by Colin Gee
Ike checked his watch and realised he was fast approaching the time of his next briefing.
“Anything else of note… official note I mean.”
“Went to some Navy missile tests at Chincoteague, plus spent a few days with the USAAF weapons testing unit at Alamogordo. You’ll be shortly getting some interesting new weapons it seems.”
“Another way of killing the enemy is always welcome.”
Eisenhower made his statement evenly and Rossiter could not understand if it was humour or sorrow that he detected.
“Anyway, enough of that. What did you do for yourself, Sam? I take it you had some ‘me’ time.”
“Sure did, Sir. Had a little time out at San Pedro with my buddy Howard and his damn plane. Man’s obsessed but, that aside, he sure knows how to relax, and his girlfriend Jean is an angel… leastways I think she is.”
Eisenhower raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“Well, it’s a matter of public record stateside. She wants to be an actress…but loves the lifestyle Howie offers… but won’t commit as she thinks it’ll clash with her career. As for Howie… well he’s pretty certainly in love with her. It’s public knowledge that he’s considering marriage to the woman… … it’s complicated, Sir.”
“Oh. Well. I’d love to meet the great man one day.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sam. Now, I must be on my way.”
“Have a good day, Sir.”
Rossiter threw up a smart salute.
“You too, Sam.”
The briefing on the Czech situation had been informative, and the general situation seemed to have calmed down considerably, in as much as there now seemed to be active fighting in only five places.
The Czechs and the Slovaks had started shooting at each other as political ideals struggled for supremacy, the communists and the democratic nationalists fell out, creating a maelstrom of uncertainty set right in the middle of Europe, a maelstrom that affected the positions of both recent belligerents.
The USSR still refused to remove its forces from Vienna, citing the fluid situation in Czechoslovakia as the main reason, and the Red Army displayed increasing numbers along the Czech border, enough to properly police and monitor events according to their negotiators in Sweden, more than enough to move forward and occupy the eastern end of the ravaged country according to their counterparts at Camp Vár.
Both sides immediately agreed to halt all movement of their forces within the old national boundaries of the beleaguered state.
Both sides agreed to allow the Czechs to resolve their differences without direct military intervention or supply, and both sides agreed to actively bring both sides to the negotiating table at Camp Vár and honour any deal reached by the two factions struggling to achieve power in the region.
Both sides carefully avoided placing other restrictions, which enabled supplies to be moved in from all borders, destined for the faction of choice, supplies that often pushed the boundaries of what was and wasn’t military.
A Curtiss O-52 Owl supplied under lend-lease, reconnoitring the fighting had a close run-in with a USAAF Thunderbolt, so close that it lost two feet of its port wingtip, provoking an angry confrontation over the Swedish negotiating table.
An accidental mortaring of a Soviet position by Slovaks brought about a swift and terminal battlefield response from the Red Army unit attacked, which drew nothing but a murmur of understanding and agreement from the Allied side of the table.
What tested the military and politicians of both sides was finding accredited parties to bring to the negotiating table in Sweden, and the absence of suitable candidates ensured that the fighting continued.
The briefing officer retired, leaving the handful of senior commanders to chew over the details.
“So not even the fresh snowfalls are calming them down, Sir.”
“Which is surprising, Brad.”
They both turned to the dapper Frenchman who had raised his finger to speak.
“We continue to have Czech units present themselves to us seeking anything from munitions to food.”
De Lattre accepted another coffee from Simpson, who had got the role of drinks officer, as he was junior rank in the room.
“Thank you, General. It is difficult for us, especially when we have men who wear Allied uniforms seeking our help. My men do what they can to help.”
French and American forces were responsible for the Czech sector, and within de Lattre’s area were the soldiers of the Czech forces that had fought through occupied Europe, side by side with the men who now stood aloof and unsupporting.
At least… that was the official policy.
De Lattre knew that items outside the agreed assistance limits had changed hands, up to and including vehicles, and he had done nothing to prevent it then or in the future.
For him the situation in the Czech lands was a simple struggle between good and evil, and he intended to make sure that evil did not triumph.
“I’m out of it obviously, all save some air assets that I’ve lent to our Gallic allies.”
De Lattre raised his mug in a modest toast to McCreery’s words.
The reconnaissance squadron had been a welcome supplement to his own air assets.
The group settled into silence marked with the occasional sound of slurping.
Eisenhower moved to the desk and fished out another new packet of cigarettes.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, there’s no advantage for us to exploit here. The weather’s bad, the Soviets are tucked up nice and warm in their bunkers, so all we can do is sit this out and hope the two parties negotiate it to a stop quickly.”
Stalin rubbed his hands in glee.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, we can turn these events to our advantage. The cold weather means the soft Allies will be tucked up in their beds so, apart from their nosey aircraft, we should be able to act in support of our Slovakian comrades and help them gain the advantage.”
