Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  Stalin had noticed something in her words but let it go, just for the moment.

  Zhukov sought more information from Beria.

  “Comrade Marshal, apart from Norway and the Baltic, we expect ground attacks, accompanied by increased air activity, throughout Europe. We have not yet identified a specific axis of attack.”

  Rummaging in his briefcase, Beria produced a document and handed it to Stalin, immediately following with a copy to Zhukov.

  His eyes engaged momentarily with Nazarbayeva. He smiled briefly and carried on.

  “These are the units identified as likely to lead any major Allied attacks. We have good locations on all of them, and they are well spread around the continent. There does appear to be some new concentration of Amerikanski units in France and Alsace, to the north of Switzerland. The similar grouping of prime British units on the North German plain is to be expected of course.”

  Placing the paper on the table, he removed his glasses and started to polish them.

  “Information on the Second Allied Army Group is limited, but some veteran formations we thought destroyed have surfaced within its order of battle. Neither the GRU, nor ourselves, can expand the present knowledge at this time.”

  Beria publically advertised his penetration of GRU organisation, much to Nazarbayeva’s annoyance, and Stalin’s amusement.

  “The reforming German Army is another matter, and we have identified new forces in Holland, Southern France and the Italian Alps. Reports state that they are equipped from captured weapon stocks, therefore both NKVD and GRU believe we should treat these reformed units in the same way as before we marched into Berlin.”

  Nazarbayeva took advantage of Beria’s intake of breath to get her own comment in.

  “Comrade General Secretary, whilst Comrade Beria is, in general, correct, GRU believes that these reformed units may pose a bigger problem than previously.”

  Beria’s look cut through the air, and Nazarbayeva met it with soft eyes that concealed the hardness she was feeling for the NKVD Chairman.

  “There is no evidence for such a suggestion, and remember how hard the green bastards fought in any case.”

  The conversation had suddenly become private in a room full of people, something everyone realised and decided not to interrupt, even Stalin.

  “It seems a simple deduction to me, Comrade Marshal.”

  “How so, Nazarbayeva? I think you reach too far. They fought for their homeland, and did so tooth and nail. We lost thousands of our soldiers in those last weeks... thousands!”

  Nazarbayeva waited patiently as the NKVD boss’s voice rose in volume to make his point.

  She waited for the echo of his last words to die away before continuing.

  “Between us and the Allies, the German was on his knees, both militarily and industrially. They were spent physically and yet, as you observe, made our Army pay a rich price for the victories all the way to Berlin, Comrade Marshal.”

  She looked around, suddenly aware that those around the two sparring intelligence officers had moved imperceptibly away, creating an area of isolation.

  “This new force will be differ...”

  “Rubbish! They will be the same old Germanski. Tough but beatable.”

  He waved a hand to dismiss further comment from Nazarbayeva and turned to Stalin, expecting the General Secretary to move the conversation forward.

  Stalin merely waited silently, almost inviting Nazarbayeva to continue, which she did with an air of authority that cut through Beria’s self-assurance in an instant.

  “No, they will not be the same old Germanski, Comrade Marshal. These Germanski are well equipped, have had time to recover their fitness, and are now supported by the mightiest logistical machine in the history of war. They have had a wave of reinforcements, soldiers captured at a time when their quality was better than the old men and boys that manned the barricades in Konigsberg and Berlin.”

  Beria was white with fury at being so publically challenged, but felt impotent in the face of Nazarbayeva’s words.

  “We will not just be fighting them either, Comrade Marshal, but also their new Allies... our old Allies... and whilst some of them are of limited value, none of our military commanders here will tell you anything but that we should not underestimate any of them.”

  There was a low mumble from the Front Commanders and the few present who had commanded Armies in the recent combat, a mumble that left no doubts as to the truth behind her words.

  “These Germans will be the very worst sort. Fit, competent, well armed, well supported, and well-motivated, Comrade Marshal, and we cannot... must not underestimate them.”

  Stalin decided to rescue his man.

  “I don’t believe that Comrade Beria was dismissing them, Comrade General. Whilst your interpretation is sound, both of your views have merit. Now, let’s continue.”

  Nazarbayeva, in line with her discussions with the NKVD Deputy, pushed harder.

  “Comrade General Secretary, I view it as absolutely essential that we consider these new German divisions as a considerable threat and...”

  “Enough!”

  Everyone jumped at the punched words.

  “Enough.”

  Although he spoke softer the second time, the Soviet leader’s eyes burned into the GRU General’s head.

  “Your views are noted, Comrade.”

  Stalin left no room for manoeuvre and invited Beria to continue.

  Nazarbayeva looked around the room, seeking some sort of support and found none.

  She stared at Zhukov, who was examining some paperwork with exaggerated intent.

  Unable to help himself, the balding Marshal made eye contact with Nazarbayeva, who recognised a microsecond of resignation before he looked away again.

  Beria finished and others took up the reins, offering their own facts and figures for the pot.

  And so it went on, until a loud rapping brought every sound to an end.

  Stalin, momentarily staring in disgust at his broken pipe, discarded it without another thought and gently rubbed the table where he had struck it repeatedly, and with a little too much strength.

