“Seven? There are seven photos here. I though you said there were six of them?”
Internally she was horrified, and Nazarbayeva avoided touching the top photograph, sliding the third into a clearer position.
Unlike the others Zhukov had quickly cast his eye over, this man was sat on some sort of bench, his face distorted, his tongue unduly extended.
“That man is Polkovnik Akin Igorevich Vaspatin, the GRU’s senior man in Madrid. The device he is sitting in is a Garotte. He has been executed by strangulation.”
“Blyad!”
“Undoubtedly, that picture is the Spanish Government sending us a message. Official photograph of a dead Soviet officer in uniform, executed on an official garrotte.”
“Blyad! Have you informed the General Secretary of this?”
“Not yet, Comrade Marshal, but I suspect that Comrade Beria may have done so by now.”
There was something in Nazarbayeva’s voice that grabbed their attention, even more than the sight of a Soviet Colonel publically executed by a supposedly neutral power.
“Go on, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“My prime source informs me that this man was the informant that blew the operation to assassinate the Spanish leader. He received no such orders from the GRU. We did not know of any mission.”
She stopped, raising her hand to her mouth, stifling a cough that died as quickly as it appeared.
“Vaspatin was obviously involved in some way, but did not communicate any of it to us.”
Pausing to ensure her words had the full effect, she waited for the echo of her voice to depart.
“The only conclusion is that Vaspatin was operating under orders from another Agency, a conclusion Comrade Pekunin is testing as we speak.”
“Mudaks!”
Zhukov slammed the picture down, sending some of the others flying, pictures that showed young Soviet men lying dead, without dignity, openly paraded for cameras.
Nazarbayeva tenderly picked up the two photographs that had reached the floor.
“Brave men sacrificed to what end. No, betrayed to what purpose?”
Nazarbayeva touched a photo to her lips, an action that almost escaped notice.
Almost.
Zhukov spoke with unusual regret.
“What would their mother’s say to that eh? Knowing that their sons died for nothing, at the express direction of our leadership.”
Malinin interrupted, believing that his commander had unwittingly strayed into dangerous ground, needing to deflect him before he said something that could never be withdrawn, or apologised for..
It was he that had seen the woman’s gesture, and he acted on his guess.
“What do you think that the mothers would say, Tatiana?”
Zhukov looked up, taken aback by the use of the woman’s name, a break with formality he had not yet broached himself. He knew his man well enough to know that it was not done in error, but for a reason.
Malinin leant forward and picked up the top photograph, taking in the traumatised body, beaten and violated, even after death.
Marshal Zhukov watched as a lazy tear made its slow journey from the corner of Nazarbayeva’s eye, dripping onto her tunic soaking into the coarse material just below her most treasured award.
“I think that all the mother’s would say that the Motherland requires sacrifices from us all, Comrade Malinin.”
Keeping his eyes on the red-eyed woman, Malinin checked the back of the photograph before showing the notation to his commander.
‘Oleg Yurevich Nazarbayev.’
‘Govno, you poor woman!’
“What would they say if they if they knew, Tatiana?”
Raising her head to look directly into Malinin’s eyes, both senior officers watched as an internal battle was fought and won, and a face resolved to express a mother’s true feelings.
“The mothers would say that there will be a day of reckoning, Comrade Malinin.”
The eyes, normally so full of intelligence and life, carried only death and hatred, burning through Malinin and into the wall beyond, probably all the way to Moscow, and the office of the NKVD chairman.
Zhukov, being extremely unzhukov-like, took the GRU officer’s arm gently.
“I am truly sorry, Tatiana.”
That night, in a GRU officers billet on the Muhlberg, and a seedy bar in Lubeck, two parents mourned the loss of another their sons; many miles apart, and yet, somehow together, united in their grief.
Chapter 83 – THE DELAY
We have been ordered to move off today; had our orders cancelled; warned for an alarm; had our passes stopped; had our foreign orders cancelled; had our passes and foreign orders renewed; and now have orders to move tomorrow. Great minds are at work.
Looking through the sights, the target loomed large, its eyes betraying awareness and alertness, neither of which was going to save its life on this misty morning in the forest.
A hand reached out and touched the rifleman on the shoulder, giving a moment’s pause.
The owner of the hand placed a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, the finger then moving to point out a new problem.
There was no noise, save the sounds of the woods; trees creaking and swaying in the modest breeze, the low chatter of birds and other creatures, and the grunting of their prey.
The fully-grown male wild boar would have made a tasty meal, one they had been prepared to risk a shot for. That decision became history, as the finger pointed towards an indistinct shape in the shadows.
Raising its head high, the boar sensed the new presence, having failed to note the men in the trees above it.
The snout savoured the air, sampling the new scents on the breeze and finding them a threat, to not only him, but also to the female and two young he knew were nearby.
The litter was out of season, a rarity in the life of a wild boar, but one that gave the male a reason to act in defence, rather than move quietly away.
A foot set out of place broke a twig, not loudly, but enough to precipitate the animal’s action. Tensing his large body, the boar defended in the only way it understood; all-out attack.
The owner of the foot, a Goumier scout, cursed his carelessness, quickly checking for signs of the Russian soldiers he and his unit were hunting.
His priorities quickly changed, as sounds of the approaching whirlwind reached his ears.
The boar came into view.
As the Goumier’s eyes widened, the animal covered half the distance to his target.
“Ye elahi!”
Three hundred angry pounds of wild boar hammered into the petrified Moroccan, the impact snapping his legs below both knees instantly, the boar’s lowered head tossed upwards, an automatic act that brought its sharp tusks into play.
Tusk met bone, as the boar opened the inner thighs, destroying the femoral arteries, his forward momentum carrying him beyond the dying man before the Goumier had even started to realise his death was approaching.
“Brothers! Help! Brothers!”
Even as he shouted for help, his voice grew noticeably weaker.
The boar turned and crashed back into the now-prone figure, the tusks destroying everything they hacked at, silencing the Moroccan when one tusk penetrated his eye socket.
A bullet took the boar in the side, passing through and into the undergrowth beyond, the pain only serving to enrage him further, increasing the frenzied attack on what was now rapidly becoming a lump of ripped flash.
Another bullet hit the beast, destroying his left hip, and spinning him away from the bloody mess.