Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (54 page)

They waited until they were alone before speaking.

“Sorry, my son. I’m so sorry.”

“It had to be done, father. Enough already.”

Passing a cup of cool water to his injured son, the senior man, owner of the foot that had broken the arm, sat down beside him.

“Well?”

“The Englishman appeared intelligent enough… he’s a doctor after all.”

The son’s face split with the broadest of grins, as did that of his father, Doctor Jakob Steyn.

“Thank you, Professor David. Praise indeed.”

“I’m sure he understood. Anyway, we’ve done what we can with the opportunity the fire presented. Let’s pray to Hashem for success.”

“Indeed.”

The two fell into silence and pleaded with their God for success, and, as always with Jakob Steyn, thanked the creator for the mercy he brought by reuniting him with the son he thought long dead.

The two Steyns were now part of the VNIIEF project and vitally important to its advance.

This they both knew, and worked as slowly as they could possibly do, aware that discovery of their low cooperation level would sentence the other to death, something that they were constantly reminded of when Soviet scientists needed work done, or experiments created.

German intelligence had prematurely promulgated news of each man’s death, in order to remove them from Allied thinking. It was an oft-used ploy. In this case, it also served the Soviets well, given that many German camp records had long since been destroyed.

Whilst there had been nothing but silence as they made their intonations, both men felt their prayers had been answered, and took to their bunks believing that Hashem would lend a helping hand.

Another Red Cross team arrived, unanticipated, unexpected, and inconvenient.

None the less, they were admitted to the camp, and saw the site of the fire, and the temporary morgue containing those who had perished.

They also visited the survivors, believing the living and the dead to be prisoners.

Conversation with Dryden and Hamouda, or any of the orderlies, was discouraged, and more than once an NKVD arm came between a Red Cross official and an inmate.

One low-level clerk was making notes for the inspector leading the mission and Dryden saw an opportunity.

Using only eye contact, he conveyed a message to Collins, who nodded his understanding.

The metal dish clattered to the floor and sent its contents flying.

Every eye was drawn, and none observed the glass phial being dropped into the open case.

Twenty minutes later, the inspection of the hospital over, the case and its precious contents were mobile to another two nearby POW camps, the first just outside of Verkhiny Baskunchak, and the second at the airfield from which they were due to fly home that very afternoon.

At precisely 1600, the Lockheed Constellation transport aircraft, sporting distinctive Red Cross markings, and guaranteed safe passage by all belligerents, took off from Akhtubinsk air base for the non-stop flight back to Geneva.

The Red Cross inspection team settled down for the nearly seven and a half hour journey to Switzerland.

Six and a half hours later, the aircraft drove into the highest peak in Austria.

There were no survivors.

“Come.”

The door to Nazarbayeva’s private rooms opened swiftly, and Poboshkin almost tumbled through the opening in his haste to inform his commander.

“Good morning, Comrade General. I hope you slept well?”

The words were said in such a way as to be different to the normal morning pleasantries.

“I did, thank you, Andrey, and from that, I assume that you hold something of great importance.”

Wearing only a crisp white shirt and loose trousers, Nazarbayeva looked every inch the Russian mother, albeit prettier than most.

“I certainly do, Comrade General.”

“One moment.”

She poured tea for them both and sat at her small private desk.

“Proceed, comrade.”

Poboshkin slid one of the folders in front of her.

“The staff have worked through the night and prepared this document.”

He sat down at Nazarbayeva’s invitation.

“We revisited every report, cross-referenced everything, and what you see is our best effort at predicting the present level of their forces.”

The front cover had announced that the folder contained the intelligence assessment of the DRH.

Nazarbayeva raised the cup to her lips but never made it the full distance, as the words and numbers she was reading washed through her eyes and penetrated her brain.

The cup made it back to the saucer and she flipped through the pages, took in the information and built a picture that all was not as it had seemed, and that their worst fears had been realised.

She skipped to the last page, where the report contained the customary summary sheet.

“Mudaks!”

Poboshkin, sipping his tea, could only nod in agreement.

“I have to ask, Andrey… the staff worked this all up on the basis of information we already had?”

Her inference was obvious.

“Yes, Comrade General, but with the different interpretations that our suspicions aroused. There was some fresh information, but most of this we already had… we’d just not interpreted it correctly… well… we had, but differently.”

She held out a conciliatory hand.

“The best was done at the time. Now is a different time and,” she closed the document and tapped her fingers on it, “We have done our best again.”

She rose and poured more tea, selecting an apple and a pear from the small display.

Tossing the apple to her aide, she sat back down.

“Help yourself when you’ve finished that one.”

She bit into the pear and savoured the fresh flesh and juices.

“You’re sure about these figures?”

Poboshkin gave a little shrug.

“As sure as I can be, Comrade General. I took presentations from the staff on their interpretations, and all seemed founded in logic and backed by a great deal of fact. I’ve signed off on the report, and believe it is our best estimate of the German field army.”

That it was twice previous estimates was the enormous stand-out point.

“Andrey, I’m struggling to understand how our estimates could have been so far out. What’s the factor here?”

Again he shrugged.

“We saw what we wanted to see… or possibly, what they wanted us to see. As ever, Comrade General, we’re restricted by our lack of reconnaissance, loss of agents across Europe, and their increasingly effective maskirovka.”

“Example please.”

“One of those we have highlighted is the arrival of a large number of troops by ship, probably from Amerika. It had been assumed that they were returning German prisoners, and that they would take time to integrate and get ready for combat. The information we had at the time supported that view, Comrade General.”

Poboshkin flicked through his notebook.

“We had a report from 1st Red Banner Front that suggested one of its prisoners was from that convoy. He was part of a German unit fully equipped with Amerikanski equipment. Review of our information seems to suggest that from arrival to capture, the German prisoner was in Europe for less than six days. The report was flawed, so I sent off for the medical examination file on the prisoner.”

