by Gee, Colin
Nazarbayeva was on her way out when Molotov, directed by Stalin, caught her arm and told her to remain.
Gestured to a chair, she sat with Bulganin, small talking about classical music and the ballet, whilst Beria and Molotov listened to the hushed whispers of Malenkov. Stalin pleasured himself with his pipe until the room was brought to order by an urgent knocking.
In walked six men, some of whom Nazarbayeva knew, some of whom she didn’t, particularly those from Japan, and one ‘Hero’ she thought she should know by name. The faces were lighting up her memory, but the lost names avoided detection for now.
The matter was soon made irrelevant in any case.
Admiral of the Fleet Hovhannes Isakov did the introductions, starting with the head of Naval Planning, Rear-Admiral Lev Batuzov.
Next in line was a civilian, one she had seen before.
“Comrade General Secretary, Director Kurchatov.”
‘The head of our Atomic programme?’
“May I introduce Director Nishina, director of His Imperial Majesty’s Nuclear Weapon research programme.”
‘What?’
“Leytenant General Takeo Yasuda, director of the Imperial Japanese Air Force’s Scientific and Technological development team.”
Many thoughts whirled in Nazarbayev’s mind, but none were particularly clear until the final introduction, the man in naval uniform whom she really knew she should recognize.
“Comrade General Secretary, Kapitan third rank Mikhail Kalinin.”
The medals hanging from the submarine commander spoke more eloquently than words.
His presence clarified matters for Nazarbayeva, her mind coming to an inescapable solution in an instant.
‘We are building a bomb for a submarine.’
A gentle kock on the door broke her concentration, and also rubbished her thoughts.
The door opened and admitted an Army general.
“Comrade General Secretary, my apologies. Comrade Marshal Beria asked me to obtain some production figures, and I knew you’d want the most up to date I could obtain.”
Beria had already tipped his leader off, so there was no anger at the Army officer’s late arrival.
Everyone took up a seat around the table.
“My apologies, Comrades.”
Isakov had realized his omission and stood up again, pointing at the most recent arrival.
“Comrade Polkovnik General Boris Vannikov, People’s Commissar for Ammunition.”
Kurchatov sat down as Nazarbayeva mentally added, ‘also Minister of Middle Machinery… and Beria’s man.’
Few outside the walls of the Dachas of Kuntsevo understood that ‘Middle Machinery’ was the Soviet term for Atomic Weapons.
Nazarbayeva had contributed nothing to the technical briefing, for that was what it was. There was no argument or discussion, just a procession of facts, schedules, needs, wants, and projections. The Japanese conversed with Kurchatov in English, their only common language. Some of what they said might as well have been in Swahili, for all the good it did to the listeners, the technicalities of the task ahead wasted on men whose intellect normally only ran to organizing a little internal genocide, or executing political opponents who were too powerful.
Stalin made it clear that the GRU’s role was to help acquire missing information, as requested by the men around her, and in that regard, she was required to place GRU’s resources at the disposal of Colonel General Vannikov, as required.
She accepted a numbered copy of the secret file for Project Raduga, hers being number thirty-six of thirty-seven.
She did not, could not, ask why the GRU had been excluded to this point. At least, not at the moment.
The briefing broke up at 5.30pm and, again, Nazarbayeva found herself beckoned to stay.
“Comrade General, you look shocked.”
“Comrade General Secretary, I had no idea we were so near to producing a weapon.”
Stalin poured himself a tea. The orderly had only brought one cup.
“The Germans were very helpful, and our new allies have opened up their research to us. In fact, they’ve transferred some of their finest brains to us, and it has reaped benefits already.”
Stalin did not pass on the fact that two of the three Pacific fleet submarines had been sunk, taking over twenty invaluable Japanese scientists to the bottom of the North Pacific.
He looked at the woman that he now considered his protégé.
“You want to ask why GRU has not been involved before this, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
It was not put as a question.
“I can only assume that there was good reason, Comrade General Secretary.”
It wasn’t meant to be sycophantic, and Stalin knew it.
“It’s a State secret and, with such things, the fewer that know, the better kept the secret will be. You know this to be true, Comrade.”
Nazarbayeva nodded.
“Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to stay. There’s a celebration here tonight,” he took a gentle sip of the scalding tea, “And I’d like you to attend.”
Nazarbayeva was about to swing into the standard litany of female excuses that every woman can peel off when caught on the hop for such events.
Stalin chuckled.
“I hope you don’t think that I lack the proper organizational skills for such an evening, Comrade General?”
The nearest thing to a laugh that had escaped from Stalin for some time, and it was accompanied by a genuine grin.
“Comrade Beria was detailed to ensure that all feminine articles necessary are at your disposal, along with a guest dacha. There are no uniforms tonight. Tonight, we forget the war and drink to happier times.”
Simply put, she clearly had no choice.
“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I would be delighted.”
“Quite so, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Seven o’clock sharp.”
After a formal salute, she left the room, her plans to return to Germany scuppered without an opportunity to appeal, although the prospect of clean sheets and a quiet night was not unwelcome.
