Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  ‘A sip of water and a bite of bread will keep him fighting all day, Herr General.’

  Eisenhower shuddered involuntarily.

  Not for the first time that week, he closed his eyes and prayed.

  The Soviets, with their love of maskirovka, had been extremely impressed with the FUSAG operation during D-Day and subsequent weeks.

  FUSAG, or First US Army Group, had been a phantom, a figment in the collective imaginations of the Overlord planners, and it had sold Hitler and his generals, hook, line, and sinker.

  The German Army had continued to hold strong units in the Pas de Calais in response to the huge FUSAG strength waiting in England, an illusion perpetrated by double agents, inflatable tanks, false buildings and works, mock warships made of wood, and a complicated signals network serviced by a handful of men. The cream on the cake had been Patton, who led the false formation, although it must have grated on him to be deprived of his opportunity during the early days of Overlord.

  It had worked once and, never being ones to set aside a good idea, SHAEF planners had decided to try it again, and so Allied Second Army Group was formed, although solely in the minds of men.

  The wounded Montgomery was cited to command it, although the fact that the Field Marshall would never command men in the field again was known only to a handful in the highest echelons. His 'double' was already moving around the British countryside, trying hard to be noticed by someone with a link to Moscow.

  The Soviets were no fools and the Allied planners intended to be careful to reduce the similarities to FUSAG as much as possible, even to the point of allocating real units, such as veteran units withdrawn for recuperation to volunteer units from across the world arriving in theatre to train and acclimatise; hence the designation ‘Allied’ rather than US or British.

  In many ways, FUSAG started as an extra for which there were no great expectations. Events would later push it into a prime position in the new European War.

  Those that I fight, I do not hate; those that I guard, I do not love.

  William Butler Yeats

  Chapter 108 – THE DISCOVERIES

  1201 hrs, Monday, 18th November 1945, Mikoyan Prototype Facility, Stakhanovo, USSR.

  It had been an unauthorised flight, in as much as those in power at Mikoyan-Gurevich had not informed the People’s Ministry of the Aircraft Industry, the Council of People’s Commissars, Marshal Novikov of the Red Air Force, Malenkov of the GKO, who was the member with responsibility for aircraft production, or even Mikhail Gromov, Chief of the Flight Research Institute at Stakhanovo, whose facility was the location for the flight

  The Mikoyan-9 was the Soviet Union’s first attempt at a home produced turbojet aircraft and its maiden flight was a disaster.

  Konstantin Djorov, temporarily detached from his assignment as OC 2nd Guards Special Fighter Regiment, had gently eased the aircraft into the sky and the problems had started almost immediately.

  He tried to gain height and, even though the vibrations were decidedly worrying, he could not help but be impressed with the rate of climb and obvious presence of unbridled power in the MIG. Passing four thousand metres and still rising strongly, the vibrations grew worse and the experienced pilot decided to ease back on the throttles.

  Whatever it was that happened next was unclear but its results were impressive to the observers on the ground; less so for the occupant of the test aircraft.

  Djorov later explained that it seemed that his wings started to disintegrate, immediately followed by the loss of his rear stabilisers.

  He could not explain what happened after that.

  All he knew was that, one moment he had been wrestling with a dying aircraft, the next he was aware of a silence that was, to say the least, weird, and he realised that he was floating gently in the freezing cold snowy sky.

  When he was brought back to the test base, one of Mikoyan’s designers had asked him what he might suggest to help.

  Djorov verbally exploded and got right in the face of the shrinking man, and at a range of about three centimetres let rip as only a man who has recently had a close acquaintance with impending death can do.

  “You send me up in a fucking death trap and then ask me what I suggest? Fucking Idiot!”

  Djorov stepped back, aware that it wasn’t necessarily just the young engineer’s fault.

  He turned to escape the awkward moment, intent on cleaning up in the comfort of his billet.

  Something caught his eye and he decided to make the most of the moment.

  He pointed at the pair of aircraft sat outside the Mikoyan pilot’s rest facility.

  Moving back in closer to the engineer, but this time with a quieter approach, Djorov hissed his considered response.

  “Design like that, Comrade Engineer, or build the Red Air Force some of them!”

  The angry man left, leaving the design engineer both perplexed and thoughtful.

  One of his older colleagues joined him and both watched the retreating pilot.

  “Comrade Arushanian. Don’t trouble yourself. The PodPolkovnik has just had a narrow escape and he’s bound to be angry.”

  “Well, he is certainly that, Comrade Piadyshev.”

  Both men shared a modest laugh, as they both understood that they had contributed, in their own way, to Djorov’s close shave.

  “I asked him what he would suggest.”

  This time it was only the older man who laughed.

  “Well, that would have done it for me too, you idiot! What were you thinking of?”

  The sole answer was a shrug of defeat.

  “I suppose his suggestion involved sticking something in a position within your back passage?”

  “No, Comrade Piadyshev. He said we should give him some of those.”

  Filipp Piadyshev followed the direction of Arushanian’s finger.

