Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Both men waited, sipping at their now warm tea, the growing anticipation overcoming the howls from their taste buds.

  The GRU officer straightened her back and spoke matter of factly.

  “Yes, Comrade Marshal. It is how I said. The three mechanised units are heading into Northern Italy, lead elements are identified as approaching Turin.”

  Checking the paper again, she continued.

  “The foot and horse divisions, five in total, follow the same path but are some distance behind.”

  “The two divisions that were taken by train are now laagered on the Swiss border, south-east of Besancon.”

  A quick maths check brought Malinin into the discussion.

  “Ten divisions then, Comrade Polkovnik?”

  “No, Comrade Polkovnik General, twelve in total.”

  Again, checking the paperwork, she quickly backed up her maths.

  “Two divisions, the two formed of veterans of the old Blue Division, sailed from Bilbao last Thursday, destination unknown.”

  Poking out of the bottom of the file was the corner of a photograph Nazarbayeva had deliberately left on her desk, and which had efficiently been included by Andrey Poboshkin, her staff Major.

  “What are those, Comrade?”

  Zhukov welcomed the diversion, as his mind processed the Spanish threat.

  “Photographs of the NKVD operatives killed during the mission.”

  The Spanish had ensured that evidence existed as to the identities of the would-be assassins.

  “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.

  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.

  Anon.

  Diary entry of a soldier of the Great War.

  Chapter 83 - THE DELAY

  0911hrs, Tuesday, 18th September 1945, Les Hauts Bois, the Vosges, Alsace.

  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 pri
orities 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.

  Two more shots quickly followed, either of which could have been the one that extinguished its life.

  A dozen anguished cries rose into the early morning air, the sight of their comrade causing great distress to the other members of the Goumier patrol. Three more shots were fired into the dead boar, more in anguish, than to serve a purpose.

  A blanket was stretched out on the earth, and the remains were reverently covered up before being carried away for a burial in accordance with the man’s faith.

  In the trees, the four men had not dared to draw breathe, the staccato rattle of their beating hearts seemingly louder than that of the disturbed forest around them.

  The Goumiers disappeared.

  Nikitin relaxed his rifle, looking to his companion for guidance.

  Starshy Serzhant Nakhimov was weighing up the pros and cons of the situation, and having difficulty finding any con.

  A whispered order, and the NCO turned to the two men in the adjacent tree, simple hand gestures passing on his instructions.

  When he reached the ground, Nakhimov waited for the other man, checking the two men above were covering as ordered.

  “Right Vassily, tonight we dine on boar. Come on.”

  The two men moved gingerly to the location of the fight, the large quantity of blood and human detritus startling them.

  The dead boar proved difficult to carry, but they managed to get it up and into a jury rig. Comprising two stout branches and weapon slings, the whole contraption more resembled something used on a safari in Africa

  Struggling under the weight, they thanked their luck that the hiding place was close by.

  2351hrs, Tuesday, 18th September 1945, Les Hauts Bois, the Vosges, Alsace.

  Apart from the two men on watch, the whole contingent was present in the dry, warm cave. Waiting until dark spread its wings over the forest, the boar was cooked over a fire whose smoke disappeared into the cave system and, if it popped out in plain sight, would undoubtedly be lost in the increasing darkness.

  The sounds filling the cave were those of contentment, as hungry mouths ripped at greasy meat, filling bellies that were contracting as every day passed.

  Ivan Alekseevich Makarenko, commander of the last remnant of Zilant-4, chewed the sweet pork, happy that his men had been fed well for a change, but already planning to relocate, now that the hunters had come close again.

  Nakhimov read the look on his General’s face and, pausing to rip another hunk of meat from the carcass, he moved to his commander’s side.

  “You have orders, Comrade Mayor-General?”

  Makarenko considered his thoughts, and made an instant decision.

  “0200, Comrade Nakhimov. They can sleep for now, but we move out at 0200.”

  Producing his map, the firelight just sufficient for planning the march, he drew the NCO closer.

  “We are here. This is where your forage party came across the Africans,” he circled an area just east of Colroy-la-Roche.

  “We will go north-west as quickly as we can, passing between,” the officer screwed up his eyes, but was none the wiser.

  Nakhimov took a burning stave from the fire, bringing sufficient light for Makarenko to read the small text.

  “Thank you, Comrade. Between le Bambois and Waldersbach.”

  Testing the distance in his mind, he continued.

  “I want us to be hidden away before first light in this area, southeast of Natzwiller. Clear, Starshy Serzhant?”

