by Colin Gee
Tears clouded Anne-Marie’s eyes as she sought the identity of her saviour.
She dabbed her eyes with her good hand and found a handkerchief pressed into her hand.
“Ami… are you hurt very badly, Ami?”
Anne-Marie’s floating brain suddenly focussed.
She carefully took the loaded and cocked gun from her stepdaughter Greta.
“Are there any more of them?”
“No, Ami… there were just four.”
“Two in the house?”
“Aunty shot them both. She says they are no longer a concern.”
“Good. I’m fine, Cherie. Madame is unhurt? You’re both unhurt?”
“Aunty is hurt but she says not bad. Greta is looking after her. I came to find you.”
“And you brought your practice pistol, you clever girl.”
“I had to do something, Ami.”
“You did, Magda.”
She kissed her stepdaughter despite the pain that her movements caused.
“Now, find Jerome and ask him to call the doctor and then get me to a phone.”
“I don’t think Jerome is very well, Ami.”
Anne-Marie cursed herself for being so stupid.
“Find Madame Besoinine instead.”
“She’s in the hallway. I don’t think she’s very well either, Ami.”
“Ok, ok, sorry Cherie. Can you ring for the doctor yourself?”
“But of course!”
The indignation on the eleven year old’s face was writ large.
Anne-Marie could almost sense the assurance in her eyes.
‘If I can shoot a man then a telephone call is easy!’
“Of course you can. I’ll wait here. Ring for the doctor and then help your sister with Aunty.”
Magda took to her heels, a girl with a mission, leaving Anne-Marie to suffer the pain of her injuries and ponder the events that had nearly snuffed out her life and that of her unborn child.
She kept a tight grip on the practice pistol… just in case.
Some time later, Commandant Vincennes received a call from Anne-Marie Knocke, one that created a maelstrom of activity within the local ranks of the SDECE.
The four bodies were quickly taken away and an investigation started to discover who they were and why they had come to kill.
Each man was clean… in as much as there was nothing to identify, except some cash and smoking materials.
No ID whatsoever.
Each man had a bag, probably to carry away the objects they looted, but the sense of it all was that they were there solely for the purpose of killing.
The prime target was the subject of much speculation, and the pregnant Deux agent was considered top of the list.
1058 hrs, Friday 14th March 1947, Rhein-Main Airbase, Frankfurt, Germany.
The engines simply refused to turn.
“Oh c’mon, fellahs. You gotta be kidding me?”
Nothing now worked….. nothing had worked… and now the smell of burning electrics assaulted the noses of the cockpit crew.
“You smell that, Seb?”
“Uh huh… my electrics have just failed… nope… they’re bac… failed again… this mission’s a snafu, Major.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth? Think we better get the VIPs outta here fast. There’s smoke here now.”
He gestured at the haze coming up around his feet and from behind the instrument panel.
“Abandon ship… aye aye, cap’n.”
“Shut it, you douchebag. Just remember who we’ve got on board and get them off in such a manner as I’ll still have a chance at my bird.”
“Aye, aye cap’n.”
The co-pilot disappeared to break the bad news to the senior officers in the passenger compartment.
The passengers evacuated and moved back to towards their vehicles, confusing the USAAF base commander and his entourage.
A hasty liaison with one of the senior officers from the crippled aircraft brought a possible conclusion to mind, and the tower was instructed to hold another flight on the runway.
The RAF flight sergeant responded to the pilot’s instructions and, once the aircraft had stopped its taxi run, opened the nearside rear cabin door.
The first thing that caught his eye was the ground crew racing back with the steps.
Next were the two staff vehicles that sped up from the direction of the tower, complete with four jeeps as escort.
Behind him, the five senior officers started to pose questions, to which he could only guess at a response.
“Seems we have last minute company, Sir.”
“Anyone we know, Sergeant?”
“Can’t say yet, Sir… but likely they’ve some serious clout or we wouldn’t have stopped.”
Kenneth Strong turned back round and rummaged for some light reading.
Bedell-Smith, sharing Strong’s aircraft for the trip to Camp Vár, relaxed into quiet conversation with De Lattre.
Behind them, their staffs chatted or snoozed, depending on what they had been up to the night before.
Anne-Marie Foster extracted a Daphne du Maurier novel and settled down as the two RAF officers returned to their bickering over the performance of the latest American jet fighter, something they called a Sabre.
Strong abandoned attempts to eavesdrop their conversation as they slipped into trade talk, but the two highly decorated fighter aces were clearly impressed with the experimental plane that was doing the European tour.
In the refuelling station cross the airfield, a pair of eyes that had narrowed when the aircraft aborted its taxi became virtual slits as the observer tried to decide what the hell was going on.
His fellow tanker driver slid off to the toilet, citing bad chicken the night before, giving Krankel a chance to use the works’ binoculars without having to justify himself.
“Donnerwetter!”
