His staff was hard at work collating and interpreting the intelligence flowing in from every corner of Europe, desperate to avoid the errors that had plagued operations to date.
A knock on the door interrupted his pleasurable thought processes, causing an irritation that disappeared as soon as he saw Lieutenant General Kochetkov, or rather the look on his second’s face.
“Ah, something tells me this is not good news, Mikhail Andreevich.”
The report went from hand to hand, Pekunin showing his deputy the tea stand, before sitting down to read and absorb the information.
“Govno!”
Kochetkov had expected worse than that.
“We have confirmation?”
“Not yet Comrade, but it is an official government statement. It came in two hours ago, and is our sole source at this time. I have asked for further from our officer in the embassy.”
Pekunin re-read the report, picturing the man in question, already working out how to replace his intelligence source.
A polite knock on the door, and a Lieutenant proffered a recently arrived communication.
Dismissing the messenger, the GRU officer opened the sealed report.
“And here it is, Comrade General. Polkovnik Keranin confirms the information is correct, although he has not yet seen the corpse. Death was as a result of a car accident. Apparently the vehicle burst into flames, killing all three occupants, including your man.”
Handing the paper to his boss, Kochetkov seated himself, sampling the tea, and finding it as satisfactory as his boss.
Waiting until Pekunin had finished, he posed his question.
“Do you have someone else in place? According to our files, no-one senior enough from what I can see, Comrade General.”
Pekunin gave a resigned shrug.
“We will not easily replace Comrade Vice-Amiral Søderling and his information.”
Finishing his tea, the GRU head replaced his cup, almost knocking the saucer flying, his mind being elsewhere.
“There is a man, still relatively junior, but he is advancing well, and is highly thought of.”
Pekunin moved to his personal filing cabinet and extracted a small folder marked with a numeric code.
“Not yet activated, but I have high hopes for this man.”
Passing the folder, Pekunin revisited the tea stand and provided both of them with a second cup, whilst Kochetkov learned of the life and career of Överstelöjtnant Boris Lingström.
The rarely used door to the basement room of the Swedish Army’s latest acquisition creaked in a monotone, as it was gently opened to permit entry to the uniformed man.
A guard entered with him, intent on cleaning away the lunch tray that had been provided at 1300hrs on the dot, as the new regime demanded.
The meal had not been touched, but it was removed, as per orders, the wooden cup of water removed and placed on the simple desk.
The soldier tidied up quickly and left the room.
A second guard closed the door behind him and took his station in the ‘at ease’ position, back to the door and facing the other army officer, avoiding eye contact with the fanatical looking soldier.
The uniformed man examined the surroundings, finding their sparseness highly suitable for the traitorous piece of filth in front of him.
The prisoner looked up and examined the new arrival with disdain, stiffening his back.
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel? You know who I am!”
Törget trumped the older man’s look of disdain with one of real malice.
“I know who you are, Communist.”
Søderling started to into a denial, but was cut short.
“You are dead already. The Government has announced your sad death in a car accident, something that your Soviet friends have already investigated.”
The Head of Sweden’s Military Intelligence Service passed his prey the wooden mug.
“I repeat, you are now dead, so anything that happens to you from now will not matter, will never matter.”
Törget made a study of lighting an American cigarette, permitting the man time to understand the precarious position he was in.
Søderling was intelligent, so it did not take long.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Excellent. It is so much better to do things easily than to have to coerce.”
Leaving the thinly veiled warning hanging, Törget moved to the door, slid the plate open, and whispered to the guard.
Returning to his seat opposite the broken Amiral, Törget waited until the second officer was stood by his side.
“Søderling, you will tell this officer everything he wishes to know, without fail.”
A nod sufficed.
Törget rose and turned to his protégé, examining his watch.
“Take all the time you need Lingström. Return to Stockholm once you have answers to every one of your questions. Any lack of cooperation and he can drink the Baltic dry for all I care.”
An exchange of immaculate salutes and Törget was gone.
Now Søderling permitted a mixed look of recognition and relief to cross his face.
“Thank God it’s you, Lingström.”
“Why is that, Amiral?”
“Because I know you are one of us, one of Pekunin’s special projects.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“Yes, I was told to watch out for you, but keep my distance.”
“Whereas I had no idea you existed, you fucking communist bastard.”
The older man looked deep into the eyes of the younger, seeking some resonance of humour to excuse the words, some cunning disguising his outburst because of possible listeners, or some merest hint of sympathy.
All that stared back was ice-cold hatred.
And at that point, the naval man’s defeat was complete. All hint of defiance gone, Överstelöjtnant Boris Lingström got answers to every question he posed.
Chapter 82 – THE TRUTH
You people are telling me what you think I want to know. I want to know what is actually happening.
Nazarbayeva was late.
‘Nazarbayeva is never late.’
Admittedly, a modest RAF night attack had struck the area around the Headquarters, and there had been a few casualties amongst the security force, but nothing and no one of significance had been affected. Many more deaths and injuries had been inflicted upon the remaining civilians and refugees in the old town, as well as the Allied prisoners of war, who were kept in some of the old camp buildings nearby.
Zhukov decided it would be wrong to enquire after the GRU officer, but Malinin had already taken the bull by the horns and got to the bottom of the issue.
According to the GRU duty officer, Colonel Nazarbayeva had been late leaving her office, a fact that had been rung through to the Headquarters at her request.
A quick check of the message log showed that indeed was the case. Malinin spent some time with the Communications Officer of the day, who had failed to forward the report, laying down standards and expectations.
The old Major understood his tenure was in question and that Siberia beckoned if he did not get his act together.
Malinin returned to the Marshal’s office, arriving at the same time as the messenger left.
Zhukov was now refocused on the wall map, examining the situation, imagining how the day’s attacks would carry the field and move the Red Banner Forces closer to their goal.
Sensing his CoS’s presence the Marshal tapped the map.
“We must push them hard today Mikhail. They are close to breaking, I can feel it.”