She pondered that a moment and found no argument to oppose the little voice.
‘He’s capable of anything that preserves his world and keeps his power.’
Tatiana Nazarbayeva, GRU General, Hero of the Soviet Union, shuddered.
She moved on, pushing the growing voice back into the recesses of her mind.
Smallest of all the messages was number six. It was also the most confusing, with no apparent meaning.
‘There is nothing like Christmas in Krakow.’
‘Except May Day in Moscow.’
Undoubtedly, Pekunin would not have included it if it were not important, but the purpose of the message was unknown.
The seventh and final decode contained a few words, albeit powerful ones. They were the names of people that Pekunin had spoken to in the last few weeks, the dates he had approached them, all of them men who knew what was going on in Mother Russia and who, for the most part, according to Pekunin’s brief notations, were prepared to risk all to protect her from the enemy within.
Nazarbayeva slipped into bed after destroying the decodes and reassembling the GRU file to its original state, the contents of the messages safely kept in her mind.
The night brought her little sleep or rest as her mind toyed with the awful truths she had been presented with.
Yet, in spite of the awfulness, personal tragedy even, of some of the messages, she kept returning to the seventh decode and the last entry on the list.
‘23/10/45 Molotov – declined.’
What Tatiana did not, could not, know was that Molotov had acquired a debt when the indiscretions of his nephew Skryabin had fallen under Beria’s gaze before the war commenced. That debt had been discharged, as it was the Foreign Minister that had supplied proof of the last elements of Pekunin’s ‘treachery’, revealing to Beria the details of Pekunin’s approach.
Her dreams kept her from proper rest, her sharp brain reminding her that by the very act of not revealing the names in the seventh message was, in itself, an act of treason against the state. Waking from her fitful sleep, Tatiana’s brain again presented her with the quandary; the unknown meaning of an entry in the last document.
‘15/10/45 VKG—?’
Her mind worked the possibilities, as it had done since the first moment she read the entry.
‘Kuzma Galitskii… no.’
Her mind clicked into place, throwing up a solution.
‘Vladimir Konstantinovich Gorbachev? Where is he now?’
She woke and wrote the name down and went back to her broken sleep.
In the morning, Nazarbayeva established that Major General Gorbachev was in command of the 346th Rifle Division, part of the 1st Guards Rifle Corps, the major fighting unit of 22nd Army of the 1st Baltic Front.
In the mid-afternoon, that information was flamed by one of her aides, who reported that the GRU file on 22nd Army was dated and inaccurate.
The 346th had seen some modest fighting in September, enough to cause casualties, amongst whom was Gorbachev. His injuries were serious enough to send him back to the Motherland to recover.
The latest report had the General in the hierarchy of the Moscow Military District.
The Deputy Commander of Military Training for the MMD, Dmitri Kramarchuk, had been killed in a car accident and the recuperating Gorbachev was immediately put in his place.
Nazarbayeva checked the dates and found that Gorbachev was in the MMD ranks on the 3rd October.
His position gave him control over new army formations being put together in and around the capital city, which immediately suggested to Tatiana that she had been right in her assumption and she had her man.
“Thank you, Sarnt.”
Ames accepted the enamel mug and its scalding hot contents as if they were gifts from the Gods.
“My pleasure, Sah. They Welsh boys’s ok. They’m took a shine to you, by all accounts.”
Ames took a tentative sip of the strong brew and shrugged, attempting humour to downplay the moment.
“We’ve spent some quality time together, Sarnt. They’re good lads.”
Sergeant Gray was a recent arrival with the 83rd Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, yet another of those men who had spent time behind German barbed wire.
Placing his mug on the snow, he spared a look at his surroundings, the combination of the moon and the steadily falling snow creating a relaxing, almost Christmas-like feeling to the land.
He pulled out his large pipe and had it loaded in record time.
The awesome object had already acquired the nickname of ‘The Funnel’, its bowl constantly belching something indescribable that bore scant resemblance to the aromatic products of pipe tobacco.
Theories abounded, starting with shredded tyre rubber and ending with old unwashed socks.
The Sergeant quickly checked the radio and found it satisfactory, rewrapping it in the army blanket used to insulate it from the elements.
His desires kick started by the sound of Gray sucking greedily on the Funnel, Ames was soon puffing on a Woodbine.
The Artillery officer had acquired a heavy smoking habit since the fighting in and around the Hamburg Rathaus in August, which now neared forty a day, if supplies were sufficient.
“One of they Welshies was telling me bout ‘Amburg, Sah. Sounds like ‘er was a right bastard, fair ‘nough.”
Ames’ eyes softly glazed, as his memories took him back to those few bitter days, fighting with the Royal Welch, the Black Watch, and even those German Paratroopers.
“To be honest, Sarnt, it was pretty horrible… and we were extremely lucky to get out of it. Many good lads didn’t.”
His mind presented the awful image of the young Lieutenant Ramsey, thrown into the masonry of the Rathaus by an high-explosive shell with such force that his body adhered to the surface, and only reluctantly relinquished its grip after the main battle was over.
He shuddered.
Gray understood, and left the younger man to his memories.
Both men enjoyed the peace, until the light rattle of the simple warning device forced Gray into action.
“Chalky, I told yer to watch the cans, you bloody idio…”
Gray turned his head, just in time to catch the stale breath of a Soviet soldier.
Ames also turned, alarmed as much by the rapid end to Gray’s words as the sound of an enamel mug falling to the bottom of the foxhole.
He fumbled for his Sten, finding only another enemy soldier, and then another.
Cold hands pressed themselves to his face and caught his flailing arms.
Lance-Bombardier Chalky White knew he was in trouble, in more than one way. His hands were full of the bacon sandwiches that were to be the breakfast of his officer and Sergeant, but they were now needed to prise his greatcoat away from the snagging barbed wire.
His efforts were accompanied by the constant rattle of the old tins, all filled with pebbles, noisemakers that danced and announced his every movement.
‘Sod it!’
He moved backwards, reasoning that the barbs would give up their hold more easily.
They held the greatcoat fast until, in an instant, they relinquished their hold and the wire twanged back into place.
The nearest tin taunted him with its audible warning.
A voice boomed out
“Who goes there?”
“The OP’s soddin’ bacon butties… now shut the fuck up!”
Hardly text book but it had the desired effect. No Russian could have managed it and the owner of the voice knew the early routine. He already had his sandwich in his belly.