Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

The Head of Sweden’s Military Intelligence Service passed his prey the wooden mug.

  “I repeat, you are now dead, so anything that happens to you from now will not matter, will never matter.”

  Törget made a study of lighting an American cigarette, permitting the man time to understand the precarious position he was in.

  Søderling was intelligent, so it did not take long.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Excellent. It is so much better to do things easily than to have to coerce.”

  Leaving the thinly veiled warning hanging, Törget moved to the door, slid the plate open, and whispered to the guard.

  Returning to his seat opposite the broken Amiral, Törget waited until the second officer was stood by his side.

  “Søderling, you will tell this officer everything he wishes to know, without fail.”

  A nod sufficed.

  Törget rose and turned to his protégé, examining his watch.

  “Take all the time you need Lingström. Return to Stockholm once you have answers to every one of your questions. Any lack of cooperation and he can drink the Baltic dry for all I care.”

  An exchange of immaculate salutes and Törget was gone.

  Now Søderling permitted a mixed look of recognition and relief to cross his face.

  “Thank God it’s you, Lingström.”

  “Why is that, Amiral?”

  “Because I know you are one of us, one of Pekunin’s special projects.”

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  “Yes, I was told to watch out for you, but keep my distance.”

  “Whereas I had no idea you existed, you fucking communist bastard.”

  The older man looked deep into the eyes of the younger, seeking some resonance of humour to excuse the words, some cunning disguising his outburst because of possible listeners, or some merest hint of sympathy.

  All that stared back was ice-cold hatred.

  And at that point, the naval man’s defeat was complete. All hint of defiance gone, Överstelöjtnant Boris Lingström got answers to every question he posed.

  You people are telling me what you think I want to know. I want to know what is actually happening.

  Creighton Abrams

  Chapter 82 - THE TRUTH

  1000hrs, Monday, 17th September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  Nazarbayeva was late.

  ‘Nazarbayeva is never late.’

  Admittedly, a modest RAF night attack had struck the area around the Headquarters, and there had been a few casualties amongst the security force, but nothing and no one of significance had been affected. Many more deaths and injuries had been inflicted upon the remaining civilians and refugees in the old town, as well as the Allied prisoners of war, who were kept in some of the old camp buildings nearby.

  Zhukov decided it would be wrong to enquire after the GRU officer, but Malinin had already taken the bull by the horns and got to the bottom of the issue.

  According to the GRU duty officer, Colonel Nazarbayeva had been late leaving her office, a fact that had been rung through to the Headquarters at her request.

  A quick check of the message log showed that indeed was the case. Malinin spent some time with the Communications Officer of the day, who had failed to forward the report, laying down standards and expectations.

  The old Major understood his tenure was in question and that Siberia beckoned if he did not get his act together.

  Malinin returned to the Marshal’s office, arriving at the same time as the messenger left.

  Zhukov was now refocused on the wall map, examining the situation, imagining how the day’s attacks would carry the field and move the Red Banner Forces closer to their goal.

  Sensing his CoS’s presence the Marshal tapped the map.

  “We must push them hard today Mikhail. They are close to breaking, I can feel it.”

  He turned to his confidante.

  “However, the British are not as weak as we hoped. Perhaps it was a maskirova, eh?”

  Malinovsky knew otherwise. So, for that matter, did Zhukov. Attlee’s attempt had been genuine, and he had paid for it. The pugnacious old enemy Churchill was now installed at the head of a refocused coalition government, the belligerent rhetoric of the anti-communist Churchill indicating no lessening of the British war effort.

  “The French? Perhaps it will be 3rd Red Banner Front that rips them open,” his fingers caressed the south-west corner of Germany, focussing on the approaches to the Rhine and Switzerland.

  “Many French units have been destroyed, Comrade Marshal, but the ones that are left are hard soldiers.”

  Zhukov nodded, both men leaving unsaid the thoughts of the newest Foreign Legion adversaries.

  “So, it must be the Americans then, Mikhail, here, in the centre.”

  Zhukov took his hand away from the map, standing back to absorb the full picture.

  ‘Every time we break through, they plug the gap. Every time. They are resilient, this Army from a Hundred Lands.’

  The name had started as an illustration of a divided house, an army of disparate nations, and one easily toppled if pushed hard enough.

  Now it was the name he used for his enemy, and one used in grudging respect for their worth.

  “The third phase worries me,” he digressed to the intended operations of 1st Southern European Front, 1st Alpine Front, and the forces in the Balkans, “Unless the supply situation is eased, I believe it is critical to maintain the pressure here before we open another arena and reduce the flow of supplies to us here.”

  The two had undertaken this discussion many times before, the end result being one of indecision. The commitment to the third phase required full and detailed knowledge of the supply problems to resolve.

  However, the third phase was due to commence on the following Wednesday, so Tuesdays meeting in Moscow would be Zhukov’s final chance to cancel the new attacks.

