by Gee, Colin
“Yes Comrades, May! The treacherous English bastard was about his tricks quicker than we thought.”
Some very serious and capable military muscle suddenly felt very much betrayed and exceptionally angry, which was the whole purpose behind the style of the presentation.
He held aloft the document he had been passed and all eyes automatically shot to it.
“Operation Unthinkable it is called, named in an effort to deflect us should we find out about it I expect.”
Bulganin’s voice rose to almost a shriek, punching out words to huge effect.
“Over forty capitalist divisions to attack us in Northern Germany, striving for the Baltic. Our Allies, Comrades, our dear… trustworthy … Capitalist … Allies!”
Voices from the floor were raised in disbelief and anger to this apparent backstabbing and many normally calm men became very agitated.
Bulganin waited for the furore to subside, hands on hips, staring wildly at his willing audience.
He picked up his folder and indicated its contents with a scowl.
“Reports here of the best general they have, George Patton, speaking out against the de-Nazification of Germany and preaching of the threat posed by Communism….Mother Russia…. US! He has even urged his commanders to attack us before we grow too strong!”
The howls of the betrayed filled the air and were not easily brought under control by an agitated Bulganin.
“Their transport of troops home has greatly slowed despite their assurances that they would start to demobilise. Only those to be sent to the Pacific to fight the slant-eyes now leave Europe!”
He took a very obvious moment to compose himself before continuing.
“Comrade Polkovnik-General Pekunin’s agents have also discovered more treachery in the Western Allies, treachery which you will not believe comrades!”
“They, the useless French Military that is, plan to employ defeated German soldiery in their army to fight in Indo-China against our communist brother General Ho. At the same time, in an operation laughably called ‘Apple pie’, the American leadership are courting German Generals and their main topic of conversation is us!”
A furore of angry words burst forth upon the room, and this time it needed Stalin himself to thump his hand repeatedly on the desk to bring the group back to some sort of order.
Bulganin nodded appreciatively at the General Secretary before turning once more to his incensed audience.
“The Americans have an operation they call ‘Paperclip’, which is channelling every German scientist who worked on the Nazi’s rocket programme into working for them! Nazi’s making rockets for the Americans! To what end I ask?”
More anguish poured forth from the military.
“Comrades, you must stay calm, as your leadership has stayed calm. There must be no action in anger or haste.”
Wise heads and hotheads alike nodded at those sensible words.
It was to a silent room that the punch line was delivered.
“After much consideration, it has been decided that the Motherland will not bow to these threats. We will retain each and every metre of soil we now hold and there will be no more negotiations, no more concessions. Our existing agreements with the Western Allies are dead.”
There were many hearty claps to honour that decision.
“Our leader,” he indicated Stalin with an expansive gesture, “Also knows the people and the party will not accept this treachery, and has planned for the day when we will oppose it and cast it aside.”
“In your hands you possess the plans by which the Motherland will overcome these travesties. The memory of all our comrades who gave their life’s blood will be honoured and our country will be properly rewarded for destroying the threat of Nazism forever.”
Bulganin held up his folder and moved it around so the title could be easily seen by every man. Once satisfied that all had read what he held he continued.
“Our leader’s little joke, for this is one fairytale that will come true for us, but will become a hurricane visited upon the capitalists and their lackeys.”
Even with the passion of the moment some laughs were still forced, for the older, wiser officers knew they were about to be immersed in another sea of blood and fire.
“Comrades, let us begin.”
1724 hrs Monday, 18th June 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
The meeting had commenced at approx 1103 hrs. By the time it finished at 1724 hrs, every question had been answered and the overall political plan was accepted. Actually, nearly every question, because one extremely important question had not even been raised, much to the surprise of every military man present.
No one dared to ask.
The military translation of the document into formal planning would take some time. Reorganising the Soviet Military Fronts into the new formations would take weeks by itself. The Marshall responsible for the largest Front in the west suggested eight months to prepare, whilst others felt it was possible in six.
Professionally, the Generals and Marshalls felt the political plan good and fully understood the reasoning behind it. The evidence of the Western Allies’ own provocations was damning.
It was the timing that caused the major problem. So much to organise. A logistical nightmare that only time could assuage, or so their collective experience told them.
Stalin had said nothing, allowing his Deputy to field all the questions, with additional clarifications sought from Beria and, on two occasions, Colonel General Pekunin of the GRU.
Until the question of preparation was discussed. As possible timescales were being thrown out by the Marshalls, Stalin slowly rose from his chair and slowly walked round to stand in front of the table, adjacent to his deputy. That was unusual and during his short journey the voices trailed away until there was only silence and the sound of his footsteps.
The room held its collective breath.
Stalin looked directly at the Marshall who had advised the longest preparation period. “Comrade Marshall, eight months is preposterous. Six months”, he pointed directly at another senior man who had first touted this time scale, “is wholly unacceptable.” There was no argument. They now knew that Stalin has his own fixed agenda.
