by Colin Gee
“Might I be so bold as to ask, Skipper?”
“Somewhere a lot colder, Clueless… bloody Baltic… based out of Rostock. So… frauleins and pils instead of the pleasures of the North African souks for us. Quick as you can, Clueless.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Within a few minutes, HMS Loch Tarbert, pennant number K-431, one of the excellent ASW frigates with the electric eel, infrared searchlights, and Squid launchers, left her station at Gibraltar and headed north to replace Loch Tralaig.
1618 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Lindingö, Sweden.
Colonel Keranin of the GRU had overseen the delivery personally, although his hands never once touched the information itself.
Once dispatched from Moscow, the thin folder was left within its disguise, not to be viewed until it was delivered to its ultimate destination.
The deliverymen knocked on the door three times before a sleepy looking man answered and signed for the package.
Outwardly, the sleepy man maintained his confused appearance, but the arrival of the unexpected package, sent by an art dealer in Stockholm, brought him immediately to a peak of awareness.
The package was from his Soviet masters.
To Lingström, the painting itself was of average quality, although he liked the subject matter; a pair of striking horses at the gallop.
He eased the back plate off and removed the envelope, replacing the wooden plate before exploring the material.
Lingström read the contents three times before picking up the telephone and arranging an urgent dinner meeting.
After that, he made another call making further arrangements for later in the evening.
He then copied the envelope details onto another one that was intact and untarnished, slipping both into his briefcase before he changed into his uniform.
1903 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Den Gyldene Freden Österlånggatan 51, Stockholm, Sweden.
The two men sat down together and perused the menu in silence, even though both already knew what they would order, as they were regulars in the establishment.
As usual, the restaurant staff accommodated Lingström’s telephone booking; such customers always got preferential treatment, such was the clout of his rank and position.
He retained his briefcase but allowed the greatcoat and cap to be taken away with due reverence.
When Tørget arrived as his dinner companion, the headwaiter almost went into an apoplectic fit, fawning constantly over both of the senior officers and ensuring his staff were chased back and forth until the two were settled with everything their hearts could desire.
They engaged in small talk throughout the splendid dinner, dropping to hushed whispers when eager-to-please staff drew near to top up a glass or to seek any further needs.
The dessert course over, Tørget excused himself and, picking up his briefcase, disappeared off to the gentleman’s facility.
There was nothing unusual in that, given that briefcases were never left unattended.
After a few minutes, Tørget returned to the table and slid the briefcase back between the two seats.
The two men finished off their coffees and rose to go their separate ways.
Only an attentive eye would have considered the possibility that Lingström picked up the briefcase that had accompanied Tørget to the cloakroom.
The junior man paid for dinner and offered the waiter his normal five-krona tip, in which came his report confirming receipt of the envelope and its intended delivery later that evening.
The two intelligence officers shook hands and went their separate ways, the whole evening being solely about the exchange of information that had happened in the men’s lavatory of Den Gyldene Freden.
2130 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Riksplan, Stockholm, Sweden.
“Mister Fenton, thank you for coming.”
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
They shook hands and walked together.
“How could I refuse such an indistinct invitation?”
“My apologies, but my master required that I pass this on to you as soon as practicable.”
“So what is it that old Tørget wants me to have?”
Lingström laughed.
“I serve a different master tonight, Mister Fenton.”
Ernest Fenton, MI-5’s man in Sweden, frowned and his senses lit off.
The silence was only broken by the feet crunching on the chilled gravel path.
“This comes straight from Moscow… at the orders of General Nazarbayeva herself.”
“What?”
“What can I say, Mister Fenton. I’ve played on both sides of the road for some time now.”
“What? I mean… Christ’s sake, man. You mean to tell me you’re a double agent? Whose side are you really on?”
Whilst he took the proffered envelope, Fenton kept his gaze firmly on the Swedish officer and his concentration on his right hand and the Walther PPK concealed in his pocket.
“I’m a Swede first and last. I’m Tørget’s man through and through, so don’t worry about that. By the way, my colonel asks that you do not reveal this to anyone. I’m only telling you so that you have some idea of the worth and authenticity of this information.”
Fenton processed the request and nodded.
“The Russians think I’m their top man in the Baltic. I feed them enough old news to keep that place in their hearts.”
He tapped the envelope.
“That has come to me direct from the GRU headquarters.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“Certainly not. My orders were very specific.”
“Ok. Is there anything else?”
“Not tonight, Mister Fenton.”
The envelope disappeared into a large inside pocket and the two went their separate ways without shaking hands.
Nazarbayeva’s plan of using the Gehlen/De Walle information to cause discord between the Allies took a step forward.
2159 hrs, Tuesday, 4th March 1947, Headquarters, Swedish Military Intelligence, Stockholm.
