Makarenko’s own views and attitudes initially made the margins of debriefing reports but, as they seemed to become stronger and more personal, interviewers started to record a tantalising possibility, one that was eventually discussed by men with higher responsibility.
De Walle, one of those who took control of the exploratory operation, selected his man very carefully.
The hospital ward, in fact, most of the camp, was bugged, and listeners had reported back that Makarenko had been fully apprised of the massacre of his wounded men, good treatment of the prisoners, and subsequent events.
Colonel Albrecht Haefali, temporarily transferred from his infantry command at De Walle’s request, was greeted like a hero by both Rispan and Kolybareva, who introduced the Legion officer to Makarenko.
Although he could not understand a word of what the two said, Haefali knew he should be embarrassed.
Makarenko extended his hand.
“Thank you for the lives of my officers… and friends, Colonel. Thank you.”
Releasing his grip and wearily dropping back into the chair, Makarenko accepted the drinking cup from Kolybareva’s hand.
“So, how may I help you, Colonel Haefali? As a soldier, I have said all that I can say already.”
Looking at the other wounded Russians and at the Doctor, Haefali gestured at the audience.
“You may say whatever you have to say in front of these soldiers. I trust them with my life, Colonel.”
With a smile, the Legion officer nodded in understanding.
Haefali remembered what he had been told to say, briefed at length by Allied intelligence officers. Immediately, he rejected it all and went his own way.
“Sir, I believe that I am here because your officers would introduce me to you in a positive fashion and, with that, you might look upon what I have to say without some of the normal reservations.”
Those wearing headsets in the nearby monitoring shed started voicing their anger, fearing the legionnaire had blown the mission at the first moment. De Walle cut them short immediately, despite his own similar concerns.
“Shut up and listen!”
The three men settled back down, two writing in shorthand, recording the conversation, one each in English and French.
“Very open of you, Colonel. Why do you tell me this?”
“General Makarenko, I’m doing this openly so that you can understand that I’m doing what I believe to be right, not at the bidding of some… shadow with no name.”
He waited whilst Kolybareva offered up another cup of water.
“I have been given information to present to you and I will do so… but I will do so because I think you should know, not because of it being part of some grand intelligence trick.”
“Colonel, please go on.”
Three hundred metres away, in a warm monitoring hut, De Walle smiled.
‘Nicely done, Albrecht. Very nicely done.’
Haefali was undoubtedly a man of honour, but he was an Allied officer first and foremost, so more than happy to use his situation for the cause.
De Walle’s joy increased as the Legion Officer delivered the information received from the Soviet contact, covering the way that the Soviet leadership had misrepresented so much to sway the Military through to the damming suggestion that an informer’s report on a less than complimentary exchange regarding the Soviet leader, between Makarenko and Erasov, had directly contributed to the massacre of Makarenko’s men. Personal revenge against the paratrooper General, as well as hubris, played a part in the fool’s errands that were the Zilant missions.
The suggestion that the accident to his friend might have been more by design than happenstance and that the liquidation of Colonel Erasov’s entire family had taken place as Makarenko was in the air, returning from the funeral, brought noises of horror from all those present.
In the monitoring shed, a hand picked up a phone and a voice commanded an immediate connection.
“Sir… De Walle here… Yes, it went well, very well. We mustn’t rush it, but I think we can consider the next phases likely and plan accordingly, Sir.”
The grin was permanently stuck to the Deux officer’s face.
“Thank you, Sir. Haefali was superb, of course,” unashamedly pointing out that the man he had chosen had done the job, “And if this goes as we hope… well, we know what could happen.”
Replacing the silent receiver, De Walle took his leave and went to meet up with Haefali in the old SS camp commander’s house nearby.
Chapter 110 – THE WARNINGS
Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.
Twenty minutes beforehand, Submarine B-29 had dropped beneath the agitated surface of the Atlantic, ready to spend the daylight hours on the bottom, resting in silence.
She had arrived the previous night, her patrol cut short by a close encounter with the growing anti-submarine forces that the Allies were deploying.
Twenty-two hours after her rendezvous with the ‘Golden Quest’, a patrolling B24 Liberator spotted the schnorkel, and that began an intense hunt, with the B-29 as the prey.
Whilst relatively undamaged, the bashing that the vessel had taken whilst evading the depth charges and hedgehogs of the hounding anti-submarine group, over a period of nearly thirty-six hours, had reduced her crew to virtual wrecks, and nine men to actual ones.
Those nine were now being cared for in the small but reasonably well equipped facility in the Glenlara base, their broken bones set and wounds stitched. Those men that could be spared from the crew were recuperating in a barracks set aside for the sub crews, finding the sound of the growing wind unsettling but, once sleep came, nothing else mattered and they could enjoy the safety of their dreams.
Seamus Brown had overseen the extra security sweeps that were always mounted when a sub was due, or at the base, and was now involved in a much more pleasurable duty.
Normally, such a duty would be beneath him but, in this instance, he was making an exception.
The Soviet marine stepped back and rattled the keys in the lock, opened the door, and checked that it was safe for Brown to enter.
“Top of the morning to you, Comrade Nazarbayev. I hope the accommodation’s up to standard for you.”
For the next few minutes, the Marine sentry heard sounds from within, sounds that he easily imagined were fists on flesh. As his former commander was firmly bound, he understood that the beating was a one-way affair.
Whilst Brown was taking further revenge on Nazarbayev, Dudko was doing the rounds of the sickbay, ensuring that the new arrivals were comfortable as well as checking on their Soviet resolve, or at least the resolve of those who were conscious.
One of the latter was suffering from concussion, the inevitable result of a high-speed impact between a watertight door and the human head.
Snoring loudly, the sleeping man drew Dudko’s attention.
Casting his eyes over the bruised face, one eye obscured by the bandage that held dressings in place on two nasty wounds, he was suddenly drawn to a modest tattoo on the man’s upper right arm.
Alarm bells started ringing in his head, bells that made him fumble with his holster and produce his Nagant pistol.
He pointed it at the casualty’s head.
A quiet descended on the hospital, as the recognition of danger spread from man to man like a forest fire.
Dudko shook the man’s shoulder gently.
“Hey, Yank. How ya feeling now, pal?”
He shook the shoulder again, harder this time and repeated his question.