Two hours after the fracas started, the Russians would see all their cruisers sunk, and of those four destroyers, only destroyer leaderKharkov would escape and run south for the safety of the harbor. The last sortie of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet was a disheartening disaster, and Admiral Raeder would soon report that he had destroyed it as an effective naval threat. His destroyers and U-Boats would now begin hunting down the Russian subs, the Germans hovering off Tuapse like hungry sharks to look for Russian boats. As for his heavy ships, Raeder would take the fleet back to Sevastopol later that day, and then send a message directly to OKW. It read simply: “We are masters of the Black Sea.”
Chapter 33
“An interesting development,” said Tyrenkov as he made ready to deliver his daily intelligence report to Karpov. He was not briefing the Siberian, but his ‘younger’ self, who had settled into his position as acting General Secretary of the Free Siberian State quite nicely in the last year. The doppelganger had taken control of the airship fleet, and all ground force operations as well, and Tyrenkov was amazed at how quickly he worked into the same level of devious skill as his elder self.
He had capably reinforced and held the Ob River line, eventually forcing Volkov’s troops to abandon that offensive and fall back to Omsk. He had supervised the buildout of two more Tunguska Class airships, the Baikal and Siberian. He had conducted a timely and effective operation against the Japanese pushing south beneath Lake Baikal, clearing the rail line north of the old Manchurian border, and securing Chita. Now, as he was busy assigning new divisions to his 4th Army in the west, Tyrenkov came with most unusual news.
“What is it?” Karpov asked nonchalantly, his eyes playing over the troop manifests he had been reviewing.
“We’ve received a request for a high level meeting with the former Ambassador from Orenburg.”
“You mean the man we chased out of Irkutsk a year ago, old Doctorov?”
“One and the same. Yet the message was passed through several dark contacts before it eventually was vetted by my people as being authentic.”
“What does it say?”
“Just that—a meeting is requested with a high level diplomatic contact of the Free Siberian State. Permission is asked to transit Siberian airspace to deliver the Ambassador to a location to be specified by us—assuming that we will agree to such a meeting.”
Karpov looked up, his eyes narrowed beneath the dark wool Ushanka that he always wore. The winter had been particularly severe this year, with bitterly cold temperatures literally freezing most military operations, and persisting through February and now into March.
“There will be no overflight of Siberian territory,” he said. “This request could be nothing more than a ruse for a good reconnaissance mission. However, this does sound somewhat interesting, so set up the meeting near Omsk. That’s right on the old frontier. What do you make of this, Tyrenkov?”
“Most unusual, sir. It could be an attempt at defection, but I find it hard to believe that anyone would try to pull something like that. The message indicated that this was an official request sanctioned by the Government of Orenburg. If it’s legitimate, then it would seem that someone wants to discuss something, and they want it kept very quiet.”
“Might this man be a rogue diplomat? Anything could be written in such a message. How would we know whether or not it was truly sanctioned by Orenburg?”
“I suppose we could find that out in the meeting, or at least get a better assessment than we can by making assumptions here.”
“Agreed,” said Karpov. “So let’s see what this man has to say. You will make the initial contact at a small village east of Omsk. I’ll be listening, of course, but you can ask the questions—and get the answers we need.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll arrange security.”
“Excellent. I’ll be with the 17th Siberian Rifles for just a little more manpower if we need it. That division was scheduled for transfer to the front near Omsk this week.”
That meeting was held on the 1st of March, just as Operation Edelweiss was kicking off into the Kuban, and Tyrenkov arranged it in the cellar of a meat packing house, the most unlikely place he could find. His agents were all wearing white butcher’s aprons and cold storage gloves and hats to blend in, and they were everywhere. The Ambassador’s plane was given clearance to land on Siberian territory, and driven to the facility to be literally “kept on ice” until the following morning. Then, when the worker shift arrived, one among them was Tyrenkov, all dressed out in similar working man’s garb.
“I have had cold receptions in the past,” said Doctorov, an elderly man, short, with thin grey hair and a visible paunch beneath his heavy overcoat. “Yet never have I had one like this!”
“Sit,” said Tyrenkov, gesturing to a small table where two chairs and a tea set were laid out by a samovar. “Surely you did not expect a greeting at one of the palaces. After all, there are no formal diplomatic relations between our two countries, and you were expelled over a year ago.”
“I am well aware of that,” said Doctorov, eyeing that hot samovar of tea. A fire was burning in an old rusty barrel across the room, and he wished the table was sitting closer to those warming flames. His breath was frosty cold, and a chill shook his frame.
“Please,” said Tyrenkov, sitting down at the plain wooden table. “Help yourself. A little civility cannot hurt. But do explain. What is so important that it needed this level of secrecy and security?”
Doctorov poured his tea, his hands still quivering a bit with the cold. “Forgive me,” he said. “I passed a most uncomfortable night. And for a man of my years, I get all too many of those these days. I was told to arrange this meeting by the General Secretary of the Orenburg Federation—yes, by Volkov himself. I bear a document for review and consideration by your government, and assuming any interest evolves from such a review, it will ask for the restoration of diplomatic relations, and reissuance of credentials to me as Ambassador, as things were before our unfortunate disagreements.”
“Disagreements?” said Tyrenkov with a half smile. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that. Omsk has changed hands three times, though it will not do so again after we retake it soon. Casualties on both sides along the River Ob must have amounted to at least seventy thousand. Yes, I would say we have had our disagreements.”
Saying nothing, Doctorov grunted as he reached to open his brief, extracting a plain folder harboring the document he had referenced. “You will note this document is bearing the seal of the office of the General Secretariat of the Federation of Orenburg, and the signature is authentic, of that I can assure you. I witnessed it myself.” He extended it to Tyrenkov, who sat, motionless, arms folded over his butcher’s apron, complete with typical stains to add authenticity. Eventually Doctorov placed the folder on the table.
“I am empowered to discuss the contents of this document, if you so desire, but if you are not inclined to either accept it, or review it here, I was told to wait 48 hours before departing—though I hope you might arrange for quarters that are just a little more comfortable in that interval.”
Tyrenkov leaned back, head inclined, his eyes like blue ice beneath his dark hair. “Now what would a document signed by the General Secretary have to say?” he said. “Is it another threat? Another demand? That is all that has come our way in the last year, though we note that not one of those threats was ever realized, nor did we accede to any demands made of us, as you must certainly know. What makes this one any different?”