by Nick Cook
Fleming got up, disgust on his face. “Kruze was right, damn you. You really are enjoying this. I used to think that you watched over us, that the tests you set were for our own good. But you toy with people’s lives when it suits your purposes, and you don’t give a shit about what happens in the end. If I get back from the place you’re sending Kruze to you’ll have my resignation, I swear it.”
* * * * * * * *
They met in a wood outside the village of Krazna Hora, some fifty kilometres from Branodz. Darkness had long descended on the dripping pine forests of western Czechoslovakia. The rendezvous had been set by Shaposhnikov and communicated to the Archangel activists in the field via Krilov’s specially encrypted codes. The GAZ jeeps were ranged around the tiny clearing, the subdued beams of their blackout headlights cutting into the forest as far as they could before being overwhelmed by the density of the trees.
Shaposhnikov and Krilov were the last to arrive. As their jeep slewed to a halt, the generals got out of their vehicles and strode over to meet their leader. Krilov noticed that Badunov and Vorontin had brought their trusties with them as drivers. Only Nerchenko had driven alone. It was a stark reminder of Paliev’s fate.
Krilov and the trusties stood back as the four men greeted one another. There was no exchange of words until each had laid his right hand upon the others. The eerie silence in the clearing and the intensity of feeling that radiated from the simple gesture made Krilov’s pulse race. It would not be long now before these four men would lift Europe out of the chaos of the last five years, and unite the continent under one great socialist structure that would last until the end of time.
Shaposhnikov’s face broke into a smile. He placed his hand on Vorontin’s shoulder and embraced him warmly. “Arkady Matveevich, it is good to see you.” Then to Badunov: “And you, Marius Fedorovich, a long way to come for such a short meeting.” Lastly, it was Nerchenko’s turn. “Even you seem a little happier now, Petr Pavlovich.”
“The waiting is almost over, Comrade Marshal. That makes me happy.”
“And the insurgents?” Shaposhnikov said.
Nerchenko looked sheepish. His last message to Shaposhnikov must have reeked of panic. “My men have swept the hills for survivors of the explosion that wiped out the SS camp, Comrade Marshal, but they found nothing. The officer in charge of the search, Major Malenkoy, thought there might have been others, but I think not. I am sure they are all dead. The area is clean and Archangel is safe.”
“This Malenkoy has no reason to suspect, does he, Petr Pavlovich?”
“None, Comrade Marshal. He is only an engineer in charge of the maskirovka at Chrudim. Such men do not think, they merely work with their hands. It is why I chose him to head up the hunt for the SS terrorists.” He remembered the day Malenkoy relayed the news of Paliev’s recovered ID papers and the chill he had felt at the prospect of the SS finding the Archangel documents. “No one has cause to suspect at Branodz,” he added firmly, partly to convince himself.
Shaposhnikov clapped his gloved hands together. “Then to business,” he said. “The battle plan remains unaltered except for the change of date, which was, as you know, a precaution against the defection of the traitor, Paliev.” His eyes left the group and probed the stark shadows of the forest. “May all traitors suffer the same fate.”
Shaposhnikov conveyed the threat without even having to look at them. Nerchenko felt it more than the others, a sudden frisson running down his spine.
“In any case, this might be a blessing,” the Marshal said, lightening his tone again. “I am convinced that the Red Army’s order of battle is at peak strength now, such has been the momentum behind our second echelon forces in the past month. I have just seen the morale of our troops at Ostrava. They are pouring towards the front and keen for the signal that will finish the fascists. They will need little persuasion to take on the British and Americans as well.”
“Then we go in three days,” Badunov said, unable to hide his impatience.
“As soon as we are all in position,” the Marshal said. “How long will it take you and Comrade General Vorontin to make your separate ways back to your headquarters at the First and Second Belorussian Fronts?”
“Twelve hours,” Badunov said.
“Eighteen at the most,” Vorontin added.
“Then all is set for the tanks to roll at dawn in three days’ time. Comrade Krilov and I will be with Comrade General Nerchenko in Branodz later tonight. Signal us at the allotted time once you are in place. Thereafter, keep your progress reports brief and strictly between the times we agreed.”
The two generals clicked their heels. “I do not think I could have waited another week anyway,” Badunov said.
“The NKVD are everywhere. I feel their eyes boring into the back of my skull. It is time.”
“Do not forget,” Shaposhnikov said, “that the NKVD will have to be rounded up at exactly the same time as Zhukov, Rokossovsky and their advisers. I don’t want Beria’s dogs interfering once everything is underway.”
Each of them knew that the first hours were vital and relied on perfect synchronization between the conspirators on all fronts. Two hours before the forty-one thousand howitzers opened up and the T-34s began clanking their way across their front lines, Vorontin, at 1st Belorussian, was to despatch loyal guards to Marshal Rokossovsky’s quarters and have him shot on Stalin’s orders - forged orders, proving cowardice in the face of the enemy for slowing the pace of the Soviet advance. Vorontin would then have command of Soviet forces in the centre of the nine hundred and sixty kilometre front.
