Commandant Vincennes had taken the call and driven straight away to bring the awful news in person, using the drive as an opportunity to compose himself and work out how best to deliver his news.
Jerome answered the door, demonstratively indignant that anyone could possibly call to disturb the household at this ungodly hour.
In fairness, the old man quickly sensed the nature of the visit and treated the French officer with equanimity, helping him off with his sodden raincoat and leading him to take a seat in the lounge before heading off to rouse Madame Knocke.
By the time he had reached the stairs, he had decided to wake Madame Fleriot first, given his suspicions.
Armande Fleriot’s eyes flicked awake as soon as he knocked lightly on her door, and her eyes strayed to the weapon that had been ever-present by her bedside since the attempted assassination of her family.
After hearing Jerome’s fears, she quietly dressed and went to wake Anne-Marie.
“Ah, Commandant Vincennes, so lovely to see you again, although your timing is less than impeccable.”
“Madame Fleriot, at your service.”
“Please sit… Jerome is bringing coffee and Anne-Marie will be down in a moment.”
She leant forward and spoke in a softer voice but somehow with a harder tone.
“Commandant, I assume this is not a social call. You will know she is pregnant. Gently if you please…”
The door opened and Anne-Marie Knocke walked in with the urgent pace of someone who needs to know the answers to the myriad of questions bouncing around inside her head.
“Commandant Vincennes.”
“Enchanté, Madame Knocke.”
She took her seat adjacent to Armande, battling her emotions and the growing sense of fear that chilled her to the very bones.
Vincennes looked uncomfortable and hesitated, trying to find the right moment and recall his chosen words.
Jerome entered with coffee at the moment that Armande Fleriot provoked matters.
“Commandant, we both understand that this is not a social visit and that you come bearing news… clearly urgent news. I pray you, speak of it now and torture us no longer.”
“Of course… I regret, Madame Knocke, that my news is for you… and it is bad news indeed.”
Anne-Marie remained sat bolt upright despite the imminent collapse she felt was about to wash over her.
“I’ve received word from the front. It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that you husband, Général Ernst Knocke, was wounded… it’s feared mortally. My news is old, I admit. I’m told that your husband was struck down on Monday, during the great attack, and was not expected to survive the night. I have received no more and I came as soon as I was ordered to. Madame, I am truly sorry… and France will grieve with you… Madame? Madame?”
Anne-Marie clutched her distended form, as if holding her man close, the awful words churning around in her mind.
Madame Fleriot spoke in her stead.
“So, Commandant, you come here to tell us that he may be dead… or may not be dead… are you a fucking cretin?”
Even Jerome stopped in mid-motion.
Never before had Armande Fleriot spoken a harsh word in his company, let alone such language, and to a guest and officer of the French Army.
“Madame, I am told what I am told… and I was told to get here as soon as possible.”
Vincennes was cringing inside.
Jerome was shocked.
Fleriot was red-faced and angry.
Anne-Marie was drained of colour and silent.
But then, as things started to declare themselves, it became obvious that Anne-Marie Knocke was in shock-induced labour.
2301 hrs, Friday, 4th April 1947, GRU West Headquarters, Brest Litovsk, USSR.
“Come in.”
The door opened and in walked one of the more recent additions to Nazarbayeva’s staff.
“Comrade Leytenant. Are you duty officer?”
Nazarbayeva already knew the answer to the question, but asked it anyway.
“No, Comrade General. I was just finishing up my report on the French Army activities. I wondered if you wished to see it before you returned to your quarters?”
Nazarbayeva put down the report she was already reading in favour of the one offered up by Hana Rikardova.
“Precis it for me, Comrade Leytenant. Please sit.”
“The French First Army has suffered heavy losses amongst it elite soldiers and appears to be all but spent already. Since the battles on Tuesday, they have made next to no advances, and only on two occasions have they made attempts that had any possibility of achieving any reasonable tactical success… both defeated by our forces. Of greatest note is the destruction of their Legion Corps, the one that has done us so much harm over recent months. Whilst Rybalko’s own force was badly damaged in the actions on Tuesday and Wednesday this week, it’s beyond doubt that he has crippled the Legion Corps and it’s now out of the line.”
“Excellent… and we have hard figures on their casualties and equipment losses?”
“Yes, Comrade Leytenant General, as much of it was left on the field we occupied… and there’s more to reinforce my assessment that the Legion Corps is now to be considered as… err… virtually destroyed.”
Nazarbayeva poured two glasses of water and pushed one across to the clearly dry-throated young officer.
“Thank you… we’ve killed much of their experienced leadership… the ex-SS soldiers… confirmed as dead are Knocke and Uhlmann, the driving forces behind the Camerone unit. I believe they won’t recover from it, Comrade Leytenant General.”
“Good… excellent in fact. I’ll read the full report as soon as I get an opportunity. I’ll be flying to Moscow tomorrow… that should give me an opportunity.”
The tone in Nazarbayeva’s voice would normally have been interpreted as the end of the conversation, but Rikardova made no attempt to move.
“Yes, Comrade Leytenant General. I wondered if I might accompany you on your visit?”
The silence was complete as the two women locked eyes.
Nazarbayeva considered a number of responses until deciding on a lighter approach.
“And why would I consider your request, Comrade Leytenant?”
“Because there is nothing like Mayday in Moscow, except…”
“Except perhaps Christmas in Krakow?”
“Yes indeed, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Silence returned, and neither seemed to wish to break the moment, although the atmosphere was filled with tension.
Eventually, Nazarbayeva spoke.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m here to give you a message, Comrade General. A delegation from the Allies arrives in Moscow tomorrow and you must meet with one of their number… a Colonel Ramsey. He has information that is vit…”
“Who do you work for?”
“For you, Comrad…”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid. Where do your loyalties lie, eh?”
“My loyalties lie with the Motherland, Comrade. I assure you th…”
“So who do you work for within the Motherland?”
“Comrade Khrushchev had me placed here to be of service… and to handle certain delicate tasks.”
“Did he now? So your allegiance is to him, not to the Motherland?”
“They’re one and the same, Comrade General.”
“So who are you really, Leytenant?”
“I am who I am. Hana Georgievna Rikardova of the GRU, but I’m also a member of a small and very secret section within the Communist Party apparatus. As is Comrade Khrushchev… and he’s directed me to be here to watch over you and help where I can.”