by Nick Cook
“Is that what you believe, Comrade Marshal?” Shlemov asked.
Shaposhnikov said nothing. He stared impassively at the investigator.
“Shame on you,” Shlemov said to him, “for leading these idealists astray.”
Krilov turned to Shaposhnikov and caught his eye. He looked imploringly at the Chief of the General Staff.
“Perhaps I can speak for him,” Shlemov said softly. “I know enough to surprise even you, Krilov,” Shlemov added, pulling his notepad from his greatcoat. He began to read the jottings of his radio communication with Beria.
“In the early part of 1918, Shaposhnikov was a young militiaman fighting the Czarists in the Pomoroskiy marshlands, to the north of St Petersburg. He was encouraged in his endeavours, no doubt, because he was not just defending the principles of the Revolution; he had a more, shall we say, local and quite understandable interest in defending the region against the enemy. Is that not right, comrade?” Shlemov turned to the marshal.
Shaposhnikov said nothing.
“Prior to the Revolution, before the last war in fact, Shaposhnikov had worked hard on the land around the hamlet where he had been brought up, a few scattered houses made of mud and straw on the banks of the Onega Estuary.
“It’s a desolate sort of place. The swift waters of the river keep the White Sea open for most of the year, but when winter really bites, even the ocean freezes and then the place becomes truly inaccessible, by land or sea. But to Comrade Shaposhnikov, it was home. And just before the outbreak of the Kaiser’s War, he had saved enough money to buy his plot of land and build a house for his bride-to-be.
“He finished it just before he was pulled away to the battlefields of Europe, where he fought against the Prussians and achieved distinction for three long years. When the October Revolution broke, Shaposhnikov marched back to the mouth of the Onega and was reunited with his wife and three-year-old son. By all accounts, they were a rather happy little family.”
“What has all this to do with now?” Krilov asked.
Shlemov ignored him. He was in full flow.
“In the spring of 1918, the Czarists attacked the Pomoroskiy sector, but were rallied in the West by a militia force, which had been honed into a highly effective fighting unit by Shaposhnikov. Your mentor, as you are undoubtedly aware, Krilov, routed the infinitely superior forces of the Czar and pushed them back to the Urals. But in the meantime, the British Expeditionary Force in support of the Czar which had landed earlier in the year, mainly at the instigation of one Winston Churchill, was fighting its way back to the northern ports. Our revolutionary forces, skilled in the ways of fighting a winter war, made short work of the British who, by the time they clawed their way to the little hamlet on the banks of the Onega, cold and hungry to a man, mutinied against their commander, General Ironside.”
Shlemov seemed to relish the confusion on Krilov’s face for a moment, before continuing.
“Militiaman Shaposhnikov, returning home after his triumphant push to the Urals, found a mutinous enemy occupying his beloved district. His forces attacked and the British retreated, but not before they had raped every woman and girl in the hamlet. It was unfortunate for Shaposhnikov that he arrived at his house too late to save his wife and child. In retaliation for Shaposhnikov’s counter attack the British burned every building in the village; they found his family days later charred to a crisp in the smouldering ruins of his house. In the meantime, the British renegades retreated to their home port, where they turned themselves in to the authorities. The name of that port should be familiar to you Krilov; it, too, was called Archangel.”
Krilov looked over to Shaposhnikov. “Tell me it’s not true,” he said.
Shlemov smiled slowly and gestured to the man standing silently before him.
“Look at your Marshal. Yesterday he was the great leader, rallying you all to a cause in which he himself did not believe. And now he is nothing. That is what revenge does to you, Krilov; it drives you for so long - and then it burns you out.”
Shlemov turned to the trees and waved his hand in the air. The guards pushed the marshal and his aide to the edge of the clearing. Shlemov then moved to the back of the truck, out of sight.
Malenkoy saw Krilov turn to Shaposhnikov as the Sudayevs were levelled at their bodies.
“Who informed on us?” the colonel asked, his voice cracking.