  “Enough. We can continue to guess at Capitalist intents until the snows come again. Let us focus on what we intend to do to them. Comrade Marshals, outline Operation Uragan.”

  Zhukov, Konev and Novikov came together in front of a concealed map. The commanders of the 1st Baltic and 1st Red Banner, Bagramyan and Malinovsky, moved to the left side, ready to provide specifics on their own forces’ roles. Opposite them, Marshals Rokossovsky and Yeremenko were similarly ready to provide deeper insight into their operations.

  When the cover was removed, Europe sprang into view, a Europe covered with arrows of different colours and thicknesses, all of which ran east to west.

  Uragan had two main parts. The first was designed to sweep through Northern Europe, splitting the Allied armies away from the coast and their main capacity to reinforce and resupply.

  The second was in Central Europe, and was designed to pull in as much of the Allied army as possible, defeating it closer to hand, rather than extending their own tenuous lines of supply even further,

  Zhukov outlined the major offensive that would break the Allied forces in a war of attrition.

  The basics were short and impressive, but before he went further into the plan he ceded the floor to Bulganin.

  In an address that was enthusiastically endorsed by both Beria and Molotov, Bulganin explained how a war of attrition could only inevitable end in Soviet victory, as heavy casualties and losses, supported by political agitation in the home countries of their enemies, would break the political will of the notoriously fickle administrations in the so-called democracies. By destroying any public support for the continuation of a war that would, by the time the agitators had done their job, be seen as trying to rescue the former Nazi Germany from paying its rightful dues, the discontinuation of hostilities would be inevitable, especially if the Soviet Un
ion confirmed no threat to the British Empire, the United States or any nation of significance that could stand in the way of a ceasefire.

  Then, once peace had settled across Europe, other ways would be found to develop the Communist dream.

  As political plans went, it was simple and achievable, and depended on nothing more than the Red Army’s capacity to inflict heavy casualties upon the Allies and, as only a worrying few thought, the Red Army’s capacity to absorb further huge punishment.

  Novikov was enthusiastic over the role of the Air Force, and how a concentration of available assets over the spearhead formations would give the ground troops a protective umbrella under which to work.

  Weather would be good for low-level operations across Europe for the foreseeable future of the attack, the forecasters predicting a summer as warm and dry as the previous winter had been cold and wet.

  The briefing went on, with impressive lists of air and ground forces committed.

  By the time the meeting concluded, minds were reeling with the amount of information, and most were also buoyed by the thought that victory was still achievable.

  And they now had a time and date to work to, the moment when the Red Army would roll forward in earnest once more.

  0800 hrs, Thursday, 28th March 1946.

  2200 hrs, Tuesday, 19th March 1946, Old Town Square, Torun, Poland.

  Feeling very much invigorated by the last glass of vodka, Lieutenant Colonel Wyachaski of the 1st Polish Army spotted the statue of Copernicus, the landmark he relied on to find the nondescript cellar, especially when he had consumed slightly more than his limit.

  A small sign was the only indication that anything of value was to found at the bottom of some steps.

  ‘Greim’s’

  Descending the stairs immediately opposite the modest statue, Wyachaski was greeted with by a warm and inviting atmosphere, in which soft music and aromatic tobaccos played a pleasant part, but not as much as the lovely ladies who were prepared to share a drink and, occasionally, more with the right man.

  After kissing the proprietress on both cheeks, he was ushered to his normal booth and a bottle of vodka arrived, all without words or gestures.

  He poured himself a full glass and, pausing only to acknowledge the raised glass of a faintly familiar Artillery Colonel across the room, he poured the fiery liquid down his throat in one easy movement.

  Taking in his surroundings with the apparent effort of a man already closely acquainted with the contents of a bottle, Wyachaski used all his field craft to discover what was behind the warning that the owner had given him.

  There it was, no field craft needed, the open presence of two GRU officers causing his heart to skip momentarily.

  Both men seemed more interested in the cellar’s occupants than the drinks in front of them, and alarm bells began to ring in the intelligence officer’s ear.

  He picked up his hat, flicking carefully at some imaginary piece of dust in the studied manner of a man under the influence, before placing it back on the table.

  Only an experienced field agent would have realised that the badge now faced towards the steps, rather than towards the hat’s owner.

  Karin Greim, eponymous owner of the establishment, noted the signal meant to caution the arriving contact and ensure she would steer him away from Wyachaski as soon as he arrived.

  She now played her own part and whispered to her trusted business partner, Luistikaite.

  Renata Gabriele Luistikaite passed herself off as a Lithuanian national, although she had been brought up in England since the age of three. A five foot ten inch svelte blonde, men were drawn to her obvious charms like moths to a candle, something that had proved useful in the past year since the two women had escaped detection by the NKVD and GRU agents set to find them. Luistikaite had been a very fortunate survivor of the ill-fated Operation Freston insertions, but now formed a solid team with Greim.