Krankel was a decisive man always, but what had just presented itself to his eyes turned his stomach to ice and impaired his brain function so much that he could hardly manage a coherent thought.
“Scheisse! Scheisse! Scheisse!”
Normally one of the Abwehr’s eyes and ears at the airbase, his special mission had drawn on all the old talents learned during his time with the Brandenburgers.
He watched, gripping the binoculars so tightly that he expected them to break under the pressure, although he could not prevent himself from risking it.
The new arrivals and their baggage virtually flew up the steps, which were then quickly wheeled away as the door was shut.
The RAF C-54 Skymaster trundled into position and then leapt down the runway, clawing into the air on its way to the talks in Sweden.
“Clerk’s Office.”
“Vögel, Krankel, we…”
“This is an unsecured line, you fool.”
“Shut the fuck up and listen.”
He gripped the phone like it was the neck of this idiot agent.
“This better be worth it, Krankel.”
The words spilled into his ear as the excited Krankel told his story.
“Scheisse!”
“What do I do… I mean… what do we do, eh?”
“Leave it with me. Now… get off the phone and go and do what you do.”
He broke the connection and was out of his office door before the sound of his chair scraping the floor had died away.
Normally, Vögel would saunter to his chief’s office.
Today he made it in under two minutes, and almost battered down the door as he ran through it only half-opened.
“What is the meaning of this, man?”
The out-of-breath Vögel stumbled through his words as he eyed the other man in the room.
“Urgent… need to talk to you… alone, Herr General… urgent… but for your ears only.”
Horst Pflug-Hartnung looked apologetically at his companion.
Von Vietinghoff stood and clicked his heels without rancour.
“I’ll be outsid
e, Horst.”
The door closed before Pflug-Hartnung went for Vögel.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, man? “
“Shut up and listen… Sir!”
The conversation was brief and by the end of it Pflug-Hartnung’s mind was trying to deal with a frenzy of thoughts.
“I’ve no secure line to talk to the Kanzler… that damn bomb broke the cables and they’re being fixed as we speak.”
Dropped on the old city of Magdeburg on the night of 16th January 1945, the unexploded one thousand pounder finally honoured its mission and did an excellent job at destroying much of the locale, including the covertly laid special telephone system that allowed secret conversations to flow between the Republican government’s hierarchy.
“So… make a decision, Sir. We’ve very little time.”
“We’ll show our hand if we warn them… we can’t… the Kanzler’s main concern was preserving our secrecy.”
“Then make the decision… Sir.”
“Get Vietinghoff back in here now!”
Vögel opened the door and summoned von Vietinghoff in a manner that would have normally earned him a severe rebuke, but the canny general knew better than to bark at a time that he should be listening.
He listened, astounded, shocked, and for once in his life unsure of how he should proceed… would proceed if it were his decision.
Von Vietinghoff realised that Pflug-Hartnung had stopped, and that both men’s eyes were on him.
Officially on bereavement leave, he had dropped in to speak to Pflug-Hartnung about a delicate personal matter, only to suddenly find himself at the centre of a big decision.
“The Kanzler must be informed immediately.”
“Not possible Heinrich. That bomb… it wrecked the secure lines.”
“Verdamnt. You, man. How would you stop it?”
Vögel had already thought that through.
“Too late to send an aircraft up. Radio… only way, Herr General.”
“Which would compromise our secrecy.”
“Yes.”
“So the choice is non-existent. We have no choice. The game will run its course, and we must be ready.”
“Your meaning, Heinrich?”
“My meaning is simple, my friend. We have a problem here… or we may have an opportunity.”
Pflug-Hartnung understood the meaning, and the gravity of von Vietinghoff’s words.
“You mean Undenkbar? Now?”
“We’ve been waiting for the moment, and maybe this is that moment. This awful opportunity that’s been thrust into our hands by fate may be just what we need to make our plans come perfectly together. We would never have considered it, but it may be just what we needed.”
Silence greeted his words, the sort of silence that held neither acquiescence nor disagreement, simply fear.
“Vögel is it?”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“Are we involved in this in any way that’s traceable?”
“No, Herr General.”
“Then let us prepare ourselves. The dice are cast.”
[Nine minutes and forty-seven seconds earlier]
Kenneth Strong had leapt to attention but had quickly been told to sit down by the flight sergeant in charge, who fussed over his and the newly arrived passengers’ seatbelts as the C-54 gathered speed.
“Sorry, Sir Kenneth. Needs must. Our aircraft had a technical problem.”
“No problem, Sir, Glad the RAF could oblige. Are you going to Sweden too then?”
The Skymaster’s wheels left the ground and the sound of the undercarriage’s retraction made a few people jump.
Strong’s confusion was reasonable, given that his journey to Sweden had been planned over a week ago and he had already had Bedell-Smith join him since the Soviet approach.
“No… well, yes and no actually. Can I smoke?”
The flight sergeant decided it was not within his purview to deny the NATO commander his cigarette.
“Certainly, Sir.”