  In the East, everything was going well according to Vassilevsky’s reports, highlighting the increasing failure of his armies to reach their objectives.

  “The updated report will be ready by midday, Comrade Marshal,” Malinovsky’s return to stiff formality indicating the impending presence of another.

  Nazarbayeva entered, beckoned in by the CoS, stood at attention, and saluted formally.

  “Welcome Comrade Polkovnik, welcome,” Zhukov indicated the chair to one side of his desk, taking up a seated position in his own equally Spartan seat.

  Whatever it was, it was wasted on neither general officer.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, are you well?”

  “I am well thank you, Comrade Polkovnik General,” turning to face the senior of the two men she continued, “My apologies for being late, Comrade Marshal.”

  Zhukov liked that about the woman GRU officer. She was late, acknowledged it, apologised for it, no excuses.

  However, he realised that something was not right but, again, resisted asking.

  “Your report, Comrade Polkovnik?” deciding on a moment of formality.

  “Yes, Sir,” the document appearing as if by magic, placed before the commander in chief. A second copy was offered to Malinin.

  “The figures are a day old, Comrades. If you require GRU to constantly update this file, it will be on a two day delay to be wholly accurate.”

  Most of that was lost on both men, as the true horror of the situation was laid out in black and white before them.

  “Seventeen trains in one day!”

  Zhukov swivelled immediately to his indignant CoS, the Colonel-General indicating the section on page two that dealt with the transport situation in the Ukraine last week.

  That was the only outburst, the report consumed in a silence that grew steadily more oppressive, laden as it was with the stuff of defeat.

  In a very un-Malinovsky like way, the CoS slammed his copy on the desk and paced the room.

  “Are they mad? Are they total
ly fucking mad?”

  Zhukov wanted to pace and swear too, but he simply let the enraged General do it for the both of them.

  Nazarbayeva decided not to interrupt an angry senior officer in full flow.

  “Fucking NKVD idiots, Chekist fools! Why did we not know this, Comrade?”

  Tatiana suddenly realised that she was the focus of attention, and an answer was expected.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Comrades, in fairness to Marshal Beria, it appears that he was not informed of all matters. It has taken my units some time to discover what has been going on, and he would have relied upon reports and investigations from the very units and officers that were misleading him.”

  ‘An honest statement, Nazarbayeva, defending that sow.’

  “The production figures are now all correct, the previous difficulties rectified.”

  Malinin sat down, his outburst over for now.

  “It is the losses in transportation and misappropriation that are above the reported levels.”

  That required a comment.

  “Misappropriation? Explain.”

  “Yes, Comrade Marshal. By example, one train load of engineering materials was sequestrated by the Party Committee in Kiev, to be used for rebuilding public bridges.”

  “You have names?”

  “Yes, Comrade. GRU officers have already taken the whole committee into investigative custody.”

  Zhukov would take a keen interest in all of them, right up until the moment they were shot.

  ‘My precious bridging equipment taken by fucking civilians!’

  “The some of the new wave of infantry reinforcements have been organised into new divisions, and kept as a special reserve by STAVKA, presently numbering seventeen fully equipped and manned units, numbered 501 to 517 Motorised Infantry Divisions.”

  ‘There are new units available in reserve, and my Commanders haven’t even told me?’

  In honesty, that was less of a surprise to Zhukov than it had been to Nazarbayeva. Such was the lot of a Soviet Marshal.

  “A munitions train disappeared from sidings in Rostov. It has since been found in Tbilisi, without any of its load of heavy calibre artillery shells.”

  ‘My own army stealing my shells!’

  “A supply train with brand-new IS-III battle tanks was apparently diverted, with full and correct papers. I am awaiting confirmation that the tanks drove through Vladivostok last Thursday.”

  That was simply too much for Zhukov.

  “Fucking Vladivostok? That swine Vassilevsky is stealing my armour! STAVKA steals my reinforcements and the Persian camel herders are taking my ammunition! It’s no wonder we are stalling here.”

  A moment’s silence enveloped the room, the previously unspoken now openly stated.

  Malinin broke the awkward silence.

  “GKO must be made aware of this immediately, Comrade Marshal. They and the others are sabotaging our effort, putting our victory in danger.”

  Zhukov nodded savagely, his blood coursing through his arteries, hot and angry, disbelieving, but also knowing that it was all true.

  “Bring my trip to Moscow forward to tomorrow morning. You will accompany me, Comrade Polkovnik. I will need you.”

  Nazarbayeva had other plans, but that was of no import when the Commander in Chief gave you an order.

  Theatrically, Zhukov set his folder aside, drawing a line under a document outlining some of the reasons that the Red Banner Army was running out of steam.

  “Tea.”

  The drink arrived and was sampled before the GRU officer continued.

  “We have lost our senior Swedish contact at a bad time. It was he who supplied the details of the British delegation’s visit. The man in question was killed in an accident,” Nazarbayeva passed a photo of a Swedish Admiral to Zhukov.

  “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.