“I work for Comrade Molotov… as an… err… unofficial advisor on military and other matters. I’m not really a General… well… not any more. I was once, but after the war I travelled the world in search of something that would help my lungs.”
He poured another measure for them both and continued.
“I visited many countries, without great success. This brought me to the attention of the Commissariat and I was asked to… um… advise and consult… you could say spy for them.”
Gurundov smiled disarmingly, but Nazarbayeva’s suspicions were aroused.
“But you’re not Comrade Molotov’s official military liaison officer, that’s Com…”
“No… you’re right… I’m not.”
He extended the flask again, and she accepted the refill.
“In many ways, I’m in your line of business. I gather information for Comrade Molotov… on matters that affect foreign policy. I report to no one but him, and owe no affiliation to anyone but him… and, of course, the Motherland.”
“I had no idea, comrade.”
“Excellent. That’s the way I like it, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“So, why are you travelling to the Black Sea, Comrade Gurundov?”
He knocked back his measure of vodka and considered his words carefully.
“The sea air is good for my lungs, and Comrade Molotov has secured a dacha at Sochi, which he has graciously permitted me to use for a restorative break.”
She waited for the rest of it.
He decided to invest in the woman, to display trust… to remove her suspicions…
He lowered his voice and leant forward.
“Also, I am here to help with part of Project Raduga. I know you are aware of this project.”
Nazarbayeva simply nodded her understanding, although hearing the name of the Soviet Union’s most secret operation whispered by someone she had known for less than thirty minutes was a considerable shock.
“The aircraft will make a quick stop at Novorossiysk, where myself and Captain Kalinin will alight and leave you to continue your journey. My language skills, amongst other of my talents, are apparently needed. I won’t be in Sochi for a few days yet, but I will call on you when I arrive.”
Nazarbayeva’s brain accessed a memory… of a naval officer waiting outside Stalin’s office… and who had accompanied him at the time.
She married the visual recollection with the live image of the Red Navy Captain sat three rows up.
‘Captain Third… no… now Second Rank Mikhail Stepanovich Kalinin… submarine commander… Stalin’s birthday… atomic weapons… what was his name… Nitina… no… Nishina.’
She took a chance.
“Language skills. Japanese, I assume?”
Gurundov smiled without smiling, remembering that the woman in front of him was not to be underestimated.
“Very perceptive of you, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“So is there a problem with Raduga, Comrade Gurundov? I’ve heard nothing.”
“That’s because it’s only just come to light, Comrade.”
She waited to be enlightened further, but Gurundov did not volunteer anything further.
“Another?”
He produced the flask once more.
“Thank you, Comrade Gurundov. Shall we drink to the success of your mission, whatever it may be?”
He grinned from ear to ear and put her out of her misery.
“Let us drink to our allies, and that they recover their commitment to the cause.”
He went to knock back his vodka, but realised that the woman had not moved.
Even with her urgent whisper toned down, Nazarbayeva failed to mask her concern.
“There’s a problem with their commitment? They’re absolutely essential to the project.”
He waved the empty flask at nobody in particular, solely to highlight the gravity of his next words.
“Yes, they are, and at the moment, Raduga is dead in the water for a number of reasons… one of which is because ‘they’ have doubts.”
“Then we must remove those doubts and reinvigorate them, Comrade. If I can help, then don’t hesitate to ask… please.”
“Thank you, Comrade. We may well need you, but in any case, I’ll see you at the dacha, once my work is done.”
The unequivocal statement was bound to draw a comment.
“That’s twice you’ve said that, Comrade Gurundov, almost like that’s part of your mission.”
His chuckle held less humour third time around.
“In a very real sense it is, but not part of the mission entrusted to me by the GKO.”
She passed back the silver cup, accompanying it with a look that required an answer to the question it posed.
“Comrade General Kaganovich has asked me to spend some time with you, on matters too delicate to be openly observed.”
“Comrade General Kaganovich?”
“But yes… shall we say… err… I don’t just report to Comrade Molotov?”
Some small sense started a fire in her brain, which stoked up to a raging inferno of thought processes, which quickly resolved into a single intense blazing memory fighting its way to the front of her recognition.
“Gurundov? The name is familiar to me for some reason, Comrade General.”
“My brother was Filip Karlovich Gurundov… a hero of the Soviet Union. He was killed by fascist tanks at Kharkov in 1943, along with his oldest son Alexei Filipovich. Perhaps that is where you have heard the name, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
He noticed the look that fell across her face.
“Comrade?”
“So… you are Vassily Karlovich Gurundov?”
“That is so.”
‘VKG.’
She made her move quickly.
“Have you ever been to Krakow, Comrade General?”
If he recognised the attempted pass phrase, Gurundov hid it expertly behind a mask of confusion.
“I once spent Christmas there. Wonderful place.”
“There’s nothing like Christmas in Krakow.”
Nazarbayeva hardly dared breathe.
Gurundov nodded.
“Comrade General Nazarbayeva.”
It took her a moment to realise that the words had not come from Gurundov.
“Yes?”
“Peltsov, Commander of the Southern Special grouping. I was wondering if I could pick your brain for any further information about the Allied threat?”
She looked at Gurundov who simply shrugged in acceptance.
“The Motherland’s needs must come before small talk. We will continue our conversation another time, Comrade Mayor General.”
Gurundov moved away as quickly as his damaged body would allow him, and Peltsov dropped into his place.
Nazarbayeva stared at the departing general’s back, willing him to turn and speak, or even simply mouth the response she sought.
‘Except May Day in Moscow.’
Gurundov turned.
‘Go on, old man, speak the words… now… just mouth them…’
The old general smiled and found a seat in which he could silently drop off to sleep.
Peltsov’s enquiries were pertinent, and she answered them as best she could, occasionally stealing a glance at the lolling head, and wondering what he had been about to say.
The plane was diverted from Rostov-na-Donu airfield, for unexplained technical reasons that an Air Force colonel confided were likely to be Allied aircraft visiting the facilities again, and the DC-4 was descending to Novorossiysk before Peltsov had finished his questioning and note taking, leaving Nazarbayeva no chance to renew her conversation with Gurundov.
He left the aircraft without any further chance to speak to Nazarbayeva, save a small nod and goodbye, and the old man made the short walk to the security compound, where he joined the small convoy that would take the road from Novorossiysk to the Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, as it was known locally.