Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  He lifted the telephone again and gave a clipped instruction.

  “Good morning, Comrade Marshal. I need to see you urgently.”

  He looked at his watch again.

  “13.30 will be fine. Usual place? Thank you.”

  He tapped the telephone a number of times.

  “Have my driver and car report to me here for thirteen-hundred.”

  Kaganovich ended the call without another word, or even waiting to hear a response.

  He reflected quickly on how he would pass on the news, and tried to anticipate what the man would say.

  Floundering on both points, Kaganovich busied himself making his excuses to the twin sisters, Sonia and Ludmilla Laberova, as he dressed himself informally, as best suited the intended surroundings for his meeting with VKG.

  1500 hrs, Sunday, 27th July 1946, United States Embassy, Grosvenor Square, London.

  Ambassador Winant had long since finished describing how the pretty garden of the embassy had been converted back to a habitable space after the departure of the British WAAFs and the barrage balloon called ‘Romeo’ that they crewed.

  The US Army senior officers had listened dutifully and, one by one, had drifted away, until Winant himself found other distractions, leaving the most senior men to their own company.

  As usual, Eisenhower was smoking like a chimney, feeding his incessant craving for nicotine, something he had avoided during the formal lunch in the main residence.

  Gerow and Simpson had finished their discussion on the recent rumours from home and were drinking coffee in silence.

  Bedell-Smith was making a few notes in his diary, recording his thoughts on the service of celebration at Westminster Abbey, and on the unfortunate waiter who spilt a water jug over the Argentinian Ambassador’s wife.

  Eisenhower had overheard some of the discussion on the stateside rioting, and ventured an opinion to Bradley who had naturally migrated to his side.

  “Seattle, San Francisco, Detroit, Chicago, Boston, New York… all with curfews… Abilene and Charlotteville half burnt to the ground by reports… scores dead and wounded. What the hell is going on, Brad?”

  “The war has become unpopular for sure, either for its nature or the way it’s being fought, and certainly because of the casualties we’ve sustained… well… that’s a lot for the folks back home to stomach. Not sure about Abilene, but sure as eggs is eggs, the families in Charlottesville lost a lot of their kin when the 29th Division got hammered… an awful lot of their kin.”

  The 29th US Infantry had attracted an unenviable reputation as the highest casualty rated combat unit in the US Army, bar none. Its recent return to the front had resulted in the virtual destruction of its 115th Infantry Regiment and the 29th Reconnaissance Troop, and clearly the flood of telegrams back home had agitated an already unhappy civil population.

  “Our casualty figures were on the way down, Brad… and now the Germans have replaced most of your boys in the line, they will continue on down.”

  Ike leant forward, keeping his words for Bradley alone.

  “Cutting down on infantry attacks, bumping up artillery and air work… it’s reaping benefits, of course… but we’re less effective. Let’s hope the Germans can get things moving for us… and the British…”

  Both men knew that McCreery was about to launch a limited offensive, one for a more political reason than any military one.

  Churchill wanted to be seen to take some of the load alongside the German Army, and so a limited operation in Northern Germany had come into creation.

  “Mind you, the Brits have their own problems.”

  He alluded to the recent demonstration which, whilst peaceful and respectful of the celebration, had thousands gathered outside the cathedral, complete with damning signage and loud voices, both condemning the continued war and the loss of sons, brothers, and fathers.

  The previous day’s unfortunate shooting of seven demonstrators in Glasgow was not yet known to them.

  Bradley took a sip of his drink and sat back in the comfortable garden chair.

  “Do you think the President will ever use the bomb on the Commies?”

  Eisenhower lit another cigarette from the stub of his present one.

  “I think he’d secretly like to. Heck, no. Of course he would, He dropped it on the Nips, didn’t he? Use of it would ease the casualties, which in turn would ease pressure at home, of course.”

  He left some of his reply out.

  Bradley filled in the blanks.

  “But would it work, for a start eh? Where would they target? Industrial, political, military?”

  “You got that right, Brad, plus, the President seems to feel any advantage gained from using the bomb would be lost in additional political err… disharmony between the Allies, and even worse, more demonstrations at home.”

  “Really, Ike? There were rallies, hasty and hot words for sure, but worse than of late… worse than Abilene and Charlottesville?”

  Eisenhower accepted a sweet pastry from an immaculately turned-out waiter, waiting until the man had moved away before continuing.

  “From what George told me, there’s virtually no one left undecided any more,” he spoke of Marshall, the Army’s CoS, “The anti-bomb movement is growing fast, fuelled by these damn pictures of horribly burnt children… you’ve seen the things… heard the stories… they’ve had an effect at home and it’s not getting any better. The pro-bomb lobby is growing even faster, fuelled by rhetoric from people like the Governor of New York, Edmund Dewey. He lost his boy at Fulda, and he’s taken it bad. He’s become a focus for the ‘By all available means’ movement, and he’s been doing a damn fine job of it, from what George believes. Actually, all over the States, crowds are being whipped up by politicians, either for their own beliefs, or with another agenda, George wasn’t sure which at times, but whipped up they all are. Anyway, we have our new rules of combat and the President has taken the bomb off the table… for now anyway.”

