Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series) (32 page)

Bossong’s was an old shop, a symbol of a bygone age, but it still served its purpose well. Ancient wooden shelving created specifically for housing delicate vintages surrounded the open central area, where stood a tall table with all the paraphernalia associated with the tasting of fine wines.

The layer of dust and mulchy smell were all part of the image, as were the huge oil lamps that cast their flickering shadows around the room.

A gothic style wall clock loudly chimed five o’clock in the afternoon, completing the scene.

The owner had continued trade as well as he could over the German occupation and, with the coming of the allies, had recovered some of his considerable hidden stocks for sale to the allied liberators at a fine profit.

Loose tongues had immediately wagged and a requisition order from the French Army had arrived, born by a smartly turned out French Commando officer, reducing his best Alsatian stock to a bare minimum. Admittedly, he would be paid but not at the rate he was securing from the allied officers who presently frequented his establishment.

One such, a Polish liaison officer with the French First Army, had visited for his regular bottle of Trimbach, only to find the owner sympathetic but not forthcoming.

Despite the fact that the previous Friday there had been well over a hundred bottles available, today the owner had none for sale.

“But Monsieur, surely you can find a bottle for me? I have promised my girl some of your fine Trimbach.”

“Commandant, I regret I cannot, even for a good customer such as yourself. I have none available and neither do I have any Edelzwicker either, for both supplies have been requisitioned by the Army of France.”

The Polish Major leaned forward, inviting the proprietor into conspiracy.

“Surely they would not miss one bottle Monsieur Bossong?”

The owner looked up at the doorway, even though he knew no one was there.

“Commandant, again I regret, but I have signed a document and must deliver them all to the Château where they will be checked in. The figures are precise.” The owner consulted a document on the desk.

“One hundred and six bottles of Trimbach and
 
fifty-eight bottles of Edelzwicker by tomorrow afternoon. I have even been given a permit and military transport has been detailed to arrive here at 2pm tomorrow. For me to be paid I must ensure they are all checked in at the Château.”

The owner wrung his hands in the manner common to all those of subservience over the ages.

“Forgive me Commandant, but I cannot appropriate one for you as I will not risk the wrath of ‘Deux’. Please feel free to select another wine and I will sell it to you at cost as a token of my apology.”

The Major grunted acceptance and looked over at other wines arranged in a large wooden rack down one long wall. He studiously picked up a particularly good Moselle and chose his words carefully.

“Surely one soldier looks like another in our uniforms Monsieur. And besides, French Military Intelligence is all over at Baden-Baden with their top brass.”

The Moselle was returned in favour of a dusty Liebfraumilch.

“Commandant, I experienced the pleasures of the Gestapo and their agents crawling around here for nearly five years during the occupation. I know the type intimately. The man with the infantry officer was Deuxieme Bureau.”

The Liebfraumilch was returned and the Moselle reselected.

“Maybe some General has a party planned then eh? In any case, I have to get moving. May I have this one monsieur?”

The Major passed the bottle and its label drew the admiration of the proprietor.

“An excellent choice Commandant. If you give me a moment.”

Etienne Bossong turned around to the rear bench, where he wrapped the wine in embossed tissue paper and included his card.

As his back was turned, the Major leant forward and scanned the signed purchase documents.

The details went swiftly into his mind and his stance was apparently unchanged when the bottle was passed to him.

“On my account Monsieur?”

“It shall be so Commandant. Good night sir.”

“Bon nuit, Monsieur Bossong.”

Hiding his disappointment, the owner withdrew his ledger and entered a further sum on the growing account of Major S.Kowalski.

Outside Stanislaw Kowalski mentally processed his day so far as he made a few swift notes in a small pocket book.

Having taken leave, he had signed for a jeep and spent the day driving around Northern Alsace sightseeing, paying particular attention to large buildings like castles and Château’s. After eight hours of the Alsatian countyside, he decided that he had done enough for one day, and he had gone to get a bottle of fine wine, prior to taking his woman rowing on the River L’ill.

Now, by the strangest coincidence, his evening plans would change. That which he sought all day appeared to have dropped into his lap by chance, although the following day Kœnigsbourg would have been his first enquiry. He smiled to himself and mused that if you wrote it in a story it wouldn’t be believable. Anyway, for whatever reason, Madame Fortune had smiled.

Obviously, Irma now had to wait as he would take a drive over to Orschwiller and see if he could definitely confirm this ‘Biarritz’ at the nearby Château before passing the information on to his contact. Sergey Andreevich Kovelskin was the name he was given at birth and he was an Officer of the GRU, born and bred on the banks of the Volga.

