Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The Captain arrived first and Volkov arrived shortly afterwards. Expecting an answer to his question, he was extremely surprised and very upset to discover that he would not be offered what he wanted during this meeting.

  There was nothing he could do except try and satisfy the requests put to him.

  Fresh in his mind was a message he had encoded for sending via his Turkish contacts, and so he spoke of it. He assumed this eventually went to the Turkish Embassy in Washington but knew no more. The contents were also unknown to him but he was conscious of the fact that it was an extremely important agent for whose messages, incoming or outgoing, he was to be brought into the embassy no matter what time of day or night a message arrived. The young Captain made written notes, which made Volkov very uncomfortable.

  “Enough!” he hissed. “Remember what I tell you. No writing.”

  “OK sir.” He made a point of dramatically finishing the sentence he was writing. “Anything else I can pass on to my boss?”

  “Just that there is much concern that you may have broken our NKVD, diplomatic and trade ciphers and so we are moving to a new code system in the next two months.”

  “Well there is not a lot there for my boss to sell this idea sir.”

  The more Volkov thought about it, the more he agreed. The Turks would fall over themselves for his info. The British would wet their pants when he revealed what he knew. Why on earth had he gone to the Amerikanisti? The answer to that lay with British Military Intelligence. He could not trust them, for they were infiltrated by the NKVD.

  His mind wandered back to finding something of import for the moment.

  Once, when the route had first been established, he had partially decoded the NKGB version of a message, from an agent AKONHOST. It had made little sense to him but he did remember one word.

  “Manhattan, my Directorate knows about Manhattan.”

  The Captain looked amused.

  “Sir, everyone knows about Manhattan. It’s on all the maps.”

  Both men stood up, one to go and one to remonstrate but who then thought better of it. One resolved to file a relatively useless report with his boss and the other resigned to the fact that he had made an error approaching the Amerikanisti and would carefully approach the British instead. Very carefully obviously, with conditions of who was to know what and how communications should be managed, but he was sure they would like to know what he knew about the depths to which Soviet Intelligence had them penetrated!

  They went their own ways with neither a shake of the hand nor another word.

  Those who talk on the razor edge of double-meanings pluck the rarest blooms from the precipice on either side.

  Logan Pearsall Smith

  Chapter 14 – THE REPORT

  1035 hrs Friday, 13th July 1945, Department of Justice Building, F.B.I. Office, Washington D.C.

  The Captain compiled a written report on the meeting that was concise and accurate, even down to the Russian’s useless joke at the end of the meeting.

  The report was placed on the Lieutenant Colonel’s desk on a day he was on sick leave, and so was not processed for sending forward until the following day.

  He viewed it with no great interest but sent it forward with grade 1 priority solely based on the stuff about code changing.

  It was a low traffic day on the 12th, so the report made its way through to the FBI in Washington in record time.

  The ‘stuff’ on code changing arrived and produced a seismic wave at Project Venona, a joint US Army-FBI attempt to decode Soviet communications. Not only was it a heads-up that change was possible it was also indicative of the fact that the Soviets were sensing an extra pair of eyes reading their private thoughts.

  The report also took other routes at a more leisurely pace.

  It was Friday the 13th by the time it arrived in the FBI building. Agent Drew Hargreaves had drawn the short straw and was undertaking the communications review occasionally done on the letters of all staff at a certain location in New Mexico.

  Having just been wholly bored reading women’s talk for half an hour, he was at the coffee machine when a new report arrived. He signed for it, mainly as he was the nearest and could hardly run away in any case, and took it with him into his booth.

  Something different to run his eyes over before he got back the serious business of reading what the fashion of the moment was.

  The report had been sanitised and all hint that it originated from a possible defector had gone. That meant that it held little of substance.

  Hargreaves opened it and speed-read the page, somewhere in his brain noting ‘Turkish’ but not processing the word as he was compulsively drawn to the final paragraph.

  “Sweet Lord on high, sweet lord on high.”

  His brain raced with thoughts. ‘Manhattan; the Soviets know about Manhattan. Sweet lord on high. They know about Manhattan.’

  “Sweet lord…”

  His mind flicked deliberately and accessed his memory covering the word ‘Turkish’ and he read that section more closely.

  His left-hand reached out and he re-read the file cover note for the private Los Alamos correspondence he had been reading.

  Hargreaves was a god-fearing southern boy, brought up in the State of Mississippi. Crippled in a farming accident at the age of nine, he threw himself into academia, earning top honours in college and subsequently choosing a life of service to the government that had provided his education. He entered the FBI in 1938 and found his niche in intelligence. He was a first-rate analyst and never accepted coincidences.

  He also never, ever cursed.

  “Fuck.”

  And so it was that he held in his right hand a low-level report from Istanbul containing the codename of the most important project his country was undertaking in modern-times, coupled with inference of important spy information going through the same country. In his left hand a file cover-sleeve that indicated that this particular scientist corresponded regularly and at length with a cousin employed at the Turkish Embassy.