At Second Belorussian, to the north, Badunov was to do the same with Marshal Zhukov. At 1st Ukrainian, Nerchenko would terminate Marshal Konev, allowing Shaposhnikov to step into his place. The Marshal would supervise the spearhead assault west, as well as co-ordinating Archangel from Branodz. Nerchenko would then make his way to 2nd Ukrainian and take up command of Shaposhnikov’s left flank. New orders would be relayed to commanders in the field. If any of them had reservations about attacking the Western Allies, none would show it.
“When you have control and the attack has begun, remember to signal me again, both of you,” Shaposhnikov said. “When I have your transmissions I will relay the communiqué to Moscow that we, the Free Officers of the Red Army, have struck a blow for the October Revolution that will once and for all remove imperialism from our doorstep. Comrade Stalin will have no choice but to throw the weight and resources of the Motherland behind Archangel’s iron fist.”
Vorontin laughed. “I would love to see his face when he reads that signal.”
Shaposhnikov did not seem to share the joke, but nodded. “He will have no choice but to join our victory parade in Paris in six weeks. By then we will be so strong that he will be in no position to move against us. Should he show signs of wavering, we have friends in Moscow who can take care of that, as you know.”
The euphemism chilled Krilov. It was strange that even Shaposhnikov could not say the word outright.
Shaposhnikov moved onto the subject of the maskirovkas, the huge, carefully co-ordinated, military deceptions on all three Soviet Fronts that had convinced the Germans - and the Western Allies, for that matter - that the Red Army was amassing resources for one last thrust that would squeeze the life-blood from the Reich. “They have bought us valuable time. The confusion that will greet our actual assault plan should take our troops half-way to Paris before meeting serious resistance.”
“And if it doesn’t...”
Shaposhnikov looked from one to the other, and saw from their expressions that Vorontin had spoken for them all. “Yes, Comrades. If it doesn’t, we will have no alternative but to use the Berezniki consignment. We should none of us dismiss the possibility that, even with the massive weight of resources behind Archangel, our troops may become bogged down. Should that be the case, I will have no hesitation in using the chemical weapons at our disposal. I want you to know that.”
“Where is the consign
ment?” Vorontin asked.
“Making its way to Branodz in an armoured convoy under the command of Major Ryakhov, Military Chemical Forces. If the sector is clear of the enemy, as you suggest it is, Comrade General Nerchenko, then there really is nothing to fear while the munitions are in transit.”
“Quite, Comrade Marshal,” Nerchenko said, his heart in his throat. He thought of the trucks winding their way up the mountain tracks that led to Branodz, Ryakhov peering past the straining windscreen wipers down the tunnel beams of the headlights, looking for the slightest sign of trouble ahead. If they were attacked, if even one of the chemical shells were to rupture, the very breath he was taking now could be his last.
“Rest assured that the decision to use the hydrogen cyanide artillery shells will be mine, and mine alone,” Shaposhnikov’s words brought Nerchenko round. “Given the prevailing wind conditions, I am satisfied that none of the gas can possibly reach as far north as your troops,” he said, nodding to Badunov, “but the rest of us will have to take the precautions we discussed, at all times.”
Vorontin remained anxious. Even the troops at the very northern extreme of his 1st Belorussian Front, about a hundred and fifty kilometres from the impact point of the shells, would have to fight in gas masks if Shaposhnikov decided to resort to chemical attack.
But God help the enemy. Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands would die. And that didn’t include the civilians.
“Do you think they will counterattack with chemicals?” Vorontin asked.
Shaposhnikov shook his head. “The Western Allies’ command structure is already too fragmented for them to initiate a rapid response. By the time they are in a position to deploy their own chemical weapons we would be on our way to Paris. Their troops, unlike ours, are not trained to fight in such an environment, and they would never risk the slaughter of their French allies.”
“What about the Germans?” Vorontin asked.
“Not even Hitler would sanction the use of chemical warfare on German soil. No, believe me, if we have to use these weapons, the way is clear to do so. But given the readiness of our conventional forces I don’t expect any serious hitches. The chemicals are just an insurance policy.”
By the time he had paced the streets for an hour, Kruze had got most of the anger from his exchange with Staverton out of his system. He hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to the station, then changed his mind and asked to go by the hospital first.
The taxi waited in front of its great gothic exterior, while Kruze made his way towards the main entrance. As he walked, he carefully removed the service ribbons from his chest and wrapped them in his handkerchief. They wouldn’t make much of a memento for Billy, but they were all he had.
He approached the duty desk. The nurse was not the one who had spoken to him and Penny on their last visit. She looked up from her book and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
He put the handkerchief on the desk. “I wanted to leave this for one of your patients,” he said. “A little boy by the name of Billy Simmons. He was brought in a few days ago following the Strand explosion.”
“You’re Squadron Leader Kruze, aren’t you?” She turned the book over and stood up. Her expression had changed.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“We’ve been trying to get hold of you and Mrs Fleming all afternoon,” she said, then paused.
“Billy died shortly after two o’clock. I’m terribly sorry.”
He looked at her incredulously. “You must have got the wrong patient. Billy had broken his legs, that was all. He was getting better.”
