French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  The countess swooped in, picking both cheeks then displaying her hand for his response. Exner swept his lips across the veined hand, breathing in powder that set off a barrage of sneezing that delighted the countess. “The lord is allergic to me,” she burbled, English peppered with the occasional clip into a heavy accent.

  Exner expelled the powder then snatched his handkerchief, wiping away the remainder. “I am merely Exner Updegrove, my father is the eighth lord of Braxtonshire.”

  The countess paid no attention to his explanation. “Lord Braxtonshire where is your delightful lady, Maria?”

  “She remained in England.” Exner said, clenching his jaw as more sneezes threatened his sinuses.

  The sparkle dimmed in the countess’ eyes. “England, a delightful place in the spring. When will she visit Sofia?”

  Never, Exner thought, but he could not shatter the countess’ hopes. “Soon I would hope. She has family considerations.”

  The countess snatched his hand, a cloud of powder rising from the sudden movement. “When you speak with her mention our meeting. Maria is a delight.” She patted his hand, then slipped off with more grace than her size would suggest. Exner did not watch, a flute of champagne shoved beneath his nose by the count, who had recovered from his afternoon and bore a youthful creature on his arm.

  “The countess approves.” The count wobbled, snatching at his companion, a handful of flesh earning her a leer.

  Exner raised his glass in approval but no agreement. His invitation had been offered with the expectation of Maria accompanying him and only the promise of her appearance would earn him entry.

  “This is the Marquess of Wallachia.” The creature on his arm bore the same dark features through smaller, her build that of a teenager in the midst of flowering. “The granddaughter of -,” He nodded toward a tottering figure at the far end of the room. “A girl her age cannot attend such an event unescorted.” He kissed her cheek, her mouth pinching, fear lighting her eyes, body tensing in preparation for an escape attempt.

  Exner was seized by inspiration. “Then I shall be her companion for the evening.” He held out his arm, the Marquess nearly leaping and toppling the count as she exchanged men. “And you can rejoin your fair lady.’ It was an oily and insincere compliment.

  The count, glass and arm empty, had little choice, his mouth twitching at being outmaneuvered. He toddled from the couple, Exner watching his companion, the gown that revealed more than any English girl dare at a formal event.

  “Wallachia,” Exner murmured, stretching his geographic knowledge to the breaking point. “That is Rumania.’ The Marquess beamed at the mention of her homeland. Exner felt a rush of gratitude. “You know King Michael?”

  His delving into politics earned him a scowl as the Marquess stiffened. “Fascist beast.” Her lip curled, finger digging into Exner’s forearm until his knees buckled. He struggled. “Yes, yes, awful man, turning his country over to, uh, to -,” he puzzled over the name.

  “Antonescu.” The Marquess released him as she tipped back her head and finished her champagne.

  “Awful, awful man,” Exner agreed.

  “What is why I am here.” Her nose, dainty and unnoticed, flared, dark cheeks fiery, body stretching at her gown. “Among these people.” She swept out her arms.

  It was not a complimentary gesture and her voice, disdainful, had carried even as “those people” lacked the senses to detect her true feelings.

  “It is difficult to be so far from home. I am English.”

  The Marquess looked about for another drink and motioned to a waiter, who rushed to her side. A quick drink calmed her and she returned to her position, perched at his arm. “I always loved England.”

  “You have been?”

  She blinked. “No, why would I go?”

  Exner avoided the question after witnessing her fury the mention of the Rumanian king. Exner surveyed those in the room. Kingsley had not described his Hungarian contact, leaving him to eye each man who passed by him, nodding and hoping for a response. Once the major arrived, the Marquess would have to leave.

  Another waltz began, the orchestra attracting the countess to snatch the hand of one of the more decrepit guests, this one bearing a sword and sash, the remains of some nineteenth century glory. “Do you waltz?” Exner asked the Marquess.

  “Yes,” she remained locked on his arm, showing no inclination to move toward the dance floor.

  The countess soon discarded her panting partner, who grasped his scabbard as if it were a cane and she found a more able partner. They whirled around the floor, drawing smiles and grimaces from the audience.