Little did we guess that what has been called the century of the common man would witness as its outstanding feature more common men killing each other with greater facilities than any other five centuries together in the history of the world.

Sir Winston Spencer Churchill

1410 hrs Wednesday, 1st August 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

Despite his seniority, Pekunin had little doubt as to his fate if neither his nor Beria’s assets came up with the information on the French Symposium.

Soon he would have to return to his GRU section within Zhukov’s Headquarters but, for now, he hung on in the hope that the information would come through.

Having signed and sealed the paperwork to promote Nazarbayeva to Major, he was taking a constitutional early afternoon walk around the Kremlin complex when he saw the commotion caused by a running man. His immediate reaction was to brace himself and go out with dignity, until he realised the uniform was GRU and that the running figure was his Communications Starshiy Leytenant.

He knew what information was in the man’s hand before the breathless report tumbled out.

The entire GKO and the now fully involved STAVKA were assembled, and had spent a long afternoon and evening reviewing the military plans, hearing the refinements, the enforced changes and the myriad of problems that accompany mobilising two large military forces in as secret a way as possible. Marshall Zhukov was also present, Vasilevsky being absent because of the distances and time scale involved.

Three new reports had just taken everyone’s attention, but were now resolved. The first information, namely the location of the French symposium, was welcomed but not everyone saw it as essential in the way that Stalin did. None the less, no one was foolish enough to question the General Secretary’s pet project.

The second was a portfolio of photograph’s and a short movie reel depicting American and British armoured vehicles attacking Russian troops in Berlin, set against a backdrop of recognisable landmarks. To be used as part of the international justification if required, no one would be able to tell that the vehicles were in fact lend-lease and Soviet manned, or indeed that the photographs were already a week old.

Thirdly, and of greater concern, was the shooting down of another British Mosquito reconnaissance aircraft over Soviet territory.

The diplomatic channels would soon be buzzing and Molotov was already on his way to his office to prepare soothing and placatory messages, promising to investigate and punish the offenders. Of course, there would be an advisory to keep away from Soviet airspace included. The Mosquito had been deliberately shot down, as it was about to wander over a sensitive assembly area in Northern Germany. Whilst these areas were cunningly concealed there were no chances taken. The two-man crew would be returned to the British once the remains had been recovered.

The meeting had been going for some five hours and there now seemed to be nothing of note left to discuss or decide upon.

Except for one small matter.

Stalin stood and tapped his pipe upon his table to call order, sending a few sparks across the paperwork and maps near his right hand.

“Comrades, we have laboured long and hard to ensure that our plans are the best they can be, and to ensure success in this great venture.”

The stem of his pipe swept the room in an expansive gesture.

“We can all be proud of the service we have done for the party and Motherland.”

He locked eyes with Zhukov.

“So now we must decide whether we draw back from the path we have planned or if we proceed with all our might.”

To the casual onlooker it could have seemed that Stalin was indeed undecided but no one there believed other than he was committed to the attack and was merely trying to detect weakness around him.

“Zilant-4 preparation will take three days,” He held Makarenko to his word on that, “And nothing else we have discussed here today will take more than a few hours of staff work to resolve.”

“Our timescale is on track. The secret forces for Diaspora and Kingdom39 are either in place or en route. Our new allies are also prepared and committed.”

His voice started to grow in volume and power of delivery.

“There will be no better time; no period when we are stronger and none where they are weaker.”

He acknowledged Beria with an uncharacteristic hand on the shoulder.

“Comrade Marshall Beria’s agents have removed the immediate threat of the American atomic research project.”

Stalin moved slowly around the room as he spoke, making eye contact with each and every man in turn.

“The capitalists are soft and war-weary. They do not have the stomach for further losses.” Behind him, Zhukov paled unnoticed.

“They are burdened with refugees and prisoners. The German state is on its knees and will never be more easily destroyed for ever than it can be now.”

Returning to his position at the head of the table, he turned and relit his pipe.

“So I say we must not let this opportunity pass, or we will be judged poorly by history. We must not be judged to have been found wanting.”

Puffing gently on his pipe, the General Secretary sat down and waited, observing the strange spectacle of a group of powerful men exchanging looks in total silence. His observations of their collective behaviour in those few seconds confirmed his views on who had and who did not have the stomach for what was to come.

Beria, as was usual, was the next to speak.

“The reasoning is as sound now as it was when we first started this enterprise.” His face turned to Stalin as he drew himself almost to a position of attention. “I, for one, will not be found wanting by history Comrades. I say go.”

Bulganin was next.

“Comrades, our planning is perfect, our maskirova excellent. Their weakness at its height. The Rodina would never forgive us if we held back now.”