by Colin Gee
“One of my submarines has been reported missing. This is common knowledge amongst this circle. It seems that it must have had a navigational problem and strayed into Allied waters, as its orders clearly prohibited coming within fifty nautical miles of the line that has been negotiated. My searches have been in its assigned patrol area, which was some considerable distance away from the Allied maritime exclusion line.”
Stalin moved in quickly.
“This we’ll discuss at greater length shortly, Comrade Admiral. Now, Comrade Nazarbayeva, what else?”
“If I may finish the submarine issue, Comrade General Secretary, there’s some suggestion that the submarine was in Allied waters for aggressive purposes, and was carrying some new weapons.”
“Thank you, Comrade. We’ll deal with the naval matters later. Now, move on please.”
Stalin clearly shut her down on the submarine matter, so she proceeded with the brief on the land situation.
“Tensions are extremely high because of this enhanced military level, particularly around Vienna and our military lines opposite the Germans and Poles. Air forces on both sides are being aggressive, up to the levels of the no-fly areas and, in some cases, broaching it in what we can only assume is deliberate provocations. I must state that this is true of pilots from both sides, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin again waved a commanding hand, this time directed at Nazarbayeva.
“Comrade Repin?”
Deputy Commander in Chief of the Red Air Force Colonel General Aleksandr Repin, present because his senior had taken ill the day before, shifted under the gaze.
“Comrade General Secretary. Only yesterday I issued further firm instructions on crossing the agreed lines. The reports I have seen state mainly navigational error and nothing more. However, fighter pilots will be fighter pilots.”
It was not the wisest answer, which most who heard it understood as he delivered it.
“Idiot! Fighter pilots who do not obey my fucking orders will be dead fighter pilots, Comrade General. There’ll be no more toleration of these errors. Make examples. No distinction. We cannot afford to go back to war! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Good, no repeats.”
Repin now safely settled in at the top of Stalin’s shit list, made himself as small as possible.
“Comrade Nazarbayeva… continue.”
“As yet there’ve been no clashes, but the situation is critical… apologies, Comrade General Secretary… in my opinion, the situation is critical. Our own forces have gone on the highest alert possible under your own instructions. We now have two huge armies poised for action and I truly believe that it’ll only take the smallest of matters to start the war all over again.”
Stalin suddenly realised that the woman had finished.
“Thank you, Comrade Nazarbayeva. So Comrades, how to defuse these new tensions? We’re not ready for any restart in hostilities, but if it does all blow up again we’ll make sure they regret starting it.”
“Withdraw further back to enlarge the zone between forces?”
Voznesensky vied for top place on Stalin’s list.
“Concede yet more ground, Comrade? Yet more ground?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary. We’re not yet at the limits of the withdrawal that we’ve agreed upon. We simply move back now and open the gap, removing the tensions. Surely that will also allay any fears they have about the submarine’s intent?”
“Fantastic. My own close comrades are now suggesting we give ground to the enemy ahead of schedule… sending what fucking message, eh?”
“Surely the defusing of tensions serves the Rodina, Comrade General Secretary?”
Stalin opened his mouth but decided to exercise a little more thought.
“Yes, you are right. Nikolai Alekseevich. It would, but we have delayed our withdrawals as much as possible for a good reason, a reason that also serves Mother Russia. We have bought time to repair our bridges and roads, and to ensure that the Red Army is provided with the materials for our safe defence.”
He stood and walked around the table to stand behind the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers who also wore the hat of the Minister in charge of Soviet Economic Rejuvenation.
Voznesensky also jumped out of his skin as Stalin placed a hand on his shoulder, one that the man of steel intended to impart friendship, whereas the recipient viewed it as a harbinger of death, an instrument of selection that marked him for the executioner.
“Your idea is reasonable, Comrade…”
Stalin started walking again, each head swivelling in turn as he passed behind them.
“But these are not reasonable times we live in. We must find a more direct way to defuse this… a quicker way… one that guarantees success.”
There was a silence that had a special quality to it, as often the silences around the communist’s leader table chilled and mentally beat those present.
Malenkov dipped his toe in the cold waters.
“Comrade General Secretary… perhaps we could use Camp Vár?”
Stalin turned slowly, as if the idea had not occurred to him, rather than been part of the dance previously orchestrated.
“Yes… I see your idea.”
Khrushchev, who was supposed to have presented the idea but had been unseated by Malenkov’s swifter than expected recovery, quickly took up the baton.
“Excellent idea, Comrade Malenkov, and if I might suggest, Comrade General Secretary, we need to move quickly on this matter, so, as we have the very best tools to hand, perhaps we can set them to work straight away?”
“Comrade Khrushchev, please continue.”
Stalin sat in his chair and was puffing on a cigarette in no time.
“To mark the seriousness of the situation, we should send only a high-level delegation to specifically conduct negotiations… a delegation so impressive that the Allies cannot fail to understand the sincerity of our words.”
