Each of them knew that the first hours were vital and relied on perfect synchronization between the conspirators on all fronts. Two hours before the forty-one thousand howitzers opened up and the T-34s began clanking their way across their front lines, Vorontin, at 1st Belorussian, was to despatch loyal guards to Marshal Rokossovsky’s quarters and have him shot on Stalin’s orders — forged orders, proving cowardice in the face of the enemy for slowing the pace of the Soviet advance. Vorontin would then have command of Soviet forces in the centre of the nine hundred and sixty kilometre front.
At Second Belorussian, to the north, Badunov was to do the same with Marshal Zhukov. At 1st Ukrainian, Nerchenko would terminate Marshal Konev, allowing Shaposhnikov to step into his place. The Marshal would supervise the spearhead assault west, as well as co-ordinating Archangel from Branodz. Nerchenko would then make his way to 2nd Ukrainian and take up command of Shaposhnikov’s left flank. New orders would be relayed to commanders in the field. If any of them had reservations about attacking the Western Allies, none would show it.
“When you have control and the attack has begun, remember to signal me again, both of you,” Shaposhnikov said. “When I have your transmissions I will relay the communiqué to Moscow that we, the Free Officers of the Red Army, have struck a blow for the October Revolution that will once and for all remove imperialism from our doorstep. Comrade Stalin will have no choice but to throw the weight and resources of the Motherland behind Archangel’s iron fist.”
Vorontin laughed. “I would love to see his face when he reads that signal.”
Shaposhnikov did not seem to share the joke, but nodded. “He will have no choice but to join our victory parade in Paris in six weeks. By then we will be so strong that he will be in no position to move against us. Should he show signs of wavering, we have friends in Moscow who can take care of that, as you know.”
The euphemism chilled Krilov. It was strange that even Shaposhnikov could not say the word outright.
Shaposhnikov moved onto the subject of the maskirovkas, the huge, carefully co-ordinated, military deceptions on all three Soviet Fronts that had convinced the Germans — and the Western Allies, for that matter — that the Red Army was amassing resources for one last thrust that would squeeze the life-blood from the Reich. “They have bought us valuable time. The confusion that will greet our actual assault plan should take our troops half-way to Paris before meeting serious resistance.”
“And if it doesn’t…”
Shaposhnikov looked from one to the other, and saw from their expressions that Vorontin had spoken for them all. “Yes, Comrades. If it doesn’t, we will have no alternative but to use the Berezniki consignment. We should none of us dismiss the possibility that, even with the massive weight of resources behind Archangel, our troops may become bogged down. Should that be the case, I will have no hesitation in using the chemical weapons at our disposal. I want you to know that.”
“Where is the consignment?” Vorontin asked.
“Making its way to Branodz in an armoured convoy under the command of Major Ryakhov, Military Chemical Forces. If the sector is clear of the enemy, as you suggest it is, Comrade General Nerchenko, then there really is nothing to fear while the munitions are in transit.”
“Quite, Comrade Marshal,” Nerchenko said, his heart in his throat. He thought of the trucks winding their way up the mountain tracks that led to Branodz, Ryakhov peering past the straining windscreen wipers down the tunnel beams of the headlights, looking for the slightest sign of trouble ahead. If they were attacked, if even one of the chemical shells were to rupture, the very breath he was taking now could be his last.
“Rest assured that the decision to use the hydrogen cyanide artillery shells will be mine, and mine alone,” Shaposhnikov’s words brought Nerchenko round. “Given the prevailing wind conditions, I am satisfied that none of the gas can possibly reach as far north as your troops,” he said, nodding to Badunov, “but the rest of us will have to take the precautions we discussed, at all times.”
Vorontin remained anxious. Even the troops at the very northern extreme of his 1st Belorussian Front, about a hundred and fifty kilometres from the impact point of the shells, would have to fight in gas masks if Shaposhnikov decided to resort to chemical attack.
But God help the enemy. Tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands would die. And that didn’t include the civilians.
“Do you think they will counterattack with chemicals?” Vorontin asked.
Shaposhnikov shook his head. “The Western Allies’ command structure is already too fragmented for them to initiate a rapid response. By the time they are in a position to deploy their own chemical weapons we would be on our way to Paris. Their troops, unlike ours, are not trained to fight in such an environment, and they would never risk the slaughter of their French allies.”
“What about the Germans?” Vorontin asked.
“Not even Hitler would sanction the use of chemical warfare on German soil. No, believe me, if we have to use these weapons, the way is clear to do so. But given the readiness of our conventional forces I don’t expect any serious hitches. The chemicals are just an insurance policy.”
By the time he had paced the streets for an hour, Kruze had got most of the anger from his exchange with Staverton out of his system. He hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to the station, then changed his mind and asked to go by the hospital first.
The taxi waited in front of its great gothic exterior, while Kruze made his way towards the main entrance. As he walked, he carefully removed the service ribbons from his chest and wrapped them in his handkerchief. They wouldn’t make much of a memento for Billy, but they were all he had.
He approached the duty desk. The nurse was not the one who had spoken to him and Penny on their last visit. She looked up from her book and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
He put the handkerchief on the desk. “I wanted to leave this for one of your patients,” he said. “A little boy by the name of Billy Simmons. He was brought in a few days ago following the Strand explosion.”
“You’re Squadron Leader Kruze, aren’t you?” She turned the book over and stood up. Her expression had changed.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“We’ve been trying to get hold of you and Mrs Fleming all afternoon,” she said, then paused.
“Billy died shortly after two o’clock. I’m terribly sorry.”
He looked at her incredulously. “You must have got the wrong patient. Billy had broken his legs, that was all. He was getting better.”
She tried to put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged her off.
“There was a complication,” she said. “The doctors didn’t see the blood clot. By the time it had entered his brain it was too late. There was nothing they could do.” She paused again, watching the shock on his face. “We tried to contact you at your base, but they weren’t accepting any calls.”
Kruze did not need to hear any more. He turned on his heels and walked through the exit, leaving the tiny bundle of ribbons where he had placed it on the desk.
By the time the nurse was through the doors, the taxi was already pulling out of the gates.
CHAPTER SIX
“Comrade Beria,” NKVD Major Shlemov said, “I think I have found something which is not as it should be.” He coughed, awkwardly. “I need more guidance.” He had rehearsed the opening words of his speech for the last half an hour, but somehow it still came out wrong. The directive had been vague, so it was hard to know exactly what Beria was looking for.