“Comrade Mayor Poboshkin. You are responsible for securing this room, once I have made my call to the General Secretary. No-one, repeat, no-one is to enter this room without the direct authority of,” she looked directly at the senior NKVD man, the question hanging, and drawing him into the conspiracy.
“Dustov.”
“Without the direct authority of Comrade General Dustov. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“Attend to your orders then, Comrade Mayor.”
Addressing the NKVD officer, she pulled another chair over to the desk, and picked up the telephone.
“Once that is out of the way,” she gestured at Kotchetkov’s body, “I will inform the General Secretary that his orders have been carried out, and that you and your men have discharged your instructions to the letter.”
“Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Totally bamboozled and railroaded, Dustov organised his men, and the bodies of both GRU senior officers were whisked away.
Stalin took the call, listening to the brief details of Nazarbayeva’s report.
“General Kotchetkov shot you? You are wounded, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”
Only Molotov now remained, Bulganin already on his way to the airfield to take a flight eastwards.
He waited as Stalin listened to Nazarbayeva’s reply.
“None the less, I insist, you must have medical attention, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
Stalin’s mind was working, wheels within wheels, priorities shifting, other possibilities occurring as he found himself smiling in unfeigned delight.
‘Why not? Lavrentiy will enjoy it and competence earns its own rewards.’
“Comrade Nazarbayeva. It appears that you have removed the two most senior men within GRU West. That leaves us with a dilemma. Kotchetkov was the natural successor, and I am surprised that his treachery went undiscovered until now.”
He reminded himself to encourage the NKVD to explore the late General’s family, and uncover evidence of their undoubted complicity.
“You have created the problem, Comrade Polkovnik, so it falls to you to solve it.”
Her wound was aching now, the blood clotted, and the adrenalin gone.
“How can I do that, Comrade General Secretary?”
“You will find a way, Mayor General Nazarbayeva, you will find a way. Now, tend to your wound, and organise your command. I will look forward to hearing your plans tomorrow.”
The phone went dead in her hand.
Even though her mind suddenly filled with the implications of Stalin’s statement, she acted on her hasty plan, opened the window, and dropped the puzzle box into the small shrub to its right, closing the window quietly.
She recovered her pistol and left the room, nodding to Dustov, leaving him in her wake. The troubled NKVD man was still wondering how exactly she had bulldozed him, but decided the details would not make his report to the Chairman.
On her way to the medical facility, Nazarbayeva recovered the box and put it in pride of place in her room, hidden in plain sight.
Bandaged and more comfortable, the new commander of GRU West returned to her billet and sat on her bed, eyes glued to the Chinese Box that Pekinun had so wanted her to take, as she began the process of unravelling what had just happened.
Oberstleutnant Gelben was a happy man. His command had still not moved forward, one of the few units that were still strangely uncommitted, as the 159th Division took its position in the line of defence.
That the 1209th Grenadiere was not committed was all due to his efforts, solely designed to ensure that his combat formation did not get in the way of anything his masters were planning.
Removing the competent Major in command of the 3rd Battalion had been a masterstroke, denying the Army his expertise, and demoralising the unit in one single stroke.
When the time of reckoning came, the Motherland would know he had done his duty.
His self-congratulation came to an abrupt end with an imperious knocking, the sounds author failing to wait for an invitation before stepping inside his private quarters.
One look at the man’s face told Gelben that he had no future, other than that decided by the Feldgendarmerie Colonel.
“Pyotr Gelben, agent for the Communist State, I arrest you on charges of spying and murder.”
The GRU agent considered his pistol, the comforting shape just beyond easy reach.
His eyes betrayed him.
“Agent Gelben, I will shoot you, but I will not kill you, and I do have such skills. You have some questions to answer, and answer them you will.”
After a moment’s delay, Gelben made his choice, and surrendered himself into whatever the future held.
Gelben was not alone, and other GRU agents found themselves rounded up, plucked from comfortable obscurity, and thrust into the limelights of interrogation and pain at the hands of silent, faceless, and uncaring men. However, some GRU agents were not detained, rather, left in place to be monitored, their contacts betrayed unwittingly as they went about the normal business of espionage, all of them to be subsequently offered a simple choice. Resist and die; assist and live. Many brave men and women chose the former option, but the majority chose the second, that being employment against their former masters.
The staggering news had arrived as Zhukov and Malinin were trying to find some way of keeping the military initiative.
Alert orders had gone to the units arraigned above the Alps, preparing them to pursue the plan, once the command was given.
As always, supply issues were the bane of their plans, but one other area did suggest itself, and they were already sketching out the draft orders for the assault on the Moselle as well as a small-scale excursion into Denmark, something planned, but not of priority, now brought to the fore because of its low use of consumables.
The reports of the death of Pekunin had stopped them in their tracks. Each man mirrored the other, slumped in a chair, silently drinking warm tea.
They made eye contact as the sounds of feet, synchronised marching, coming closer, growing in purpose, and, in their opinion, increasing in threat.
The door burst open, the space filled by a Colonel of NKVD in combat uniform, PPD in hand, a man there to obey his orders to the letter.
Zhukov and Malinin stood in anticipation.
“Comrade Zhukov, I am commanded to relieve you of your command and accompany you to Moscow, where you must answer for your failures.”
He did not wait for a reaction as, in his mind, if there were any, he would gun the ‘Victory Bringer’ down.
“Comrade Malinin is to retain his position until your replacement arrives.”
The challenging look drew a curt response.
“And if I choose not to retain my position, Comrade Polkovnik?”
The officer’s contempt was unconcealed.
“Then that has been anticipated, as your replacement is also already on his way here.”
His eyes flicked down and narrowed.
“Surrender your weapons immediately,” the barrel of the PPD reinforcing his request.
An NKVD Lieutenant slipped past him, and swept the two weapons up into his custody.
The two former commanders exchanged looks, in some ways shocked by events, in other ways stoically dealing with the expected result of defeat.
Again, marching feet, this time just two sets of boots, growing closer, and with that closeness a growing sense of foreboding swept over Zhukov.