  Almost mocking the designers and engineers of the Mikoyan Institute, two proven warriors of the sky, ex-German ME 262’s jet fighters, sat in efficient silence,

  1418 hrs, Wednesday, 20th November 1945, the heights, west of Muingcreena, near Glenlara, Mayo, Éire.

  He was the third agent that Bryan had dispatched to the area. He also knew that he was the only one still alive, the other two having fallen victim to Judas Reynolds’ stark policy on anyone 'out of place' found in the locale.

  Thomas O’Farrell, and that was his real name, was clearly a career criminal with an arrest record as long as the longest arm, and he had spent a great deal of time in Éire’s criminal institutions, mainly in solitary confinement..

  In reality, Thomas Ryan O’Farrell, Sergeant in the Irish Army, was often detained, by prior arrangement, to permit him to take time to relax, his double life free from discovery, safe inside the protective custody of secure government facilities, as well as relaying whatever he had recently discovered about the Irish Republican Army.

  His hurried deployment was not ideal, but Bryan had little choice in the matter, and so O’Farrell was dispatched with simple orders.

  ‘Confirm the existence of an IRA facility at Glenlara, establish numbers of personnel present and ascertain its purpose.’

  Bryan, always honest with his agents, informed O’Farrell of the previous attempts at approaching the site and their terminal outcomes.

  Immediately that he had received the call from Rafferty, Bryan had contacted his local man and sent him off to observe the site.

  His body had been found the following evening, ostensibly run over by a very apologetic farmer, a man with suspected republican tendencies. He had no idea the man had been sleeping in the long grass, but was very apologetic and offered to write a letter of condolence to the destroyed corpse’s family, which offer was tactfully declined.

  The second agent had been found drowned in one of the many ponds that littered the area.

  That had been three days ago and the post-mortem, or at least the part that didn’t lie as a matter of public record, indicated that the man had suffered a significant
beating that did not tally with the suggested contact with the rescuing boat that the local police had put forward as a reason for the additional injuries.

  But, as far as the local police and their republican friends were concerned, accidental death by drowning was the official cause of death.

  At this moment, that was of no significance, as Thomas Ryan O’Farrell had just made a startling discovery.

  A large Allied seaplane had just flown close by to seaward and the few civilians that had been in sight had disappeared.

  As the drone of aero engines receded, he adjusted the thick waterproof on which he lay, noting that the snow had recommenced its efforts to freeze him to death.

  He pulled the white blanket up over him and settled back into his over watch.

  And almost missed the biggest prize of all.

  “Fucking hell!”

  He scolded himself for the outburst and focussed the binoculars on the face of Judas Reynolds, stretching in the open doorway, a roaring fire behind him.

  ‘You fucking Fenian bastard you, Judas, Bryan will be...’

  Another man came into view, not one O’Farrell recognised but one that made his heart miss a beat.

  His mouth remained open but not a sound came. He didn’t trust himself even to think.

  The door shut as quickly as it opened, but the picture of a Soviet naval officer was deeply ingrained on his mind.

  As he tried to order his thoughts, the approaching IRA security party drew his attention.

  He started into his concealment routine, safe in the knowledge that the men never deviated from their patrol path, probably because of the deep snow but, O’Farrell thought with a professional contempt, ‘they’re just playing at the fucking soldier game.’

  It proved so again, and thirty minutes later he was back at the main road. A handset had been attached to the phone line that ran overhead and O’Farrell composed himself and his cryptic message as he pulled it from its hiding place.

  Two hours later, acting on aa anonymous tip off, a police patrol caught a burglar in the act of stealing petrol from a shed in Aughalasheen and, in view of his attempts to resist arrest, as well as identifying him as a well-known criminal, transported the bleeding and insensible man to a holding cell at the Garda station in Walshe Street, Ballina.

  The Inspector in charge of the patrol had been briefed on the need to get O’Farrell to the station and had initiated the beating to provide reason for the journey.

  He would apologise that it got out of hand when the circumstances permitted but, none the less, he grudgingly respected the man, whoever he was, as did those others of his patrol that presently had their own appointments with the Police Doctor at Ballina, because of injuries sustained in the apprehension of Thomas O'Farrell.

  The arrest, some might call it brawl, had been witnessed by one Noel Connolly, a young man for whom the pleasures of the straipach, the local whore, held no charm. He took his pleasures in the arms of an even younger farmhand in Aughalasheen.

  On his return to Glenlara, Connolly mentioned the arrest, if only to boast how the unfortunate burglar had bested five beefy Garda before being felled by a blow from behind.

  Brown, secretly back in the main camp for the evening, promised himself to find out what the Garda were doing in the area in the first place, and then went back to his quiet but animated discussion with Reynolds.

  In the main, they turned a blind eye to Connelly’s ‘ungodly activities’, rarely even acknowledging them.

  However, this night, both men stared after the disappearing IRA man and then shared a conspirator’s smile as cunning minds merged in a plan to dispose of a pressing problem.

  Once the Garda had been attended to and, in the case of two of the bloodied men, had their wounds stitched, O’Farrell received the very best of attention himself, the police doctor’s examination and treatment exceedingly thorough.

