Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (5 page)

One hour and
forty-seven minutes later, Nazarbayeva’s tears slid gently down her face as she finished the last sequence

She was
now in possession of six decoded documents.

Her first effort had
outlined the execution of Pekunin’s family, on Beria’s orders.

‘
Poor Pekunin.’

The second had pointed at
possible evidence of the betrayal of the Spanish mission that resulted in the death of her son, on Beria and Stalin’s orders.

‘
If this is true, there will be a reckoning.’

Sheet three
revealed that the premises for going to war with the Allies were either exaggerated or contrived, again on the specific direction of Stalin and Beria.

‘
So they brought all of this on the Rodina for what?’

The very thought had left Nazarbayeva cold.

The fourth revealed Beria for what he was; rapist and sexual predator, listing a few times, dates, places, and names.

‘
Some people are truly evil.’

Number five was a personal record of a conversation to which Pekunin had been privy, when Stalin and Beria had agreed the sacrifice of the airborne troopers in the four attempts on the Allied symposiums. Both had apparently acknowledged the lack of real significance but insisted that the missions went ahead regardless of cost, despite the GRU General
’s pleas. Beria had apparently produced an informer’s report on a less than complimentary exchange between Makarenko and Erasov, during which their belief in the shortcomings of the political leadership was top of the agenda. In Pekunin’s considered, yet unbelievable estimation, whilst possibly justifiable militarily and psychologically, personal revenge also played a part in the fool’s errands that were the Zilant missions. It also spoke of the exchange in Beria’s office and the GRU General’s belief that Beria found pleasure in Nazarbayeva’s loss.

‘
Not even the Chekist swine would do that! The Rodina is all-important!’

Another part of her brain contributed to the silent debate.

‘This is Beria, Tatiana. He has no soul, no honour, no decency.’

She pondered that a moment and found no argument to oppose the little voice.

‘He’s capable of anything that preserves his world and keeps his power.’

Tatiana Nazarbayeva, GRU General, Hero of the Soviet Union, shuddered.

She moved on, pushing the growing voice back into the recesses of her mind.

Smallest of all the messages was number six. It was also the most confusing, with no apparent meaning.

‘There is nothing like Christmas in Krakow.’

‘
Except May Day in Moscow.’

Undoubtedly, Pekunin would not have included it if it
were not important, but the purpose of the message was unknown.

The
seventh and final decode contained a few words, albeit powerful ones. They were the names of people that Pekunin had spoken to in the last few weeks, the dates he had approached them, all of them men who knew what was going on in Mother Russia and who, for the most part, according to Pekunin’s brief notations, were prepared to risk all to protect her from the enemy within.

Nazarbayeva slipped into bed after destroying the decodes and
reassembling the GRU file to its original state, the contents of the messages safely kept in her mind.

The night brought her little sleep or rest as her mind toyed with the awful truths she had been presented with.

Yet, in spite of the awfulness, personal tragedy even, of some of the messages, she kept returning to the seventh decode and the last entry on the list.

‘
23/10/45 Molotov - declined.’

Her dreams kept her from proper rest, her sharp brain reminding her that by the very act of not revealing the names in the seventh message was, in itself, an act of treason against the state.
Waking from her fitful sleep, Tatiana’s brain again presented her with the quandary; the unknown meaning of an entry in the last document.

‘
15/10/45 VKG -?’

Her mind worked the possibilities
, as it had done since the first moment she read the entry.

‘
Kuzma Galitskii... no.’

Her mind clicked into place, throwing up a solution.

‘Vladimir Konstantinovich Gorbachev? Where is he now?’

She woke and wrote the name down and went back to her broken sleep.

In the morning, Nazarbayeva established that Major General Gorbachev was in command of the 346th Rifle Division, part of the 1st Guards Rifle Corps, the major fighting unit of 22nd Army of the 1st Baltic Front.

In the
mid-afternoon, that information was flamed by one of her aides, who reported that the GRU file on 22nd Army was dated and inaccurate.

The 346th had seen some modest fighting in September, enough to cause casualties, amongst whom was Gorbachev
. His injuries were serious enough to send him back to the Motherland to recover.

The
latest report had the General in the hierarchy of the Moscow Military District.

The Deputy Commander of Military Training for the
MMD, Dmitri Kramarchuk, had been killed in a car accident and the recuperating Gorbachev was immediately put in his place.

Nazarbayeva checked the dates and found that Gorbachev was in the MMD
ranks on the 3rd October.

His position gave him control over new army formations being put together in and around the capital city, which immediately suggested to Tatiana that she h
ad been right in her assumption and she had her man.

“Thank you, Sarnt.”

Ames accepted the enamel mug and its scalding hot contents
as if they were gifts from the Gods.