She tried to put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged her off.
“There was a complication,” she said. “The doctors didn’t see the blood clot. By the time it had entered his brain it was too late. There was nothing they could do.” She paused again, watching the shock on his face. “We tried to contact you at your base, but they weren’t accepting any calls.”
Kruze did not need to hear any more. He turned on his heels and walked through the exit, leaving the tiny bundle of ribbons where he had placed it on the desk.
By the time the nurse was through the doors, the taxi was already pulling out of the gates.
CHAPTER SIX
“Comrade Beria,” NKVD Major Shlemov said, “I think I have found something which is not as it should be.” He coughed, awkwardly. “I need more guidance.” He had rehearsed the opening words of his speech for the last half an hour, but somehow it still came out wrong. The directive had been vague, so it was hard to know exactly what Beria was looking for.
“You’ve had the entire night to get answers. I want them now,” Beria said from behind his immense desk.
Shlemov got out his notepad. “We pulled the Krilov woman in for questioning and -”
“You did what?” The NKVD chief slammed his fist down on the blotter. “I thought I told you to be discreet.”
“There were many dead ends. No one knew anything about these three men - nothing concrete, anyway. We needed a break.”
Beria waved his hand. His mood could change in an instant, Shlemov had learnt that. “Continue then, but start from the beginning,” the NKVD chief said.
Shlemov looked back to his pad. “I have had my men examine the records of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov, but individually they’re clean. Oddly, however, their paths crossed for the first time three years ago when they taught at the Voroshilov Military Academy. Were you trying to establish a particular link, Comrade Beria?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Beria growled. “Carry on.”
“It was when Shaposhnikov was Commandant and Krilov and Nerchenko were on his staff teaching tactics and strategy. Apparently, they were rather friendly, although you would never have guessed it from the way they behaved at the Academy. They almost crossed the street to avoid each other.”
“How do you know this?”
“We interviewed some of the Academy’s ‘42-43 intake. Shaposhnikov was extremely popular - his particular brand of patriotism appealed to the young lions whose fields and cities had just been sacked by the fascist invaders.”
“This jingoism, do you think it could be a blind? Would it be possible, for instance, that he was involved in pro-Western activities?”
“No, quite the opposite, that was the strange thing. These lecturers were so anti-Western that they made no distinction between Nazi, British, or American. I know the fascists had only just been driven back and feelings were riding high, but even so, their rhetoric was remarkable for people who were never seen with each other. To the students of Voroshilov, all five of them spoke with one tongue.”
“Five? Who were the others? I can only account for Shaposhnikov, Krilov and Nerchenko.”
“Generals Badunov and Vorontin.”
“Why do the students remember this rhetoric as particularly remarkable?” Beria asked. “Anti-Western doctrine is something that should be encouraged, albeit with some subtlety, don’t you think?”
“Quite comrade. I merely recorded the students’ observations.”
Beria began to lose patience. “This is all very interesting, Comrade Shlemov, but how do you know that they were operating in unison if they were never seen together?”
Shlemov coughed. “Policeman’s instinct, I suppose.”
“But no evidence?”
“Not until we spoke to Valentina Krilova.”
Beria appreciated the use of the word ‘spoke’. Chances were they had beaten her half to death. “Why her, especially?”
The NKVD major mirrored his superior’s thin smile. “I thought she was bound to know something, Krilov being the Marshal’s aide. He took up the post shortly after Shaposhnikov was called back from the Academy as Chief of General Staff. I also thought it would draw less attention pulling a colonel’s wife out of bed at three in the morning. Generals’ wives can be a little more difficult.”
Shlemov brought out his notepad again, skimming through the
pages until he found the relevant section. “As for Shaposhnikov, he did have a family, but the records show they died shortly after the October Revolution. Nerchenko has a daughter, but we haven’t had time to question her yet.”
Beria looked levelly at Shlemov, trying to read the face for a sign that his relationship with Nadia Nerchenko had surfaced. He was satisfied that the policeman knew nothing.
“Remember what I said about discretion,” Beria cautioned.
“Yes, Comrade Beria.”
“Go on about the Krilov woman,” the NKVD chief said. “Perhaps it was a good decision. It depends on what you found.”
“She told us everything she knew, I’m sure of that. Shaposhnikov, Krilov and Nerchenko had been meeting regularly for months in Krilov’s apartment, even though they appeared to shun each other at the Academy. That’s odd for a start.”
Beria nodded. Come on, Shlemov, he thought, tell me something I don’t know.
“They never let her into the room where they talked. She thought they were probably reliving old campaigns - as old soldiers do over a bottle of vodka or two. That was when she told us about Operation Archangel -”
“What?”
“Archangel. It was about the only snippet she caught. She thought it was some battle they had fought together during the last war and they were just reminiscing. She heard them mention it several times on different occasions.
I think she only told us because she thought it wasn’t of any importance.”
“And when was this operation? I have to confess I’ve never heard of it.”
“You won’t have. Comrade Beria. We did a check. Neither our own side, nor the fascists for that matter, have ever staged a military operation by that name, in this war or the last.”
