by Colin Gee
“But of course, send her mine in return please…and now I must go. Work calls. Bon chance.”
The telephone went dead and Anne-Marie leant back into her chair.
In the office of Commandant Vincennes all hell broke loose as the information she had passed required an immediate response.
He double checked the coded communications against the emergency card and came up with the same results.
‘1225…Unable to communicate as unsecure.’
‘1830… in possession of vital information.’
‘Natalie… immediate danger.’
Within ten minutes, three Deux agents were mobilised from the Reims office with orders to pick up Madame Knocke and to follow her orders.
As she waited for them to arrive, Anne-Marie considered her options and decided that she would go straight to the top.
By 1052, the SDECE Citroen was speeding eastwards towards Frankfurt.
1922 hrs, Friday, 7th March 1947, office of General Strong, NATO Headquarters, Frankfurt, Germany.
The heavily pregnant woman was ushered in and Strong rose to his feet, inviting her to sit.
“Madame Knocke, my apologies for the delay. Can I get you anything?”
“No thank you, Général Strong.”
He resumed his seat and leant forward on his elbows.
“So, how may I be of assistance to the SDECE?”
“General Strong, until recently I was aide and bodyguard to Georges de Walle.”
“A great loss… a great man… he’ll be missed. Such a tragic end.”
“His end was not as it seemed.”
“Oh?”
“I have reason to believe he was killed in the hospital after surviving the bomb attempt on his life.”
“On his lif… hang on… the bomb was aimed at the SS officers, was it not?”
“That’s what we thought, but I suspect it wasn’t so.”
“And what makes you think that, Madame?”
She produced a leaf of papers and worked through them one by one, placing each in front of him in turn.
His reaction to some of the words she hadn’t understood was noticeable.
Anne-Marie finished working through the documents.
“One moment please.”
Strong rose and picked up a decanter, offering the woman a glass, which was declined.
He sat down with a fine measure of single malt and considered the evidence.
“This is to remain between us, Madame Knocke.”
“Of course, mon Général.”
“Much of what you have spoken of here is connected to the Soviet Union’s atomic weapons programme. VNIIEF and Uranprojekt for instance. That obviously makes any intelligence associated with it of extreme interest to me.”
He leant forward, inviting Anne-Marie closer.
“I do know there were some other concerns that Gehlen and de Walle had been keeping an eye on. Matters with the Germans and some game playing in higher circles.”
Quite deliberately, Strong stopped short of mentioning the Soviet information.
“I’ll give that some more thought of course, but for now I would like to keep this information. I’ll have a copy made for you immediately, but I’d like to run some of it past someone who might have a different perspective.”
“That’s fine, mon Général. I came to you first… given your position. I have yet to report this fully to my own superiors…”
The fact that the superior to whom she normally reported was named in the papers struck her in an instant, and brought a tear to her eye.
Strong understood, and also grasped the struggle inside the normally ice cold woman as she tried to keep her emotions in check.
“Thank you for bringing this to me, Madame Knocke. I understand that it must have been a difficult decision for you. I’ll have you shown to a room where you can rest until the copies have been completed. Can I get you anything at all?”
“Nothing, thank you, mon Général.”
He rose and showed her to the door.
She staggered slightly and he instinctively reached out to offer her support.
“When is the baby due, Madame?”
“We think about a month’s time, mon Général.”
“The very best of luck to you both, and I hope all goes well, Madame. I’m going to ask the doctor to come and have a look at you, just to be on the safe side”
It was a mark of how tired she felt that there was no resistance.
They shook hands and Anne-Marie was escorted to a waiting area whilst Strong organised the copying of the paperwork.
A number of staff introduced themselves to Madame Knocke as she sat waiting, more often than commenting on her state and wishing her well.
A bouquet had been hastily arranged and was hand delivered to Anne-Marie by Strong’s secretary.
The doctor arrived and gave her a check-up and, with the normal advisories about rest and proper eating, left without a fuss.
The original paperwork arrived in the hands of one of Strong’s staff, complete with a letter from the head of NATO intelligence to the head of the French SDECE, expressing thanks for the woman agent’s actions and deportment.
2032 hrs, Friday, 7th March 1947, Imperial College, London, England.
“Penney.”
The professor always worked late, so Strong had expected him to answer his call.
“Good evening, Bill, Kenneth here, Sorry to bother you so late.”
“Not at all, old chap. How are you keeping? Brita well?”
“In the pink, so she says, Bill. Eleanor still on the scene?”
Penney’s first wife, Adele, had died in 1944, but his friends were delighted when he started to take a shine to a new woman.
“Yes, indeed, Kenneth… not that I have much time for those sort of shenanigans.”
“Yes, well, Bill… I’m going to steal a little more of your time soon enough. I’ll be sending a courier to you with some documents that you need to take a look at. Don’t want to cause too much of a stir at the moment, and there are the normal security implications as ever, plus some interesting new ones.”
“Mum’s the word then, Kenneth.”