She would have neither.
1731 hrs, Wednesday, 18th December 1945, NKVD guest dacha. Kuntsevo, USSR.
Nazarbayeva had been escorted to her guest lodgings by two female NKVD officers, who revealed that they had been tasked with providing the GRU General with the proper accoutrements for a social evening.
Safely delivered to her dacha, Nazarbayeva was left alone with a promise that, at 1850hrs precisely, the car would be back to take her back to Stalin’s quarters for the birthday party.
The dacha was simple, but reeked of wealth, the artifacts inside the plain wooden walls seemingly from the time of the Tsars. She had no idea that it belonged to the NKVD but, regardless, she intended to make sure that it was without the standard paraphernalia of bugs and listeners.
The log fire roared away and an attendant appeared to serve tea, inviting her to sit in a voluminous red leather armchair warming in its orange glow.
Despite the relatively short time until the festivities, Nazarbayeva welcomed the relaxation on offer, and felt the warmth of the aromatic tea fill her belly as she stretched her legs, easing the boot from her damaged foot without attempting to conceal the manoeuvre.
After informing the GRU General of the location of her bedroom, and offering to be on hand if needed, the orderly slipped quietly from the lounge and left her to herself.
The silence was like a drug, filling her senses with a wonderfully relaxing nothingness that she could barely recall from before the war.
Nazarbayeva had to force herself from the chair and into the bedroom, where the products of the two NKVD women’s efforts were laid out like a fashion presentation.
Quickly, she slipped around the room, checking all the usual haunts of the electronic surveillance equipment.
She found none. and there were none to find. Well, maybe just one.
The large mirror on the wall was perfectly positioned f
or a fashion parade, and she swiftly slipped out of her uniform and went through the selection process.
Firstly, she started with the underwear.
None of it was ‘dramatic’, to say the least, but the choice came down to one of two, both matching sets, one in black, the other red.
Slipping out of her own more mundane undies, she stopped to admire her nakedness.
She never really looked at her foot, or rather, the absence of it.
It always reminded her of its issues at a time like this, as balancing was not as easy without the metal strap.
None the less, her eyes swept over her body from toe to head, examining the legs she had always been proud of, the veritable forest of pubic hair and moving over the belly.
Whilst it was clearly one of a mother of several children, it was only slightly marked and, as a soldier, she was fit enough for the curves to be natural, rather than the result of age and excess.
Her breasts hung in splendid curves, almost perfect, the large brown nipples surmounting the soft flesh, solely scarred by the passage of the bullet fired in Pekunin’s office.
She cupped them, squeezing gently and enjoying the feeling. Her mind tried to remind her of her position, and it had to battle the joy of the contact until it achieved victory.
She reached up and undid her hair, allowing the dark locks to cascade down over her shoulders and below her neck, framing her face.
Her eyes screwed up and she grabbed at the left side, examining it closely and finding grey hairs within.
‘Bath first.’
There was no bath. There was a large shower and, after a quick ‘bug’ check around the tiled room, she walked into the enclosure, allowing the luxurious warmth of the water to wash over her.
Finishing her ablutions quickly, she moved back into the bedroom and selected the red set.
The knickers were a little tight, her bottom just slightly too large, but it was close enough, especially as the bra fitted her well and was extremely comfortable.
The dresses were a range from plain to flowery, from unadorned to one so laden with sequins and other paraphernalia that she immediately discarded it.
The red dress looked wonderful and she slipped into it, falling against the mirror as she overbalanced.
The glass gave a little groan but did not break and she recovered herself, buttoning the front and smoothing it into place.
Her nipples were extremely prominent and, for that reason alone, she decided against it, although she surprised herself with the thought that she should be all woman this evening. She ran a finger over the prominent left nipple, feeling little shocks as she pressed firmer.
‘Why not show them what a real woman looks like eh?’
She shook the bizarre idea from her head. She was not to know that the tea she had drunk had a special ingredient, one that started its clandestine work on her mind from the moment her body started to absorb it.
Wary not to fall again, she propped herself against the wall and removed the red dress, selecting a knee length black one instead.
Repeating the performance, without the tumble this time, she ran her hands down the sheer material that hung to her body like it was tailor-made for her.
The dress was simple, with no frills, but it was of superb quality.
She selected a strappy shoe for no other reason than to assist in keeping her metal support in place.
A small white leather bag completed the ensemble and she was nearly ready.
On the dressing table were a selection of perfumes and after shaves.
She opened the cap of an American brand, liked what she sniffed at and sparingly applied the parfum to all the places that a woman does.
It smelt wonderful, and she examined the bottle more closely.
‘White Shoulder by Evyan. I shall get some of this for when I next see my husband.’
It might prove difficult of course, but being the head of the GRU Europe was not without fringe benefits.
She closed the door and returned to the lounge. Within a minute, a knock on the door indicated that her transport had arrived.
Once the sound of the car had faded, the man with the camera heaved a sigh of relief.