Tørget accepted the developed photographs eagerly, the roll of shots he had taken in Den Gyldene Freden having been developed in record time, with two of each print now sat before him.
His mouth hung slightly open at the enormity of what was being suggested in the documents the Russians were so eager to pass on to the Allies, but he knew some of it was certainly at least founded on some fact from his own understanding of matters.
But the suggestion that German Intelligence was somehow responsible for murdering two senior Allied spymasters was simply to huge to form an opinion on without much more thought and investigation.
He read it all again, drinking in every morsel in the photographs.
‘Vögel… Diels… Mallman…de Walle… Gehlen…’
There were holes of course… gaps in the intelligence… the meaning and intentions of it all were clearly open to interpretation, anything from a coup inside the German government to something far more sinister.
But he kept returning to the murder of de Walle.
Why de Walle?
He couldn’t answer the question, despite his best efforts, and couldn’t supply the Swedish Prime Minister with an answer when he briefed him in person just before midnight.
Fenton and the envelope were on an aircraft bound for London as Monday became Tuesday, the importance of the information ensuring that the BOAC Mosquito flew straight to the capital rather than its normal base at RAF Leuchars.
The protestations of the two crewmen were swiftly overcome with gentle words that assured them of horrible foreign postings were they not to comply with their instructions.
By the end of 2nd March, suspicious intelligence eyes were silently and relentlessly focussed on their German allies and, despite efforts to be normal, a fog of distrust settled across the continent amongst those in the know.
Which was exactly what Nazarbayeva had hoped for when she suggested sending the file to their enemy.
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Stalin and, reluctantly Beria, had both agreed that there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.
They were wrong on both counts.
Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden.”
Phaedrus
Chapter 189 - THE SUSPICIONS
0151 hrs, Wednesday, 5th March 1947, Çanakkale Naval Fortified Command Building, Çanakkale, Turkey.
Koramiral Cevdet Tezeren had ensured that much of the channel was monitored by either his own men, or not being monitored at all.
According to the Soviet request, the submarine force had already started its journey through the Dardanelles, and very shortly he would telephone his stations for reports before a casual meeting with his NKVD contact to receive his payment.
He could but hope that this phase was not as fraught as the mission that had earlier brought them safely through the Bosphorus, when army launches from 11th Infantry Division of Bosphorus Area Fortified Command had somehow found themselves in the midst of traffic.
Two had been rundown by the Greek freighter Makeconia, leading a column of civilian vessels moving through the narrow waters, concealing darker purposed vessels that moved beneath them.
One of the launches managed to get off some flares, bathing the whole channel in light for far longer than Tezeren cared for.
But the matter had been resolved, despite the loss of seven Turkish soldiers’ lives.
The army commander locally had exceeded his orders by running a night time exercise in the shipping lane, and the survivors had been recovered by Makeconia and her consorts.
The schedule allowed for a few days in the Sea of Marmara, which permitted the army to fete the captains of the rescuing vessels.
He picked up the telephone and made the first of his calls.
The procession of ships had taken nearly three hours, which had passed too slowly for Tezeren’s taste.
The final report had arrived just before four o’clock and he had taken it even as he stood to make his way home.
He drove himself for once, for no other reason than ease of meeting with an NKVD officer on a road out of Kepez.
Teoman Schiller had waited a long time, not knowing precisely when his man would appear, but the naval staff car ground into sight and pulled over by the stand of olive trees in which the NKVD agent had had taken up residence since about two in the morning.
“Good morning, Koramiral. I trust all went as planned?”
“Not quite… but the vessels are out and safely into the sea beyond. I should ask for double. It has been a very stressful few days, I can tell you.”
“My commander understands this and he hopes that the Bosphorus situation is now resolved?”
“Yes. I’ve managed to make it go away.”
“Excellent. My commander has included something extra for your efforts on our behalf.”
“Very kind.”
“He also asked me to give you a special gift and asked me to assure you that it’s quite safe. I assume you know what he means by that, Koramiral?”
Tezeren looked at the bottle of superior Fig Raki and laughed.
“I understand fully. Thank you.”
The Admiral swept up the modest canvas bag that contained enough Turkish Liras to ensure a comfortable and happy life ahead, plus the bottle of Raki.
Back in his luxury villa on the Mediterranean coast near Kumburan, Tezeren decided that he would examine the bottle over early morning coffee.
There were no tell-tale marks of tampering but, despite that, he broke the seal and poured its contents into the ground around an apricot tree, musing that it might become a popular move if the apricots take on board any of the flavour…
‘… and none of the poison if the dogs put any in!’
He poured another coffee and enjoyed the early morning view of an awakening world.
Screwing up his eyes he could even imagine the faint smoky marks of the ‘Soviet’ surface group disappearing over the horizon.
