Beria had already tipped his leader off, so there was no anger at the Army officer’s late arrival.
Everyone took up a seat around the table.
“My apologies, Comrades.”
Isakov had realized his omission and stood up again, pointing at the most recent arrival.
“Comrade Polkovnik General Boris Vannikov, People’s Commissar for Ammunition.”
Kurchatov sat down as Nazarbayeva mentally added, ‘also Minister of Middle Machinery… and Beria’s man.’
Few outside the walls of the Dachas of Kuntsevo understood that ‘Middle Machinery’ was the Soviet term for Atomic Weapons.
Nazarbayeva had contributed nothing to the technical briefing, for that was what it was. There was no argument or discussion, just a procession of facts, schedules, needs, wants, and projections. The Japanese conversed with Kurchatov in English, their only common language. Some of what they said might as well have been in Swahili, for all the good it did to the listeners, the technicalities of the task ahead wasted on men whose intellect normally only ran to organizing a little internal genocide, or executing political opponents who were too powerful.
Stalin made it clear that the GRU’s role was to help acquire missing information, as requested by the men around her, and in that regard, she was required to place GRU’s resources at the disposal of Colonel General Vannikov, as required.
She accepted a numbered copy of the secret file for Project Raduga, hers being number thirty-six of thirty-seven.
She did not, could not, ask why the GRU had been excluded to this point. At least, not at the moment.
The briefing broke up at 5.30pm and, again, Nazarbayeva found herself beckoned to stay.
“Comrade General, you look shocked.”
“Comrade General Secretary, I had no idea we were so near to producing a weapon.”
Stalin poured himself a tea. The orderly had only brought one cup.
“The Germans were very helpful, and our new allies have opened up their research to us. In fact, they’ve transferred some of their finest brains to us, and it has reaped benefits already.”
Stalin did not pass on the fact that two of the three Pacific fleet submarines had been sunk, taking over twenty invaluable Japanese scientists to the bottom of the North Pacific.
He looked at the woman that he now considered his protégé.
“You want to ask why GRU has not been involved before this, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
It was not put as a question.
“I can only assume that there was good reason, Comrade General Secretary.”
It wasn’t meant to be sycophantic, and Stalin knew it.
“It’s a State secret and, with such things, the fewer that know, the better kept the secret will be. You know this to be true, Comrade.”
Nazarbayeva nodded.
“Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to stay. There’s a celebration here tonight,” he took a gentle sip of the scalding tea, “And I’d like you to attend.”
Nazarbayeva was about to swing into the standard litany of female excuses that every woman can peel off when caught on the hop for such events.
Stalin chuckled.
“I hope you don’t think that I lack the proper organizational skills for such an evening, Comrade General?”
The nearest thing to a laugh that had escaped from Stalin for some time, and it was accompanied by a genuine grin.
“Comrade Beria was detailed to ensure that all feminine articles necessary are at your disposal, along with a guest dacha. There are no uniforms tonight. Tonight, we forget the war and drink to happier times.”
Simply put, she clearly had no choice.
“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I would be delighted.”
“Quite so, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Seven o’clock sharp.”
After a formal salute, she left the room, her plans to return to Germany scuppered without an opportunity to appeal, although the prospect of clean sheets and a quiet night was not unwelcome.
She would have neither.
Nazarbayeva had been escorted to her guest lodgings by two female NKVD officers, who revealed that they had been tasked with providing the GRU General with the proper accoutrements for a social evening.
Safely delivered to her dacha, Nazarbayeva was left alone with a promise that, at 1850hrs precisely, the car would be back to take her back to Stalin’s quarters for the birthday party.
The dacha was simple, but reeked of wealth, the artifacts inside the plain wooden walls seemingly from the time of the Tsars. She had no idea that it belonged to the NKVD but, regardless, she intended to make sure that it was without the standard paraphernalia of bugs and listeners.
The log fire roared away and an attendant appeared to serve tea, inviting her to sit in a voluminous red leather armchair warming in its orange glow.
Despite the relatively short time until the festivities, Nazarbayeva welcomed the relaxation on offer, and felt the warmth of the aromatic tea fill her belly as she stretched her legs, easing the boot from her damaged foot without attempting to conceal the manoeuvre.
After informing the GRU General of the location of her bedroom, and offering to be on hand if needed, the orderly slipped quietly from the lounge and left her to herself.
The silence was like a drug, filling her senses with a wonderfully relaxing nothingness that she could barely recall from before the war.
Nazarbayeva had to force herself from the chair and into the bedroom, where the products of the two NKVD women’s efforts were laid out like a fashion presentation.
Quickly, she slipped around the room, checking all the usual haunts of the electronic surveillance equipment.
She found none. and there were none to find. Well, maybe just one.
The large mirror on the wall was perfectly positioned for a fashion parade, and she swiftly slipped out of her uniform and went through the selection process.
Firstly, she started with the underwear.
None of it was ‘dramatic’, to say the least, but the choice came down to one of two, both matching sets, one in black, the other red.
Slipping out of her own more mundane undies, she stopped to admire her nakedness.
She never really looked at her foot, or rather, the absence of it.
It always reminded her of its issues at a time like this, as balancing was not as easy without the metal strap.
None the less, her eyes swept over her body from toe to head, examining the legs she had always been proud of, the veritable forest of pubic hair and moving over the belly.
Whilst it was clearly one of a mother of several children, it was only slightly marked and, as a soldier, she was fit enough for the curves to be natural, rather than the result of age and excess.
Her breasts hung in splendid curves, almost perfect, the large brown nipples surmounting the soft flesh, solely scarred by the passage of the bullet fired in Pekunin’s office.
She cupped them, squeezing gently and enjoying the feeling. Her mind tried to remind her of her position, and it had to battle the joy of the contact until it achieved victory.
She reached up and undid her hair, allowing the dark locks to cascade down over her shoulders and below her neck, framing her face.
Her eyes screwed up and she grabbed at the left side, examining it closely and finding grey hairs within.
‘Bath first.’
There was no bath. There was a large shower and, after a quick ‘bug’ check around the tiled room, she walked into the enclosure, allowing the luxurious warmth of the water to wash over her.
Finishing her ablutions quickly, she moved back into the bedroom and selected the red set.