“Quite, Bill. Especially as I think your time at Tube Alloys might help you in understanding them.”
The conversation took a different turn when the code name of the British and Canadian atomic research project was mentioned.
“Right, Kenneth. I’m with you.”
“Good, Bill. I’ll have one of our chaps stay with you for a while. Hope you understand.”
“As you wish, Kenneth. I’ve an appointment at Balliol tomorrow, but I’m spending the weekend at home. I’ll be back at East Hendred by teatime, I should warrant. Have your chap come round. I’ll find him a bed for the night, maybe a spot of breakfast, Suit you?”
“Perfect. I’ll have the stuff flown to Benson and my man will pick them up from there… be with you, say… five?”
“Five should be perfect. If I’m not home, William’ll let him in and tend to his needs.”
“Splendid. Now, I need to get things organised. Have a good evening, Bill.”
“You too, old friend.”
Sir Kenneth immediately sought another line.
“Ah Major. I have a package for immediate pick-up. Destination Benson. I need one of your men to pick up and deliver. Sensitive stuff… Yes, thank you, Major.”
He inserted the paperwork that Anne-Marie Knocke had given him, addressed it to the country’s leading mathematical physicist, and handed it to the courier who presented himself shortly afterwards.
‘Interesting.’
Major von der Hartenstein-Gräbler of the Abwehr, liaison officer on Strong’s staff, went on his way, already forming a report in his mind.
Being at a loose end he had assisted the new British 2nd Lieutenant with overseeing the copying, which had granted him enough opportunity to read some vital pieces concerning his own Government and Allied suspicions.
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He also recognised Anne-Marie from her file photograph.
His previous reports on liaisons between Strong and the two intelligence officers, Gehlen and de Walle, had already caused some consternation, and he didn’t doubt that he was at least partially responsible for their untimely deaths.
But he was Diels’ man, so it didn’t particularly matter, even though Gehlen had mentored him and recommended him for the position in Strong’s department.
Now the French bitch was in the mix too, and he expected that his report might promote a similar reaction.
Shame, as the woman was a beauty, had tits to die for, and was clearly good in bed.
His report arrived in Magdeburg the following day.
He had grossly underestimated the effect it would have.
The most shocking fact about war is that its victims and its instruments are individual human beings, and that these individual beings are condemned, by the monstrous conventions of politics, to murder or be murdered in quarrels not their own.
Aldous Huxley
CHAPTER 190 - THE UNCONCEIVABLE
Fig # 227 - Demarcation lines in Europe as of 15th March 1947
1653 hrs, Saturday, 8th March 1947, Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse, temporary government building #1, Magdeburg, Germany.
Speer sat impassively, occasionally looking at his closest advisors, who sat similarly silent, still absorbing the latest news.
Diels rustled the paper of his notes deliberately, trying to provoke some sort of response from those present… unsuccessfully.
He felt it necessary to fill the void.
“At this time, the matter is being kept to Strong himself… and obviously the woman who brought him the information. Herr Kanzler, I feel I must advise that we take immediate action here. That action must be total. Nip this in the bud now and we guarantee the safety of our plans. There are too many dangers here”
Guderian thumped the Marshal’s baton into his gloved hand.
“Dangers! Of course there are dangers… we knew that when we embarked on our plans. But what you imply goes well beyond that… that… level that is acceptable.”
He turned to Speer.
“Surely we cannot take this risk, Herr Kanzler?”
Speer shrugged in slow motion, considering his response.
“I’m not sure that we can afford not to, Feldmarschal.”
He looked at Pflug-Hartnung for support and found it in an acquiescent nod.
Adolf Schärf considered his words very carefully.
“I think the risks are great, no matter what happens from this point… but surely we’ve come too far to risk our enterprise on inactivity?”
Guderian gave vent to a scornful sound.
“The trap is to feel that we have to do something. The difficult decision is to do nothing. Action is always easier to decide upon.”
Karl Koller, head of the DRL, made a quiet but firm contribution.
“I agree, Herr Feldmarschal.”
The two nodded at each other, already knowing which way the dice would be cast.
“And you, Wilhelm. What do you think?”
Wilhelm Hoegner, Prime Minister of Bavaria, had already decided where his support lay.
“I say we do it. Too much has been invested already for our plans to be destroyed by inactivity, Herr Kanzler.”
The scarcely veiled barb drew silent scowls from both military men.
Speer decided to defuse that particular tension immediately.
“The Feldmarschal is correct in what he says. The difficult decision is to do nothing, and I’d have no problem making that decision…”
…those assembled held their collective breath…
“… were it the right decision, which I believe it isn’t.”
He focussed on Diels.
“This can be done by way of accidents or other events… nothing to tie us to it in any way… nothing even remotely… given the way we now seem to be under suspicion for other recent matters?”
“I’ll put my best man on it and it will be done without any link to us. No mistakes, Herr Kanzler. We’ll eradicate these risks immediately.”
