Grassnovy understood and inwardly lauded his man’s understanding.
“And the warship there?”
Tomaschuk moved his head to confirm his first impressions of the enemy destroyer.
“A British J-class destroyer. I can find out which one, but I doubt it makes a difference. The smaller vessel is an ocean-going tug.”
As if responding to an unheard order, the two men moved their binoculars to observe the larger warship, gently moving around outside of the harbour.
Grassovny waited patiently, and gasped audibly as another enemy vessel became apparent.
“Blyad! There’s two ships out there.”
“Yes, so I see, Comrade. The nearest one is a light cruiser, again British… Arethusa class I think… which means she’s either Arethusa herself, or Aurora. The others were sunk by the Germanski.”
“And the very big one?”
He drew hard on his memory of the relevant silhouette books and intelligence sheets, and could only come up with one thought.
“It’s an Essex class aircraft carrier. Over that I can’t be specific. They all look alike, but the Amerikanski have plenty of them.”
“Amerikanski?”
“Definitely, Comrade. They have given none to the British that intelligence knows of, so it is Amerikanski.”
‘Blyad… that complicates things…’
A cough from the doorway drew their attention, and a nondescript black man greeted their gaze.
“Well, Mutumbu? What did you discover?”
“Their ship is unwell, Mestre. They get permission to dock and make better very quickly.”
“And the soldiers?”
“The soldiers are allowed ashore to walk their legs, Mestre. No guns allowed.”
He had noticed the lack of weapons, so that fitted.
“Good work, Mutumbu. Now get your boys working hard. I want to know who they are and where they’re going within the hour.”
The African nodded his head and was gone.
Both Soviet intelligence officers returned to examining the view, processing the latest information and comparing it with what they were seeing.
Less than an hour later, the additional information was to hand, and both prepared urgent reports for Moscow.
“Come in.”
Lavrentiy Beria strode in, clutching two folders, both containing distressing news.
He nodded to Isakov, whom he had not expected to be present, and suddenly realised that he had been beaten to delivery of one revelation by the Admiral of the Fleet and commander of the Red Navy.
“Ah, Lavrentiy. You too have news from Mozambique, I take it?”
“Yes, indeed, Comrade General Secretary.”
Beria handed over the relevant folder, which contained all the reports concerning possible Allied movements to the Gulf, not just the latest information from Lourenco Marques.
The latest message tied in perfectly with the one Isakov had presented a few minutes beforehand.
Placing the folder on the desk, Stalin resumed tugging gently on his pipe, studying the words in silence.
He pointed the stem at the paperwork.
“So, we now have hard words… direct knowledge of this movement of Allied ships… and better information on where they are going.”
He tapped the naval report, if for no other reason than to annoy his NKVD boss.
“A carrier, a cruiser, a destroyer, all escorting two vessels… a single damaged ship into harbour. What does that imply?”
Isakov understood the question was for him.
“That they have great strength, Comrade General Secretary. To allocate such a force… it’s not for such small assets… not for small a mission… it suggests a much larger force to hand, one with a surfeit of strength and numbers.”
Beria took the opportunity as Isakov drew a breath.
“The, ah, special report from East Africa suggested over two hundred ships, Comrade General Secretary. Without that report we could probably suspect some sort of maskirovka, but that report was quite specific.”
Stalin and Beria both, demonstrating full agreement.
The General Secretary took up the analysis.
“And now, we have this information. A ship develops a fault and puts into a port, seeking to repair. This time on the other coast of Africa. It carries these soldiers…,” he looked down to remind himself, “These… 63rd Royal Navy soldiers… British soldiers in an Amerikanski ship, supported by capital ships, British and Amerikanski… all supposedly heading north-east.”
He drew on his pipe and spoke directly to Isakov.
“Heading to Bushehr?”
“Yes, it would seem so, Comrade General Secretary.”
“And we have no naval assets with which to interfere?”
“None at all, Comrade General Secretary.”
Beria realised he had extra information and raised his hand.
“Comrade General Secretary, the soldiers. My agents identified at least one senior officer from the British Fourth Corps, a unit we previously had included in their maskirovka operation.”
“Second Army Group?”
“The same, Comrade General Secretary. It would appear possible that the transition from maskirovka to real units has taken place.”
“Montgomery.”
Beria nodded, allowing Stalin to cross the ‘I’s and dot the ‘T’s himself.
“So, this fleet of ships contains soldiers of their previously non-existent Second Army, on their way to join up with the British hero Montgomery, so they can attack into our territories in the south, and threaten our oil and mineral supplies.”
Neither senior man chose to speak, leaving a heavy silence in place, the ticking of the clock all-pervasive.
Stalin sucked pensively on his pipe, his mind working hard, his eyes narrowed in cunning as he worked the possibilities.
“Still think this is a maskirovka, Lavrentiy?”
“I believe it was when we first evaluated it, Comrade General Secretary. A cheap one, centered around sending the wounded Montgomery to Persia.”
“And now?”
“If it is maskirovka, then it is anything but cheap. Moving all those ships is a monumental task, is it not, Comrade Admiral?”
Isakov started, unexpectedly dragged back into the discussion.
“Simply staggering, in resources and complexity, Comrade Marshal.”
Beria nodded in acknowledgement and pressed ahead.
“And we now have confirmation of real soldiers, and ones previously thought to exist in name only, as part of their ghost army maskirovka. Comrade General Secretary, if this is maskirovka, then it is on a huge scale, and beyond what we have previously accepted as their skill level. That being said, I would like more time to develop better knowledge of their strength, but I understand that you must act immediately, for the sake of the Motherland.”
Beria kept the smug look off his face, knowing that he had just danced nicely around committing himself fully, and handed full responsibility to his leader.
Stalin puffed away, understanding that to do nothing would be unforgiveable.
He picked up the telephone and waited for the briefest of moments.
“Summon the GKO immediately. Nine o’clock. No excuses.”
Replacing the receiver, Stalin looked at the old timepiece, almost as if seeking confirmation of his decision.
Something made him hesitate.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
The second folder came into Stalin’s possession.
He read it slowly, his eyes widening, so much so that Isakov felt the need to enquire of the contents of Beria’s other folder.
“From one of the observation post we and the Japanese established on Tsushima…”
The pain was written all over Isakov’s face, the island having given its name to a terrible defeat that the Imperial Navy inflicted on Russian forces.