Yeremenko bit at his thumbnail. ‘No, no, colonel. You may have been right. I’m not denying for one moment that Marshal Golovanov comes from strong stock, and it’s nothing to do with disloyalty. But these days, methods of interrogation are far more effective than they were in the days of the Great Purge. We cannot entrust the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers to the questionable ability of one old man to withstand torture – not with a campaign like Operation Byliny about to commence. Tell me, do you know if Marshal Kutakov has been informed?’
‘He was informed by special messenger, sir.’
‘Very well; I think we’d better call him. Come back to my office with me.’
Chuykov followed Yeremenko back to his office. While Yeremenko picked up his scrambler phone and asked to be connected with the Supreme Commander, Chuykov took out a folded handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. So far, the whole evening had been like something out of a nightmare. Everybody at Haldensleben had assumed that Golovanov was with somebody else. Major Grechko, who had been late for dinner, had assumed that Golovanov was with Chuykov; Chuykov, who had arrived at Commander Zhukilov’s farmhouse punctually at 7:45, had assumed that Golovanov was with Grechko. Golovanov’s driver had assumed that he was fornicating with Inge before dinner. The landlady of the Sachsen Hotel, who had seen Golovanov leave in the company of Inge and a young man in dark glasses, had assumed that Golovanov had been driven back to headquarters.
It wasn’t until nine o’clock that frantic messages began to fly around the base at Haldensleben, and Golovanov’s driver had gone up to Inge’s room at the Sachsen Hotel to find all trace of Golovanov and of Inge meticulously eradicated. Whoever had cleared out the hotel room had been superbly professional: they had even removed the U-bend from the washbasin wastepipe and cleaned it out, in case there were any incriminating hairs or stubble trapped in it. Golovanov was utterly gone.
Even while Chuykov was being flown back to Zossen-Wünsdorf to tell Yeremenko what had happened, security along the East German border had been clamped down tight. The sudden alert, right on the brink of Operation Byliny, was a major source of concern, not only to the local Front Commander, but to the Stavka, too. The very last thing they wanted at this eleventh hour was to arouse the suspicions of the West Germans, who were already jittery enough because of the Soviet Army’s prolonged summer manoeuvres, and because of persistent rumours that ‘something unusual’ was happening at NATO headquarters and throughout the American and British services.
Yeremenko at last got through to Marshal Kutakov. The Supreme Commander sounded weary and dyspeptic, and Yeremenko suspected that the disappearance of comrade Golovanov had interrupted his dinner, which he ate with difficulty at the best of times. Marshal Kutakov suffered from chronic ulcers, but hated soup, especially borscht and ukah. He had once been served ukah at the home of one of his favoured subordinate officers, and next month had posted him off to the Transbaykal in disgrace.
‘Well, Ivan,’ Marshal Kutakov said to Yeremenko.
‘I’ve just received the news, sir, from Colonel Chuykov.’
‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to him? I was told that he disappeared in the company of a young German lady, a prostitute.’
‘Not exactly a prostitute, sir. She was working, as far as I understood it, for the KGB. Personal intelligence duties.’
‘Well, yes, that was what I was told, too. But it seems that she has been playing some other game, doesn’t it? Unless Timofey has suffered a brainstorm, and taken her off somewhere.’
Yeremenko said, ‘No question of that, comrade marshal. Not in my estimation. He was temperamental, on occasions, but always wise.’
‘Will he talk, if pressed?’ asked Marshal Kutakov.
‘I don’t know. It depends how, and how hard.’
‘This is a serious crisis, Ivan. I have a report from General Glinka that the West Germans are growing increasingly suspicious, and that they have already started to mobilize some of their reserves.’ General Glinka was the Head of the Chief Intelligence Directorate, the GRU. ‘The whole thinking and planning behind Operation Byliny depends on utmost secrecy right up until the very last moment.’
‘Of course, sir. Do you think it might be expedient to bring the date of Byliny forward by one week?’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Marshal Kutakov said, ‘The Defence Council has of course discussed it.’
‘I didn’t mean to be impertinent, sir.’
