by Gee, Colin
Knocke waited until De Montgomerie arrived before opening the envelope.
Apart from the methodology of exchange with and contact details of a baker in Baden-Baden, there were also straight-forward requests for military information.
And a grainy picture of two girls called Greta and Magda, stood in front of an unknown Major in NKVD uniform.
What Knocke said was as much of a surprise as the way he said it, his voice taking on a sinister edge, not heard before by brother officers.
“I know where that is.”
“Are they your daughters, Ernst?”
Lavalle enquired carefully, disturbed by the sea change in his friend.
Nodding sharply, Knocke looked up triumphantly.
“I know this place.”
He brought the image closer, drinking in the peripherals more than the daughters he so missed, and the hated uniform in the background.
And then the penny dropped.
“Yes Christophe, they are my daughters.” He held up the photograph for both men to see, “And they are stood in front of the old Gasthaus in Fischausen.”
Fischausen, soon to be renamed Primorsk, had been virtually destroyed in the April fighting, the few surviving inhabitants moved on elsewhere.
The location provided the NKVD with the perfect hiding place, away from day to day public scrutiny.
The old guest house, away from the main area of fighting, had escaped damage, and was used to house the three ‘prisoners’, as well as the personal security detail.
The large building nearby provided warm and dry quarters for the thirty man NKVD guard force, charged with keeping the nosey at distance and ‘disappearing’ those who got too close.
Across the road from the Gasthaus, the relatively undamaged doctor’s residence and surgery proved suitable accommodation for the two NKVD officers.
Other more distant eyes soon turned towards Fischausen, appreciating that its strength was also a weakness.
2037 hrs, Sunday, 2nd September 1945, Leconfield House, Curzon Street, London.
The thick curtains were drawn, and only a single table lamp salvaged the Victorian room from darkness.
The single occupant, relaxing with a modest single malt, had long ago switched off the radio, tiring of the new BBC Light programme, returning to the desk to finish the last of his work before heading to his London home.
At least that was the plan, which did not survive the urgent telephone call he received.
Placing his pen carefully in the holder, he lifted the receiver.
“Petrie.”
Had another person been in the room they would have witnessed a metamorphosis, Petrie’s gaze becoming hardened, his free hand stroking his moustache into place.
“Bring it up immediately, Jones.”
He gently replaced the receiver and waited, estimating the time it would take the duty officer to make it from the decoding room to his office.
It was a game he played, interpreting the speed of arrival as a marker of their import.
The knock on the door came an unprecedented fifteen seconds in advance of schedule.
The duty officer entered and stood breathlessly before the desk of MI5’s Director-General.
“Sir, this message was logged in at 2031 hrs and marked ‘eyes only DG’.”
That in itself was not unusual.
“It is also in Omega Code, Sir.”
That was extremely unusual and the reason that Jones had taken the steps two at a time from basement to fourth floor.
Omega messages started in the code of the day and the message had been worked on by one of the duty communications team. However, the decoder soon found the ‘Ω9Ω’ mark that betrayed its extreme importance and specific recipient.
“Thank you, Jones. You may go.”
Standing smartly, Petrie strode to his wall safe and extracted the necessary tools to unlock ‘Omega’, understanding that ‘Ω9Ω’ indicated Fenton, HM’s agent in the sleepy hollow that was the Court of Bernadotte, in the presence of Gustaf V, King of Sweden.
Once the ‘Omega’ was decoded, the process of a full hour, Petrie realised that the message had transformed from the indecipherable to solid dynamite with the capacity to destroy much of what had been saved in the war years.
The receiver virtually leapt from its cradle.
The voice at the other end seemed half-asleep, it being a Sunday evening and nothing of note happening.
“Comms room, Charlton.”
“Petrie here. Access to duty officer’s cabinet. Authorisation code Picton. Acknowledge.”
Charlton was suddenly very much awake, although not a little annoyed that a drill should be run at this time on a Sunday.
“Acknowledge receipt of authorisation code Picton. State your requirements, sir.”
Jones looked up from his novel, the words attracting his attention.
“Access secure storage. My code 1830. Acknowledge.”
Next to Charlton’s position was a heavy metal cabinet, its eight-digit numeric combination lock built into the side. His free hand moved the dials, inputting first his, then the DG’s numbers.
“1830, acknowledge.”
The heavy lock clicked open and he tested the sliding door.
“I have access, Sir. File access name please.”
‘Still going, are we? Stupid time for a drill, old chap.’
“File access ‘Hastings’. Contact both named members immediately. Message is ‘Effingham’. They are to be in my office yesterday. Acknowledge.”
Charlton was totally focussed in a micro-second, as ‘Hastings’ was just a rumour, spoken of in hushed whispers over drinks in the nearby pub.
“Access ‘Hastings’, both members to be contacted and given the message ‘Effingham’. To attend your office immediately. Yes, Sir.”
His ‘Yes Sir’ was spoken to a dead connection, Petrie having cut the line before dialling an outside number.