Twisting his neck from side to side, Tezeren tried to ease the stiffness from his joints, and used his hand to manipulate a jaw that suddenly felt heavy and leaden.
He had talked to every command post along the Dardanelles that very night, so he was not in the least bit surprised.
His odalik… he liked to use the old term… brought forward another jug of hot sweet coffee but he declined, feeling that the pool was more for him.
As was usual, Tezeren simply removed his clothes and handed them to his attendant, squeezing her breasts as he did.
She was more than a maid, a symbol and throwback to an older age, when concubines were more common and humans could be owned by another.
Her face remained passive as he cupped and squeezed her ample flesh, his ownership and subjugation of her demonstrated as total.
Tezeren simply fell into the pool and felt the coolness of it immediately alleviate his aches and pains.
But only for a moment.
His stomach started to cramp and swimming became difficult.
“Sidika!”
The odalik was stood by the side of the pool.
“Sidika… help me… I can’t swim…”
He dropped beneath the water and tried to fight his way back up to the surface.
His feet touched the bottom and he found the strength to thrust upwards and gasped in the warm air.
“Help me, woman.”
He spluttered and drank in some pool water.
The combination of the look on her face and his present predicament combined into one horrible thought.
“You fucking bitch!”
He went under again as his arms and legs started to seize up and spasm.
Once more he came to the surface, trying hard to draw air into his lungs but finding the action more difficult than he could ever remember.
“Help me, Sidika…. Help… me!”
“Just shut up and die, you fat fuck.”
“Bitc…”
His efforts to stay afloat floundered as pain wracked his muscles and his stomach convulsed.
One last time he came up, to witness Sidika holding the coffee pot and, when she saw him break the surface, pouring its contents into the earth around the Apricot tree.
Her smile was the last thing Tezeren saw.
Sidika summoned the police and within an hour the villa was crawling with constabulary and high-ranking naval officers.
Her story clearly tallied with the evidence and, given Tezeren’s well-known proclivities, was swiftly accepted as the truth in the matter.
The admiral had taken coffee and gone swimming, only to suffer some sort of arrest whilst in the pool. His loyal odalik was in the kitchen but heard his cries for help and, on dashing to the poolside, plunged in to pull out the distressed man, only to fail in her attempts.
Given the size of the two, no one doubted that she had tried hard but had been destined to fail.
The villa was cordoned off and guards were placed to keep away prying eyes, but Sidika was permitted to stay, although the circumstances of her residence prevented her from signalling her NKVD controller on the success of her mission.
But in any case, Schiller already knew.
1212 hrs, Wednesday, 5th March 1947, Headquarters of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe, Brest Litovsk, USSR.
“Very careless of them… but very interesting.”
Nazarbayeva looked up from her lunch and silently quizzed Orlov.
“A snippet from our man at Baltic Naval Headquarters, Comrade General. They’ve lost a submarine.”
He handed the report over, careful not to smear any butter from his own meal on it.
Tatiana was less successful and ending up wiping a little residue away before she read the brief message.
Her foot was aching so she eased her boot as she read and felt immediate relief.
“Failure to report… Soviet submarine J-57… two days over
due… two days? I thought they went weeks without checking in.”
“Well, yes, Comrade General. Maybe a special training mission trying something new, so they needed closer contact?”
He had lost his commander’s attention already, but he knew the look and waited patiently for the torrent of orders that would probably come next.
“Have the records of messages regarding the sinkings of our submarines in the Baltic in the last twelve months brought in straight away please.”
Orlov disappeared to issue the orders and to organise something that would meet with his General’s approval.
Rufin arrived with his normal liquid stash, only to find that Nazarbayeva not only got in first, but her supply was considerably larger.
Slipping his bottle back into his trouser pocket, he poured two measures each before the reports arrived; there were quite a few, each one marking the loss of scores of Mother Russia’s sons.
But Tatiana Nazarbayeva wasn’t interested in the contents, simply the circulation list.
“No… no… no… no… ,” she looked at each list in turn and saw the omission.
“Not there.”
She put the entire glass of vodka down her throat and held it out for another refill, which Rufin supplied, despite Orlov’s raised eyebrow.
“There is a standard circulation list on these reports, each marking a submarine overdue. It’s a standard procedure obviously. They’re all the same on these reports… see?”
She dropped the files on the table in turn, each with the ‘overdue’ report foremost.
The circulation lists were identical.
“Now, J-57.”
“The same, Comr… ah, I see.”
Rufin read the difference aloud.
“Nine-two-two-six… what’s that?”
Nazarbayeva knocked back her fourth vodka and slid the empty glass towards the broached bottle, but this time Orlov’s eyebrow won over Rufin’s habit and the glasses stayed empty.