  One telephone call later, the FBI started a minute inspection of the life of Emilia Beatriz Perlo and her family. Others re-examined all the letters exchanged between the family. By that evening, the Agent in charge realised that serious mistakes had been made and, even though some information was still to come from the renewed friendly contact with Spain, there was enough proof in hand to arrest Victoria Calderon and Emilia Perlo.

  Recriminations could come later.

  Fall seven times, stand up eight

  Japanese Proverb

  Chapter 15 – THE GERMAN

  1230 hrs Sunday, 15th July 1945, Soviet POW Camp, Ex- OFLAG XVIIa, Edelbach, Austria.

  His name was Uhlmann and he was Waffen-SS.

  He had soldiered from 1940 through to the difficult days in early 1945 and had the scars to show for his endeavours in a losing cause. Had he not had his personal effects removed by his captors over the weeks, then the casual observer would have noted that he held his country’s highest decorations for bravery, from the Iron Cross second class he had won in Northern France, through to the Knight’s Cross placed around his neck for his actions on the Russian steppes. He started as a soldier in the Leibstandarte-SS “Adolf Hitler” and ended his days as an officer commanding a panzer battalion in one of Germany’s cream SS formations, namely the 5th SS Panzer Division ‘Wiking’.

  He was thirty-three years old and his time soldiering had not sat too heavily on him, apart from the occasional stiffness of an old wound, of which he had received more than his fair share. Particularly, an unusual thigh wound would often trouble him but the story of how he had sustained it earned Rolf many a drink, so he endured it with good humour.

  In his younger days his 1.88m frame, blonde hair and blue eyes would have put him on any Waffen-SS recruitment poster and, in truth, he still cut a dashing figure.

  Being Waffen-SS meant he got special treatment from the guards. Because he could speak Russian and therefore valuable
also meant he didn’t get that special treatment as badly as some other SS officers, although rarely a day went by without some new insult or injury being visited upon him by the Bulgarians who policed the camp at Edelbach. There had been some two hundred and fifty-six officers at its peak but a combination of execution, disease, abuse and escapes had reduced that number to two hundred and seventeen. Exactly two hundred and seventeen Rolf knew, for it was his job to know these things, and the Germans have never been accused of being inefficient.

  It had been two hundred and nineteen at breakfast time but Maior Nester had succumbed to his devastating infection mid-morning and Leutnant Lindemann had been shot at 1136 hrs. The memory of that was too fresh. Murdered was more the truth, for no reason other than he was the closest prisoner to that damned NKVD officer who just wanted to show his girl how powerful he really was.

  They all knew Kapitan Skryabin was a psychopath and an asshole but to do that? His absence on home leave had been a period of relative calm for the inmates but now he was back. No rhyme or reason, just pistol out, trigger pulled and handsome young Lindemann, former art student of Leipzig, was no more. Another senseless death in a decade of senseless deaths.

  The trouble with Skryabin, one camp guard had previously confided in a comrade and was overheard by Rolf, was that he was connected in Moscow and was pretty much fireproof. Uhlmann had no idea who or how highly connected as it was not the sort of thing you would just up and ask a guard, certainly not the guards in this camp anyway.

  He had discussed Skryabin with a few of his fellow officers but there was a general feeling of apathy and depression about many comrades, which excluded in-depth thought and conversation unless it was talk of escape, home and family. Perhaps understandable, given what had happened over the last six years.

  Edelbach was a former German POW camp for the incarceration of Allied officer prisoners, mainly French with a smattering of Poles, previously known as OFLAG XVIIa. In 1943 it was the site of the largest mass escape of allied prisoners in World War Two when one hundred and thirty-two men made a bid for freedom through a tunnel on the nights of the 17th and 18th September, escaping in two groups a day apart, with only two men making the full escape to their native France.

  Now the sole occupants of this miserable place were its former proprietors and their new custodians. The previous inmates of Edelbach had been marched away to Linz before the Red Army captured the site, with many failing the harsh physical test and dying right at the end of the war. Most of the barracks were damaged and unoccupied, and solely the five blocks that housed Rolf and his fellows remained inhabited from the thirty or so that had been home to thousands of unfortunates.

  There were all sorts in Edelbach now, from Nazi political animals through to frontline regulars like Rolf who cared little for politics and who had fought for country when called, regardless of the regime in charge. Most were from the regular army, the Wehrmacht, with a considerable number of Waffen-SS, some Luftwaffe, and even one Kriegsmarine Officer. As was the case with a number of SS officers, Rolf was, or rather, had been a Nazi party member until Germany’s collapse, but would confess his membership derived from him being caught up in the euphoria of the early years rather than any fanaticism or dedication to the cause.

  Evidence of the presence of military personnel from France and Poland was to be found in the unusual graffiti in some of the separate blocks. Overall, the forty plus buildings had occupied a site of about a quarter of a hectare in the Austrian Waldviertel. Barbed wire and guard towers surrounded the whole camp with solely the one way in and out. Dated it may be after its facilities were already abused in four years of service but it was still very effective at keeping people just where the watchers wanted them. Each remaining hut sat on a concrete plinth above which it was raised three feet so inspections could be done to ensure no tunnels were being dug. German efficiency was turned against them and had caused many a wry smile in discussions. A single central wood-burner provided heating for the whole hut. That was not a problem as the European summer visited them but would undoubtedly lead to deaths as 1945 drew to a close. Beds were straw paliasses and blankets and it seemed there was never enough of either to go round.