“I agree, Comrade General Secretary. More agents should soon be embedded with the Slovakian military forces and reports will soon come back as to how we can best assist in ensuring an appropriate victory.”
Stalin sucked on his bottom lip, a sign of frustration more and more frequent as progress on another matter was not forthcoming. He voiced his frustration for the umpteenth time.
“If only Raduga were more advanced, then we could exploit this situation even more… perhaps…”
“I understand, Comrade General Secretary. My sources inform me that there’s no great progress since our last official briefing, although the centrifuge basing issues have all been resolved and performance levels are now considerably above expectations.”
“That’s good news indeed, Lavrentiy. Why have I not been informed before?”
“I rather suspect that the project director doesn’t yet know himself, Comrade Secretary General. I refer to information only recently arrived with me.”
Stalin laughed heartily, reverting to the peasant he once had been and, occasionally, was proud to let escape.
“Well done, Lavrentiy. Now, if you can magic some nuclear devices for the Motherland then perhaps we can move forward with our plans.”
Beria joined his leader in a rare moment of humour.
“I can work miracles but magic is beyond me, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, a matter on which I am still unclear. It seems that the German intelligence officer Gehlen has been killed. According to GRU reports, by communist agents no less.”
“Did you order such a thing?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary, and neither did the GRU.”
“Why hasn’t the woman informed us of this officially?”
Beria looked wholly smug.
“I rather suspect that the woman doesn’t yet know herself, Comrade Secretary General. The information has only just arrived with me.”
Stalin pondered that f
or a moment.
“So if not us, who… or was it some random personal event?”
“I am having this investigated as we speak, Comrade General Secretary. It comes at the same time as the death of a senior French intelligence officer, one who was known to have close relations with Gehlen.”
“Connected?”
Beria waited until Stalin had got his pipe going again.
“Wholly different ends. One shot down in the street… a messy affair… no refinement. The Frenchman was part of a wedding party that was bombed.”
Stalin raised an eyebrow.
“The wedding was attended by a number of the French legion… the bastard SS soldiers who fight for France. Apparently the perpetrator was a former inmate of one of the Nazi death camps. At first, sight a simple act of revenge.”
“But?”
“But it may not be. The Frenchman was not killed immediately, but died subsequently in hospital.”
“Go on.”
“He was expected to make a recovery and his injuries, although serious, were not considered life-threatening. There’s also the matter of a nurse who cannot be traced, something baffling the authorities.”
Beria’s memory failed him for once and he consulted one of his reports.
“Urszula Radzinski. She offered to assist at the makeshift hospital as she was in the area visiting from Krakow.”
“Very good, Lavrentiy, but is this going anywhere?”
“There is no Urszula Radzinski… at least not now. She was liquidated during our occupation for acts of resistance.”
Stalin puffed deeply, his eyes clear indicators of the processes going on within.
“So you think the two are connected. You think that someone took out two Allied intelligence officers. For what purpose?”
“That’s the problem, Comrade General Secretary. I don’t know. Neither do I know whom, assuming the killings were orchestrated by the same hand. When I do find out, I’ll be closer to knowing the why.”
“And the woman?”
“Nothing comes from her except that I’ve just told you. She’s drawing a blank.”
A knock echoed around the room and Stalin’s irritation was aroused momentarily, until Kaganovich, Beria’s deputy, hurried into the room.
…Four and a quarter hours previously…
In his assessment of Nazarbayeva’s efforts, Beria was wholly mistaken, for the GRU had acted quite swiftly on both matters, once they had become known.
That Gehlen had been the victim of the street shooting had only just come to light, but De Walle was known to Nazarbayeva and she had taken a keen interest in events, directing some important assets to gather information.
Which was why she had taken delivery of an artist’s drawing of Urszula Radzinski, drawn from the memories of hard-worked medical staff in the Falcon Palace.
She recognised the face… or thought she did.
GRU files arrived at her direction, and she and the staff worked through them one by one, trying to marry up the artist’s drawing with photographs or descriptions of suspected agents on file.
Two possible matches were brought to her and quickly rejected, the suspicion more based on hope than substance.
Food and drink were organised and the afternoon grew long as file after file received close examination.
At 1605, an excited junior lieutenant sought Rufin’s attention.
Within a minute, the young woman stood next to Rufin in front of Nazarbayeva’s desk, holding a report from the SD section.
“Relax, Mladshy Leytenant... what is your name?”
“Rikardova, Comrade Leytenant General… Hana Rikardova.”
“So, what do you have for me?”
The young woman held out the file in a trembling hand, her excitement working with her awe at being in her commander’s presence.
“Comrade Leytenant General. I have shown this file to Mayor Rufin and he thinks this is who you seek, Sir.”
Nazarbayeva nodded as she pushed her empty bottle and glass to one side and started to consume the numerous details on the jacket, particularly the numerous identities attached to the agent meticulously recorded inside.
