye over it.
She, as had Poboshkin, noted the absence of the word ‘arrest’.
“Right. Comrade Pobo
shkin, please assemble the full file on Makarenko ready for me to take to Moscow. Comrade Orlov,” she nodded at her 2IC, “Will continue to run this group and bring the Amethyst file to order, ready for my return. Good day.”
The room leapt to attention as Tatiana Nazarbayeva strode out, closely followed by the NKVD escort.
By 1100 hrs, she was airborne.
1203 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, Bois Neuf, Moselle, France.
Knocke stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed as he took in the sight.
The other tank commanders offered no comments.
Braun was less inclined to silence.
“What the hell is that?”
Beveren conceded the floor to the man in the greasy overalls.
Ex-SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Walter Fiedler wiped his hands with an ever-present piece of cotton waste and gestured to the vehicle that was rapidly approaching. With the genuine enthusiasm common to engineers of all nations, he gleefully set about informing the assembly
“Kameraden, let me introduce the Wolf, a marriage between the Panther and Panzer IV. Simple enough, once the turret ring installation has been welded in place. Tests show her to be nearly ten kilometres an hour faster than the Panther, and we have shoehorned an extra eleven rounds into the hull.”
The new tank, Panzer IV turret on a Panther hull, slowed and changed direction, presenting a side view to the assembled group.
The addition of mesh side armour, or Schürzen, added to proof against weapons like the bazooka or panzerfaust, gave the assembly a business-like look.
“We have eight of these so far, Kameraden, and my little helpers tell me there are more Panther hulls on the way yet. It is serviceable Panther turrets that we lack, hence this conversion.”
A number of the officers and NCOs approached the Wolf and looked it over with professional, experienced eyes.
Knocke could read Fiedler’s excitement.
“What else do you have for us, Hauptsturmfuhrer?”
“Sir, the orders were quite clear. Get as many vehicles up and running as possible, maximising firepower at all times. My unit decided that we’d do things as simply as possible. Excuse me.”
