by Colin Gee
Beria whispered something under his breath, an inaudible something that clearly was not in agreement with the three officer’s view.
However inaudible, Stalin heard it and turned on him in an instant.
“Comrade Marshal Beria, we’ll hear your alternative plan shortly. For now, keep your views to yourself. Summon your men.”
Beria moved to the telephone and, in response to his words, the door opened and in walked Colonels Sardeon and Sarkisov.
“Comrade Beria, have your men detain these five officers in this building until otherwise ordered. If any of them try to leave, they are to be shot immediately.”
Beria simply had to nod, as both colonels had heard Stalin’s words.
Supported by a squad of NKVD troopers, they escorted the military group from the hall.
Stalin refilled his glass and took a healthy swig of the chilled juice before speaking to the silent group of grey-faced men.
“Comrades… speak.”
1444 hrs, Friday, 9th August 1946, Andreyevsky Hall, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Half expecting to be shot, the three were greatly relieved to be ushered into the Andreyevsky Hall once more. The two junior officers, having not been included in the orders delivered to Sardeon and Sarkisov, were left behind under armed guard.
Sat facing them were a grim faced GKO, some clearly more angry than others.
Zhukov led the trio in, and immediately wondered which of these men would stand as his accuser, and condemn him for his treachery to the Motherland.
He took a position of attention and wondered what marvel of manoeuvring these politicians had conceived to extricate the Red Army from the morass of their own making.
Vasilevsky and Nazarbayeva took station beside him.
The answer was delivered quickly, and in an unexpected fashion.
Beria sent his two henchmen away with a dismissive wave.
“Comrade Marshal Zhukov… perhaps Comrade Beria acted precipitously… an unfortunate set of circumstances.”
Beria looked wide mouthed at his leader for the briefest of moments, before he recovered his poise.
“Comrade Vasilevsky… you and Comrade Zhukov have presided over this debacle… this abomination… and yet, perhaps, you are not wholly to blame. The GKO has decided to give you both the opportunity to recover our confidence.”
He looked directly at Nazarbayeva, who returned his gaze with eyes burning in defiance, albeit one was closed by the swelling of her cheek.
“And you, Comrade Nazarbayeva… you and your prized organisation seem to have failed to properly arm us with the information needed to avoid all these… these… disasters,” he waved at the European situation map, “As has the NKVD…”
Beria blanched but offered no protest, probably because it was totally true.
“…But you have mostly been efficient in your duties and, in this most recent instance, spoke clearly, and… no, in all instances… you have spoken in the best interests of the Party and the Rodina as you have seen it.”
He went as far as he felt he could.
“What happened was regrettable, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
Which was more than Comrade Stalin had ever gone before.
And, as far as the leader was concerned, that was that, and he moved on.
“It has been decided that the Red Army needs time to recover from the unfortunate and adverse prevailing circumstances that have recently robbed it of a portion of its capability.”
The military men understood face-saving politicians speak when they heard it.
“We will use the present circumstances to seek a truce, during which we will renew our forces, sow political discord throughout the Allied nations, and wait for the most favourable time to continue with our overall plan.”
Stalin sought eye contact with the head of the Soviet Union’s atomic programme, and found it, before Kurchatov broke it by dropping his gaze to pretend to search for something vital amongst his papers.
“Given some of the recent difficulties with Operation Raduga, we propose to halt all special actions, and use the time to enhance and refine our own programmes… all the better to ensure greater success when the plans come to fruition.”
Zhukov took a quick look at Isakov, who understood the enquiry that flowed from the Marshal’s eyes.
‘The Japanese?’
Isakov could only give the smallest of shrugs before Stalin’s voice overrode their quiet exchange.
“However, it is vital that we negotiate from a position of maximum strength, so… to that end… the Red Army will maintain its operational effectiveness at all times, using whatever means are at its disposal to ensure that we have the best possible military platform from which to contrive a temporary cessation on the best possible terms.”
Vasilevsky and Zhukov groaned inside, knowing that those words would mean the deaths of countless more soldiers.
“We entrust that task to you both.”
A single nod each was all they could manage.
“Now, let’s get down to planning this maskirovka.”
2155 hrs, Sunday, 11th August 1946, Dybäck Castle, Sweden.
The initial moves were entrusted to the Foreign Ministry, with Molotov taking the lead, and to the GRU, or, more specifically, to Nazarbayeva.
From her office, a message went out, one that travelled by diverse means before arriving in Sweden.
Per Karsten Tørget, head of Swedish Military Intelligence, enjoyed a glass of fine wine as he waited for the mystery to be solved.
He checked his watch, estimating that it had been nearly an hour and a half since the cryptic call from Lingström.
‘Soon this little secret will be explained.’
No sooner had the thought developed than the sound of urgent feet reached his ears, as a pair of boots hammered on the floors of the main hallway, bringing his number one double agent closer.
He responded to the knocking and Lingström admitted himself, clearly bursting with something extremely important, a something that Tørget’s sharp mind had failed to work out whilst he sat waiting for his prodigy to arrive from Copenhagen.