  In line with his wishes, the examination of his lower regions was conducted in private, the doctor insisting on being alone, despite the protestations of the guarding constables.

  The period by themselves permitted him to swiftly write out a report on the pad she produced from her medical bag. They didn’t speak at all, except for matters that a doctor and burglar would converse about. However, the doctor was on the payroll of G2 and knew that she would meet another man later that night, a man who would want answers.

  She memorised the note, pausing to confirm one word that stood out amongst the others, her mouth working without sound, his response a simple nod.

  She lit both of them cigarettes, rechecked that she could fully recall the brief message and then consigned the note to a fiery end in the ashtray. After sufficient time had passed, the guards were summoned back and she went to report that the scallywag was fit enough to travel to Dublin. Interest had been aroused on the man’s possible IRA leanings and the prisoner was to be taken there at first light.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Bryan had ramped up the 'legend' of O’Farrell, ensuring that any Garda with republican sympathies would put his agent’s name in the spotlight, in the most advantageous sort of way.

  The meeting was brief and took place in the quiet of her office within St Joseph’s District Hospital, Ballina.

  As the message made its way south, Dr Raymond made her way home to the Mount Falcon estate, where she and her family were staying, guests of the Aldridge family. It was a short-term agreement whilst they sought suitable property nearer to her work, an agreement that Bryan’s department had made easy.

  Her husband and children were already asleep and, as Dr Raymond had not yet returned, the butler was unable to help the police with their request. Replacing the receiver, he intended to inform her of the new call immediately she returned.

  Anyway, it sounded like a nasty business and not one for a lady like Dr Raymond.

  The police needed confirmation of death on a car driver; at least once the bits had been extracted from the car by the local fire brigade. The police officer had been quite happy to try to shock the old butler with the gruesome details of a wrecked car and a more wrecked body, hit head on by a lorry carrying hay bales, which skidded on ice.

  It was not until the following morning that the Raymond family reported the doctor missing and the Ballina police realised the true horror of the situation.

  The following day, news of Raymond’s awful death reached Bryan’s ears and caused consternation.

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Assassination?’

  The head of G2 decided that this was a complication that needed further investigation, so held back on telling his British contacts, at least until some more enquiries were carried out.

  So the report from O'Farrell that he now possessed, which had preceded the awful news by only forty minutes, remained unspoken of and uncommunicated to his Allies.

  His Allies had not yet passed on their own knowledge, for their own reasons,

  Such were the games that the Intelligence services played.

  2339 hrs Friday, 22nd November 1945, Glenlara, Mayo, Éire.

  “Lieutenant Dudko!”

  The lack of any response ensured a repeat of the hammering on the wooden door.

  “Lieutenant Dudko!”

  At last, sounds of movement betrayed the fact that the Political Officer had been wrenched from his land of dreams and back into the harsh realities of life, or at least the reality that was about to be presented to him, courtesy of Judas’ planning.

  “Comrade Reynolds? What do you want? Is there a problem?”

  “Yes there is, Major. I don’t know where to start.”

  Dudko surveyed the falling snow and decided to deal with the matter indoors.

  “Come in, come in, Tovarich.”

  “No, no, I can’t do that. It’s summat you've to see for yourself, boyo.”

  Reynolds played the part of perturbed and shocked man perfectly, his facial expression alone spiking Dudko’s curiosity.

  “One moment, Co
mrade, just one moment. Should we wake Lieutenant Masharin?”

  “Our Comrade Masharin may not do what is right... what is needed here.”

  That intrigued Dudko, as well as massaged his ego.

  “Explain, Comrade Reynolds.”

  The political officer swiftly slipped into his boots and pulled his greatcoat on before venturing outside.

  “There's summat you've to see. Summat awful, Dmitri. I don’t know what to do! You'll know for sure!”

  Playing to Dudko’s ego was a masterstroke and the naval officer was drawn further in.

  The two were moving steadily towards a small building set apart from the rest, sometimes obscured by the flurries of snow, sometimes not, when the presence of three men nearby became obvious.

  Brown and two IRA men stood shivering, ostensibly waiting to receive Reynolds and Dudko, whereas in fact they had been serving the more sinister purpose of ensuring that the occupants of the hut did not leave.

  “Still there, Patrick. I don’t know what to say, really I don’t.”

  Reynolds put a ‘comforting’ hand on Brown’s shoulder.

  “Well, I’ve got Dmitri herenow. He’ll know what to do, to be sure."

  “What is so bad, Comrade Reynolds? You can tell me.”

  “I can’t Dmitri, really I can’t. We don’t know what to do. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  So Dmitri Dudko, strings pulled by the hateful Reynolds, saw for himself.

  Acting on orders, one occupant of the room, young Noel Connelly, had moved the curtain sufficiently for anyone outside to be able to see into the interior.

  He had also ensured that the candle remained burning in order that, when Dudko looked through the gap, he would be able to see all that was required. Indeed, that proved to be the case and the Political Officer was in no doubt that the man penetrating the young Irishman was none other than the Soviet commander, Ilya Nazarbayev.