“
My pleasure, Sah. They Welsh boys’s ok. They’m took a shine to you, by all accounts.”

Ames took a tentative sip
of the strong brew and shrugged, attempting humour to downplay the moment.

“
We’ve spent some quality time together, Sarnt. They’re good lads.”

Sergeant Gray was a recent arrival with the 83rd Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, yet another of those men who had spent time behind German barbed wire.

Placing his mug on the snow, he spared a look at his surroundings, the combination of the moon and the steadily falling snow creating a relaxing, almost Christmas-like feeling to the land.

He pulled
out his large pipe and had it loaded in record time.

The awesome object
had already acquired the nickname of ‘The Funnel’, its bowl constantly belching something indescribable that bore scant resemblance to the aromatic products of pipe tobacco.

Theories abounded, starting with
shredded tyre rubber and ending with old unwashed socks.

The Sergeant
quickly checked the radio and found it satisfactory, rewrapping it in the army blanket used to insulate it from the elements.

His desires kick started by t
he sound of Gray sucking greedily on the Funnel, Ames was soon puffing on a Woodbine.

The Artillery officer
had acquired a heavy smoking habit since the fighting in and around the Hamburg Rathaus in August, which now neared forty a day, if supplies were sufficient.

“
One of they Welshies was telling me bout ‘Amburg, Sah. Sounds like ‘er was a right bastard, fair ‘nough.”

             
Ames’ eyes softly glazed, as his memories took him back to those few bitter days, fighting with the Royal Welch, the Black Watch, and even those German Paratroopers.

“
To be honest, Sarnt, it was pretty horrible... and we were extremely lucky to get out of it. Many good lads didn’t.”

His mind presented the
awful image of the young Lieutenant Ramsey, thrown into the masonry of the Rathaus by an high-explosive shell with such force that his body adhered to the surface, and only reluctantly relinquished its grip after the main battle was over.

He shuddered.

Gray understood, and left the younger man to his memories.

Both men enjoyed the peace, until the light rattle of the
simple warning device forced Gray into action.

“
Chalky, I told yer to watch the cans, you bloody idio...”

Gray
turned his head, just in time to catch the stale breath of a Soviet soldier.

Ames also turned, alarmed as much by the rapid end to Gray
’s words as the sound of an enamel mug falling to the bottom of the foxhole.

He fumbled
for his Sten, finding only another enemy soldier, and then another.

Cold hands pressed themselves to his face and caught his flailing arms.

Lance-Bombardier Chalky White knew he was in trouble, in more than one way. His hands were full of the bacon sandwiches that were to be the breakfast of his officer and Sergeant, but they were now needed to prise his greatcoat away from the snagging barbed wire.

His efforts were accompanied by the
constant rattle of the old tins, all filled with pebbles, noisemakers that danced and announced his every movement.

‘
Sod it!’

He moved backwards, reasoning that the barbs would give up their hold more easily.

They held the greatcoat fast until, in an instant, they relinquished their hold and the wire twanged back into place.

The
nearest tin taunted him with its audible warning.

A voice boomed out

“Who goes there?”

“The OP’s
soddin’ bacon butties... now shut the fuck up!”

Hardly text book but it had the desired effect. No Russian could have managed it and the owner of the voice knew the early routine. He already had his sandwich in  his belly.

White resumed the crouching advance and found the foxhole.

That was pretty much all he found.

No radio, no maps, no Ames.

Just Gray.

Gray was already cold and stiff, his throat cut from ear to ear.

“
Stand to! Stand to!”

Courage is doing what you are afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you are scared.

Eddie Rickenbacker

Up and down the Allied lines, soldiers were woken from their slumbers by cries of alarm, as Soviet raiders visited trenches and bunkers in search of intelligence and prisoners.

Many men simply disappeared into the freezing night, others died at their posts. Yet others were fortunate enough to see or hear the threat before they were overcome, turning the tables on their would-be kidnappers.

Nervous sentries called their units to arms and equally nervous officers filled the sky with magnesium light, or called down artillery to deal with a supposed enemy attack.

Artillery and mortars exchanged their shells and bombs, as ranging shots, then battery, then counter-battery fire escalated the long-range exchange.
And then it stopped, as quickly as it had erupted.

Whatever happened, few men
on either side of the divide slept that rest of that night.

Private First Class Frederick Lincoln Leander, the worst soldier in his platoon
, bar none, reluctantly rose up from the bottom of his position, unable to ignore the urgent whispers of the other occupant.

He looked around with
an inexperienced eye.

Nothing.

“Oh Lordy, it’s cold.”

“
Can it.”

“
Sorry, Sarge.”

“
I said fucking can it, Contraband!”

S
ilence had descended again, except for the gentle patter of fresh snow falling... and the heavy breathing of the terrified.