“You’ve had the entire night to get answers. I want them now,” Beria said from behind his immense desk.
Shlemov got out his notepad. “We pulled the Krilov woman in for questioning and—”
“You did what?” The NKVD chief slammed his fist down on the blotter. “I thought I told you to be discreet.”
“There were many dead ends. No one knew anything about these three men — nothing concrete, anyway. We needed a break.”
Beria waved his hand. His mood could change in an instant, Shlemov had learnt that. “Continue then, but start from the beginning,” the NKVD chief said.
Shlemov looked back to his pad. “I have had my men examine the records of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov, but individually they’re clean. Oddly, however, their paths crossed for the first time three years ago when they taught at the Voroshilov Military Academy. Were you trying to establish a particular link, Comrade Beria?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Beria growled. “Carry on.”
“It was when Shaposhnikov was Commandant and Krilov and Nerchenko were on his staff teaching tactics and strategy. Apparently, they were rather friendly, although you would never have guessed it from the way they behaved at the Academy. They almost crossed the street to avoid each other.”
“How do you know this?”
“We interviewed some of the Academy’s ‘42–43 intake. Shaposhnikov was extremely popular — his particular brand of patriotism appealed to the young lions whose fields and cities had just been sacked by the fascist invaders.”
“This jingoism, do you think it could be a blind? Would it be possible, for instance, that he was involved in pro-Western activities?”
“No, quite the opposite, that was the strange thing. These lecturers were so anti-Western that they made no distinction between Nazi, British, or American. I know the fascists had only just been driven back and feelings were riding high, but even so, their rhetoric was remarkable for people who were never seen with each other. To the students of Voroshilov, all five of them spoke with one tongue.”
“Five? Who were the others? I can only account for Shaposhnikov, Krilov and Nerchenko.”
“Generals Badunov and Vorontin.”
“Why do the students remember this rhetoric as particularly remarkable?” Beria asked. “Anti-Western doctrine is something that should be encouraged, albeit with some subtlety, don’t you think?”
“Quite comrade. I merely recorded the students’ observations.”
Beria began to lose patience. “This is all very interesting, Comrade Shlemov, but how do you know that they were operating in unison if they were never seen together?”
Shlemov coughed. “Policeman’s instinct, I suppose.”
“But no evidence?”
“Not until we spoke to Valentina Krilova.”
Beria appreciated the use of the word ‘spoke’. Chances were they had beaten her half to death. “Why her, especially?”
The NKVD major mirrored his superior’s thin smile. “I thought she was bound to know something, Krilov being the Marshal’s aide. He took up the post shortly after Shaposhnikov was called back from the Academy as Chief of General Staff. I also thought it would draw less attention pulling a colonel’s wife out of bed at three in the morning. Generals’ wives can be a little more difficult.”
Shlemov brought out his notepad again, skimming through the pages until he found the relevant section. “As for Shaposhnikov, he did have a family, but the records show they died shortly after the October Revolution. Nerchenko has a daughter, but we haven’t had time to question her yet.”
Beria looked levelly at Shlemov, trying to read the face for a sign that his relationship with Nadia Nerchenko had surfaced. He was satisfied that the policeman knew nothing.
“Remember what I said about discretion,” Beria cautioned.
“Yes, Comrade Beria.”
“Go on about the Krilov woman,” the NKVD chief said. “Perhaps it was a good decision. It depends on what you found.”
“She told us everything she knew, I’m sure of that. Shaposhnikov, Krilov and Nerchenko had been meeting regularly for months in Krilov’s apartment, even though they appeared to shun each other at the Academy. That’s odd for a start.”
Beria nodded. Come on, Shlemov, he thought, tell me something I don’t know.
“They never let her into the room where they talked. She thought they were probably reliving old campaigns — as old soldiers do over a bottle of vodka or two. That was when she told us about Operation Archangel—”
“What?”
“Archangel. It was about the only snippet she caught. She thought it was some battle they had fought together during the last war and they were just reminiscing. She heard them mention it several times on different occasions.
I think she only told us because she thought it wasn’t of any importance.”
“And when was this operation? I have to confess I’ve never heard of it.”
“You won’t have. Comrade Beria. We did a check. Neither our own side, nor the fascists for that matter, have ever staged a military operation by that name, in this war or the last.”
“What did it suggest to you, then?” Beria liked the methodical way Shlemov worked. It was the reason he had picked him for the job. He just wished the man would speed things up.
Shlemov sucked the end of his pencil. “Nothing at the time, but there is more.” He turned the pages of his notebook. “She broke down. Told us that her relationship with her husband had never been particularly strong, but when Krilov left her two days ago, she was convinced that they weren’t going to meet again. There was something rather final about his goodbye that’s had her worried ever since.”
“Where has he gone?”
“On Shaposhnikov’s miracle tour of the Front — hardly any cause for concern, I thought at first. I mean, they’re unlikely to go anywhere near the fighting. But here’s the interesting part: their first port of call, according to Shaposhnikov’s itinerary, is Branodz, HQ of the 1st Ukrainian Front. Nerchenko is second in command there, under Marshal Konev.”
“So you think that Archangel is something in the future?”
Shlemov shrugged. “Perhaps it is the Stavka’s given name for an action against the fascists.”
Beria ran through the minutes of the last few sessions of the Supreme Stavka in his mind. There had never been mention of any operation by the name of Archangel. He remembered something else, however, that made his stomach knot with excitement. “What if I were to tell you that Badunov and Vorontin have also been meeting up with them, only at Nerchenko’s apartment.” The eyes sparkled behind the wire frames of his glasses.
Shlemov forgot his place momentarily. “How can you know this?”
“I know it, Shlemov, never mind how.”
The NKVD major felt the perspiration under his uniform, but Beria was racing towards the next link in the chain.
“And what if I were to tell you,” the head of the NVKD said, “that one of Shaposhnikov’s tasks as Chief of the General Staff, a duty he took up after Voroshilov, was placing commanders in the field — at the front.”
“Vorontin and Badunov at 1st and 2nd Byelorussian sectors…”
“Yes, his fledglings on all three fronts. Too much power for one man. Too much power for Comrade Stalin’s liking — and for mine. And they meet regularly in Moscow to discuss an operation called Archangel. Go, Shlemov. I don’t care how you do it, but get to Branodz. Find out what is going on there. Do it now!”
Malenkoy was as surprised as the dozen or so other junior officers at the HQ for the 1st Ukrainian Front in Branodz when Marshal Boris Shaposhnikov, Hero of the Soviet Union and Chief of General Staff, walked into the operations room unannounced, escorted by General Nerchenko.