Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  In itself a curious statement, and one that piqued Strong’s interest.

  “Well, that’s got my attention. I’m all ears, General.”

  No words came by way of explanation.

  Instead, Gehlen extracted a set of pictures from a grey folder and set them out on the desk.

  “What am I looking at, General?”

  “The Soviet Union’s May Day parade this year. I can only apologise, but I did not have sight of these pictures until yesterday, otherwise I would have brought them to you much earlier.”

  Strong was puzzled.

  “But we had a briefing document through, with pictures your agents took on the day… didn’t we?”

  Gehlen sat back in his seat and shrugged.

  “Yes, you did. These were not considered of sufficient quality to have been included in the original submission, neither did they appear to contain anything not covered elsewhere in the original briefing documents.”

  “But they obviously do, or you wouldn’t be here, eh?”

  “What do you see, General Strong?”

  “Big bloody tanks… big bloody bombs… and some…”

  “The bombs, Herr General.”

  Strong concentrated.

  “Big blighters, like I said. I assume the technical people have run up some numbers?”

  “I suspect not, as I regret that there were no pictures of these bombs in the original submission, Herr General. Otherwise, I would have been in your office many weeks ago.”

  Strong screwed his eyes up, trying to make a deeper appreciation of the grainy photographs.

  “Allow me to show you another photograph set, Herr General.”

  Four more pictures were laid out, photos of excellent quality, precise and defined, showing a large bomb.

  “Hmm… I’ll warrant that these weren’t taken in Moscow in May.”

  “You are correct, Herr General. They were taken at the Karup air base in Denmark on 12th December.”

  Gehlen left it all hanging in the air and waited for Strong to put it all together.

  “They look the same… admittedly these Moscow ones are a trifle fuzzy, but I think… and clearly you think… they’re the same, or at least born of the same bitch.”

  The German intelligence officer could only nod.

  NATO’s Intelligence Chief had a bell ringing in the back of his brain.

  “Karup?”

  He had been thinking more of the photos than of Gehlen’s words, but the name suddenly shouted loudly enough to be heard, despite his concentration.

  Strong searched his mind and found the answer in a second.

  “Bloody hell! Karup!”

  “You understand the problem, Herr General.”

  “Karup. Where the special unit is based.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the special unit has only recently formed there…”

  “Yes… but…”

  “But the advance units have been there for ages.”

  “Yes, Herr General. The base was adapted in anticipation last year.”

  Strong returned to the two sets of photos.

  He knew no weapon had been deployed to Europe as yet… and wondered if the intelligence officer opposite him knew too.

  Examining the Red Square photos again, the British officer posed the only question that really mattered.

  “So what the merry hell are these?”

  “The Karup unit started using weapons called Pumpkin bombs, which have the same size and ballistic characteristics… so I am told.”

  Which roughly meant, German Intelligence has someone within the unit who supplied that very information.

  “A B-29 bomber went missing in December last year… the 13th to be precise. Nothing overly remarkable, save the regrettable loss of life involved. It was on a Pumpkin test-bombing mission in the southern Baltic. I think we now know where it went.”

  “It came down in Russia?”

  “It most certainly would seem so, Herr General, for I suspect these items paraded in Moscow are copies of the exact same Pumpkin bomb shown in the photos from Karup.”

  The two locked eyes and the possibilities flowed silently back and forth.

  Strong gave voice to their fears.

  “Copies…”

  Gehlen played his silent game, allowing Strong to finish his own bombshell thought.

  “Or are they something more?”

  Gehlen stood.

  “That, General Strong, is something our agencies need to find out very, very quickly.”

  0101 hrs, Tuesday, 20th August 1946, two kilometres northwest of Ksar es Seghir, Morocco.

  “Hai.”

  The distant voice half-whispered a response in a strained tone, such was the tension throughout the submarine.

  Adding an extra knot of speed gave Commander Nanbu Nobukiyo more opportunity to control his passage, the strong current having dragged the huge submarine a little closer to the Moroccan shore than intended.

  “Up periscope.”

  The gentle hiss caused by the extending tube was the loudest sound in the submarine, and drew more than one tense crewman’s attention.

  Nobukiyo aimed the periscope at the lights of the Spanish town of Tarifa.

  He found the flashing navigation light that marked the promontory.

  “Jinyo… bearing one…mark.”

  First officer Jinyo made a note of the bearing and checked the ship’s clock.

  The periscope swivelled nearly ninety degrees towards the Moroccan village of Eddalya, a normally sleepy place that tonight was decidedly wide-awake.

  The illuminations were courtesy of two men who were handsomely paid to light a beacon of celebration on the seashore, ostensibly to hail the formation of the Moroccan Democratic Party for Independence but, in actuality, to provide a navigational point of reference for the passage of some vessels of interest to the Soviet Union.

  I-401, Nobukiyo’s craft, was second in line, the procession of four vessels led by I-1, with I-14 bring up the tail, sandwiching the two huge Sen-Tokus.

  Nobukiyo easily found the fiery beacon.

  “Bearing two… mark.”