  “You have a wife.” She reached and held out his fingers.

  “Yes.” A sudden shift produced a noticeable limp in the countess’ dancing partner. “Maria, she is part of Russian royalty.”

  The Marquess began wriggling the wedding band from his finger. “Two of my men were married.”

  Exner was mesmerized for a moment before her words jolted him. “Were?” He closed his hand halting her progress.

  A laugh, lightened by the champagne. “They asked me to marry them.”

  Exner realized danger was close. His father’s peccadilloes had never led to divorce and none of his three wives bore the temper Maria demonstrated. “I cannot -,” he wet his lips, avoiding her eyes. “How old are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” Exner said, drawing a glint in her eye. “I am married, my wife is royalty and beautiful.” He briefly worried why he had placed one before the other in describing Maria.

  The Marquess retreated, rejection not part of her limited experience. She studied him, eyes narrowing as she assessed blame, but remained as rejection made him that much more interesting. Her second attempt at conquering him though was interrupted by the man he was sent to meet.

  “Lord Braxtonshire.” This time the accent was noticeable even as Exner ignored the mistake.

  “Yes.” He glanced at the Marquess who frowned at the Hungarian.

  “Can we speak?” The major wore no markings, nothing to suggest a military or diplomatic career, dark suit making him stand out with its drabness.

  “Marquess.” Exner offered a quick bow then followed the major to one of the marble recesses at the fringe of the room. He stood, waiting for the major to pass his envelope.

  “You work for the British embassy?”

  “I am associated with it.”

  A frown, puzzlement, the major swept his hand across his receding hairline. “Not the British embassy.”

  “Kingsley Abbot is a friend, he acquired the invitation for me.”

  The mention of Exner’s friend calmed the major. “We have many friends in England helping us.”

  “Yes, friends,” Exner agreed without understanding the major.

  “There is much to do if we are to succeed.”

  “Much to do,” Exner said. He glanced around the major to find the Marquess locked in place, having found another champagne flute and swaying to the music as she drank.

  “You know why you are here?”

  He had told him some but Exner knew the more he spoke the sillier he sounded. “He said something.”

  “Yugoslavia?” The major worked his jaw, the glint of an evening beard only enhancing his dreariness.

  “Yes, yes, Yugoslavia.” Another look from the Marquess. The longer he remained with the major the less time he would have with her.

  “It is important,” the major ran two fingers along the bridge of his nose, pinching it at the end.

  “It is important to stop them,” Exner said.

  The major’s eyes narrowed, lips moving. “Yes, to stop them.” He leaned close, the stale mix of perspiration and cigarette smoke threatening Exner’s sinuses. “It is the first battle of the war with the Bolsheviks.” The major held up his hand and for the first time Exner noticed a pair were missing their lips. “This is what the communists did in Russia.”

  “You w
ere in the Great War?”

  The major shook his head. “Bela Kun.” The name was spat into the air and allowed to settle onto the floor until the major stamped on it. “The Germans will defeat the Bolsheviks in Yugoslavia first.”

  “The Germans.” Exner had little interest in the Germans. “Kingsley said you would have something for me.”

  The major slid his hand into his jacket and drew out an envelope. There was a quick exchange then Exner left him and returned to the Marquess side.

  “He is Hungarian,” she hissed. “Why do you spend your time with such creatures? They are the enemies of civilization.”

  Exner knew better than to argue. He focused on the dance floor, the countess’ waltz having energized others to do the same. The parquet brimmed with floating couples, the sight drawing Exner back to his university days and the lectures on the Concert of Europe and Castelreagh, the nightly balls seeing more diplomacy than the day long meetings. He felt the envelope in his pocket, decided the demands of king and country were fulfilled, he could focus on more personal matters.

  II

  March 12, 1940

  “Comrade Stalin requires you.” The command came from the shadows but Alexei Mikhaelovich Protopopov knew the voice, and more importantly, the scent well. It was the captain of the NKVD guards that patrolled the interior halls of the Kremlin. The voice was gravelly, a gift from the Okhrana, the former czarist secret police, which had strangled some of the most recalcitrant prisoners. The captain was such a man. He understood both sides of the interrogation table and how to make a man talk.