The notebook rustled as he found what he was looking for.

“That report came in last night, and detailed a medical examination of five German soldiers taken prisoner by 1st Red Banner on that date, and at three separate locations. I explored that further and established that they came from three different formations, all equipped with Amerikanski weapons.”

Nazarbayeva tossed her pear core at the bin, the metallic ring punctuating Poboshkin’s words.

“The physical health of the soldiers was exceptional… I use the physician’s word, Comrade General… exceptional. Well fed, well developed, and in the peak of health.”

“So that would suggest that the Germanski were trained and converted outside of Europe, and arrived combat-ready.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“Another example please, Andrey.”

“At least three camps that we had identified as being rehabilitation centres for Germanski soldiers were, in fact, military training sites. Our loss of assets on the ground damaged our understanding, Comrade General.”

Her silence drew him on.

“It seems likely that there has been some confusion in identifying troop nationalities… uniform… weapons… vehicles… the normal initial pointers are all confused as it appears the Amerikanski have handed over a lot of equipment, much more than the NKVD and our own reports indicated.”

She could only smile at Poboshkin’s weak attempt to fend off some of the inevitable blame that would fall on GRU-Europe.

“Could we have done better, Andrey?”

He needed little time to think.

“Yes, Comrade General… most certainly we could have done better… but our efforts and interpretations were sound at the time, all save one distinct problem that we have, unfortunately, repeated.”

She drained her tea and licked her lips slowly, knowing what her man was about to say.

Nazarbayeva said it for him.

“We have underestimated the Germanski powers of resilience again, haven’t we?”

Poboshkin nodded gently, as if not saying it made the error less weighty.

They sat in silence, sharing their thoughts only with themselves, avoiding eye contact as both minds sought out the bottom line.

Nazarbayeva spoke first.

“Well, the responsibility is mine, and mine alone. Make twenty copies of that report. Have them ready for twelve. I’ll decide what I’m doing by then. Thank you, Andrey… and thank the staff from me. I’ll speak to them shortly, but for now, I have other things to attend to. Leave me that,” she grabbed her copy of the report, “And get things moving straight away. Thank you, Comrade.”

Poboshkin took his leave and closed the door.

Nazarbayeva picked up the phone, hesitating momentarily as she decided whom to call first.

She elected the practical approach, not the political skin-saving one, and spoke into the receiver in reply to the Communications officer’s question.

“Get me Marshal Vasilevsky urgently.”

Her previous dealings with Marshal Vasilevsky had been pleasant and professional, her most recent conversation had been less so, and she didn’t blame the harassed commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe one little bit.

To be disturbed on his rest day with the news that the German field Army was probably twice its reported size was something guaranteed to wreck his day, and he vented his spleen on the hapless GRU officer.

Regaining control, Vasilevsky apologised, and made notes from Nazarbayeva’s reading of the report.

The call ended in strained fashion.

Her next call was to Stalin himself, and went even worse.

The General Secretary ranted and raved down the line, so much so that Nazarbayeva had to hold the receiver from her ear to prevent lasting damage.

She was ordered back to Moscow immediately, and left in no doubt that her career, probably life, was in the balance.

Within seven minutes of ending the call, her recently appointed deputy, Major General Nikita Olofurov, was in her quarters, and was given verbal orders to take her place until further notice.

Nazarbayeva didn’t care for Olofurov for a number of reasons.

His awful bad breath had been the first, that he was Beria’s man was the last, knowledge for which she was indebted to Kaganovich, the deputy head of the NKVD, who had revealed the true nature of the man’s appointment.

Within another minute, Lieutenant General Dustov, the NKVD liaison officer with the Red Banner Headquarters, presented himself in her quarters, informing her that he had been expressly charged with placing her on the next flight to Moscow… and more.

Dustov had only just returned to duty following wounds sustained during the Allied Heracles mission against Nordhausen.

However, although he felt distinctly uncomfortable with his orders, and despite his personal admiration for Nazarbayeva, he intended to carry them out to the letter, a fact attested to by the two SMG equipped soldiers at his back.

Nazarbayeva had found time to quickly dress in her full uniform, but found time for little else, as Dustov was insistent that they leave for the airfield immediately.

Poboshkin arrived with the requested copies of the report and placed them in her briefcase.

“Are there any orders, Comrade Mayor General?”

Olofurov went to speak, but realised that the aide was addressing Nazarbayeva.

She smiled at her man’s display of loyalty.

“None, thank you, Comrade Polkovnik, except to ensure the staff keep working. Thank you, Andrey.”

Her use of his name made his chest swell with pride, as it was a deliberate public airing of her own loyalty to her aide.

Dustov broke the moment unceremoniously.

“I have orders for you too, Polkovnik Poboshkin. You are to accompany us to Moscow… immediately.”

Poboshkin exchanged a confused look with his commander, before gaining control of himself.

With all the major players now in place, Dustov discharged his duty… reluctantly.

“General Nazarbayeva… Polkovnik Poboshkin… by order of Marshal Beria, commander of the NKVD, I arrest you both on suspicion of treason against the State, collusion with the enemy, and military incompetence. Hand over your weapons immediately.”

He nodded to his two soldiers, who moved forward to accept the officer’s side arms.

“I am instructed by Marshal Beria to shoot both of you on the slightest sign of non-compliance with my instructions.”

Without any further instruction, another two NKVD soldiers appeared and seized the two pistols, plus Nazarbayeva’s briefcase, as ordered by Dustov.

“Now, with regret, Comrade Mayor General. If you please.”

He indicated the door, the party marched off, moving a few steps closer to Moscow.