by Colin Gee
She leant forward and grabbed a pencil and paper.
“I haven’t got the faintest idea to be honest.”
Drawing him towards the paper, the pencil danced and words formed under it as she talked innocently.
‘There was a special project I was part of. It was called Raduga.’
“Perhaps it’s a new agency? A casualty bureau of some sort?”
‘I’m told that the project was cancelled. It involved the deployment and use…’
“I have seen such number groups before… special routings.”
‘… of biological, chemical, nerve agents, and atomic weapons on the Allies. I know it wasn’t cancelled.’
“Of course, this could simply be a typist’s error, Comrades.”
‘This is not the number group for Raduga…’
“Unlikely it’s of any significance now I think of it. These reports can go back, thank you.”
‘… but they are not used lightly. This sub’s loss is significant and I need to know why.”
“Straight away, Comrade General.”
Orlov opened the door as the scribbled notes were screwed up and a match made ready.
“Leytenant Rikardova, return these files to records immediately.”
The woman and files virtually flew out of the door, which was quickly shut to prevent the smell of burning paper reaching the noses of those in the main office.
“I need to fly to Moscow tomorrow. I’ll ask Comrade Admiral Kuznetsov whilst I’m there. For now, see what you can find out through Baltic command, Comrade Mayor.”
Rufin saluted and left.
Orlov heard the chink of glass on glass and realised that his boss was fuelling her increasing habit once again.
Nazarbayeva had noticed his attempts to prevent her drinking.
“Don’t be an old woman, Bogdan Vasilyevich.”
“I would be remiss in my duty if I do nothing, Comrade Leytenant General.”
She laughed.
“Your duty is discharged. Thank you… now join me for another before I go off duty… contact General Poliakov and regretfully inform him that our chess game is cancelled this evening… and please have the offices swept again this afternoon.”
As she lay fully clothed on her bed snoring her way through a few hours’ sleep, the technical section carried out another close inspection of her offices.
At six p.m. she returned to discover that there were two items of note that had been placed in the office since the last inspection, some forty-eight hours previously.
They had been left in position and were clearly marked with signs.
This was standard practice, in case the tables could be turned on the listeners.
One was a standard NKVD type listening device.
The other, more worryingly, wasn’t.
2054 hrs, Thursday, 6th March 1947, the Kremlin Grand Park, Moscow, USSR.
“Comrade Leytenant General! What a surprise! I thought you had returned to the front.”
“Comrade Polkovnik General. My heartiest congratulations on your well-deserved promotion.”
The two senior officers embraced and Nazarbayeva invited the deputy head of the NKVD to sit with her.
His security detail eyed the woman and the major accompanying her with a mixture of disdain and wariness, until Kaganovich gestured them to one side, clearly relaxed and unworried.
They tensed for a moment as the woman fished in the pocket of her thick overcoat, only relaxing when the two officers took turns in consuming some of the contents of the flask that had materialised in her hand.
The two engaged in small talk, or so it seemed.
“We’re safe to talk here, Tatiana. What worries you so much that you drag me out in the cold evening, eh?”
“The submarine we seem to have lost.”
“What submarine?”
“J-57 is overdue in the Baltic… or should I say ‘Sovetskaya Vynoslivost' has not contacted base.”
“Careful, Tatiana Sergievna.”
“Why do I need to be careful, Ilya Borisevich. I serve the Motherland. What’s happening here?”
“A submarine has failed to report i…”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Her outburst drew every eye and Kaganovich laughed and slapped her on the shoulder, which immediately relaxed the watchers.
“So what do you mean?”
“Nine-two-two-six.”
Kaganovich laughed again and pulled her to him as if hugging an amusing close friend.
His laugh trailed away and he whispered in her ear before releasing and sitting back.
“Not your business, Tatiana. Drop it.”
The flask appeared again and Kaganovich took a generous swig before passing it back.
“That keeps the chills at bay.”
“Indeed, Ilya Borisevich. But I need… I want an answer. There’s something going on that I’m being excluded from. Something clearly important enough to warrant a four number code. The last such was issued to Raduga. Is this the code group for the new Raduga?”
His face said all, even in the low and subtle lighting in the park.
“It’s all still running, isn’t it? Every fucking bit of it... not just research… but everything… plus more besides I expect?”
He stayed silent.
“Raduga is still running, every part of it, despite the peace… you told me so and I now know it… you know this… you also know it wasn’t just the atomic advances… for fuck’s sake, Comrade… are they fucking ma…”
She stopped in mid-sentence as her mind threw something into the mix.
“The submarine… I remember part of Raduga involved using biological weapons against the rear line and civilians in Germany… submarine delivered diseases to be introduced into water supplies. That’s J-57, isn’t it? J-57 was carrying bio… they’re taking us to war again, aren’t they? Raduga was a response option, not an attack.”