  Alexei wobbled to his feet. His office was down a long, dark hallway that opened to the center of power in the Kremlin. He did not look at the captain, a word, a glance, even silence were signs of potential treason. Power used today could be seen as power abused tomorrow. Following orders was expected but following the wrong orders was treason, untangling the difference was the key to survival.

  Alexei felt the captain behind him: the clicking of his shoes, the scent of stale tobacco and sweat, someone else’s sweat. The presence of the NKVD was a primary cause of dehydration for Soviet citizens, prompted by the arrival of stone faced “investigators” at their doorsteps.

  The center of power in the Kremlin was actually a corner office occupied by the Communist Party Secretary General. Joseph Stalin was a man of few luxuries and little pretense; his revolutionary name was Man of Steel, a warning to those who dare resist him. A survivor of the blood feuds of the Caucasus, Stalin had also survived Okhrana prisons, where he had met the captain, which earned the man Stalin’s personal loyalty only a few in the Kremlin enjoyed.

  Alexei’s office was the closest to Stalin’s and the small receiving room that included two secretaries, two guards and sometimes a row of supplicants ranging from military men to industrial apparatchiks. They sat, waiting for a promotion or imprisonment; the latter high in their seat, the former slumped in crimson lined chairs. During his nearly a year as the general secretary’s main adjutant, Alexei had observed them all, recognizing the fear and hopelessness in their strained faced.

  Protopopov was an unfortunate name for someone so close to power in the Soviet government, certain to arouse suspicions of the men who occupied the Kremlin. Aleksandr Dmitrievich Protopopov had been the czar’s final prime minister, a syphilitic mystic who conducted policy according to the dictates of Rasputin; his death had not halted the flow of advice as Protopopov relied on séances to speak with the Russian holy man. Beria, newly appointed head of the NKVD, had been unhappy when Alexei Dmitrievich caught the eye of the secretary general who chose him from the many assistants behind the Kremlin’s walls. Beria demanded an investigation to ensure the whites had not, after two decades, placed a mole into the Soviet government.

  Comrade Stalin had swept away all of the concerns, overruling his NKVD chief and enjoying the joke about the Protopopovs again ruling Russia. Alexei learned to handle the barbs though he could not ignore the suspicious gazes given him by Beria.

  Alexei reached the door to the corner office and the NKVD guard standing at it. He leaned in close to Alexei, beefy face smelling of fish and dried sweat, squinting as if this was the first time he had seen the young man who had been in and out of the office hundreds of times. Satisfied Alexei was not an impostor, he swung open the door and Alexei was greeted by his nemesis, the man closest to Stalin in the Kremlin, Aleksandr Poskrebyshev. The full chested Poskrebyshev was the general secretary’s chief of cabinet, the handler of all paperwork that entered and left the corner office. Alexei’s unwanted appearance had set off a bitter fight over his duties.

  During his first weeks in the Kremlin, Alexei was sent on obscure errands, told to search through archives and to carry papers to various officials to be stamped. None of it originated from Stalin, none of it offered the thirty year old adjutant a challenge to match his abilities. Only a chance meeting with Stalin, as he returned from a Politburo meeting, saved him from more months of drudgery. Stalin had taken him aside, lighting his pipe and chuckling at the machinations of his aides.

  “Poskrebyshev does not like you,” Stalin poked his pipe at Alexei. “He has kept you away from me.”

  Alexei sat rigid and silent, unsure whether he was to agree or defend Poskrebyshev. Either or both could be dangerous to his future.

  “You will stay here and in my office when needed. There will be no more tasks from Poskrebyshev.” He had puffed on his pipe until a cloud of smoke obscured his face. “I have told Poskrebyshev if I do not see Protopopov in his office it will be Poskrebyshev’s head.”

  Alexei swallowed hard. One did not joke about such things. Yet he departed the corner office with a mandate; even wandering from his desk at times then returning to find the chief of cabinet frantically searching for him.