  Jinyo moved to the navigation table and handed the two bearings and times to the navigation officer.

  Within seconds, the map showed two intersecting pencil lines, marking I-401’s present position.

  “As it should be, Commander.”

  “Time to turn?”

  Jinyo checked the navigator’s work.

  “Three minutes, Commander.”

  “Up periscope.”

  After ninety seconds, Nobukiyo repeated the process of getting bearings.

  He took another quick sweep round and saw nothing that troubled him.

  “Down periscope.”

  “We’ve drifted south, commander.”

  “Increase speed by two knots…recalculate.”

  The two senior officers exchanged looks as the navigator worked confidently with his map and slide rule.

  “Jinyo… depth is approximately three hundred and sixty metres here, yes?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  The navigator interrupted.

  “Fifty seconds to turn, Commander.”

  Nobukiyo grunted by way of reply.

  The clock slowly made its way to the appropriate point.

  “Lieutenant Dosan. New heading?”

  The navigator never looked up from his table.

  “Zero-eight-eight, Commander.”

  “Come to starboard. Steer course zero-eight-eight. Make our depth one hundred and thirty metres.”

  The orders were repeated, and the huge submarine turned and dropped further into the waters where the Atlantic and Mediterranean mixed.

  Nobukiyo thought about the other submarines breaking through the straight at the same time, and of yet others ships, vital to the plan, many miles behind them.

  Still out in the Atlantic were the support ships I-353 and the Bogata Maru, the latter now returned to the original
German look as the German freighter ‘Bogata’, although Japanese crew managed her, and the submarine tender modifications were retained.

  Bogata had been anchored on the protected east side of the island of Deserta Grande, one of the Madeira Islands.

  Beneath her keel, I-353 lay on the bottom by day, surfacing by night, waiting until other arrangements could be brought to fruition.

  A boring but vital duty, broken by excursions to a small hidden base ashore for those not required to act as a skeleton crew to dive and resurface the boat.

  Close behind them were the Nachi Maru and Tsukushi Maru, two submarine tenders under Allied orders, and laden with returning prisoners of war and modest wares for trade, were ready to do their part when needed.

  The Hikawa Maru 2, a hospital ship, also carried Allied servicemen being repatriated, as well as other things more crucial to Operation Niji.

  Nobukiyo snatched himself from his musings and put his mind firmly back on the mission in hand.

  Commander Nobukiyo took up his seat and closed his eyes, displaying no nerves about the venture they were now engaged in.

  After all, many German U-Boats had successfully done the same journey into the Mediterranean, and in times when the Allies were much more aware.

  Now that peace, such as it was, ruled the world, the passage would be that much easier.

  Nobukiyo certainly hoped so, for the Black Sea was still a very long way away, even with the Turks turning a convenient blind eye.

  Perhaps, by the time it came for them to exit the Mediterranean and seek the freedom of the Atlantic once more, things might be different, but they would climb that mountain when it was there in front of them.

  Until then, there was one small fact that constantly niggled away in the back of his mind, a fact he did not care to share with any of his crew.

  It announced itself once more, and he felt a chill run down his spine.

  As he conned his submarine into the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, his mind battled to put the fact back where it belonged.

  He failed, and his processes suddenly all locked on to the one inescapable fact.

  Once in the Mediterranean, no U-Boat had ever made it out.

  However, that had been in time of war, whereas an uneasy peace had descended across Europe.

  In Gibraltar, the peace was taken very much to heart, as the war had rarely visited itself upon them.

  The arrival of two Japanese ships full of POWs and the sick caused a modest ripple across the Rock, but nothing more than that.

  The patrols between Europe and Africa were still conducted, but everyone from admiral to the meanest civilian knew that the enemy had no navy to speak of and there were no conceivable threats against which they had to guard.

  Which attitude greatly helped the ‘inconceivable threats’ slip quietly through into the waters of the Mediterranean, on their way to a secret place on the shores of the Black Sea.

  0737 hrs, Friday 23rd August 1946, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.

  “Meant to show this to you the other day, darling. Slipped my mind.”

  She sat up in bed, allowing the covers to spill from her magnificent breasts.

  “What am I looking at exactly?”

  “A message for me that came from my godmother in the Mosel. Willi Bittrich gave it to me.”

  “So what does it mean, Chérie?”

  “Well, I can progress some of the way towards answering that, my darling. It’s from my cousin David… we used to write messages to each other all the time. All we did was simply reverse everything.”

  “But it was sent to your godmother.”

  “Schildkröte… it was my name for him… means turtle. I assume he simply sent it to somewhere that he knew would get it to me.”

  Anne-Marie looked again and recited the message back to front.

  “235U92-92KR36/141BA56-USPENKA”

  “Exactly right, darling.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine to be honest.”

  She rose from the bed and stretched her lithe body, the slightest hints of their lovemaking vaguely apparently until she swathed herself in the silk robe.

  “The thing is… David died during the last war… I mean that I was told he died in 1942. Nothing more than that.”

  “And yet it seems he didn’t, Chérie?”