Kaganovich noticed the unease amongst his guards and waved them into relaxation with casual gestures.
“I cannot say, for I too am excluded from many things, Tatiana. As I told you, I do know that Raduga’s progress continues, but its concept has changed… whether it is for war or for the future protection of the Motherland is unclear to me.”
“What could be clearer than one of our submarines transporting biological material… or worse… to Allied territories?”
“We don’t know that, Tatiana Sergievna. I’m trying to find out.”
“And what if the Allies know?”
“How could they know? If the submarine’s sunk, then it lies at the bottom of the Baltic, together with whatever it carried.”
“And were you going to tell me any of this, eh?”
“In honesty, no. I wouldn’t have involved you, Comrade.”
“Well now I’m involved. I can only see one way forward.”
“Tread lightly, Tatiana Sergievna.”
“I will ask.”
“That may not be wise, Comrade.”
“It’s very wise, Comrade, regardless of how I am answered, I will know the truth with the question alone.”
“You may well place yourself on dangerous ground.”
“We all serve the Motherland, Comrade.”
“That we do, but in different ways and guided by different ideals.”
Nazarbayeva frowned sufficiently for it to be noticed by those watching.
“Enough for now, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Kaganovich clearly signalled an end to the familiarity and stood, stamping his feet as a signal to his men that he was preparing to move off.
“I advise caution. Comrade Nazarbayeva. Above all, be careful.”
They hugged and went their separate ways.
Rufin closed up on Nazarbayeva’s shoulder and asked the burning question.
“Yes is the short answer, Comrade. There’s something going on and I mean to get to the bottom of it tomorrow morning.”
&nbs
p; Blowing into his cold hands, he floated the obvious riposte.
“And how will you do that, Comrade General?”
“I’ll ask Stalin himself.”
2143 hrs, Thursday, 6th March 1947, Colonel General Kaganovich’s office, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
The Marshal collapsed heavily into the third chair by the roaring fire.
“Na Zdorovie!”
The three men raised their glasses and drank.
“So, why am I summoned here at this stupid hour, Comrade?”
“I met with Nazarbayeva as planned. She has discovered about nine-two-two-six from a routing on the naval communications.”
“She was bound to find out sooner or later… I wish it had been later of course.”
The other man in the room held out his glass for a refill before speaking.
“What’s she planning to do, Comrade Kaganovich?”
“In front of me, she worked out that Raduga’s probably running as an offensive mission prior to renewed conflict, and that it’s likely the missing submarine was undertaking one of the planned missions to deliver certain… err… items to the German mainland.”
“And?”
Khrushchev was not renowned for his patience.
“She intends to ask the General Secretary tomorrow.”
Both the other men protested immediately and Kaganovich found himself holding out his hands as if to protect himself from their words.
“Comrades, please. I could do nothing. We know her quality and steel… it is to be expected that we cannot control it, simply try to channel it. My question is simple. Are we ready?”
He and Khrushchev looked directly at the Marshal.
“No… we’re not ready.”
“Fuck… so if it blows up tomorrow we’ll have wasted all our good work… all will have been for nothing.”
“True, Comrade Khrushchev, but we’ll live to fight another day. However, there’s another possibility here.”
They both leaned forward, better to catch the Marshal’s words.
“There may be opportunity here for us… the General Secretary may do all we need done for us. It may simply require a light push for our new keystone to be put in place. It all depends on what’s said when she asks.”
Khrushchev nodded vigorously.
“Yes, yes… I can see that… but if we’re not ready then…”
“I didn’t say we couldn’t be ready soon, Comrade. Not tomorrow for certain, but all could be in place by Sunday, although there will be holes in the scenarios we have discussed.”
Kaganovich chimed in.
“Yes, but we’d have to act if she inadvertently started something.”
“Yes, we would, so… I think we really do need to make sure she doesn’t.”
Again, the Marshal became the focus of attention.
“I have an idea.”
They listened as the Marshal outlined his plan to prevent Nazarbayeva acting precipitously, and agreed wholeheartedly with the proposal.
They left separately.
Khrushchev first, the Marshal second, and finally Kaganovich, who locked up his office and went to his apartment greatly troubled by the events that had been and those that might well still come to pass.
0403 hrs, Friday, 7th March 1947, senior officer’s guest bedroom, the Kremlin Armoury, Moscow, USSR.
The knocking disturbed Nazarbayeva eventually and she grabbed enough clothing to protect her modesty before allowing entry.
A Kremlin Guard Captain reluctantly delivered his report.
“Comrade Leytenant General. I’ve been ordered to wake you immediately. My apologies but there’s a report from your headquarters. There’s been a severe fire and several of your staff have been injured. We’ve woken your officer, Mayor Rufin, and he’ll be trying to get more information.”
She processed the facts slowly, inadvertently giving the Guard an eyeful of an ample breast before acknowledging and ordering him to arrange for a car and contact the transport office for the first flight home.