Shaposhnikov dropped his head. “It was Stalin himself, Kolya,” the Marshal whispered.
Malenkoy saw the incomprehension etched on Krilov’s face even after the guns had barked and the two bodies fell as one onto the carpet of pine needles.
When the ringing echo had subsided, Shlemov wandered over to Krilov’s body and flicked it over with his foot. There was no movement.
The Marshal let out an almost imperceptible groan and opened his eyes.
“There’s just one to go now, you realize that,” the investigator said.
“He is nothing to do with us,” Shaposhnikov whispered, the pain carving deep lines into his face. He turned his gaze to Malenkoy with a supreme effort.
Shlemov followed suit. “I know,” he said. “But it is important to Russia that no one ever finds out what happened here today, you know that. The NKVD can be trusted to keep the secret of Archangel, but he . . . well, he is just a major of tanks. He knows nothing about codes of silence.”
“He won’t talk. Look at him.” There was a rattle in Shaposhnikov’s throat.
“Why should I believe what you -” But when he looked back, Shaposhnikov’s eyes had rolled into his forehead. Shlemov shook his head and walked away from the body.
“Bury them in the woods,” he said to the senior NCO of the party. Then he gestured towards Malenkoy and spoke softly to the NKVD lieutenant. “Put him in the back of the truck and go back to Branodz. The killing is over.”
* * * * *
The hum of the air-conditioning vents sounded loudly over the silence that fell upon the underground room.
“We all believe in the effectiveness of the EAEU,” Welland said, somewhat patronizingly, “but there is still the possibility that your man in Reisen has put too much faith in this Luftwaffe transmission interception.”
Staverton rubbed his eyes. “Cochrane’s a good man. We were damned lucky he was there when the FW 189 came in. The German was scared out of his wits. He literally fell into Cochrane’s arms and said he was turning himself in because the Soviets had deployed chemicals at a place in western Czechoslovakia called Branodz. By the time Cochrane had developed the Uhu’s film and had conducted a thorough debrief, he believed him. Only then did he put a call through to the Bunker.”
“But these crates next to the HQ, how can you be sure that they contain the hydrogen cyanide?” Deering asked.
“We can’t be a hundred per cent. But we know what Shaposhnikov is planning at Branodz and we know that he’s capable of anything. Then some Luftwaffe reconnaissance aircraft makes an emergency landing at one of our airfields in southern Germany with its crew babbling about Russian chemical weapons being stored in the very same place. Why should they make it up? We have to believe it - we can’t afford not to.
“The worst thing is Shaposhnikov has located the dump right next to his headquarters, the very place my man is programmed to bomb tomorrow morning.”
“Kruze has been stopped, I take it,” Deering said.
“Don’t worry, George, we’re taking care of that right now. Our concern is what we do next.”
“I’ve already spoken to the PM about mobilizing our own chemical weapons in retaliation,” Welland said. “He wants to hold off until there is more conclusive news about Branodz.”
“Where’s that to come from? We can’t just sit and wait,” Staverton said.
“Perhaps now he has told the Americans ...” Deering said.
“In my opinion, they should have been told the moment news of this first broke,” Welland said.
Staverton thumped the table with his fist. “Guardian An
gel would have worked.”
“Are you convinced it would still not be possible to go ahead with the attack?” Deering said. “You told us yourself that this pilot of yours could drop a bomb down a chimney if he was called to do so.”
“The crates are too close to the HQ, George,” Staverton said. “I don’t think any of us has the right to take that risk. With the prevailing wind coming from the north-east at this time of year, a few fractured shell casings could kill thousands of our men and countless more civilians. A hundred shells . . . well, I don’t have to tell you gentlemen what that would do.”
“So what next?” Deering asked, his voice weary.
“The PM wants to hear what the Americans suggest before we move again,” Welland said.
“But time is running out, Admiral,” Staverton said. “According to the Archangel document that attack is scheduled to happen within the week. For all we know it might even have been brought forward.”