Stalin nodded and went further.
“Which would also encourage them to send negotiators of equal worth… I’m assuming you mean military, Comrade Khrushchev?”
Nikita Khrushchev giggled like an old woman and held out a hand, gesturing at some still stood at the end of the table.
“But of course, Comrade General Secretary.”
Nazarbayeva, easing her foot in her boot as the pain of standing played havoc with her old wound, suddenly realised that the talking had stopped and she was under scrutiny.
“Who better than they, Comrade General Secretary?”
Zhukov and Kaganovich had been forewarned by Khrushchev, but feigned surprise.
Nazarbayeva had no need for such devices.
“Excellent idea, Nikita Sergeyevich. Anyone else?”
Some words can carry hidden meanings, and Stalin’s most certainly said ‘I like it and that’s that’.
There were no more ideas.
“We’ll immediately appeal to the Allies to send a high-ranking military delegation to Sweden to discuss the latest tensions and developments. Make sure they know that Marshal Zhukov will be leading that mission. That should ensure an appropriate level opposite you, Comrade Marshal.”
“But Comrade General Secretary, I need to speak with you on an urgent matter.”
A number of hearts stood still for a second, for a number of different reasons.
“Speak now, Comrade Nazarbayeva, there is little time.”
“I cannot, Comrade General Secretary. I must speak with you privately.”
Stalin either misconstrued or simply dismissed the possibility out of hand.
“Then private matters must wait, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Again Nazarbayeva’s effort to tackle Stalin face to face had failed, again by the efforts of the conspirators.
He turned to Beria.
“You’ll take care of the invitation?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. Immediately this meeting conclude
s.
“Excellent. I want you sat opposite your counterparts by Friday afternoon at the latest. Deal with this matter and reduce tensions along all fronts… land, sea, and air. Admiral?”
Isakov was suddenly focussed.
“You’ll brief these officers on the submarine tomorrow morning, and supply everything they require.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”
It was not until later that Isakov spoke with Stalin and was told that, in this instance, everything was not necessarily everything.
“Well, I’ve read it twice and I still don’t believe it, Walter.”
“It’s hot stuff, that’s for sure, General.”
“Zhukov… haven’t seen that man since Berlin… liked him… felt he was straight. You?”
“Same as, General.”
They lapsed into the silence of individual thought.
Outside there was a squeal of brakes, a metallic graunch, and then a blizzard of expletives.
Bedell-Smith rose up and went to the window.
“Well that’s just swell. George is here and his driver just clipped McCreery’s staff car.”
Eisenhower choked on his cigarette, the laugh turning quickly to lung wrenching spasm.
“Sorry, Walter. Would that be the brand new Humber that he had sent down here last week?”
Before Bedell-Smith could answer there was another graunch as Patton’s driver drove his own vehicles away and parked up.
More expletives followed, shouted in with an Aussie twang, as McCreery’s driver took to cursing the ‘fucking Yank bastard’s’ parentage.
A military policeman arrived to sort out the problem, and the Aussies protestations were cut short by authoritative words from the German officer.
Bedell-Smith’s attention returned to the matter in hand.
“So, I’m assuming we’re going to respond in kind, Sir?”
“You betcha, Walter. Can’t afford not to… President Truman’s wishes aside… I intend to let them know we’ll be there. If it helps ease the storm that’s gathering, how could we do otherwise? Also, it’ll give us the chance to ask some serious questions. I’ll get something organised on that score. Anyway. I’ll need to speak to the President but I don’t see any objections.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Absolutely, Walter.”
“What th… hey, hang on, Sir!”
“Hang on nothing, Walter. You’re the man for this. We’ll get you some sidekicks with clout, but it’ll be your ball to run with. You know all the questions… heck, you even know some of the answers already. Has to be you.”
Bedell-Smith couldn’t find a reasonable argument against, so capitulated.
“So who are you going to send with me? George?”
Eisenhower laughed without coughing this time.
“Like I’d send George. Jeez, can you imagine? No, I’ve been given a God sent opportunity to put him somewhere out of harm’s way for a while. Our German cousins have asked for him to observe some of their exercises over this weekend, and then to have him attached to their headquarters for a month as an advisor.”
Bedell-Smith was relieved.
They had been looking for something to do with George Patton since he had returned to Frankfurt six weeks previously.
Some in high position had suggested ‘General - Paperclips’ or ‘Officer commanding Headquarters car parking’, but Ike had come down hard on them, mainly men who hadn’t served much in the ETO, reminding them of Patton’s previous good service.
“No, I think we’ll need a Frenchman, a German, and someone else. Need some balance to proceedings.”
“Von Vietinghoff?”
“He’s just asked for leave. Family bereavement. Couldn’t say no, not really. Would’ve been the perfect man.”
“Anyway, Sir, shall I send the message?”
“Let me speak to the President first.”