‘No, of course you didn’t. But, the question of bringing forward the timing has been considered, and – well, it is still under consideration.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeremenko, courteously.
Marshal Kutakov cleared his throat, and paused again. Then he said, ‘Find out what’s being done to track down Timofey. Then call me later.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeremenko. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
He put down the phone with a smile. Colonel Chuykov looked at him questioningly, but was not senior enough lo he able to ask him directly why he seemed so pleased. After a while, Yeremenko stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced across the office. When he reached the window, he bent forward and peered into the darkness although all that he could see was his own reflection, a pale ghost on the face of the night.
‘Who do you think did this?’ he asked Colonel Chuykov. ‘Who has the gall to kidnap a marshal of the Soviet Army, and risk arousing the gravest international incident in a quarter of a century?’
Chuykov shook his head. ‘There are so many dissident groups. So many terrorists. Perhaps the CIA took him, as a guarantee that our own army should keep within its agreed limits. A political hostage.’
‘I don’t think Fräulein Inge Schultz has anything to do with the CIA,’ said Yeremenko. ‘Nor do I think that she is a terrorist. She is a highly-trained intelligence agent, rather than a saboteuse or a thrower of bombs.’
Chuykov said nothing, but waited for Yeremenko to continue. He was used to listening to high-ranking officers; familiar with their speech patterns. They all liked to pause for dramatic effect, and walk up and down the room. Perhaps it was something that they were taught, when they were first promoted to general. Speak. Pause. Walk. Turn. Speak again.
Yeremenko said, ‘Whoever took Marshal Golovanov suspects that something important is about to happen on the Western Strategic front. They must have some inkling of what it is, because otherwise they never would have risked the turmoil that this kidnap would normally have caused. They probably intend to interrogate him until either he cracks, or he dies. Obviously, we would prefer it if he were to manage the latter alternative first.’
‘Failing rescue, of course, comrade general,’ put in Colonel Chuykov, as hopefully as possible.
‘Well, of course,’ said Yeremenko, as if the idea of mounting a rescue operation to retrieve Golovanov hadn’t even occurred to him. In fact, it hadn’t. The only search that he had considered setting up was to find out where Golovanov was being held, and to kill him before he could reveal anything to his captors about Operation Byliny.
The truth was that Yeremenko was indecently delighted by Golovanov’s abduction. Not only would Yeremenko’s influence with the Stavka now be greatly enhanced, he would have the opportunity to control Byliny in the Western Strategic Direction without Golovanov’s interference, and to claim all the glory for himself when it succeeded, which it inevitably must. As far as his career was concerned, it was one of the greatest pieces of luck he had ever had. And what was more, it would all happen much more quickly, because he bet five roubles to a bent pfennig that Kutakov would decide to bring Byliny forward, in case Golovanov talked. Today was Thursday. If Byliny was brought forward by a week, then they would be ready to roll across the West German border at three o’clock in the morning on Sunday, two days from now.
The scrambler phone bleeped. Yeremenko turned quickly towards it, but then checked himself. Colonel Chuykov picked it up for him, and said, �
�Yes, sir, he’s here.’ He passed the telephone to Yeremenko and stood watching him with expressionless eyes. He decided that he quite disliked Yeremenko. There was something about the nakedness of Yeremenko’s ambitions which was rather disgusting, like a man showing his erect penis in company.
Yeremenko said, ‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand, marshal. Yes. Everything will be ready, sir. Have no doubt. Yes, sir, I shall make sure that all the inspections are completed. Yes, sir. I understand.’
He put down the phone, and paused. He rapped his fingers on the receiver. Then he said, ‘Operation Byliny has been brought forward by seven days, to Sunday morning. Marshal Kutakov has already talked to the White House in Washington and No. 10 Downing Street in London.’
He took a breath, and his eyes shone glittering black like the muzzles of two rifles. ‘The great day is with us at last, colonel. The beginning of the world is at hand!’