Speer made great play of considering the choices, even though he had already made his.
“So be it, Kameraden. We’ll move quickly and remove the threats. It will be done so that we cannot be blamed or even associated in any way with events. It’s limited but necessary action. When can it be done?”
Diels looked at Pflug-Hartnung, prompting his man to answer.
“The order will be passed to our man. It’ll be up to him to get this done as quickly as possible, Herr Kanzler. My orders will state that operational secrecy is paramount. I expect that will cause some delay, but not too much. He’s an expert at what he does and he won’t let us down. It will be done as you direct, Herr Kanzler.”
Speer nodded.
“Good. That’s all, Kameraden. I wish you all good day. Thank you. Diels, a moment of your time, please.”
The military men saluted and the civilians nodded before shuffling out.
The two men were alone.
Speer hammered his hand on the desk.
“You better get this right this time, Rudolf. No fuck ups, no mistakes… we can’t afford to show our hand too early or the whole fucking thing may come tumbling down around our heads.”
“You can rest assured, Herr…”
“That’s what you said last time… and now we’ve paperwork flying around that links us to the deaths of Gehlen and that French asshole! You fuck this up, Rudolf, and I’ll make sure you have an interesting last few days of your life. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Herr Kanzler.”
“Now go and get it done… just let me know the moment success is reported.”
“Yes, Herr Kanzler.”
Once they had left the room, Speer turned back to reading the latest reports regarding strains in Berlin, where the Soviet-held area lay surrounded by Allied zones, and where tensions were clearly mounting.
Sat in her quarters with a bottle of Slivovitz for company, Nazarbayeva pondered the decision to send the information to the Allies, and wondered how it had been received.
Slipping out of her clothes, she took a healthy swig of the fiery fruit brandy and collapsed on the bed.
Refilling her glass, she laughed to herself, half expecting the information to be seen as nothing but an attempt to drive a wedge between the new Allies, but something told her that existing natural suspicion would simply be fed by the latest information.
In any case, it was all quite true and had been presented without embellishment or addition.
The door opened and General of Artillery Poliakov slipped in to the room.
The phone rang and Nazarbayeva took a scheduled report from her office as Poliakov slid himself inside her and started to grunt with pleasure.
Halfway through, she finished on the phone and started to properly enjoy herself, rising rhythmically up to meet his thrusts, the extreme pain as he brutally squeezed her breasts and dug in his nails almost cleansing her of the mental agony and anger she had felt since her sexual encounter in the Moscow dacha.
Her husband was lost to her so she sought other solaces, and hated herself each time, her needs and wants only temporarily satisfied by the sexual encounters with the passionless Poliakov, and each time her growing guilt burgeoned
When she was alone again, she went through the same old ritual of hating herself, crying, despair, and pledging herself again to Yuri, her husband.
Her other self mocked her, for her husband had no need for a wife who has no respect for him or herself, for a woman who would sleep with a common soldier in a dacha in Moscow.
At the end, as ever, Tatiana Nazarbayeva sought solace and answers in a bottle.
As ever, she fell asleep before either came.
1359 hrs, Sunday, 9th March 1947, Opera Square, Frankfurt, Germany.
“Zwei… mit frites und mayo. Danke.”
There were a number of street vendors plying their trade but ‘Ludwig’s’ had the reputation as having the very best bratwurst in Frankfurt, and his stall was always busy.
He busied himself selecting the bratwurst and repositioning them on the small grill.
What he was actually doing was sending a message to the British officer who stood waiting patiently for his order; a bratwurst in this place or that meant different things.
He placed the last bratwurst in the position signifying ‘all clear’ and then hastily put the order together as the queue started to multiply.
“Danke.”
“Bitte.”
The officer handed over a five-dollar bill and received his change before hurrying away, already stuffing fries and sausage into his mouth.
‘Ludwig’ served through into the afternoon and as usual was out of stock before four o’clock arrived.
He pushed his barrow past the ravaged old opera house and along Hochstrasse, before turning right at Börsenstrasse and pulling the double doors of his modest premises closed behind him.
He had made the usual checks and, satisfied that he had not been followed, he lifted the cash tin and climbed the stairs to the small flat.
He came back down after stowing the cash tin and went through his cleaning routine, leaving the trolley ready for tomorrow’s labours, all save a fresh supply of foodstuffs.
Back upstairs he made himself coffee and removed the note that had accompanied the five-dollar bill.
He didn’t look at it; it wasn’t his business. He simply inserted it into the spine of a hymnbook.
‘Ludwig’ savoured the coffee and then took a gentle stroll to his normal place of worship.
Inside St. Katharinenkirche, he took in the evening’s service with his normal piety, singing and praying with vigour.
Pausing to chat with the pastor, simply to suggest a hymn choice for the following week’s service, ‘Ludwig’ returned to his spartan lodgings, his work complete.
When the congregation had departed, the pastor closed up and went straight to the pew that had been occupied by his contact and retrieved the hymnal that had been left in plain sight.
