“Put me through to the Kremlin Guard commander immediately.”
The information coming from Nazarbayeva’s office in Germany hit the jotting pad, and was immediately relayed to the suddenly attentive Kremlin Guard commander.
“Yes, Comrade, I’ll act immediately. The presentations are due to start at nine. Yes, I’ll ring you back with any news.”
The NKVD officers finished their calls simultaneously, and both men’s eyes strayed to the large wooden wall clock, whose monotonous ticking advanced the hands inexorably towards nine o’clock.
Five seconds later, the deputy chairman’s office was empty, echoing to the receding shouts of worried men calling soldiers about them.
Unusually, Stalin had arrived late, held up by the latest production figures from the Ploesti refineries, figures that did nothing to improve his temper. The Allies continued to bomb the site mercilessly, and it now contributed little more than a dribble to the Soviet war effort.
Avoiding the normal pleasantries, the General Secretary strode into the magnificent vaulted room, constructed in a different age, when the need to impress visitors of the Czar’s greatness was translated into opulence of epic proportions. The magnificent white stone walls, gold leaf, superbly ornate floor and stunning chandeliers created an impression on anyone exposed to the hall’s delights.
Taking station in front of the NKVD leader, Stalin whispered an aside, whilst nodding in recognition at members of the gathering lining the long walk that each recipient would have to undertake to get their piece of metal.
“Let’s get this over with then, Lavrentiy. The standard crowd of heroes and villains, I assume?”
Beria leant forward, his hand automatically masking his mouth.
“Not quite, Comrade General Secretary. Our first man is one we had not expected to see again. It was considered appropriate that, given his feats, he should receive the award from your hands. I was not informed until this morning.”
Leaning backwards, the Soviet dictator risked a quick look at his man.
“Go on.”
“Makarenko.”
Recovering his poise, Stalin pursed his lips.
“And this has happened how?”
“I will know within the hour, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin’s terse reply was lost as the military band struck up the national anthem, and the dignitaries and guests set about their singing with great gusto, the harmonics of the great hall adding to the sense of patriotism and occasion.
As usual in these managed presentations, the master of ceremonies announced each recipient in turn, and they were marched in at the bottom end of the hall, their parade step repeated back off the walls, even though they were required to march up a central protective strip, set in place to prevent damage to the inlaid floor.
Protocol demanded that medals were awarded by level of award and then by rank, so today’s first hero was a Major General of Soviet Paratroops.
Once in position in front of the presentation party, today consisting of the entire GKO, the recipient was subjected to an account of his worthy actions, as the assembly was apprised of the official citation and, more often when there were visiting dignitaries that needed to be further impressed, first-hand accounts of the winning of the award.
Both Stalin and Beria examined the man stood a precise six metres in front of them, the man they had sent to what they had thought was certain death all those months ago.
For his part, Makarenko stood ramrod straight, and his eyes never left those of the man he had come to kill.
The account of the Chateau assault and subsequent adventures culminated with the return through Soviet lines and, as was customary, the assembly clapped their hands in appreciation of the soldier’s efforts.
An NKVD Major moved forward, cradling a cushion on which sat the Hero of the Soviet Union award, ready for the General Secretary to pin the medal high on the paratrooper’s left chest.
The newly created hero marched forward, in perfect step with the two flanking guardsmen.
Doors flew open and armed men flooded into the room.
Chaos.
Shouts.
Screams.
Warnings.
Makarenko produced the concealed 4.25mm Lilliput pistol and took swift aim.
“For all those boys you’ve murdered!”
Gunfire erupted, the staccato sounds amplified by the great hall.
The cushion-carrying Major’s shoulder took the bullet intended for Stalin, the one hastily aimed at Beria missed the gaping Marshal by feet and clipped Bulganin’s ear on its way to despoiling the decorative wall behind.
The guns of the Kremlin Guards put seventeen bullets into the would-be assassin, and three into the personal secretary of the Bulgarian Ambassador, who just happened to be in the line of fire.
Both men were dead before their bodies hit the floor.
More Kremlin Guards flooded the room, ushering the GKO to safety and arresting the entire audience for questioning.
Safely tucked away in one of the former private chambers, the men of the GKO caught their breath and tried to regain their wits.
Tea arrived swiftly, hot and sweet, and each man was fussed over by the Kremlin’s medical staff, all under close supervision of a number of earnest looking guards.
Kaganovich arrived, coinciding with the Guard commander’s initial personal report to the General Secretary.
“The security team that should have ensured no weapons were carried are all in custody, awaiting rigid interrogation, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin’s face remained impassive. Their fate was already sealed, regardless of their culpability.
“The traitor is dead.”
“His family. All of them. Associates… everyone… round them up.”
No reply was necessary, as everyone present knew that the process would have already begun.
“The Bulgarian diplomat is also dead, but the ambassador understands no intent on our part.”
Stalin took another sip of his strong tea and offered no comment.
“An Armenian Colonel present to receive his own hero award has been found in possession of a cut-throat razor, so he’s on his way to the Lyubyanka.”
“Details, details. How did you know what was about to happen, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“I received a warning call from Comrade Polkovnik General Kaganovich, Comrade General Secretary.”
Kaganovich was able to assist a little, but only in pointing at Nazarbayeva as the originator of the warning.
Beria interjected, taking over the running from Stalin.
“GRU General Nazarbayeva rang you?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Just in time, so it seems. Any later and I fear things would have been very different.”
Beria’s eyes were fixed on something distant.
“She rang you… just… in… time.”
Kaganovich didn’t fully understand, but Stalin, whose adult life was built upon a foundation of mistrust and treachery, most certainly did.
“Lavrentiy, order Mayor General Nazarbayeva back to Moscow so she can present her report… personally.”
Now everyone in the room understood, in the context of ‘just in time’, exactly what that could mean for the GRU officer.
“Continue, Comrade Kaganovich.”
Once Nazarbayeva was satisfied that she had done all she could do about Makarenko, she immersed herself in the business of the day, and chaired the meeting that would start to unravel the singed folder passed on from Agent Amethyst in Alsace.
A team had been assembled to interpret what was written, and to try and work out what was missing, in order to put together a full version that could then be judged on its merits. Recent events had demonstrated that the Allies could be just as effective with their maskirovka as the Soviets believed themselves to be.