  Bradley finished up his pastry and rubbed his hands to clear the last residue of crumbs from his fingertips.

  “So… we get to fight the goddamn war with people at home trying to drag the carpet out from under us or push us into precipitous action… without being able to use the Army as it should be used… either without the best weapon our experts can provide us with or encouraged by others wanting us to chuck it indiscriminately at anything that has a red star on it… and all as we try to work side by side with a bunch of Allies whose commitment to the cause wanes with each passing day, Britain and Germany excepted.”

  “And the French, Brad. De Gaulle’s rock solid and, from what I understand, is for dropping the bombs all over the Russians tomorrow…”

  Bradley interrupted.

  “…but his people think differently, as we’ve seen in Marseilles and Bordeaux. They seem to be sick of the war and just happy to have their country back, whereas the Brigadier wants to put France back in the major league with a display of military muscle.”

  Eisenhower looked around him before adding to Bradley’s comments.

  “Which doesn’t seem to be happening. Apart from De Lattre’s army, there’s precious little else of substance available, despite the promise of another hundred thousand bayonets!”

  Bradley snorted. His opinion of French promises and, for that matter, the French leader were well known.

  He leant forward to catch Eisenhower’s softer delivery.

  “Internal problems like the Bordeaux and Marseille riots have caused a lot of problems. Lots of lower level stuff happening throughout France as we know. French morale simply doesn’t seem to measure up to De Gaulle’s ambitions. Anyway, De Lattre’s boys are pretty good and have stayed in the line with the Germans for now…”

  Eisenhower grinned.

  “Not that I need to tell you that. Sorry, Brad.”

  Bradley raised his coffee cup in mock salute and fired a rare shot of humour at his commander.

  “Age gets us all in th
e end, General.”

  Eisenhower laughed and joined him in sampling the excellent coffee.

  “I’ll drink to that, Brad.”

  “Don’t spill it now.”

  “Damn Missourians… bane of my life.”

  They laughed, the double meaning understood, and lapsed into comfortable silence.

  --- Contrasting views ---

  The stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation where we can see the great everlasting things that matter for a nation; the great peaks of honour we had forgotten - duty and patriotism, clad in glittering white; the great pinnacle of sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to heaven.

  David Lloyd George

  Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism - how passionately I hate them!

  Albert Einstein

  Chapter 165 - THE BRITISH

  0803 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, office of the General Secretary, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  Stalin’s face remained straight, emotionless, and showed no reaction to Beria’s words.

  “Both her and her aide have been questioned regarding this clear failure. I confess, Comrade General Secretary that, as yet, they have not incriminated themselves… no more than the written evidence of their shocking failures,” he picked up the folder that Nazarbayeva had been given by Poboshkin the previous day, producing it like a barrister in court, as irrefutable evidence of guilt.

  He placed it carefully back on the desk.

  “Further questioning will bring more evidence, and I’m absolutely sure she was involved with the traitor Pekunin.”

  Stalin reacted with studied calm.

  “She killed the traitor Pekunin… and there has never been any proof of her involvement with whatever he was planning. You’ve looked and come up with an empty hand.”

  Beria polished his glasses furiously.

  “I will find it, Comrade General Secretary…” he corrected himself quickly… “If it’s there, I will drag it out of her.”

  He emphasised ‘will’ very deliberately.

  Stalin rose and tugged his tunic into place, making Beria automatically stand in his presence.

  The dictator walked around the table and stood directly in front of his NKVD chairman.

  “So, Lavrentiy, let me understand this matter clearly.”

  He counted off the points on his fingers one by one.

  “I ordered the woman back to Moscow to account for her actions… to me… to me… yet you decided to have her arrested in her own headquarters and escorted back to here… and then place her in your basement and interrogate her before I’ve had a chance to question her?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “Sit down.”

  Stalin walked to the window and exercised silence as only he could; a silence full of menace and ill portents.

  “Your obsession with her is well known.”

  He turned and made an unexpected concession.

  “We have both brought death to the door of her and her family… for the good of the Motherland, of course.”

  Menace returned as quickly as it had faded.

  “But you have arrested her for treason, and there is not a shred of evidence for that accusation… NOT ONE!”

  He leant forward and spoke in a softer tone.

  “Unless your own investigation was faulty… or you have kept something from me, Lavrentiy?”

  “Just because there is no evidence yet, doesn’t mean I won’t find any, Comrade General Secretary. With her detention, I can now employ more tried and trusted methods which, I’m sure, will produce the results we need.”

  “You need! Your obsession has overcome your reason, Lavrentiy.”

  He resumed his seat and picked up the folder.

  “These errors… these mistakes in understanding the full situation… you made the same errors… you did. Should I have you arrested, Comrade Beria?”