“The moment to strike is now” he punched his fist into his hand in emphasis, “And the more we delay, the better prepared the Western Allies will be.”
He held up his file. All eyes were drawn to it.
“You have read and discussed the contents. Comrades Beria, Bulganin, and Pekunin have answered the specifics of your enquiries and you have accepted their reasoning and information. The maskirova is already in place and working, and even as we speak, we move forces eastwards in line with our agreements with the capitalists, armies which can be diverted, following the plan cited in the section covering the involvement of the Japanese.”
“We have all we need and the time is right.”
Stalin turned and walked back round to his seat, tossing his folder noisily onto the table.
“This is no fairytale Comrades; this is reality.”
He took his chair by the back and pulled it out.
“I will expect detailed plans ready for presentation and approval when this group next convenes on 2nd July, with a view to executing the attack at the earliest favourable moment after that”, and sat down and lit his pipe, appearing about as unconcerned as if he had just ordered a dinner rather than instant Armageddon.
There was nothing but stunned silence Stalin looked around him, expecting some comments but there were none, so he continued puffing gently as his eyes swept the room.
His voice broke the strained silence.
“Place your units in the charge of your deputies if you must, but work hard and give the Motherland a plan for victory. There will be no excuse for not being ready Comrades, none.”
No one present doubted that, but such a short period of time to plan such a huge enterprise?
One Marshall, his shaven head already full of o
rders and maps, stood and waited to be recognised.
Stalin acknowledged him with a gesture of his head.
“Comrade General Secretary, as you say, the political plan is good and the timing is right. We can and will present the military plan but we lack vital details.”
This was the one thing that had, for some reason best known to the General Secretary, been omitted from the documents.
“Yes you are right Comrade Marshall, the details of who will command and oversee Operations.”
“Yes Comrade General Secretary.”
“That decision had not been reached until today.”
Looking around at the rest of the GKO, Stalin received the expected nods of assent from all, even though only Beria and Bulganin knew which names were to follow.
“The command of the Far East Front will be placed in the capable hands of Comrade Marshall Vasilevsky.” The recipient acknowledged his appointment by standing up and clicking to attention.
“Command of the newly created Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe will fall to……”
Stalin’s voice trailed off and he slowly, almost theatrically, looked around the room, most managing to avoid his eye as his gaze swept over them before returning to the officer standing who had posed the question.
“Well, you of course Comrade Marshall Zhukov. Who else would we entrust this great venture to but Georgy the Victory Bringer?”
The tragedy of war is that it uses man's best to do man's worst.
Henry Fosdick
Chapter 4 –THE INFORMATION
2350 hrs, Thursday, 28th June 1945, Scientist’s Residential Block, Los Alamos, New Mexico.
Emilia Beatriz Perlo was always in demand. She was twenty-five years of age and had all the classic Mediterranean beauty associated with her lineage, from smouldering hazel eyes framed by heavy eyelashes, shoulder length jet-black hair that hung in natural curls, through to a full and extremely curvaceous body, all of which made Emilia the subject of much attention and desire amongst her fellow scientists.
Her speciality was algebra, and in particular algebraic geometry. She was outstanding in her field, even at such a young age. Perlo’s abilities within the field of Mathematical Physics meant she stood out in a peer group of outstanding talent.
Having been sent from her native Spain in 1934 when her family saw the civil war coming, she resided with her Aunt in Washington, entering the American education system as a regular student. It was not long before her incredible talents became noticed and she was nurtured through higher education and into a government programme.
She was nineteen years old when she received the news that her father had been killed in action, fighting alongside the Nationalist forces during the Battle of Teruel on 21st February 1938.
She was twenty-one years old when her aunt sat her down and told her the truth.
Her father was not a nationalist but was a communist who had sided with the Republicans. He had remained as a spy inside the Nationalist forces, supplying information to his communist commanders and risking his life daily in the process.
In an awful twist of fate, he was accidentally shot by a nationalist soldier when clandestinely returning to his encampment after contacting another republican agent with vital information. The nationalists honoured him with a full military funeral as befitted his major’s rank and status, and the Republican hierarchy mourned his passing and the loss of intelligence they would now sustain.
Her aunt spoke of so much more; of ideals, of politics and of a future classless society where all were of equal status and worth, and she wove such a spell that the young Emilia was swiftly hooked into the communist ideal.
More than that, her Aunt cultivated the darker side, the like of which had been Emilia’s father’s domain in his final years. Again, this appealed to the young woman and she found pleasure in hiding her true feelings from everyone save her aunt and older cousin Victoria. Indeed, it appealed to her ego, to be clever enough to hide what was true from those around her. Recruitment into the shady world of espionage followed, in keeping with her cousin and aunt, who both clandestinely served the Red Banner. She learned much from her relatives and the gentlemen who came calling. To the outside world, they were probably suitors for the young women favours. They always brought flowers or candy but in reality, they were communist agents charged with the task of secretly preparing the young Emilia for a life of espionage.
