Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Lavalle tried to break the moment.

  “Regrettable, gentlemen, highly regrettable.”

  Pierce responded.

  “Why, General Lavalle? That he’s been arrested here? Now? Or that the whole damn business happened in the first place?”

  Christophe Lavalle went to speak but held himself in check, noticing Knocke turn to the American officer.

  “Everything is regrettable, General Pierce. The war, the deaths, the injuries, everything. But if Lange has done this thing, then he must stand accountable for it, for without such cleansing, Germany will not stand tall and proud again.”

  Knocke shook his head.

  “Is it regrettable that Alma now has to find a new commander? You might say yes, for it could cause us problems. But I would say no, because both this Corps and the new Germany cannot entertain those who have baggage from the past, or we will all be tainted for generations to come.”

  Pierce nodded his head in understanding.

  Knocke fell into silence.

  “So, who is next in line for ‘Alma’?”

  Lavalle posed the question, and each of them understood perfectly that it was rhetorical, the issue already settled in the Legion officer’s mind.

  Even Pierce, who had no input on the matter, understood whom Lavalle was thinking about.

  There was silent agreement.

  Lavalle picked up the phone.

  “Ah, Georges, please contact Colonel St.Clair, and ask him to report to me immediately. Thank you.”

  Replacing the ornate receiver in its cradle, Lavalle smiled mischievously.

  “I will inform Génèral Molyneux in due course.”

  Which everyone understood to mean once it was too late for the commander of the Legion Corps to interfere.

  1219hrs, Sunday, 30th September 1945, Weiβenburg in Bayern, Germany.

  Weiβenburg airfield, home of 19th, 20th and 21st Guards Bomber Air Regiments, suddenly became a hive of activity. It was the sort of activity that an experienced observer might have suspected to be the standard pandemonium associated with panicking officers and NCO’s confronted with the unexpected appearance of a senior commander.

  In this instance, the experienced observer would have been totally correct.

  Colonel General Aleksandr Repin, Deputy Commander in Chief of the Red Air Force, had arrived unannounced, and he was on a mission. He and his entourage swept in through the main entrance, swiftly carrying him all the way to the Regimental Headquarters before the guard officer had an opportunity to warn the 21st’s commander.

  Nikishkin, Colonel of the 21st, heard the growing kerfuffle that risked interrupting his lunch. Looking up from his plate of bread and ham in indignation, he moved from annoyance to concern for his life in a single heartbeat. The Colonel General, backed up by the commander of 9th Guards Bomber Corps, Major General Georgiev, stood over him in silence, awaiting his report.

  Trying not to spray the senior men with his lunch, Nikishkin, now at the attention, delivered the necessary details on the state of his command.

  “Comrade Polkovnik Nikishkin, how is it that you are not prepared for my visit? My staff sent you the details yesterday.”

  “Sir, I regret that no such notification was received.”

  Technically, Nikishkin was telling the truth, although it is possible that such a notification had been received, and that it might have become a victim to the regimental mascot’s playful approach to all things paper.

  He recalled the trashing of the communications office the previous day.

  Eyes flitted to the basket in the corner, and Nikishkin shot the hound a crushing look, which was returned by one combining complete indifference with disdain for those who had interrupted its slumber.

  Repin decided to accept things at face value, do what he needed to do, and get back to his headquarters.

  “Oh well. I’m only here briefly, and not to see you either, Comrade. Direct me to where I may find your hero pilot.”

  “I will escort you myself, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

  Jamming his cap on his head, he made a silent vow to pass the mascot on to the 19th Regiment in the near future, and acquire something less destructive.

  The albino Weimaraner opened an eye as Nikishkin hurried past, unaware that its days were numbered.

  The entourage swelled with extra staff and hangers-on, so that a party approaching twenty entered the relaxation room of the 21st Regiment.

  The sole occupant was inappropriately dressed for the occasion, boots off, and his uniform jacket spread over him like a small blanket.