“You know, when she started playing with those fat titties, I nearly shot in my britches.”
“Fuck, yes. Mind you, when she fell against the mirror, I thought you’d shat your pants. Fancy gasping like a girl!”
“I didn’t see it coming, tovarich. The camera was against my eye. Anyway, no harm done. It’s very rugged.”
He rapped his knuckles on the two way mirror by way of emphasising his point.
Sarkisov shook his head.
“That’s some fucking woman, tovarich. I’d love a piece of her myself. Never fucked a General before… at least… not in the traditional sense.”
NKVD Colonel Sardeon Nadaraia laughed a sort of laugh that was without humour of any kind.
“Perhaps you may get your opportunity, Rafael. Who knows what could happen once the party is over.”
With a straight face, NKVD Colonel Rafael Sedrakevich Sarkisov delivered a telling line.
“Which party, tovarich? The General Secretary’s, or the one our man has planned for the GRU bitch?”
Nadaraia laughed and slapped his fellow officer on the shoulder.
“Well, as we aren’t invited to the formal ceremony, I think we’ll have to do it here.”
He carefully undid the camera and removed the film.
“Let’s get this developed and see what delights we can set before Comrade Beria.”
Sarkisov slipped out of the orderly’s tunic and recovered his own jacket.
“What was that stuff anyway, comrade?”
Nadaraia spoke of the ‘tea’ that his counterpart had served the GRU General.
“Fuck knows, tovarich. Old Vovsi said it would prepare a woman to be more… err… amenable to suggestions of a certain kind.”
Entering the main premises, Nadaraia took his leave to seek out the photographic office, whilst Sarkisov waited for the new orderly to arrive.
Sergeant Malenkov had a special physical gift that was to form part of the night’s amusements, and the NKVD Colonel just wanted to check that the man fully understood what was required of him.
1900 hrs, Wednesday, 18th December 1945, Stalin’s Dacha, Kuntsevo, USSR.
Nazarbayeva was not the only woman there, as the hierarchy had brought either wife or mistress and, in one case, both.
However, whilst she was not the thin, painted women that many of the men had their affairs with, her full and totally feminine form, for once revealed out of uniform, drew many looks.
Somehow, it didn’t bother her, although part of her felt that it should.
She selected a large glass of her favourite wine, a Georgian White wine, made from the famous Rkatsiteli grape.
Beria’s agents had done their research well and the Rkatsiteli was also more than it appeared to be.
Beria had planned a narcotic assault upon his nemesis, one that would end in his dominance and control.
An army of attendants fussed back and forth, bringing trays of canapés, many topped off with the finest Beluga caviar.
It was never something that appealed to her, so the tasty snacks with meat and cheese got the most attention.
“Try the beetroot and Zakusochny, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Exquisite, truly.”
“Good evening, Comrade Marshal. I will.”
Normally, his closeness would make her feel uncomfortable but, she conceded, the relaxed nature of the party made even his presence seem acceptable.
There was a part of her brain that railed against her acceptance, the same part that positively exploded when he grabbed her arm and steered her towards the food area, selecting one of the cheese and beetroot snacks that he had recommended.
The larger part of her brain was simply affable and accepted the man’s proximity.
“That’s very special, Comrade Beria.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed it is, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Beria retreated, happy that the drugs were obviously working, given the woman’s tolerance of his presence.
‘Good. Soon, Tatiana, soon. The Zakusochny is very special indeed.’
The evening progressed with more food and drink, punctuated by gift presentations to the General Secretary, some from fawning communist party members, some from Ambassador’s and representatives of allied states, yet more from the inner sanctum.
The latter seemed to vie with each other to present the most personal gift, something that the leader might use every day.
Nazarbayeva had not come prepared. However, she had in her possession a gift for her husband, to be given to him on his next leave.
The petrol lighter had been taken from a dead British pilot, and had found its way into her possession.
Solid silver and heavy to handle, it lit every time.
What made it eminently suitable was the inscription that was heavily inscribed on both sides.
‘Chivas Regal.’
It was the dictator’s favorite tipple, and was presently half-filling the old tin cup that he used for serious drinking.
Tied in a white cloth handkerchief, Nazarbayeva waited her turn.
“Thank you, Comrade Nazarbayeva. A splendid gift. I shall treasure it.”
Hardly pausing for breath, Stalin leant forward and whispered in a conspiratorial fashion.
“The Bulgarian ambassador can’t take his eyes off you, Comrade General. His wife’s back in his country and his girlfriend is heavily pregnant. He looks fit to bust but, please…” he looked across at the aging man and smiled disarmingly, “If he does do anything foolish, please try not to break him. I’ve need of his cooperation soon.”
“I’ll avoid the man, Comrade General Secretary. I hope your birthday is enjoyable, Sir?”
Stalin snorted, aware that a group including the ambassador from Yugoslavia was approaching with intent.
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he leant in towards Tatiana’s ear.
“I’d rather have a straightforward affair, but the requirements of the Rodina override my own simple peasant wishes, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Now, I must do my duty.”