Friese, Gelda.
Frontstrom, Elsabeth.
Grüber, Agneth.
Hoffmann, Lene.
Mallman, Irma.
Obermann, Hiltrude.
Vögel, Imke.
Von Fahlon, Viktoria
‘A busy woman indeed.’
She set the file pictures to one side. Neither was of great quality but the likeness was undeniable and yet unconfirmable…
‘… and yet it is her, I swear it…’
The words leapt out into her mind and were soaked up as a sponge consumes water.
She read aloud as she went, cherry picking the crucial sections.
“A member of the Ausland-Sicherheitsdienst Amt-E… which governed SS espionage in Eastern Europe if I remember rightly.”
Rufin nodded, the smile set firm on his face.
‘He’s confident this is the one… we’ll see…’
“Never directly linked to any known SD operations… however… this photograph comes from Oslo… ah, the famous Eddie Chapman…”
The photograph had come from their penetration of British Intelligence, as had a number of such photos, taken by the notorious double agent Chapman whilst he was in Oslo training other German agents.
“SD… and yet the Oslo operation was purely an Abwehr affair… interesting…”
She read on.
“Possibly involved in the assassination of Party leader in…”
She sat upright.
“Possibly involved the assassination of party leader in Bialystok. Believed to have infiltrated the underground cell… poisoned.”
“Possibly involved in the assassination of…”
The list went on.
Nazarbayeva went to the first photograph, one of a much younger… err… woman.
‘What’s her real name?’
The one under which the main documents were filed as Mallman, so she went with that.
“A young Mallman.”
She flipped the photo and read the inscription.
‘3rd May 1920, Philipps-Universität Marburg.’
Turning it back again, Nazarbayeva took in the pretty face and the surroundings, assuming that the crowd were gathered in front of one of the university buildings.
She looked, her eyes wide open, desperate to take in every single point of the photograph.
An urgent knock was answered with a gesture and Rufin obliged by opening the door.
“Mudaks!”
Polkovnik Orlov walked in as the expletive exploded from her mouth.
The young lieutenant recoiled from the violent outburst.
Nazarbayeva held up a calming hand.
“Comrade Rikardova, please bring me the file on Rudolf Diels immediately. Abwehr officer.”
Relieved to be leaving a room full of senior officers, Hana Rikardova almost ran to the records centre.
As she departed, Nazarbayeva handed to innocuous picture to Orlov.
“Irma Mallman… picture taken in 1920 at a university in Germany… in the background there… you see?”
The name had already been spoken, so it was easy for Orlov, and then Rufin, to identify the figure raising a glass.
“Diels.”
Rikardova returned in record time and the folder of the new head of the Abwehr was quickly examined.
“Make sure this picture is copied and added to this file with cross-referencing on these documents, Comrade Mladshy Leytenant.”
“At once, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Again the young officer scurried off, leaving the three to ponder their find.
“Either of you think I’m wrong when I suggest that Diels and Mallman know each other very well, and that she was in the SD as a snooper for the Abwehr, as well as clearly being a competent field agent for the SD’s assassination missions?”
They were with her so far.
“We have Gehlen murdered by apparently communist elements, but neither GRU nor the NKVD ordered the attack… so Beria says anyway… an attack that now places Diels at the head of the Abwehr. The same Diels who we can tie to Mallman, a woman with a background in poisoning, who is seen in the same location as a senior member of French Intelligence, who mysteriously dies when expected to recover…”
They both waited, although something was burning the fingers of Orlov’s right hand, he decided not to interrupt the moment.
“Fuck coincidence. They’re connected. I can smell it. Somehow, they’re connected.”
“Comrade Leytenant General, if I may?”
Orlov extended his hand and two reports arrived in Nazarbayeva’s possession.
“The first is a report and pictures from an agent with the German police force. A man with an eye for detail and an excellent memory.”
“What does it say?”
“The two men were indeed known communist sympathisers, although they were not GRU… and NKVD deny ownership as well. The fact that they were apparently known as such I find strange, for they were not apprehended… not even once according to our agent.”
“Strange indeed, Comrade Orlov. Mayor, perhaps someth…”
A bottle slid easily out of Rufin’s trouser pocket.
“Carry on.”
“Immediately after the murder, a local photographer was allowed to take pictures. He took many… this one in particular caught the eye of our man.”
“What am I looking at?”
Clearly the body of Gehlen was the object of the photographer’s attention but Nazarbayeva understood it was not the focus of Orlov’s thought processes.
“There… behind the wounded waiter and the man with the bag… in the hat…”
“None the wiser, Comrade.”
“That’s Vögel.”
“What? Hans Vögel?”
“I’m positive, Comrade Leytenant General.”
“Vögel… who works under Pflug-Hartnung… who reports to… mudaks!”
She threw the fiery vodka straight down her throat and held out the glass for a refill.