  As the corner office door opened, Poskrebyshev jumped to his feet. An unfamiliar voice called from the office as the chief of cabinet motioned toward Alexei to enter. He walked through the empty office and into the connecting conference room, which bustled with activity as uniformed adjutants in their dress whites spread maps across the heavy wooden tables and jammed pins in the paper. Alexei was guided to a corner, where he was required to stand with his back to the wall, hands visible, one of the requirements of being in the general secretary’s presence.

  He watched the activity around him, confused by his presence, worried about what he would be asked to do, and wondered if war had begun. Stalin was rarely in his office during the morning hours, suggesting an emergency or a disaster had befallen the country. The adjutants completed their task and backed against the walls and waited. Minutes passed, the clock high on the wall moving with unsettling slowness. Alexei did not look at the others, a glance, a sign of recognition would suggest a conspiracy or even an assassination.

  Ten minutes passed and Alexei’s back and knees started to ache. The adjutants proved tougher, able to remain fixed in place, bodies stiff. Alexei envied their fitness; his university education allowing him to escape military service, the Red Army was not the place for the young Marxist philosopher. With war seemingly certain if it had not already began, Alexei was relieved he lacked even basic military training; his ignorance saving him.

  Alexei twitched, a twinge on the right side of his back threatening to force him to sit, a breach of security and protocol, the consequences of which he did not want to imagine. The white clad military men barely breathed, eyes trained to the front, focused on nothing, noticing everything. Alexei frowned and wondered if Poskrebyshev was playing a cruel trick.

  Voices from the next room jolted him. Someone was coming and he strained to hear the thick Georgian accent that marked the approach of the general secretary. He heard nothing but the voices became louder and the number increased. The far door opened and the generals entered from the far offices, instead of Stalin’s. The door to the corner office opened to reveal Beria’s slight figure, pince nez fixed tightly on his nose while his bald head bounced as he talked. Behind him wa
s the chunky Malenkov, a ridiculous figure who seemed less threatening in person. Molotov followed, grim but determined then Mekhlis, an ominous figure known for his military purges. Alexei noticed the burning hate in the eyes of the general when they saw the man who imposed commissars on their commanders. It was not going to be a pleasant conference.

  The general secretary was the last to enter, arms clasped behind his back, pipe in his right hand. He spoke to no one and eased in on the far end of the table. Stalin, thick hair and swarthy features making him a frightening figure to those who knew him, remained a small physical presence in the room. The generals with their epaulets and medals, supposedly intimidated the civilians who stood on the opposite side of the table as the generals. Timoshenko, bald, bare headed, displayed the bumps of a lifetime of military struggle, began the conference. Motioning to one of the adjutants, who snatched up a long pointer, he began describing the pins displayed on the map.

  “Our intelligence services have identified five armored divisions stretched across the Polish border from Lithuania to the Pripyat Marshes.” The adjutant tapped the map at the blue pins ranged across the border. “They are within fifty kilometers of Minsk and addressing the defensive lines in Belorussia.” Another tap showed the Red Army’s defensive positions.

  “We have further identified as least twenty infantry divisions in Poland and two armies, the Fourth and Ninth.” More tapping as Timoshenko listed the guns and tanks available to the Germans.

  “Our defenses,” Molotov interrupted the tedious listing. “Can they withstand an assault?”

  Timoshenko hesitated. A guarantee of a successful defense would haunt him if the German’s attacked and breached the line. No guarantee would make him look unprepared. “It cannot be said,” he murmured. “Our forces are strong and if properly led should hold but the Germans demonstrated a new form of warfare.”

  “They will hold, “Mekhlis croaked.

  The generals ignored him. Timoshenko pointed to the far edge of the map. “More concerning are the reports of German infiltration of Latvia and Estonia.” The pointer tapped the map around the Baltics. “We have identified elements of the Sixteenth Army and at least one armored regiment which have come by rail or through the port of Riga.” He motioned. “If the Germans would attack from Latvia if could extend our front another five to six hundred kilometers to the north.”