  As the officer’s orderly fled, he had thrown a cloth at the reclining pilot in an attempt to wake the man, which cloth was now hanging off his dangling foot like a flag of surrender.

  The group strode in and gathered close to the armchair.

  The silence was punctuated by an explosion of bodily gases.

  “Comrade Kapitan.”

  There was no reaction, so Nikishkin raised his voice and leant forward further.

  “Comrade Kapitan.”

  Georgiev stepped forward and ended the sleeping officer’s dream.

  “Comrade Kapitan Istomin, attention-shun!”

  Instantly awake, Istomin swung his legs, sending the cloth flying, coming to the attention with his jacket wrapped round his feet.

  His eyes took in the gold braid surrounding him, each extra strand and rank marking he looked at, bringing the expectation of increased trouble.

  Georgiev looked him up and down, ending back looking into Istomin’s wide eyes.

  “Put your jacket on, man!”

  Ceding the prime position to Repin, Georgiev stepped to one side.

  The Deputy Commander of the Air force moved in front of the now wide-awake pilot, and nodded to a bespectacled Colonel from his staff, who cleared his throat and commenced reading from a small document.

  “Comrade Kapitan Sacha Burianevich Istomin, 21st Guards Bomber Air Regiment, 9th Guards Bomber Corps. The citation reads that, on the 14th September 1945, Starshy Leytenant Istomin took command of his unit, following the death of his commander, and gave orders that saved many lives and aircraft. During the course of the air combat over Birkenfeld and points eastwards, Starshy Leytenant Istomin displayed great personal bravery and heroism, shooting down two enemy fighter aircraft, despite severe damage to his own bomber and personal wounds.

  Comrade Istomin subsequently undertook and completed a difficult landing, bringing his aircraft back to a Soviet airbase.

  For his bravery, leadership and heroism, Comrade Kapitan Sacha Burianevich Istomin deserves the conferring of the title ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’.

  Repin, on cue, slid the pin in place, the red ribbon and gold star standing out proudly on Istomin’s disheveled jacket.

  Grabbing the newly appointed ‘Hero’ by the shoulders, Repin planted a kiss on each cheek.

  Stepping back, the Colonel General breathed in cleaner air, and decided that any further talk would be wasted.

  “Congratulations, Comrade,” his words were echoed by most of the others in the room.

  Within a minute, Istomin found himself alone once more, gazing down at the shiny star and already planning his excuses for his changed afternoon, which now commenced at 1400hrs, in Colonel Nikishkin’s office.

  ‘Properly dressed’, as the Colonel had put it with his final shot.

  2132hrs, Sunday, 30th September 1945, the Kremlin, Moscow.

  The small report lay on the table between the three men, silent, unobtrusive, but none the less dynamite. In their troubled minds, the very presence of it threatened to collapse the heavy wooden structure, so weighty was its content.

  Stalin ate heartily of bread, sausage, and pickles, his attention very obviously on his NKVD chief.

  Malenkov was working the finest Beluga onto his bread, his eyes fixed on the report, his ears focused on the NKVD Chief.

  Beria sipped daintily at his tea, trying to ignore the scrutiny, working
through the questions that Stalin had posed to him.

  He recited the message in his mind.

  ‘[priority code] HHH

  [agent] Alkonost

  [date code] 230945c

  [personal code as an authenticator] FB21162285

  [distribution1] route x-eyes only

  [distribution1] AalphaA [Comrade Chairman Beria].

  [message] Major setback to project. A+ direct contact. Errors in Baratol explosive lens maths, and in initiation. The Baratol 32 ELM is perfect on paper, but is somehow flawed. ELM project restarted from scratch. EBW initiation scraped and restarted. Aim-Eve.

  [message ends]

  Message authenticates. Codes for non-compromisation valid.

  Attention is drawn to spelling error, in last sentence. Check has been done with accepted distress indicators, and this error does NOT indicate distress.

