“We are trying to confirm the details, but it is proving difficult.”
The need for good intelligence in the Scandinavian region was all-important. Søderling had been able to assure the Soviet leadership that there were no plans for an Allied sally into the Baltic, and that there were no plans for any expansion of the war through Norway and into North Russia.
“Do you have a replacement, Comrade?”
“Comrade Polkovnik General Pekunin has someone, but he needs still more cultivation before he ascends to an appropriate rank and position.”
“Thank you. Next.”
“Allied losses. From what my staff are saying, the reporting of allied air losses is now correctly done, and that all enemy casualty reports should now properly reflect actual figures,” she conceded generously, “This is in no small part due to the efforts of the NKVD units that have been energetically ensuring standards are being maintained.”
Zhukov was well aware of the NKVD effort; his last business of the previous day had concerned a Chekist submission on two Corps commanders that had not observed the required niceties.
Nazarbayeva’s statement was also a double-edged sword, as the accuracy of the new reporting system also betrayed the fact that allied air losses were much less than those of the Red Air force, and that ground losses were less than had been expected, and the attritional trade-off was not as hoped.
The GRU officer had stopped, glancing at her watch.
Both senior officers looked up at the wall clock, noting the preciseness of the hour.
“There is more, Comrade?”
Zhukov’s enquiry was met with a stoney face.
“Yes, I believe there is, Comrade Marshal. This was partly why I was late. I need confirmation before I can present the information as fact. I had hoped that confirmation would be here by now.”
“Tell me what you do have then, Comrade.”
She took the plunge.
“All is not what it seems with Spain, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov’s eyes narrowed, a sense of foreboding suddenly filling him with a chill.
He nodded, inviting the full story.
“GRU lost touch with its main operatives after the attempted assassination of Franco; an operation that we know was run by the NKVD.”
This was not news, but necessary groundwork for the two senior men. In truth, Nazarbayeva was buying time in the hope that the confirmation arrived.
It didn’t.
“Our information now indicates that the operation failed because it was deliberately betrayed,” she paused, making sure she delivered the next line perfectly, “By the NKVD itself.”
Zhukov and Malinin remained silent, partly accepting that Beria and their political masters would do such a thing, and partly incredulous that they could do such a thing.
“Some of the agents were of German extraction, and this was used to demonstrate that it was the German government that made the attempt. The information given by the NKVD to Franco ensured that the agents were either killed or captured. Those taken alive used suicide pills.”
“By this method, Spain was persuaded that the Rodina was her friend, and she reaffirmed her neutrality.”
Zhukov remained immobile, Malinin nodding his understanding.
“Or so we thought, Comrades.”
That got both men’s full attention.
“This morning, we received three reports from Spain, and my staff are going through them now so that we can correlate them and confirm all of this.”
Tatiana felt it necessary to remind both officers that her words were not yet set in stone.
“It appears that the Spanish understood that it was a Soviet operation all along, and merely went with it in order to create their own maskirova.”
Consulting a sheet of paper she continued, “A maskirova that has kept vital information from all of us.”
“Which is what exactly, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“That the Spanish are on the march.”
Silence.
“We lost contact with agents in north-east Spain. One of the new reports indicates that at least eight Spanish divisions have been weapons training in the area, the whole region under martial law, known communist sympathisers rounded up and liquidated.”
Nazarbayeva added a sour note for good measure.
“Preliminary indications are that GRU has lost eight good agents.”
“On the march, you say. On the march. Where are they, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”
“We don’t know at this time, but the unsubstantiated report I have seen tells me that the force left the region on Wednesday, so wherever one hundred thousand plus men could get to in five days.”
It wasn’t supposed to be flippant, but Zhukov flared quickly. Just as quickly, he subsided, understanding that the GRU officer was just speaking her mind.
“When you say unsubstantiated, how do you rate this information, Nazarbayeva?”
The softening of his tone was meant to reassure the woman as to her safety, and encourage her to speak freely.
Nazarbayeva needed no such encouragement.
“We will know soon enough, Comrade Marshal, but I believe that the Spanish Army is about to take the field, or more probably, relieve some experienced Allied units for duty in Germany.”
That very statement opened a window of opportunity for both men, minds suddenly straying to Phase Three and the thought of inexperienced Spanish troops standing between them and the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
The pleasant thought was quickly shelved, the nastier possibility of a flood of experienced troops arriving from Italy taking precedence.
Both senior officers looked at the map, making calculations on distances.
Malinin asked the question both needed an answer to.
“How are they moving, Comrade?”
“There are three units indentified that have their own integral motorisation.”
Consulting her quickly pencilled notes, she continued.
“It seems likely that rail movement is restricted, most rolling stock having been drawn northwards. That is unconfirmed,” careful not to exceed her knowledge, one of the GRU Colonel’s qualities.
“An overheard conversation appears to indicate that at least four of the infantry units are foot and horse mobilised.”
A knock on the door brought the anticipated file for Colonel Nazarbayeva.
Both men waited, sipping at their now warm tea, the growing anticipation overcoming the howls from their taste buds.
The GRU officer straightened her back and spoke matter of factly.
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. It is how I said. The three mechanised units are heading into Northern Italy, lead elements are identified as approaching Turin.”
Checking the paper again, she continued.
“The foot and horse divisions, five in total, follow the same path but are some distance behind.”
“The two divisions that were taken by train are now laagered on the Swiss border, south-east of Besancon.”
A quick maths check brought Malinin into the discussion.
“Ten divisions then, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“No, Comrade Polkovnik General, twelve in total.”
Again, checking the paperwork, she quickly backed up her maths.
“Two divisions, the two formed of veterans of the old Blue Division, sailed from Bilbao last Thursday, destination unknown.”
Poking out of the bottom of the file was the corner of a photograph Nazarbayeva had deliberately left on her desk, and which had efficiently been included by Andrey Poboshkin, her staff Major.
“What are those, Comrade?”
Zhukov welcomed the diversion, as his mind processed the Spanish threat.
“Photographs of the NKVD operatives killed during the mission.”
The Spanish had ensured that evidence existed as to the identities of the would-be assassins.