  “No. I’ll ask around and see what I can discover. Until then that jumble of letters and numbers will remain a mystery. All except Uspenka, of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’? What is it?”

  “It’s a place in Russia, not far from Kremenchug. I fought around there back in the old days of ‘43.”

  She lit a cigarette and tossed Knocke the pack, followed by the lighter.

  “So, why would a dead cousin send you a note now about a place you fought over in in 1943?”

  The smoke caught Knocke’s throat and his reply was cut off in a bout of coughing.

  “A mystery worthy of Maigret or Sherlock Holmes, Chérie.”

  She rose and moved towards the slipper bath, intent on making herself presentable before breakfast and her fiancée journeyed back to the Corps later that day.

  Knocke sprang from the bed and swept her up in a bout of laughter and female giggling that ended in yet another consummation of their engagement, this time on the impeccable rosewood chaise-longues.

  Madame Fleriot was late out of bed that morning, as were the girls, so, unusually, Ernst and Anne-Marie found themselves breakfasting alone, all save for Jerome, who fussed over the happy couple as always.

  He topped off their coffees and removed himself to prepare more food for those who were clearly stirring in the rooms above.

  The note sat on the table in front of the Deux agent, her natural curiosity and stubbornness driving her to extract more information from the text.

  Frau Hallmann,

  Hauptstrasse,

  Haserich,

  Mosel,

  Germany.

  AKNEPSU-65AB141/63RK29-29U532

  Für-EAK

  Schildkröte.

  “The message is for you… not for your godmother… why for you?”

  “Something I alone could understand?”

  “Clearly yes… in as much as you understood it’s reversed text… and his childhood nickname… but you don’t understand it.”

  Knocke shrugged and selected a generous slice of cheese.

  Anne-Marie declined the offer of a piece for herself and carried on analysing the problem.

  “So, it’s for you… because you understood the code… such as it was… and signed so that you alone would know who it came from… that’s important… he needed not to be identified by anyone else. And yet he was, in your words, a simple shopkeeper… although you think perhaps he was more… maybe this is proof that he certainly was?”

  Knocke waved his knife to emphasise his words.

  “Yes, indeed, Cherie. That much seems obvious. But what is the point on sending me something… specifically to me… if I actually can’t read what he’s written?”

  Her reproaching look made Knocke realise that he was waving a knife at a woman who had a certain set of deadly skills, and who didn’t appreciate such gestures, even from the man who would be her husband.

  “Pardon, darling. Just getting carried away.”

  By way of forgiveness, she fluttered her eyelashes in a very un-de Valois like way, bringing a giggle for Knocke.

  “Well, Cherie… that’s also obvious, isn’t it?”

  The sound of running feet across the landing warned them that the girls were descending on the bedroom of Madame Fleriot, which meant that their discussion would soon be cut short.

  Jerome bustled in with more plates of cheese, meat, and bread and the two waited until he was gone again.

  “I think that he sent it to you so you could give it to someone else. Someone connected with you. Someone military?”
/>
  “Who I know, rather than me? Use my military connections... I can see that clearly. Right, then we both know who to show it to. I’ll stop off at his office on the way to Camerone, eh?”

  She nodded as the door burst open as Greta and Magda escorted Armande Fleriot to the breakfast table, ending their discussions.

  1104 hrs, Monday, 26th August 1946, French Military Headquarters in Bavaria, Altes Schloss Eremitage, Bayreuth, Germany.

  “Welcome, Ernst, welcome.”

  De Walle and Knocke embraced as De Walle was accustomed to, and Knocke was gradually becoming less embarrassed about.

  “How’s Anne-Marie?”

  “Well, thank you. Apparently finishing up ordering the wedding dress before she returns.”

  “Again, thank you for the honour you do me, Ernst.”

  “Anne-Marie had no one else in mind, Georges… and thank you for agreeing to participate anyway.”

  “My pleasure. Anyway, down to business. You know you will be moving forward again soon?”

  “I never doubted it, once they’d sorted out the demarcation lines between us and the German Republican forces. Seems to be as difficult to get agreement as it is with the Russians up in Sweden.”

  De Walle grinned, not totally in humour.

  “There’s an element of truth in that it seems. My sources tell me that there are often some strange sticking points. None the less, we’re all going in the right direction. So, what can I do for you?”

  Knocke pulled out his wallet and sought the coded message.

  “And there was me thinking you were going to offer me a bribe.”

  They shared a laugh, Knocke rising to get a drink as De Walle read the message.

  “Now… you have my full attention, Ernst. What am I holding?”

  “That message was sent to me, via my godmother. It was sent by a dead man, my cousin, so it would appear he isn’t dead after all.”

  “So what does it mean, and why do you show it to me?”

  “That is the question. I know part of what it means, but not all. I’m showing it to you so that you can use your contacts to see what you can find out about its message. Reverse it… a simple childhood code. The name Uspenka stands out. I fought there in the war. Nasty place. But what the numbers and letters mean, I haven’t got an idea… which is where you come in, Georges.”