Eisenhower lit up and drew in the satisfying smoke as Bradley explained about the problems with the USAAF C-118 Liftmaster.
“But, if I might ask, what are you two doing here, General Bradley?”
Bradley sat back into his seat looking suitably coy.
Eisenhower puffed out a long stream of smoke.
“Golf.”
“Golf?”
“Well, Sir Kenneth… not just golf obviously. The President asked me to stay available for this Camp Vár meeting and someone who shall remain nameless”, … Bradley tried hard to look innocent….”Decided that he was heading up to Denmark to play some golf at Aalborg… the whole course has been cleared of snow apparently… so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone and head up to be closer to Sweden, and wipe the smug look off this one’s face with a few rounds.”
Strong knew about their shared passion and could imagine the conversation between the two friends.
“Well, yes, I understand that, Sir, but… err… is it wise?”
“I felt I should remain at NATO but the President wanted me up near where the action is. After all, in his newly-considered view, Zhukov is the top dog and warrants my presence.”
He lit another cigarette.
“I argued against having both Walter and myself in Sweden at a time of heightened tension… we agreed on Denmark… Aalborg has a prime headquarters facility and… by some happy chance, an excellent gold course that has been cleared of snow and is ready to play.”
“Sounds perfect to me, Sir.”
Bradley added a sotto-voce comment
“Until he gets on the tee when it’ll all go wrong for him.”
Eisenhower, as he was supposed to do, heard the sleight.
“Dream on, General Bradley… I’ve seen you play remember!”
The group descended into laughter as the aircraft rose steadily to cruising height.
1103 hrs, Friday, 14th March 1947, Imperial College, London, England.
“I need to speak to Sir Kenneth immediately.”
Professor William Penney was as agitated as could be, and the secretary’s inability to connect him was too much to bear.
“Now… I must speak to him now… it’s a matter of vital importance, man!”
Military secretaries, unthreatened by rank, can be the most stubborn creatures on the planet and Penney was getting nowhere fast.
“Well where is he, man? I need to get hold of him right now.”
Again, the brick wall was insurmountable.
“Can you get a message to him… I mean straight away… it’s absolutely vital that I speak to him?”
The brick wall appeared a little more responsive and Penney gave his details.
“No, no… I can’t say. Just please tell him it’s about the documents he asked me to look through. I missed something, and he needs to know about it.”
He looked at his companion and shrugged.
“Thank you.”
He looked at the silent handset with unconcealed disdain.
“Blasted man… bloody blasted man!”
The air force officer held his peace.
“Leonard, can you pull any strings at all?”
Group Captain Cheshire took a steady breath.
“Not likely that I can get hold of him if you can’t, Bill.”
The two were friends from Tinian, when they both flew in ‘Big Stink’ for the third bombing mission to Yokosuka.
Cheshire, home for a spot of leave at La Court in Petersfield, had dropped in on his friend for luncheon, and walked into a blizzard of invective from the academician.
Penney finished threatening the telephone with silent words and replaced the receiver.
“I say… have you still got your clearance, Leonard?”
He hadn’t told Bill Penney about his latest assignment.
“Yes, still on the inside working on some special projects for the Air Force. All hush hush of course.”
“Quite. I wonder if you could pass the information on for me… just in case I can’t get hold of Sir Kenneth?”
“Delighted to, Bill. To whom?”
The question flummoxed Penney.
“Who do you see from the programme?”
Cheshire thought about his answer very carefully and made a decision.
“I see Leslie Groves occasionally.”
“Excellent… is he still expanding at the waist?”
Cheshire merely shrugged.
“No matter… yes. Perfect. Show it to Groves. Someone in authority needs to know.”
Cheshire could hide his curiosity no longer.
“Know what exactly, Bill… I am cleared for these things.”
It was Penney’s turn to weight up the pros and cons.
He rummaged in the second folder and brought out a piece of paper that was almost clear, except for one typed line of text.
“I’ll give you this folder. But this is what I missed first time round. Simply put, it had folded in the bottom of the envelope and I missed it. What do you think eh?”
“Well, I know what I think… but where did it come from?
“Apparently from some scientists working for the Russians.”
“Good Lord!”
Just in case, Cheshire read it again, this time aloud.
“235U92-92KR36/141BA56-USPENKA”
“Quite.”
“How old is this… do we know?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, Leonard.”
“235U92… Uranium 235 with 92 protons… Krypton… Barium… they’re ahead of where we had them, aren’t they?”
“Well Leonard, depending on the age of this information, they might already have it.”
“Which is why…”
“…why you need to get it known fast. I agree.”
The two exchanged insider looks that were full of concern.
“And Uspenka is?”
“Ah, that was the easy part. I just looked at a map. It’s in Russia but the trouble is… there’s more than one.”
1107 hrs, Friday, 14th March 1947, Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse, temporary government building #1, Magdeburg, Germany.
It was an unsecured line, so the message was not what it would seem to any listener.