To Chuykov’s astonishment, he folded his arms and began to kick a slow Cossack dance around the office, his head thrown back, his back straight, singing and humming as he went. It was an old village song, the sort of song that grandfathers would teach to the children on days when they were picking fruit, and the skies were warm. ‘My father’s tree is bearing plums! Plums, plums, plums, plums! I cannot wail till summer comes! Odin, dva, tri, chetire, plums for everyone!’
*
As Yeremenko sang. Marshal Golovanov, Hero of the Soviet Union, was lying on a sagging cot in a farmhouse in Mariental, a village only thirty miles away from Haldensleben, but on the western side of the border. He was snoring peacefully, drugged by paraldehyde, dreaming dreams of sliding through tunnels and floating out over strange Arctic landscapes. He was watched by a young girl of about 22, with blonde plaited hair, Aryan blue eyes, and a red spot on one cheek (too much chocolate). She sat cross-legged in a grey track-suit, with an Ingram machine-gun resting in her lap. The night wind ruffled the red gingham curtains; somewhere a farmer’s dog was barking at the warm European darkness.
Inge had gone over the border first, in a ten-year-old BMW driven by a bald-headed bespectacled man whose papers had described him as Herman Ebinger, a pottery salesman for Heidenau’s, in Dresden, and Inge as his wife, Anna-Lise Ebinger. Six or seven vehicles behind the ‘Ebingers’ had come a huge white tractor-trailer with the name Zwickau-Tapeten emblazoned in red on the side, and a large picture of a smiling baby sitting on a red rug. The picture had been ironic: Inside the trailer, under thirty rolls of nylon carpet. Marshal Golovanov had been sleeping like a baby inside a ventilated cylinder that, from the outside, looked like nothing but a roll of green speckled sculptured carpet.
Security at the border crossing had been noticeably relaxed. It was all part of the Stavka’s policy of lulling the West Germans into believing that their ‘May manoeuvres’ were quite harmless. Inge had been waved through with her ‘husband’ without any delay at all; and a friendly wink from the East German guard. The carpet truck had been opened up, and briefly examined, but the young man called Dichter had leaned against it smoking a cigarette, sharing jokes with the border guards, and after only fifteen minutes, he had been allowed to drive through into the Federal Republic.
Seventeen minutes later, the border post had received an urgent coded message that there was to be a complete security clampdown, all the way from Potenitz to Gefell Juchhöh and all vehicles searched ‘intensively’. The guards were not told what they were supposed to be looking for: as it turned out, the first contraband they came across was a young family from Karl-Marx-stadt who were trying to escape to the West inside the empty tank of a milk truck.
Shortly after midnight, Golovanov opened his eyes, and said, ‘Katushka?’
The girl with the machine-gun said nothing, but watched him attentively as he tried to lift himself up on one elbow.
He stared at her. Then he looked around the room. ‘Katory chyas?’ he asked. Then, realizing that she didn’t understand, he said more slowly, in German. ‘What time is it? How long have I been sleeping?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to tell you,’ the girl replied, quite mildly, as if he were a visiting uncle. She called over her shoulder, ‘Dichter! Your friend’s woken up!’
Golovanov rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He felt dizzy and nauseous, and his tongue seemed to be three times its normal size, and covered by a woollen sock. ‘Perhaps some water,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where I am, or is that a secret, too, as well as the time of day?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Well,’ he told her, ‘at least you obey your orders. There are plenty who don’t.’
Just then, the latch on the door clicked open and Dichter walked in, closely followed by Inge. Dichter had discarded his sunglasses; Inge had changed into a soft-textured blue and yellow checked cowgirl blouse, and a pair of tight blue Vanderbilt jeans. Dichter squatted down on the floor next to Golovanov’s cot, and stared at him closely, as if he were an explorer, examining for the first time a rare specimen of lizard which he had brought back from the rain-forests.
‘Well, a real live Soviet marshal,’ he said.
‘I suppose you know what a risk you are taking,’ Golovanov replied. In actual fact, for the first time in his life, he began to feel genuinely frightened. Being a marshal of the Soviet Army was one thing; at least one had one’s army. But here, in this farmhouse bedroom, God knew where, he was completely helpless. And he knew better than to try and bluster: by their weapons alone, he recognized these people as professionals.