“Well, you look like you have a story to tell, Överstelöjtnant. Sit.”
Lingström did so and took a deep breath to control himself.
“Speak, Boris. What has got you so excited eh?”
“Överste, I’ve received a message from my Russian masters. I am to report back, as a matter of extreme urgency, on any information that I can gather on the Swedish position regarding anything related to a direct approach that will be made to Minister Undén tomorrow.”
“The Minister for Foreign Affairs? Are they threatening us or asking for an alliance… either way, they can go to hel…”
“Neither, Överste. They will be seeking our help… the government’s help…”
“And what do they mean by that then?”
“Hägglöf was summoned to see Molotov in Moscow today, and the envoy has reported back to Minister Undén, indicating that Soviet Ambassador Kollontai will present herself tomorrow with a genuine proposal… one that the Soviet Union hopes that Sweden can both broker and oversee.”
“In Loki’s name, spit it out, man!”
“The Communists are seeking a truce.”
Tørget’s mind rejected a number of replies, instead sending messages to his mouth to stay firmly closed.
Lingström used his boss’s silence to expand on his bombshell.
“The Soviet Foreign Ministry will be sending a high level delegation to meet with Minister Undén, at which time they’ll seek Sweden’s help in organising a face to face with the Allied leadership, under the chairmanship of Undén, in order to broker a ceasefire in place, and to negotiate terms for a permanent peace.”
Tørget rose, so Lingström automatically stood and came to attention.
He resumed his seat as his commander waved him to relax.
Topping off his own glass, and wetting a new one for the bringer of such inc
redible news, Tørget returned to his seat, offering the glass of vintage Bordeaux to Lingström.
“Skol!”
The glasses clinked together and taste buds were assaulted by the fine wine they contained.
“Remind me… you have been contacted why?”
“I’m to report back on anything that seems disingenuous… any sign of treachery… any activity behind the scenes that might undermine the process.”
“Maskirovka?”
Lingström took a gentler sip of the wonderful red before replying.
“I’m not being risked… I’m not being asked to do anything actively… just to report back on the… err… genuineness of proceedings… and of course, anything I hear on the bargaining position of the Allies, once talks get underway. I don’t sense anything here but a genuine approach to end the war.”
More wine flowed before Lingström added a codicil.
“Whatever their reasons may be, Överste.”
Tørget savoured the taste.
“Indeed… whatever their reasons may be.”
The delegation, headed by their unconventional ambassador, Alexandra Mikhailovna Kollontai, laid out the bare bones of the Soviet Union’s approach to Sweden, expectations and wishes, hopes and fears, and emphasised the trust that the Rodina had in Sweden’s impartiality.
Despite the physical change and slight speech impediment that a stroke had inflicted upon her, Kollontai managed to eloquently convey the essence of the message she had been tasked to deliver. Alexandra Mikhailovna was a consummate politician, and her sincerity was appreciated by Östen Undén, Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Undén, already pre-warned by Tørget, confirmed that the Swedish Government would be only too pleased to assist in brokering a full and meaningful peace in Europe, and would offer safe passage and guarantees of safety to all persons attending.
Kollontai was not fazed by the fact that Undén had clearly known of the Soviet approach, and known sufficiently in advance for the Swedish government to have discussed and developed an official position, although it would figure in her report.
She was not privy to the advance ‘work’ of the GRU.
The Soviet Ambassador continued with her request.
“The people of the Soviet Union would also request that the government of Sweden makes the initial approach to the Allied governments through diplomatic channels, without directly revealing that we have instigated this process… but to do so in such a way as to offer to initiate a dialogue, and to mediate all discussions as an honest broker, and to work with both sides to bring about a lasting peace. We would be most grateful if that could be seen to be a matter that Sweden has been proposed to us, and that we are prepared to be a party to.”
Undén was unprepared for the suggestion, and held his tongue as he worked the issue in his mind, deciding if it was disingenuous, a plain lie, an inaccuracy, an acceptable mechanism, or any one of a number of labels he could think for being a party to a statement that was not wholly the truth.
He was a politician, so he quickly found a compromise that he could live with.
“I believe that my government will, in the spirit of bringing about this peace, represent that the idea as ours, and ours alone. After all, I’m sure the rest of the world will be grateful for our leadership in the matter.”
Kollontai smiled, knowing that Undén was already imagining real advantage for his country, by way of trade agreements and similar kudos.
“So, Minister, are we agreed?”
“I speak for my government in this matter. We are agreed.”
They nodded, stood, and shook hands, understanding each other perfectly.
0624 hrs, Monday, 12th August 1946, the Guards Club, London, UK.
“Sir Stewart.”
“Hmmm?”
The knocking continue again.
“Sir Stewart.”
The head of MI-6 summoned himself from the depths of his dreams with great reluctance, the previous evening’s entertainment, in the company of Percy Hollander, having broken well into the new morning.
“Yes…what?”