Truman was wholly enthusiastic and encouraged Eisenhower himself to lead the delegation, something Ike successfully resisted.
Within hours, the Soviets received their reply, as did the Swedes, who would be responsible for hosting both new military delegations at Camp Vár.
1109 hrs, Thursday, 13th March, 1947, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.
Madame Besoinine answered the urgent knocking on the door, Jerome having been confined to his bed with a nasty chest infection.
A second later she was dead, a knife driven up through her throat and into the brain beyond.
Without words, two men grabbed the still-erect body and lowered it gently to the ground as two others moved quietly into the house beyond.
They split into two teams and swung into their plan, moving through the ground floor with silenced pistols at the ready.
Two pairs of young eyes observed them in silence and moved away quickly, knowing that sooner or later the bad men would come upstairs.
They found refuge in the bedroom of Madame Fleriot, who listened to their report with growing anxiety, although the situation brought back instincts learned in a different time, when Armande Valerie Capucine Fleriot had existed within a murky and dangerous world.
She secreted the girls in her wardrobe and moved across to take a seat at the dressing table, from where she extracted a tool of her former trade.
Anne-Marie was walking around the garden, the exercise helping ease the back pain that plagued her every waking moment.
Her bump had become so much more pronounced in a short period of time, so much so that none of the clothing she had purchased for the later stages of the third trimester were simply not up to the job.
Waddling for all she was worth, Anne-Marie made her way towards the groundsman’s lodge and the toilet that she desperately needed.
The stairs creaked, marking the progress of the hunters.
Armande settled herself in relaxed fashion, although the weight in her hand was more than she remembered.
Her bedroom door flew open as a boot pushed it.
The sound of the door striking her mother’s ornate rococo chair was quickly followed by two heavy shots.
Armande Fleriot put both on target, and the would-be assassin flew back into the hall with as much grace and life as a popped balloon.
A shape tumbled through the door and she fired again, this time missing.
The second man rolled behind the gold leaf bed end and came up in the firing position, getting off two shots before a single 7.65mm bullet took him on the bridge of the nose and continued its journey into the man’s brain.
The first had passed along the side of her head and removed much of her right ear.
It was very messy but of little note.
The second bullet had hit her high in the left chest, throwing her backwards and against the dressing table, breaking her collarbone.
Despite the pain, Armande Fleriot kept her Browning 1922 pistol firmly sighted on the doorway.
In the garden, the unmistakable sound of shots carried to Anne-Marie, and to the two men stalking her.
She disappeared into the groundsman’s lodge, cursing herself for not having the wits to have her own weapon to hand.
Alternatives quickly suggested themselves, and she armed herself as best she could
Holding her breath, and without the slightest concern for her dignity, she allowed the hot urine to trickle down her legs as she focussed on the doorway.
A shadow played across the gap and she tensed ready to strike.
The door gently opened outwards, and she sensed the presence without seeing.
It was enough and she trusted her instincts.
The sickle swept out of the doorway, curving back round towards her in its natural arc, and contacted soft yielding flesh.
The scream was cut short as she yanked back on the handle, the high-pitched sound replaced by the gurgling of a severe throat wound on a dying man.
“Merde! Chienne!”
The other man put six shots throug
h the wooden walls, hoping to hit the woman who had mortally wounded his brother.
Anne-Marie grunted and sagged to the ground as two struck her and robbed her of her strength.
The shooter heard her sounds of pain and knew he had hit home.
Moving carefully to the half-open door, he stuck his head round and saw their female target lying on the ground trying hard to stem the flow of blood from her left thigh.
He brought his pistol up and tapped her on the side of the head, hard enough to break the skin, not hard enough to knock her out.
“You fucking bitch. That’s my brother lying there.”
The man was still dying noisily, but vengeance was all the surviving brother thought of, not that he could do anything with his sibling’s gaping throat wound in any case.
“I’m going to kill your fucking baby first, and then I’m going to shoot you to pieces, starting with your face.”
Anne-Marie, in pain and with shock starting to take its toll, summoned up the strength to plant a gobbet of spit on the man’s chest in a show of defiance.
“Fucking SS whore! You fucking SS…”
He heard and turned in the briefest of moments…
Blood sprayed over Anne-Marie’s face and chest, then more that came like a fireman’s hose.
She never heard the shots that took the life of the man who nearly killed her.
Five bullets entered his body at almost point blank range, entering from as low as his navel to the highest point at his neck, and it was the neck wound that produced the geyser of blood.
The Colt Ace .22 was a practice weapon, one not normally used for the purpose of killing, but at close range, a .22 bullet can do a lot of damage, and five on target would bring a lot of hurt on whatever they hit.
The fourth shot was the one that killed him, clipping the aorta before expending the rest of its low power in the stomach beyond.
He toppled forward and his weight dropped across Anne-Marie’s legs, dislocating her right ankle in one swift and excruciatingly painful second.
The damaged aorta let go and the second brother went on his brief, dark journey.