Educationally, her progression under the guidance of the US state was impressive, and she was offered a senior place in a government research programme on her twenty-second Birthday, two days before the attack on Pearl Harbor.
She moved from project to project, gaining trust and, more importantly, higher clearances as her credentials were carefully scrutinised, checked, and re-checked. The fact that she showed no interest whatsoever in politics was noted, and that one of her two living relatives, both of whom resided in the US, was employed as a laundress in the Turkish Embassy was not considered unusual.
Victoria Alejandra Calderon was twenty-seven and had no adverse history; her name only appeared in a file associating her with a US Air Force major, since killed in an accident in the Philippines during June 1941. The other, her Aunt Marta Alejandra Calderon, worked as a sales clerk in a local shoe shop, housed in a building mainly used by a clothiers business belonging to a Michael Green, a gentleman of slight interest to the FBI for no other reason than he met with many military men in the course of his work.
Notes indicated suspicion of some relationship between Michael and Marta, but none was confirmed. Maybe Green just bought a lot of shoes, surmised one annotation. Another noted that he fulfilled private uniform contracts for senior army officers, based in Washington, contracts including the provision of shoes. In any case, neither he nor the women were of concern to the FBI and therefore, by dint of association, neither particularly was Emilia, until she was slated for Manhattan.
Perversely, it was any communist links that were considered more of a threat and prioritised accordingly. Her father’s service with the Nationalists was explored but his clandestine belief in the Republican cause was not uncovered.
The Nationalist link did still cause some concern to investigators and, for a while, it was touch and go as to whether her higher security clearance would be passed.
Emilia applied for US citizenship on her twenty-third birthday, which actually helped clinch her acceptance and she was soon moved to the secret facility at Los Alamos, New Mexico, wherein “Manhattan” was making huge strides forward in understanding fission.
As agreed with her aunt and cousin, there would be no coded exchanges for six months regardless, as her letters were bound to be scrutinised carefully, which they most certainly were. They were just full of the things that girls speak of to each other and the FBI must have been sick to death of reading about dresses, make-up, and boyfriends. Which was most definitely the plan.
Long before that self-imposed time was up, her risk category was downgraded and Emilia had become less of a priority, but the women stuck to the agreed time scale and so it was late 1943 before Victoria started to receive information from her cousin.
Because of Emilia’s existing ‘professional’ contacts, a more complex system of reporting and ordering had been set up to protect all involved. There was delay as a result but even Beria felt it was safety first with this asset. There were occasional doubts about the security within the Soviet Embassies, so those premises were avoided as much as possible, as was the case with every important Soviet agent at this time.
Whatever came in from Emilia was decoded by Victoria and re-encoded very precisely with her own special cipher, then passed to her aunt, who secreted the message in shoeboxes purchased by her contact, Iskhak Akhmerov, the resident illegal in America, also known as Michael Green.
He then further encoded in the appropriate NKGB code and then passed it to Hakan Ali Hakan. Hakan was a Turkish intelligence officer who gave his loyalties to the communist ideal, and who, i
n his turn. further encoded the message, this time in an ancient Turkish Intelligence cipher and forwarded it to the Foreign Ministry in Ankara.
Here it landed on a desk in the American business section, marked for the personal attention of one Teoman Schiller, son of a First World War German officer who happened to be good communist, as was his son. Schiller then passed it, by dead drop or brush pass, to Vice-Consul Konstantin Volkov of the Soviet Embassy who decoded both the Turkish and NKGB codes before encoding again, this time in NKVD code. He was Deputy Head of the NKVD in Turkey and knew exactly what it was that he was handling. He tried to break Victoria’s special cipher, for professional satisfaction as well as for his personal insurance policy, but he had been able to understand very little of its content, despite his best efforts. He sent the NKVD coded version on its way across the Black Sea, from where it speeded to Moscow.
There it was decoded by a senior cryptographer using the NKVD code and Victoria’s special cipher and the translated version was then placed in the hands of the head of Soviet Intelligence services, namely Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria.
It was by this method that Emilia Beatriz Perlo, known as Alkonost, had dispatched the report that arrived in Beria’s hands on the 12th June, the first that made the USSR aware of the advanced nature of US atomic weapon construction .
The arrival of the petite Minox camera had been both a bonus and a challenge.
All mail for the personnel at Los Alamos was addressed to PO Box 1663, Santa Fe NM, which meant that at least once a month she took an official excursion with the mail run to the market in the Plaza around the Palace of the Governors. This had been communicated to her cousin via letter as a possible exchange point, even though she and her fellows were always accompanied by security staff. As secretly directed in her cousin’s latest letter about Washington fashion, she made her way to an eye-catching stall buying and selling clothing and fabrics, investing $16 in a flowing ivy green dress with an extravagant and gaudy decoration on the shoulder. Her minder thought to himself how gorgeous the Spanish beauty would look in it, especially with that low cut front. He would lose the decoration himself as it just did not look right but Emma waxed lyrical about how she loved it, so who was he to comment.