  The polishing stopped in a heartbeat.

  “We followed some of the GRU assumptions… that is regrettable, but there is no hint of any treachery from me or my department. We are loyal to you and the Motherland.”

  Beria was flustered and it showed.

  “They are the same thing, Comrade.”

  “Yes… yes, indeed, Comrade General Secretary… indeed.”

  “So, we have Nazarbayeva arrested and in the Lubyanka for doing exactly what your own service did, and your justification is an unproven… but fully investigated… suggestion… your suggestion… that she might have been linked to Pekunin’s treachery… the same Pekunin that she executed on my orders… and, in the process of discharging those orders, was badly wounded.”

  Stalin lit his pipe as Beria’s normally sharp brain realised there had been an error and he had overplayed his hand.

  Inside he cursed himself for acting too quickly, but he had sensed the opportunity to rid himself of the bitch once and for all.

  ‘Stick with the plan, you fool… just stick with the plan.’

  “I understand your view, Comrade General Secretary, and I can assure you I acted in what I thought were the best interests of you and the Motherland. As ever, you have identified an error in my haste to be of service. I apologise.”

  Stalin raised his eyebrows, for no other reason than to view the squirming of his NKVD chief more clearly.

  He held out an unexpected olive branch.

  “None the less, there have been failings within our intelligence services, have there not?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary, and I have already acted to deal with the ones in my department.”

  “How?”

  “Three of my senior officers have already confessed to failures in their systems and management of those under their command. They have been executed on my orders…” he took a quick look at the ticking clock, “…Seventy minutes ago, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “As efficient as ever in dealing with those who have transgressed, Lavrentiy.”

  The sarcasm in Stalin’s voice was noted.

  “None the less, GRU have failed in their duties, as you say, and examples must be made. You have shown me the way.”

  Beria’s insides churned at his own unusual ineptitude in understanding how things would work out.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, as with you, cannot be held responsible for this fuck up. You have found those more worthy of punishment within the NKVD. I’m sure similar culprits can be found within her headquarters.”

  Beria nodded.

  “So, we understand each other, Lavrentiy?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “She’s important to the Motherland. Play your games as you always do, but never go over my head in regard to this woman again… never… ever.”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “Now, attend to her release, and the other details.”

  Dismissed by no more than a look, Marshal Beria left Stalin’s office smarting from both Stalin’s words and his own failure, and with a reinforced hatred of the GRU bitch.

  1223 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, office of the General Secretary, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  Nazarbayeva stood at full attention in an immaculate uniform, the only inklings that all was not how it should be were the split lip, bruised cheek, and some missing medals, the result of an enthusiastic questioner who decided that ripping the awards from the woman’s chest was an excellent pre-cursor to slapping her around.

  Stalin stood and walked around Molotov to where she was standing, embracing the still shocked GRU officer, and kissing her on both cheeks with seemingly genuine warmth and affection.

  “Please, sit, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Tea?”

  She did as she was told, but declined the tea, for fear of dribbling the hot liquid down her tunic through lips that had still to recover their feeling.

  “I wanted you back in Moscow to answer for the errors of your department. You know I had to do that, Co
mrade General. But I did NOT…” he slammed his hand on the desk, making Nazarbayeva jump, “… Did not order your detention, nor did I have anything to do with that.”

  He pointed at her injuries, both those to her person and her pride, the missing Hero Award making him react in an unexpected fashion.

  He fished in his top drawer.

  “Comrade Mayor General, as an apology, I ask you to please accept this medal in the stead of the one you have mislaid.”

  He moved around to her side of the table yet again, and she stood as he pinned his own award on her tunic, repeating the hug and kiss routine with an equal amount of genuine affection.

  “Sit.”

  He resumed his seat and leant forward, wringing his peasant hands, almost in a show of supplication.

  “Comrade Beria did what he thought was correct, although excessively so. He’ll apologise to you in due course.”

  Beria had declined to be present for the reinstatement of Nazarbayeva, citing pressing department reasons, an excuse Stalin had accepted for expediency’s sake only.

  Molotov was only there for unconnected reasons, but took the opportunity to stow away a few snippets to relay to Beria later.

  “A brief investigation has established that the blame was not yours, and you have been exonerated. I hope you’ll continue to serve Mother Russia to the best of your abilities, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”

  “That has always been my only concern, my only duty, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “Excellent. Then this matter is behind us, in part at least.”

  He pulled out the file on the DRA.

  “This… this abomination cannot be permitted to happen again, are we clear, Comrade Mayor General?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I apologise. We should have understood the information better, and armed you and Marshal Vasilevsky with more accurate details.”

  Stalin held up his hand, halting her immediately.

  “Enough. Errors have been made, those responsible punished, lessons have been learned. We will move on, Comrade. The NKVD also repeated those errors,” Stalin could not help himself but to crow just a little, “Something of which I reminded Marshal Beria when he had you arrested.”