‘Actually, old friend, we want to talk to you, that’s all,’ said Dichter. ‘We would like to discuss the weather; the prevailing wind; and we would also like to talk about your summer manoeuvres. So many tanks, so many rocket launchers, just for summer manoeuvres?’
‘Please, some water,’ said Golovanov. He was feeling genuinely distressed.
‘First, we would like to talk about the summer manoeuvres.’
‘You know better than to ask me anything like that. I am Golovanov.’
Dichter said, ‘You were very careless. Perhaps you wanted us to take you?’
Golovanov looked towards Inge, and said, ‘Digtyi mnye vodi, pozhalusta.’
Inge put her head on one side and smiled at him, that cold angelic smile that always disturbed him so much. The smile of a seraphim, on a marble tombstone. And yet beneath her checked blouse, her huge soft breasts moved as warm as rising dough. She shook her head, and said, ‘Nyet.’
‘I can’t tell you anything,’ said Golovanov. ‘It’s impossible. If you don’t get me back to Commander Zhukilov’s house quite soon, then they will start to miss me, and then there will be hell to pay.’
‘That is impossible, I regret,’ said Dichter.
‘Come, come. I haven’t been unconscious for very long. Look, it is still evening! There is no drug that could have kept me asleep for a night and a day. Now, let’s be sensible.’
Inge came forward and touched Golovanov’s cheek, and stroked his bushy eyebrows. ‘You are talking like a commissar,’ she told him. ‘This is not you! What do you care for the party? You are a soldier of Russia. Did you not always tell me that? “My darling Inge, I am a soldier of Russia, first and last!” You care nothing for the Politburo, all those belligerent old men in the Kremlin. Don’t pretend that you do. I know you better. I know you in those moments when no politics matter; when nothing matters.’
Golovanov said hoarsely, ‘Inge, listen. Believe me, I am thinking only of you. You set me up, didn’t you? All this time. But, this is unimportant. I can save your life. All you have to do is take me back to Commander Zhukilov’s, and I will simply say that I lost my way; that I came across somebody I knew in the war, and I had to buy him a drink. Come on, this is ridiculous. I am not a divisional commander or a corps captain. I am the First Deputy of the Ministry of Defence. I am one of the most powerful and important men in the Soviet Union. If it is discovered that I have been abducted, then all pandemonium will break loos
e! You will all be executed instantly! No arguments, no trials, no nothing. Just a post, and a blindfold, and a bullet. Now, please, have sense. I have loved you, I love you now, and I always will. I have always thought of you as the one single woman for whom I could have lived without the Army. But, this is madness.’
Inge sat down on the bed beside Golovanov, and turned around to the girl with the machine-gun. ‘Please,’ she said gently, ‘bring me some water.’
Golovanov nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I knew that you would see some sense.’
‘Of course,’ Inge told him. ‘We are rational people. But, we cannot take you back to Commander Zhukilov’s.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Golovanov.
‘The time is unimportant. If you really want to know, it’s twenty-five minutes after twelve.’
‘Well, then, there could still be time for you to return me to the farm. Why risk your life, my dear? I am no use to anybody. What can I tell you, that you do not know already? I am an administrator, nothing else. The Defence Council tell me nothing about their long-term strategy. All I ever do is push pieces of paper from one side of my desk to the other, from the In-tray to the Out-tray, and salute young officers who salute me first. General Yeremenko thinks I am a military ignoramus; and I regret that he is right.’
Inge said, ‘We cannot take you back to Commander Zhukilov’s. The simple reason is that we are on the wrong side of the border.’
Golovanov stared at her. ‘We are in West Germany?’ he asked, in the whitest ghost of a voice.
Inge nodded.
‘We are in West Germany? Are you serious? You have taken me to West Germany?’
He heaved himself up from the cot, and tugged aside the gingham curtains. Outside, there was nothing but darkness, and a few sparkling street lights. ‘This is West Germany? How could you do such a thing? How did you get me across the border? Inge, this is insanity! I thought you were KGB!’
Sacrifice Page 23
