“The worst thing is Shaposhnikov has located the dump right next to his headquarters, the very place my man is programmed to bomb tomorrow morning.”
“Kruze has been stopped, I take it,” Deering said.
“Don’t worry, George, we’re taking care of that right now. Our concern is what we do next.”
“I’ve already spoken to the PM about mobilizing our own chemical weapons in retaliation,” Welland said. “He wants to hold off until there is more conclusive news about Branodz.”
“Where’s that to come from? We can’t just sit and wait,” Staverton said.
“Perhaps now he has told the Americans…” Deering said.
“In my opinion, they should have been told the moment news of this first broke,” Welland said.
Staverton thumped the table with his fist. “Guardian Angel would have worked.”
“Are you convinced it would still not be possible to go ahead with the attack?” Deering said. “You told us yourself that this pilot of yours could drop a bomb down a chimney if he was called to do so.”
“The crates are too close to the HQ, George,” Staverton said. “I don’t think any of us has the right to take that risk. With the prevailing wind coming from the north-east at this time of year, a few fractured shell casings could kill thousands of our men and countless more civilians. A hundred shells… well, I don’t have to tell you gentlemen what that would do.”
“So what next?” Deering asked, his voice weary.
“The PM wants to hear what the Americans suggest before we move again,” Welland said.
“But time is running out, Admiral,” Staverton said. “According to the Archangel document that attack is scheduled to happen within the week. For all we know it might even have been brought forward.”
“Then we’re just going to have to pray to God that it hasn’t been.”
“In the meantime,” Deering added, “I’ll see to it that all men in the field within a hundred mile radius of Branodz are drilled in the use of gas masks and, where appropriate, new ones are issued.”
“Without arousing any suspicion, George — routine exercise and all that,” the Admiral interjected. “We don’t want mass panic at the front.”
“Quite, Admiral,” Deering said, a trace of irony in his voice. He was old enough to remember the piercing whistle blasts that signified the onslaught of chemical attack, the rush to don his gas mask and the first sweet smell of the mustard gas as it swept over his position in the trenches.
“The General Staff’s order to commanders in the field to stop their advance eastwards is still being implemented in some isolated parts of the front, but to all intents and purposes the drive for Berlin has halted,” Deering announced, his face sombre. “We are now digging in to meet the Russians, although our men don’t know that,” he added.
“And the Americans?” Welland asked.
“It can only be a matter of hours before they do the same thing,” Deering replied.
The meeting adjourned.
A few minutes later, Staverton scurried along Whitehall’s slippery pavements towards the Bunker. As he crossed the road, avoiding the traffic that crept cautiously through London’s blackout, Big Ben chimed half-past six. Another thirty minutes till the next news broadcast. Thirty minutes in which to warn Kruze that Guardian Angel had been terminated.
CHAPTER FIVE
Malenkoy came round in the cool ward of the military hospital in Branodz, his head hurting like hell and the rest of his body limp from the nightmare.
An orderly saw him stir and moved over to his bedside. He took Malenkoy’s wrist, fumbled for his pulse and, apparently satisfied that the rate was not unusual, plunged a thermometer under his tongue. Malenkoy spat it out, ignoring his protestations.
“What happened to me?” he asked.
“We were hoping you would tell us, Comrade Major,” the orderly said with reverence. “Some troops brought you in several hours ago, said you were a hero, that you were to be given the best treatment. Then they left, just like that, without another word. May I ask what it was that you did?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
“Such modesty, Comrade Major. Let me just tell you that it is an honour to have you here.” The orderly began to pull him up the bed.
“What are you doing?’ Malenkoy asked with some irritation.
“I must make you presentable for the official visit.” The orderly looked anxiously towards the door. “The delegation will be here in no time. You must be ready to receive it.”
“What delegation—” Malenkoy had no time to finish. The double doors of the ward swung open, admitting a cluster of senior personnel. They were some way off and Malenkoy had difficulty focusing on the individuals in the group. He looked up at the orderly and was about to ask who was paying the visit, but the man had stopped fussing over the appearance of his bed and was standing rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.
The olive-green curtain of greatcoats parted for a moment and Marshal Konev swept down the central aisle, NKVD Major Shlemov by his side. As they did so Malenkoy’s mind was flooded with images of the woodland execution. The delegation, Konev now at its head, stopped at the end of his bed. Malenkoy clamped his hands to his legs underneath the sheets to try and stop them shaking.
“Is this Major Malenkoy?’ Konev asked the gaggle of officers around him. There were several curt nods.
Konev took three paces forward. Malenkoy watched wide-eyed as he bent down, grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Then the Marshal stood straight, a thin smile on his lips, and clicked his fingers. A lieutenant marched up, handed over a box and withdrew.
“Major Malenkoy,” Konev began. “Thanks to your maskirovka, the enemy will be wrong-footed when our final assault is launched a few hours from now. The fascists have mustered almost all their forces in the sector against your ghost army, clearing a path for our divisions here in Branodz to assault Berlin from the south. A last-minute overflight by one of their aircraft has not prevented the deception from working to the full. In recognition of your work, I present you with a token of the esteem in which you will shortly be held by the Soviet people when they learn of the part you have played in our total victory.”
Konev took the Order of Lenin from the box and pinned it to Malenkoy’s shirt. He stepped back to the end of the bed and saluted.
Malenkoy didn’t see Konev. His gaze rested instead on Shlemov, who was standing a few paces behind the Marshal’s left shoulder. The NKVD major held Malenkoy’s stare for a few seconds and then nodded, a gesture so slight that it was missed by everyone else in the room. To Malenkoy the significance of that moment was crystal clear. His silence had just been bought by the state.
Konev turned to the delegation, which parted to admit him, swept through the middle and was gone through the double doors. When Malenkoy looked again, the party had left, leaving an unnatural silence in the ward, as if the whole thing had never happened.
Malenkoy stared down at the glittering disc for several seconds. Then the cheers of the other patients began to ring out. He brought a trembling hand from beneath the bedclothes and fingered the Soviet soldier’s most valued prize. He thought of his father back home, of how proud he would be.
But his thoughts returned to the clearing. A few spent cartridges scattered on the grass would be the only sign of the demise of Shaposhnikov, Nerchenko and Krilov. He looked down at the medal again and its lustre had dulled.