  RECEIVED 09:19 21/7/45-B.V.LEMSKY’

  “Comrade General Secretary, firstly to explain the terms. ELM is the explosive lens maths, a complicated set of equations that dictate the shape of the thirty two identical charges, ensuring equal focus when they explode.”

  Beria had had an extended phonecall with Igor Kurchatov, head of the USSR’s Atomic Research programme, trying to understand the scientist’s interpretation of the message, and deciphering it all into non-technical language, suitable for Stalin’s consumption.

  “EBW is a type of detonator, extremely precise, by all accounts, which is necessary for the exact ignitions required to compress the core material.”

  “I understand this, Lavrentiy. Now, Kurchatov’s interpretation?”

  “Comrade Kuchatov believes it is definitely possible that our own programme may well be affected. Both EBW and ELM have progressed, not as far as he had hoped, by his own account. Given our limited suitable material, he believes it is advisable to commence our own review of the maths, prior to conducting tests.”

  “What sort of review?”

  “Mirroring those of the Amerikanski, Comrade. The message is quite specific. It is perfect on paper, but flawed. The Capitalists have missed something, and Kurchatov wants us to find it before we test.”

  Beria loosened his collar.

  “I should also say that Alkonost is a mathematician, and a specialist in Geometry. Undoubtedly, our agent will have worked in this area, although there is no claim to having sabotaged the calculations. My understanding is that all such calculations are doubled-teamed, to ensure consistency and accuracy.”

  Stalin grunted and leant back in his chair, filling his pipe, and digesting that instalment of Beria’s report.

  Stalin brought Malenkov into the firing line without warning.

  “What delay does Comrade Kurchatov anticipate if the check goes ahead?”

  Malenkov hadn’t thought up a way to sweeten the pill, so he was committed to baring the facts and hoping the tirade wouldn’t come.

  “Anything up to eight months, Comrade General Secretary.”

  Silence.

  Striking a match, Stalin drew the orange flame down into the bowl of his pipe, drawing noisily on it, until rich smoke started to fill his mouth.

  He shook the match out, placing its charred remnant carefully in the ashtray.

  “Eight months? Eight months, to do a set of sums? Is he mad?”

  The questions lacked much of Stalin’s normal bite, and both men sensed it was just for show, and that the Soviet Union’s leader was resigned to the delay.

  They stayed silent, just in case, leaving Stalin to continue after a few furious puffs.

  “And the detonators? What of them?”

  Malenkov deferred to Beria.

  “Kurchatov is less clear, but it should be less time than the maths. Even less, if one of our agents is successful in obtaining better information on the EBW. He only has a hand sketch by Alkonost to go on as the basis for our own devices.”

  The rapid puffing continued.

  “So, Comrade Marshal, we come to the spelling error. What do you make of that?”

  Back on safe ground, Beria could speak more easily.

  “Alkonost has never made an operational spelling mistake before, and only once during training.”

  He shuffled through a report originating from the Agent in charge of her American training programme, and read the relevant line.

  “In a speed typing test, the word ‘Goebbels’ was misspelt, omitting one ‘B’. Operative confirmed it to be a simple error.”

  Stalin clearly drew on a dead pipe, and coughed his way through the relighting process, whilst Beria waited, ready to continue.

  “The available means of informing us of duress are unused. There are a number of ways that could be done, although,” he conceded, “If the Americanski controlled our agent, some, not all, might prove difficult to conceal.”

  He shied away from Stalin’s unwavering gaze, pretending to read a few more lines of the report.

  “I see nothing here to throw doubt on the information. However, I do feel some unease here, Comrade General Secretary.”

  Stalin’s eyes sparkled, enthused by the discomfort of his Chief of Spies.

  “Calm yourself, Lavrenty, calm yourself. If this message was an attempt to mislead us, would it say that their own project was disabled by errors? No, I think not. It would speak of their progress and readiness.”

  Beria could not argue against that.

  Turning to Malenkov, the Soviet leader silently sought a response.