In the car on the way to Vnukovo, Rufin gave her the additional information he had gleaned.
An accidental fire had started in the records office. Two members of her staff had been inside at the time and they were both confirmed as dead. Seven others had been badly burned trying to prevent further destruction to the records, even though most were backed up by other copies at a secondary location.
Orlov had taken charge but GRU [West] was badly hurt by the incident.
Rufin and she were on the aircraft back to Brest Litovsk before her mind started to ponder other possibilities.
Such as… non-accidental fires…
Such as… distractions that took her away from Moscow…
Such as… now not being able to confront Stalin…
Such as… what was Kaganovich’s part in matters?…
Such as… was she being played for a fool?…
“I wonder why they woke you before me?”
“Comrade General?”
“The Guards woke you before me, so I was told. They didn’t wake me until you ordered it.”
“I didn’t order you woken up, Comrade General. The officer that woke me said you were being informed at the same time.”
“Hmm.”
“And it wasn’t a Guards officer that woke me. He was regular army… a signals podpolkovnik.”
“Obviously a misunderstanding, Comrade Mayor.”
Rufin nodded and went back to trying to catch up on his lost sleep, despite the buffeting that the aircraft was taking.
Nazarbayeva simply closed her eyes, knowing that sleep would not come as her mind worked over all the events of the last twenty-four hours.
1005 hrs, Friday, 7th March 1947, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.
Anne-Marie Knocke was now unmistakably with child, her pronounced bump so large as to draw comments from visiting Legionnaires and Deux agents as to the likelihood of twins, or even more.
She had sought permission to return to Nogent L’Abbesse to have her child, something that her husband had suggested in the first place.
If he could, Knocke intended to be there, but for now he remained with the division in Poland.
A number of boxes of De Walle’s personal papers had been delivered to La Vigie, as the Belgian had no family and had declared Anne-Marie Knocke, née de Valois, his sole heir.
It had taken her some time to pluck up the enthusiasm to start sorting through the boxes, but she had eventually set to the task.
This was her third morning, and probably her last, as the mountain had gradually been reduced, most of the items being set aside for subsequent disposal in a brazier that the gardener had already prepared.
There was little of note worth keeping.
She decided to hang on to De Walle’s personal assessment of the members of the Colloque for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the astute assessment of the man she now called husband.
Some communications regarding Molyneux made her laugh, the more so as she could imagine her old friend and mentor saying them aloud and with undisguised passion.
A transcript jotted down from memory detailing a relaxed conversation with the Soviet paratrooper, General Ivan Alekseevich Makarenko, reminded her of a brave man who had decided to do something about a corrupt system.
An unpaid bill for Bossong’s Wine Shop in Selestat was set aside to be paid.
She would ensure his bill was honoured.
De Walle had left a considerable sum to her and the forthcoming child, as well as bequeathing a wonderful lakeside property in Pierre-Percée.
Jerome knocked and entered in one easy movement, a silver tray brimming with the makings of morning coffee and some sweet bites that his employer, Madame Fleriot, had insisted Anne-Marie ate to keep her strength up.
The elderly butler closed the door behind him without saying a word and Madame Knocke returned to her meanderings.
As she
leant forward to pick up the delicate cup, her eyes caught and processed two words that intrigued her.
‘Herr Furt.’
It was Georges’ special name for the German spymaster, Gehlen, who had been born in Erfurt. The play on words had always amused the affable Belgian.
She pulled the contents out of the envelope and raised the cup to her lips.
It never made contact as words spilled out of the pieces of paper and into her brain, words that would have made no sense some months beforehand but now drew her attention like a vulture to a ripened corpse.
“Uspenka… Steyn… General Strong… Uranprojekt?”
That one she hadn’t heard about, nor the words ‘Geheime Auergesellschaft, or Konitz.’
She continued reading… Osoaviakhim… VNIIEF… Godmanchester… and whilst not understanding the words, she understood enough to know that Gehlen and De Walle had discovered something important and were working…
“Merde!”
The thought spurred her to swear openly.
“They’re both dead… both dead… Gehlen assassinat… Merde! Both assassinated! The bomb was meant for Georges. He survived and then… the nurse no one found!”
She reached for the telephone and sought a connection, her heart and mind racing each other and making her head feel light.
A tinny voice answered.
“Commandant Vincennes.”
“Bonjour, Henri, it’s Anne-Marie.”
“Bonjour! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I was just wondering if you could send me a file I was working on, I forgot to finish it. I’m staying with my Aunt… you recall where I hope?”
He sat up straight in an instant, the words sending a small chill into his heart.
“Mais oui.”
Vincennes fished for the emergency card relating to Anne-Marie de Valois.
“The file number’s 1225. Easy enough to find. If you could send it as soon as possible, 1830 at the latest, that would be lovely. Natalie sends her regards, by the way. Thank you, Henri.”