  “As you order, Comrade Mayor General.”

  Neither man enjoyed the stiff formality, but both understood its necessity in the circumstances, ensuring military discipline was maintained under the extreme pressures of their circumstances.

  “Get some sleep, Comrade. I will wake you at one.”

  Makarenko got no argument.

  0917hrs, Tuesday, 18th September 1945, Tiste Bauernmoor, Germany.

  Looking through the sights, the target loomed large, the eyes betraying awareness and alertness, neither of which was going to save its life on this sodden 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 the problem.

  Other than the steady pitter-patter of rain, there was only the sound of spades at work, and the grunting sounds of the men using them.

  The huge Russian overseer had erected a shelter from where he could watch his flock in relative comfort, prisoners who did not enjoy similar good fortune, being soaked to the skin as they toiled to dig the long holes.

  The problem was the guard on the top edge of the site. He had moved, a relocation that had taken him away from the nemesis in the undergrowth.

  The nemesis moved after his prey.

  Both men watched as their comrade gently slid through the dense greenery, his progress betrayed by a gentle twitch of a stem here and there.

  The four guards were positioned on the peripheries of the work area, making an approach easy enough for those tasked with the silent killing.

  The overseer’s shelter made a stealthy approach impossible, its position in the centre of the clearing ensuring that he would die last, at the hands of Schultz and Irma.

  Satisfied that the killer was now back in prime location, Müller gave a warble, imitating some bird, in a signal that brought instant action.

  The four guards died as one, their lives taken silently by whatever method their stealthy killers preferred.

  The overseer, an NKVD Sergeant, was slow to act, his eyes seeing all, but his brain failing to understand the death scene he observed as his corporal had his throat cut.

  Grabbing at his PPD, he intended to shoot down the murderer, but Irma spat a single bullet, dropping him into the dry interior of his shelter, as dead as his men.

  The prisoners stopped working, some conscious only of the single gunshot that had rent the air, others aware that silent killers had taken the life of every guard.

  “Good kill, I think, Feldwebel. Let’s go and calm the nerves of our new allies.”

  Slapping Schultz on the shoulder, Müller dropped gently from their firing position on a huge fallen tree, finding his balance quickly, and walking off with the balance and speed of a man who possessed both his legs.

  Schultz, wiping his beloved rifle down with an oily rag, watched his friend and commander, easily spotting the indistinct signs in Müller’s gait.

  The four killers moved out of the undergrowth, speaking in either English or French to the confused prisoners.

  The Canadian prisoners were heartened to see men in their own uniforms, bearing weapons, and carrying the
fight to the enemy, although the presence of the man in command, clad in the uniform of a Captain of the German ‘Groβdeutschland’ Division, troubled more than one of them.

  Müller moved to the shelter and took the item he coveted from the corpse, his professional side noting the entry wound in the left ear of the dead NKVD man. Picking up the PPD, and stripping away the two spare magazines, he moved to where his senior Canadian was talking with a dishevelled RSM.

  The RSM followed his compatriot’s lead, saluting the German officer.

  “Müller, Kommando Bucholz.”

  He accompanied the words with his own salute, and followed them by proffering the Soviet sub-machine gun and magazines to the newly liberated RSM.

  “Forbes, strip the dead, anything of use, distribute all weapons amongst the prisoners.”

  Tasked, Corporal Forbes led his men away.

  MacMichaels was checking over his new weapon, clearing it, checking the magazines, his professionalism not dulled by his captivity.

  Removing a cigarette from the pack he had just looted, Müller gasped in the pungent smoke, coughing as it stimulated his throat.

  “RSM MacMichaels, Seaforth Highlanders of Canada, as are most of my boys here,” the NCO indicating the silent men behind him, all waiting for some indication of what to do next.

  The RSM’s attention was taken by the approach of Schultz, similarly clad to Müller, but sporting a Soviet snipers rifle and wearing the Knight’s Cross.

  Having spent time with the small Canadian group they had stumbled upon after TostedtLand, Müller better understood the humour of his new allies.

  “This is the tea boy, Feldwebel Schultz.”

  Deliberately ignoring the comment, Schultz too checked his handiwork in the shelter, his grunt indicating pleasure at the accuracy of his shot.

  “Same in your army I suppose,” addressing his comments to a bemused MacMichaels as he strolled past, nose in the air, ignoring the grinning Müller, “NCO’s do all the work, officers get all the glory and girls.”

  Both men had profited from their time with the Canadian soldiers, their English much improved.