The phone rang unanswered.
‘Damn, of course. Should have realised.’
He dialled another number, the one he should have dialled first, given the time of day.
This time it was answered immediately.
“The Guards Club, Good evening. How may I be of assistance?”
“Ah Squires, just the fellow.”
“Sir David, how may I be of assistance?”
“Squires, is Sir Fabian there this evening?”
“He most definitely is, Sir. Presently engaging the younger members with his memories of Mons.”
“This is most urgent, Squires. Please bring him to the phone.”
“Sir.”
The phone was placed carefully down, and Petrie could almost hear the man limp away as fast as his shortened left peg could carry him.
A disturbance in his ear quickly told him that his man had arrived.
“Callard-Smith.”
“Jack, it’s David. No time to explain right now. Just need to know you will be in town all week.”
“Ah David! My dear fellow. I’m here until Thursday, and then I’m off to Roger’s estate for some weekend shooting.”
“Good. I may have need of you, so please don’t disappear, Jack.”
“I do hate mysteries, old chap. What’s it about?”
“Cannot say right now, but I think it is as big as it comes, and I will need you.”
“Righty ho David, mum’s the word then. Got to go now, it’s Percy’s round.”
Two men replaced their phones.
One, Sir David Petrie, started to work on a plan to sort out the abominable mess that had just landed in his lap.
The other, Colonel Sir Fabian John Callard-Smith MP VC, wondered what had got his dear friend in such an agitated state, and what part he was to play in the grand design.
Stirred by the faint cries of derision as Percy Hollander chalked drinks to his personal account, he stepped away from his thoughts and moved quickly to add to Percy’s tally.
2259 hrs, Sunday, 2nd
September 1945, Leconfield House, Curzon Street, London.
Petrie finished his scotch, enjoying the silence his radical suggestion had brought about.
The other two members of ‘Hastings’, having been summoned according to set procedure, had dropped everything to deal with what was obviously a matter of the utmost importance.
The report had not been copied; Omegas never were. It would not survive the end of the meeting, the cold fireplace to be lightly warmed as it was destroyed within the sight of all the Hastings Group.
But for now, the other two reflected upon Petrie’s drastic suggestion.
The first reaction had been shock, followed quickly by anger.
After proper consideration, doubts had arisen.
“If we act against this, are we committing treason? Becoming traitors in our turn?”
Lord Southam posed the questions to the head of MI5, the confusion evident in a man of sound thinking.
“No, I think not, Will. We are preserving His Majesty’s Government in a time of National crisis. To not act, that certainly would be a betrayal of our nation, and don’t forget, there is no democratic mandate for this, just the knee-jerk reaction of a frightened man.”
That may have been a bit strong, but Petrie didn’t care.
Major General Colin Gubbins was, for the most part, silent. He was having the most difficulty reconciling himself with the contents of the Swedish report.
“I can’t believe he would do it without Cabinet approval.”
Southam examined the empty nature of his glass, finding a dribble to test his tongue.
“Well Colin, I can assure you that not even the Minister has an inkling of this.”
Gubbins looked mortified. None the less, having offered little to the discussion but a word here and there, the Head of SOE was not one to shirk responsibility.
He made his statement with a black humour.
“If this is how it is painted then your suggestion is acceptable. I will be hanged if I will see this happen.”
Petrie nodded at Gubbins, having expected no less, his choice of words bringing a smile.
“If, and I stress if, I were to go along with this, will Callard-Smith do the job?”
Southam was a life-long civil servant, and he had learnt the political dance at an early age.
“Absolutely,” stated Petrie with utter confidence.
Southam spent a few moments in quiet reflection before extending his glass.
The head of MI5 chuckled, refilling all three in a flash.
The three stood on cue, and it was Gubbins that offered the toast.
“God save the King, and to hell with Attlee.”
The scotch seared their throats as they committed to Petrie’s plan.
The Swedish report had detailed the intended secret meeting between British and Soviet envoys and the circumstances of it, complete with a Soviet intelligence report detailing their knowledge.
The reasons were unknown but could be guessed at, especially if reading intelligence reports on some of Attlee’s private conversations in Number Ten.
His despair at the climbing casualty rates on land, his horror at the losses of capital ships at sea, and, possibly the last straw, his shock at the immolation of RAF Bomber Command in Northern Germany.
Whatever his reasons, it was patently clear what his solution was.
Clement Attlee, Prime Minister, had taken it upon himself to discuss the possibility of a separate armistice with the Soviet Union, taking his country out of the war.
And ‘Hastings’ was resolved to stop it at all costs.
Valour is superior to numbers
Flavius Vegetius Renatus
Chapter 76 - THE SURVIVOR
1142 hrs, Tuesday, 4th September 1945. Old School, Kirchplatz 5, Birkenfeld, Germany.
The ‘Leopard’ sat in his chair, looking like the cat that got the cream.