“Then we’re just going to have to pray to God that it hasn’t been.”
“In the meantime,” Deering added, “I’ll see to it that all men in the field within a hundred mile radius of Branodz are drilled in the use of gas masks and, where appropriate, new ones are issued.”
“Without arousing any suspicion, George - routine exercise and all that,” the Admiral interjected. “We don’t want mass panic at the front.”
“Quite, Admiral,” Deering said, a trace of irony in his voice. He was old enough to remember the piercing whistle blasts that signified the onslaught of chemical attack, the rush to don his gas mask and the first sweet smell of the mustard gas as it swept over his position in the trenches.
“The General Staff’s order to commanders in the field to stop their advance eastwards is still being implemented in some isolated parts of the front, but to all intents and purposes the drive for Berlin has halted,” Deering announced, his face sombre. “We are now digging in to meet the Russians, although our men don’t know that,” he added.
“And the Americans?” Welland asked.
“It can only be a matter of hours before they do the same thing,” Deering replied.
The meeting adjourned.
A few minutes later, Staverton scurried along Whitehall’s slippery pavements towards the Bunker. As he crossed the road, avoiding the traffic that crept cautiously through London’s blackout, Big Ben chimed half-past six. Another thirty minutes till the next news broadcast. Thirty minutes in which to warn Kruze that Guardian Angel had been terminated.
CHAPTER FIVE
Malenkoy came round in the cool ward of the military hospital in Branodz, his head hurting like hell and the rest of his body limp from the nightmare.
An orderly saw him stir and moved over to his bedside. He took Malenkoy’s wrist, fumbled for his pulse and, apparently satisfied that the rate was not unusual, plunged a thermometer under his tongue. Malenkoy spat it out, ignoring his protestations.
“What happened to me?” he asked.
“We were hoping you would tell us, Comrade Major,” the orderly said with reverence. “Some troops brought you in several hours ago, said you were a hero, that you were to be given the best treatment. Then they left, just like that, without another word. May I ask what it was that you did?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
“Such modesty, Comrade Major. Let me just tell you that it is an honour to have you here.” The orderly began to pull him up the bed.
“What are you doing?’ Malenkoy asked with some irritation.
“I must make you presentable for the official visit.” The orderly looked anxiously towards the door. “The delegation will be here in no time. You must be ready to receive it.”
“What delegation -” Malenkoy had no time to finish. The double doors of the ward swung open, admitting a cluster of senior personnel. They were some way off and Malenkoy had difficulty focusing on the individuals in the group. He looked up at the orderly and was about to ask who was paying the visit, but the man had stopped fussing over the appearance of his bed and was standing rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.
The olive-green curtain of greatcoats parted for a moment and Marshal Konev swept down the central aisle, NKVD Major Shlemov by his side. As they did so Malenkoy’s mind was flooded with images of the woodland execution. The delegation, Konev now at its head, stopped at the end of his bed. Malenkoy clamped his hands to his legs underneath the sheets to try and stop them shaking.
“Is this Major Malenkoy?’ Konev asked the gaggle of officers around him. There were several curt nods.
Konev took three paces forward. Malenkoy watched wide-eyed as he bent down, grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Then the Marshal stood straight, a thin smile on his lips, and clicked his fingers. A lieutenant marched up, handed over a box and withdrew.
“Major Malenkoy,” Konev began. “Thanks to your maskirovka, the enemy will be wrong-footed when our final assault is launched a few hours from now. The fascists have mustered almost all their forces in the sector against your ghost army, clearing a path for our divisions here in Branodz to assault Berlin from the south. A last-minute overflight by one of their aircraft has not prevented the deception from working to the full. In recognition of your work, I present you with a token of the esteem in which you will shortly be held by the Soviet people when they learn of the part you have played in our total victory.”
Konev took the Order of Lenin from the box and pinned it to Malenkoy’s shirt. He stepped back to the end of the bed and saluted.