  Karin Greim was Polish by birth, and her recruitment into the Abwehr had come about when her Uncle and both her brothers were confirmed as victims to the Soviet slaughter in the Katyn Woods. Hidden beneath her obvious charms was the cold heart of a killer who would like nothing more than to wipe out the entire Soviet nation with whatever weapon came to hand, and she was skilled with most.

  Luistikaite held an honorary commission in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, whereas, although without any rank per se, Greim, a consummate spy, was universally known as the Captain.

  Not that anyone there really looked upon them as anything more than very attractive women.

  Renata grabbed a bottle of their finest vodka and glided across the room, grabbing the undivided attention of the two GRU officers as she moved. Grabbing the attention of the majority of men and women in the room would be truer, such was her presence.

  Greim used the moment to run her hand over the 9mm Viz35 pistol that was concealed in a shaped recess under the bar top.

  Comforted, she continued to wipe glasses as she watched the GRU officers.

  The two men rose, inviting Renata to sit, which in itself was reassuring that they were there for pleasure, rather than business. The trio were joined by ‘Greim’s’ youngest employee, and the four of them became engrossed in themselves.

  Whilst many eyes were on Luistikaite’s backless red dress and the legs that trailed invitingly out from supersize slits, two pairs were totally focussed on her actions. More specifically, they waited to see the colour of the cigarette holder she extracted from her evening bag.

  ‘White’.

  Wyachaski and Greim relaxed imperceptibly, deliberately avoiding any eye contact.

  Carelessly, the Polish Intelligence officer knocked his vodka, spilling it across the table.

  Cursing, he stepped back to avoid the small flow of liquid, grabbing his hat to save it any indignity.

  Greim hurried over and wiped the table down, replacing the glass with a clean one.

  The moment passed and Wyachaski settled himself back down to enjoy another drink, his polished silver hat badge reflecting some candlelight into his eyes.

  An occasional glance at Renata and the teenager revealed a relaxed group, and the absence of any warning indicators spread that relaxation further.

  Clearly there was a downpour outside, as the Polish officer who tumbled in deposited water everywhere he moved.

  “Podpulkownik, how lovely to see you again.”

  Greim took the new arrival’s sodden overcoat from him and pointed to where the Signals Officer should sit.

  The other occupant of the comfy booth rose and extended his hand.

  “Wyachaski. You are well?”

  “Zajac, and no, I’m fucking soaked.”

  Exchange complete, the two relaxed into the comfy seating and enjoyed a quiet drink.

  Zajac noticed the two GRU officers and silently interrogated his contact, receiving no sign of alarm in response.

  Leaning forward, Zajac produced a cigarette packet and offered it to Wyachaski.

  It contained only one.

  Indicating that his colleague should take it, Zajac produced another packet and extracted one for himself.

  The two men settled into quiet conversation about the forthcoming military exercises being run by 2nd Polish Army.

  Greim busied herself with providing another bottle of vodka and then cleared the table of its rubbish.

  Back at the bar, the cigarette packet went into the bin as if it was nothing of importance; it would keep for later.

  Wyachaski had waited to drop his bombshell.

  “My friend, it’s no exercise.”

  Zajac choked so hard that many faces swivelled to watch his impending demise.

  The GRU officers were quickly distracted by Renata’s joke about the ‘lightweight’ drinking capacity of army officers, and returned to their ogling and flirting.

  “No exercise?”

  Pouring another drink, Wyachaski laughed loudly and slapped his comrade on the shoulder.

  He dre
w close to Zajac’s ear and whispered.

  “The Russians are planning an attack and gearing Świerczewski’s 2nd up for a small part. 1st isn’t trusted.”

  Zajac nodded openly, as if in receipt of a personal secret of great import, which he was.

  He slapped Wyachaski’s shoulder and, in turn, laughed.

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  He poured another drink for the both and raised his glass in a toast.

  “To the end of the war.”

  Wyachaski could only share the sentiment.

  “To the end of the war.”

  Something in the intelligence officer’s tone gave Zajac a moment’s pause and he guessed what was about to be passed on.

  ‘The date…it’s been decided… at last!’

  “Go on...”

  “I have a verbal message for you to take back to Zygmunt.”

  Zygmunt Berling was the commander of the Polish 1st Army.

  “Go on.”

  “Pantomime twenty-six.”

  The monumental importance of this message was not wasted on the signals officer, but he said nothing, controlling his excitement.

  Wyachaski continued.

  “On the 25th, BBC Radio for Occupied Europe will do the normal messages after the Nine o’clock news… the anthems of all occupied states are played at the end of that, yes?”

  He received a nod of understanding.

  “Normally our anthem is played by an orchestra. Confirmation will be our anthem sung by a male voice choir. Cancellation if a women’s choir, clear?”

  “Clear.”

  There was little more to be said.

  The two shared another drink, paid their dues, and went their separate ways.

  Zajac, the officer who had travelled to Versailles to speak with Eisenhower, returned to his staff car, whose driver waited irritably and ushered him in swiftly, closing the door with a flourish.

  The vehicle sped off to the temporary site that had been selected for the upcoming exercise.

  ‘Not an exercise’, he reminded himself.

  He could not sleep, and his mind simply chewed over everything he knew until the vehicle pulled up outside the barracks in Chermice.