His surprise visit to Knocke’s headquarters seemed to have caught the SS bastard on the hop and, for once, he felt in a dominant position.
‘Always the superior air, you SS bastard. Not today though, caught you today, you bastard.’
Strangely, Knocke was of little use at the moment, as the ego of a certain newly promoted French General needed only the slightest of massages before indiscretions tumbled from the man’s mouth.
As a professional, Kapitan Sergei Kovelskin of the GRU, or as he was normally known, Major Stanislas Kowalski of the 1st Polish Armoured Division, used General Molyneux as the excellent source he was. Privately, and in some ways, also as a professional, he had nothing but contempt for the fool, something he had in common with the man sat opposite.
With ill-concealed triumph, Kowalski revealed the depth of his knowledge.
“I already know that you have pre-movement orders for a relocation to Mühlacker, so I don’t need that information.”
Knocke’s uncomfortable look gave him away immediately, something Kowalski noticed, whilst another part of his brain informed him that, in his arrogance, he had just made a mistake.
He quickly rectified it.
“What can I say, Knocke? The French are fools and I see a lot of paperwork, which is why I also don’t need the revision of your Corps Order of Battle.”
“Rear-line soldiers.”
Knocke’s simple statement was sufficient to portray his disgust, and also hide the smallest of lights in his eyes, put there by a possible error on the Russian’s part.
‘The German bastard is getting the idea.’
Kowalski relished the superiority of his position.
Knocke lit a cigarette to help gather his thoughts. By his right hand was a prepared and slightly sanitised version that he had set ready, once he had been informed that the Russian was on his way.
“So, you have no more use for me then, Kowalski?”
The laugh that greeted that statement bore no humour in it.
“Oh but we still have great use for you, Knocke. My next order to you is quite simple. Do not take your unit north of the River Enz.”
“That will be impossible. I will have orders...”
“Fuck your orders Knocke. You will ensure that your men do not step over the water. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences.”
Knocke conceded the point, his dangerous game best played with fewest words.
“If you relocate, I will come and find you, but use the relay here until then,” and anticipating Knocke’s protestation he held up a hand, “And don’t tell me you can’t because we know you can, even if it is just to get your favourite pastries.”
Knocke methodically stubbed out his cigarette, using the dead end to bring together a coned-shaped pile of ash.
He dropped the butt, almost seeming to notice the agent for the first time.
“Was there anything else, Maior?”
“Just to say that if I don’t report in regularly, the man in the photo will carry out some unpleasant orders. Don’t forget that, Knocke.”
1152 hrs, Tuesday 4th September 1945, With 9th Guards Bomber Air Regiment, airborne over South-Western Germany.
The French pilot’s sense of betrayal made them dangerous enemies and, combined with their knowledge of Soviet aircraft capabilities, they would soon establish a reputation second to none in air-to-air combat.
Having written briefing documents that were now circulating from frontline squadrons all the way to training units in Canada, the group of skilled aviators were determined to seek combat against their betrayers.
Finally, they were given some Mustangs, fresh from British service, the RAF pilots of necessity reverting to another type of which they had previous experience, brought out from mothballs because of the chronic shortage of aircraft and spare parts.
After some conversion, the ‘Rapier’s’ were let loose on the battlefront, finally achieving their first air victories of the new war on 4th September.
The Il-4’s were ripped apart, the fighters immediately going for the soft underbellies w
here they could attack with relative safety.
Four Ilyushin’s were knocked down in the first pass, the commander screaming into his radio, partially to get help, and partially to vent his fear.
He ordered his Regiment to go lower, trying to remove the present attack option, and was immediately rewarded with the repulse of a hasty attack, the Mustang driven off smoking.
It was the sole victory he saw, his urgent radio transmissions stopped in mid-sentence as .50cal bullets smashed through his cockpit and exited the glass nose beyond.
Dazed and coughing blood, the Major could find no strength to move as his aircraft lazily rolled onto its back. He watched in petrified fascination as the ground came increasingly closer.
The surviving five bombers hugged the landscape and paid for it, the junior pilot clipping a church tower and fireballing into a row of houses.
Four now, as low as they dared, trading speed for height, or lack of it, safety the golden target.
Back over Soviet lines there was no chance of flak, so each pilot concentrated on the ground and the enemy who still pursued.
And then they were gone, the sky suddenly empty of the death bringers.
The surviving pilots flew on, leaving seven of their aircraft and twenty-nine of their comrades behind.
Each aircraft had a four man crew, the extra loss being a reporter from the ‘Pravda’ newspaper, who fell for the ‘easy mission’ briefing of the Divisional Commander, and who died cursing the man’s name.
1153 hrs, Tuesday 4th September 1945, With 21st Guards Bomber Air Regiment, airborne over South-Western Germany.
The Lightning P38-J was an upgraded version of the famous twin-tail fighter, and much improved compared to the aircraft that had tested the Luftwaffe in the early days of the American commitment.