Malenkoy didn’t see Konev. His gaze rested instead on Shlemov, who was standing a few paces behind the Marshal’s left shoulder. The NKVD major held Malenkoy’s stare for a few seconds and then nodded, a gesture so slight that it was missed by everyone else in the room. To Malenkoy the significance of that moment was crystal clear. His silence had just been bought by the state.
Konev turned to the delegation, which parted to admit him, swept through the middle and was gone through the double doors. When Malenkoy looked again, the party had left, leaving an unnatural silence in the ward, as if the whole thing had never happened.
Malenkoy stared down at the glittering disc for several seconds. Then the cheers of the other patients began to ring out. He brought a trembling hand from beneath the bedclothes and fingered the Soviet soldier’s most valued prize. He thought of his father back home, of how proud he would be.
But his thoughts returned to the clearing. A few spent cartridges scattered on the grass would be the only sign of the demise of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov. He looked down at the medal again and its lustre had dulled.
Malenkoy threw back the bedclothes and jumped out of bed. He pulled his trousers and jacket on and was just squeezing into his boots when the orderly appeared.
“Major, this is most irregular -”
“I am fit and well and wish to return to my unit,” Malenkoy said, waving him aside. He marched from the ward, ignoring the looks of envy from the other inmates as he swept past them.
When he got outside, he commandeered a jeep and ordered the driver to take him to the motor pool at Chrudim. He felt the need for a drink with Sheverev as he never had before.
* * * * * * * *
Kruze and Herries had been sitting silently on their mattresses in the basement, smoking the Rhodesian’s last two ersatz cigarettes, when the old man came down the stairs.
“You must go now,” he said, his face taut. “The car is in the garage at the back of the house.” He held his hand out. “Here is the key. Now go!”
Herries held up his hand. “Simmer down, you old fool, we’re not due to leave for another five hours.”
Schell was too nervous for the insult to register. He sensed only that Herries was trying to obstruct him. “No, there is not a moment to lose. If you stay here any longer you will be caught.”
Kruze was on his feet. “What’s happened? Why the change of plan?”
“Relax,” Her
ries said, blowing cigarette smoke lazily from his nostrils, “we’re not going anywhere.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Herries,” Kruze said. He touched the old man gently on the shoulder and felt that he was shaking. “What is it?” he asked softly.
“There is a KG squad at the end of the street, coming this way. The SS are turning everyone out of the houses to form work parties. They want us to build the street barricades that they believe will halt the Americans.”
“Where are the Americans?”
“They say their tanks have entered the northern suburbs and that we are to fight to the finish. I have been in the presence of death too long to care for myself any more. But Joseph, he must live to see his mother again and build a new life when this is all over. I don’t know what it is you have come here to do, but if you stay, the Nazis will find him and he will die for nothing.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the special hiding place. They will not find him there - not if you leave now.” He looked imploringly into the Rhodesian’s eyes.
Kruze did not need to hear any more. “We’re on our way,” he said, taking the key from the old man’s quaking hand. “The car, does it work?”
“I have turned the engine over every week for the past year. And there is enough petrol to get you to your destination.”
“You’re not actually going to do what this old coward wants, are you?” The Rhodesian whipped round at the sound of Herries’ voice; he was still sitting on the mattress, puffing on his cigarette. “Why can’t we share the Jewboy’s hidey-hole until the danger’s over? As unpleasant as that sounds, it would be much better than setting off for Oberammergau now.”
Kruze’s hands were on Herries in an instant, pulling him to his feet. The Rhodesian’s words were fuelled by hours of pent-up frustration and revulsion. “Has it become just a little too hot for you Herries, is that it? Do you want to switch sides again, rejoin your old friends out there?” He saw the amazement spread across the traitor’s face. “Oh yes, I know about you and the deal, but you’re not working for Staverton now, you’re working for me. The plan’s changed and we’re moving out.” He pulled him towards the foot of the stairs.