  “I think you are right, Comrade General Secretary. Comrade Beria’s assurance and your logic is enough for me.”

  There had been great debate over what, if anything, should be fed back to the NKVD. A number of important participants felt that it would be far better to do nothing, and that utilising the Soviet agent to send disinformation was playing with fire on a grander scale than the world had ever known.

  A decision had to be made.

  Either abandon the opportunity or use it. If the decision was to use it, then something had to be done quickly, or the turned agent would be out of touch for too long to maintain usefulness, and her absence could have been seen as suspect.

  The eventual decision was to allay the USSR’s fears about Allied progress, and introduce the geometric and ignition failures, with the secondary hope that Soviet scientists might commence their own review, causing further delay to their project. Further lines of disinformation would be cultivated and fed into the exchange at a later date.

  0817hrs, Monday, 1st October 1945. Office of Lieutenant Colonel Rossiter USMC, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.

  “So, what brings you to my door so early, General?”

  As was his normal style, Gehlen said nothing as he sorted through his small briefcase, extracting the set of photos that were the subject of his visit.

  Rossiter took in the details of the first shot.

  “Ah, Major Savitch, we meet again.”

  The picture showed the NKVD officer presiding over the hanging of some unfortunate individual.

  The rest of the pictures were of the remains of the village of Fischausen, shots apparently taken of ruined buildings, and a handful of complete dwellings, which just happened to also illustrate the defensive positions and other things of interest to anyone planning to visit the area.

  “Excellent work, General. I hope your agent is ok?”

  Gehlen nodded.

  “I assume there is something else?”

  “My agent informs me that, according to Savitch, discussions are underway to bring all family members of known serving German officers into one camp.”

  That would be bad news for Operation Sycamore.

  “Our attempt to provide advance evidence of Werewolf activity may have backfired on us, Oberstleutnant Rossiter. Some additional units have been sent to the area, which we anticipated of course, but…”

  That had been a calculated risk, but creating a ‘history’ of partisan activity would help satisfy the Swedish need
for the operation to appear German in origin.

  Leaving the last word hanging in the air, Gehlen produced another three photographs from the set.

  The armoured cars in two of the pictures started the bad news rolling, a post with two quadruple Maxims AA mounts completing the recent arrivals at Fischafen.

  “My agent also took these two pictures. I suggest they stay between us.”

  Rossiter looked at the first, and then the second, incredulous. In the initial shot, the identity of the man was unclear, although certainly a man in Soviet uniform. What was without question was the identity of the woman performing the sexual act.

  The second was more revealing, taken from further back and bringing the window frame into view. Precise, in focus and unequivocal, the agent had perfectly captured Frau Greta Knocke’s act of oral sex on Major Savitch of the NKVD.

  “Jesus.”

  “My agent observed for a while,” Gehlen could imagine that the photographer observed for as long as possible, and also retained copies of the shots for his own enjoyment, “And states that Frau Knocke appeared to be a willing participant.”

  “Jesus.”

  Gehlen remained silent, waiting for Rossiter to deal with the discovery.

  “OK, we bury these,” he waved the pornographic shots, “And we say no more about it. Things may not be as we see here, and we cannot judge. Leave it to Knocke and her to sort out in time. Agreed?”

  “Most certainly, Oberstleutnant Rossiter.”

  ‘Do you keep mentioning my rank because you’re a General, eh?’

  “So, we have new forces in situ, but now we have excellent information of their set-up. Combine these with the photo-recce shots and we should be able to put a good plan together, and put it together quickly.”

  Speed was obviously now essential.

  The photo-recce mission had been a thing of beauty, a squadron of RAF Mosquitoes being tasked to attack the Kaliningrad harbours, a mission that they did not press home with their normal vigour.

  The retreating aircraft flew straight back home, well almost, passing directly over the village of Fischafen, where the photo-recce aircraft that had hidden in plain sight within the larger formation did its vital work, without giving away its presence and alerting the Soviets.