  Meals were two a day. Early morning was a small ration of bread with a thin vegetable soup and evenings brought the delights of more thin soup and the hope of some meat floating in it. The question had been raised a number of times as to what the meat was, so Rolf had enquired but hadn’t translated it literally, preferring to keep his comrades in the dark about what they were enjoying so heartily.

  Of course, there was constant talk of escaping the camp and going home, but only recently had the talk of escape been harnessed to a genuine fear of safety at the hands of the guards. Treatment had been strangely reasonable initially, when their guards were from a combat infantry division.

  Now it was a very different kettle of fish with the new Bulgarian bunch that had not fired a shot in anger,and had much to prove. Of course, Ostap Shandruk, the ever-cheerful Ukrainian, had more reason to fear than anyone else did. If his identity were to become known he would be summarily shot. His papers said he was German and that had not yet been investigated. His Ukrainian SS insignia had long ago been discarded and the mastery of the German language, which had guaranteed his promotion in the Galician Division, now helped to keep his identity secret.

  Rolf had an advantage over his fellow prisoners in that he could speak excellent Russian. That made him invaluable to his captors and often he was the only person privy to both sides of interrogations and discussions between the “management” and his own boys. It didn’t stop him getting his share of physical attention from the Bulgarians but his duties often took him within range of food, drink and other objects that somehow found their way into his possession. More than one young man in field-grey had profited from Rolf’s activities in receiving life-sustaining food when at deaths door.

  His latest acquisitions of Red Star cigarettes and matches were in the possession of Hauptsturmfuhrer Braun, ready for allocation. Braun was the senior NCO in camp and Rolf’s former top dog in the panzer battalion of which he was once commander. More to the point, he was also Uhlmann’s close comrade and would soon, fate willing, be his brother in law. Both he and Braun had been captured when their battalion, II Abteilung, 5th SS Pnz Regt, had been virtually annihilated outside Vienna on 26th March 1945.

  They had managed to destroy everything of use to the advancing Russians as their surviving men tried to make good their escape towards the west. A few days of evasion and they were both finally taken prisoner without a shot being fired just northeast of Traismauer. Both men marvelled that they had been taken prisoner at all, given their arm of service and insignia, but neither ever spoke of it to the other. It had been a nervous few hours most certainly, and more nerve-wracking than combat so Rolf thought.

  After some time they had been moved off with a few other stragglers, none of whom was from Uhlmann’s unit, he was glad to see. A few pioneers and artillerymen from Wiking for sure but the division obviously had made good its escape.

  After being marched around a few different holding areas he and Braun had come to rest in Edelbach and it had become their home, such as it was. What the future held for all of those incarcerated there was unknown but given that the Germany that had laid waste to half of Europe was defeated and that those who had suffered were bound to bay for blood, Rolf felt that it would be long and unpleasant.

  He was partially wrong and, unfortunately for many who shared his present fate, he was also partially right.

  A promise made is a debt unpaid.

  Robert Service.

  Chapter 16 – THE UNDERSTANDING

  1620 hrs Sunday, 15th July 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  The work was still being done in the office of the Soviet General Secretary.

  As usual, Beria was there. Less the norm was the presence of Deputy Chairman Bulganin and People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs Molotov, both
members of the GKO.

  “I can accept the reasoning behind delaying implementation of section 13 of your plan, Lavrentiy, but I see no reason not to send out a warning order to allow our men on the ground to prepare. It is not a small business after all, and we must learn the lessons of Katyn.”

  A word guaranteed to make Beria recoil. Hardly the NKVD’s finest hour, when something that was supposed to be clandestine had made the world’s front pages in the middle of a world war. It was a total embarrassment to the Motherland, let alone the NKVD.

  Beria folded immediately.

  “As you direct Comrade General Secretary. I will send out the preparation order this evening.”

  Both other men nodded sagely at the decision to liquidate thousands of helpless men.

  “So, until tomorrow’s GKO meeting, comrades.”

  The three departed and walked together to their respective cars.

  Beria paused.

  “Comrade Molotov, a word if I may.”

  They took their leave of Bulganin and waited until his car pulled away.

  The two men did not particularly like each other.

  “Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, a word of assistance to you and your family.”

  Molotov prickled but he held his peace.

  “It has come to my attention that one of your line, your sister’s boy Viktor, is speaking loosely of something he should know nothing about.”

  Molotov knew only too well that of which Beria spoke. He had stupidly spoken to his wife in general non-specific terms about the upcoming Kingdom39. She in turn had told his sister, who in her turn had confided in her son during his leave. The boy, using his military knowledge, had pieced together a lot more of what was to come. Viktor had spoken to him later, and received short shrift. From what Beria was saying it seemed Molotov’s anger had not made a difference.