“Sir Stewart, there are two gentleman to see you, Sir… said it’s extremely important… wouldn’t take no for an answer, Sir Stewart. One is a colonel, the other a naval officer…I’m sorry, Sir, but they were most insistent.”
Sir Stewart Menzies looked at the bedside clock and frowned.
“I’ll be there directly, Squires.”
“Very good, Sir Stewart. I took the liberty of installing the gentlemen in the terrace area, and of providing them with tea, Sir Stewart.”
“Right ho, Squires.”
Menzies swung out of bed and headed for the sink, intent on blasting away with the cobwebs with cold water.
It didn’t help much, but would have to do, the reason behind someone… two men, he corrected himself… hunting him down at the club at this early hour was intriguing him. More to the point, decidedly bothering him.
Menzies slipped back into his uniform and checked himself out, and finding his appearance on the right side of satisfactory, he descended to the terrace.
“Good grief, Val… Sir Roger,” he nodded, “What on earth has got you two out of bed at such an early hour?”
Valentine Vivian, second in command of MI-6, gestured towards a concealed table, laid with the accoutrements of an early morning breakfast.
Dalziel poured three teas as Vivian handed over a hand written report.
“Rush job?”
“Yes, Sir… you’ll see why.”
Menzies read the first message.
“Good grief! The blazes they are! The Swedes? They’re brokering a peace deal? Why on earth ha…”
“Sir, the second report, Sir.”
Vivian helpfully reached forward and pulled at the edge of another document.
“From Tørget, Sir Stewart.”
The message from the head of Swedish Military Intelligence made all things clear.
“Good grief. I mean… good lord, Valentine.”
“Quite, Sir.”
“Thoughts? Sir Roger?
Dalziel opened the palms of his hands outwards.
“Quite clearly, we have, on one hand, a document that states that Sweden intends to offer its services to broker peace talks between the Allies and the Soviet Union as soon as is practicable… on its own soil… guaranteeing safe passage et al. And then, on the other hand, we have our friend Tørget informing us that this whole idea is a Soviet one, and that Sweden is agreeing to appear to propose it, so as not to weaken the Soviet bargaining position.”
“But if the Soviets are proposing it, that must mean they are in a dire position… much worse than we believed… otherwise…”
“Otherwise why would they make such a proposal, Sir?”
“Indeed, Valentine.”
They sat in silence, sampling the tea, thinking of the ramifications of the proposal… and the requirements of their profession.
“If we inform our politicians, they’ll reveal what we know. They won’t be able to help themselves. Is that a problem?”
Vivian answered Menzies’ question with a question of his own.
“How could we not inform our leadership, Sir Stuart? Their negotiating position will be much stronger if they know it was the Soviets who suggested these talks.”
Dalziel added his own views.
“Sir Stuart, clearly there are none of our assets to protect, just Tørget’s wish that we are discreet with the information because of his own issues.”
Vivian chuckled and spoke to no one in particular.
“Discretion and politicians do not mix.”
Menzies smiled and raised his cup in acknowledgement.
“I understand Tørget’s concern. He’s protecting his country’s reputation… maybe even possible that he has an asset of his own… but mainly to protect Sweden from any accusations.”
Dalziel set his cup and saucer down gently and made a suggestion.
“Sir Stewart, perhaps it might be prudent to inform solely the Prime Minister at this time. He can decide how best to let our American cousins in on the secret, which, I suspect, would be directly to their president. Between them, they would decide the position that the negotiators would take. No need to advertise the knowledge of the Soviet weakness openly.”
“My thinking exactly, Sir Roger.”
Breakfast arrived.
‘Blasted kippers!’
“We took the liberty of ordering breakfast for you, Sir Stewart. I remember you enjoyed the kippers at Rossahilly House.
‘No I bloody well did not!’
“Thank you, Sir Roger. Splendid choice.”
They hammered out the details of what would happen next over buttered kippers, poached eggs, and toast.
‘Blasted kippers!’
0719 hrs, Monday, 12th August 1946, Chequers, Ellesborough, UK.
“Sir?”
“Inches?”
David Inches, Churchill’s butler, had interrupted the Prime Minister and his wife at their breakfast, something that was not done lightly, certainly not at Chequers.
“Sir, Madam, apologies for disturbing you at your breakfast. Sir, I have taken an urgent message from Sir Stewart Menzies. He is coming to see you here, this very morning, Sir.”
Winston frowned, remembering that he had an appointment with the same man later that afternoon, so something had clearly upset the apple cart.
“Did he say why, Inches?”
“No, Sir, nothing at all, but he did sound somewhat… err… enthusiastic… actually quite excited, Sir.”
“Thank you, Inches.”
The butler closed the door with due reverence.
‘Menzies excited?’
“Pass the conserve, please, my darling.”
He accepted the raspberry conserve from Clementine, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘Last time he was excited, Adolf had shot himself.’
0950 hrs, Monday, 12th August 1946, Chequers, Ellesborough, UK.
“Sir, Sir Stewart Menzies.”
