Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The son, wife, and two grandchildren of GRU Colonel General Pekunin had fallen victim to the overzealous approach of the local NKVD office.

  That would have been wholly regrettable, had it not been for the additional inclusion of an NKVD assessment of the debacle that befell 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, mainly at the hands of GRU false assurances, emanating from Pekunin himself.

  That made it something else entirely.

  “Heads will roll!”

  He returned to his chair and grabbed the telephone, the whole mount shuddering as he nearly knocked it flying.

  “Get me NKVD Leytenant General Yegerov.”

  The wait was brief, but every second increased the malevolence of his thoughts.

  “Comrade General Yegorov, I have orders for you. Your continued existence depends on their successful completion.”

  Such statements were bound to get the full attention of the hapless listener, and even an NKVD General knew his hold on position and life could be perilous when Stalin was on the warpath.

  Both Molotov and Bulganin listened to the normal arrangements for arrests and executions that tended to follow ignominious defeats.

  Their collective attention peaked as Stalin included names of men beyond reproach, silent surprise turning to silent incredulity.

  Although talking on the telephone, the leader’s eyes were fixed upon them, dealing with their doubts, staring them both down and into submission.

  Their silent compliance was guaranteed.

  “Immediately, Comrade Yegerov. Report to me when each arrest is successfully completed.”

  The phone did not return to its cradle, as Stalin placed another call immediately.

  2216hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Office of Special Intelligence Projects, GRU Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.

  The phone rang, startling both occupants of the room, still working long after they could have retired to their respective quarters.

  “Nazarbayeva.”

  “Good evening, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Do you recognise who this is?”

  “Yes, and good evening to you, Comrade General Secretary.”

  The other occupant of the room, GRU Major Poboshkin, cringed automatically, burying his face deeper into the folder he had been reading aloud to his boss.

  “I am giving you a direct order, Comrade Polkovnik. You will proceed to the office of General Pekunin and arrest him as an enemy of the state. Is that clear?”

  Nazarbayeva was stunned, her mind reeled, for once in her life, her mouth worked without thinking.

  “On what basis, Comrade General Secretary?”

  Stalin, unusually, chose a softer path than that others had suffered on the rare occasions his orders were questioned.

  “On my authority, Comrade Nazarbayeva. I possess real evidence that he may have deliberately sabotaged a military operation, and I also possess evidence that he has motive for doing so. Am I clear, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I understand my orders.”

  Poboshkin could see from her face that Nazarbayeva did everything but understand what she had just been ordered to do.

  “Good. Report to me immediately you have successfully detained him. An NKVD unit is on its way to relieve you of the prisoner as soon as possible.”

  The phone went dead in her hands, the empty electrical sound growing in intensity, as her mind tried to deal with the enormity of the situation.

  ‘I have no choice. My orders are quite clear.’

  Part of her laughed in mocking response.

  ‘Your orders? Hiding behind orders, are you?’

  Her stomach rebelled, and she spilt her dinner on the wooden floor.

  “Comrade Polkovnik. What is wrong?”

  She looked at her aide, barely recognising him, her mental faculties locked in confrontation.

  ‘Orders are orders, and there is cause!’

  ‘Really?’

  She regained her composure, wiped her mouth, and stood up quickly, her hand automatically ensuring that her service automatic was in place.

  “Comrade Major, retrieve an automatic weapon from the guard commander’s rack, on my authority, and bring two of his men here now, similarly armed.”

  Poboshkin did not need to comment, his look drawing Nazarbayeva into further words.

  “We have orders to arrest General Pekunin. Immediately.”

  Four minutes later, Nazarbayeva knocked on the door of Pekunin’s office. The General was also working late.

  “Come in.”

  The old man seemed genuinely pleased to see his protégé, although his smile faded a little when he saw her expression.

  And the men she left outside the office.

  “Welcome, Comrade Nazarbayeva. You have something to tell me, Tatiana?”

  “I have orders, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

  She hesitated.

  “If you have orders, then you must carry them out, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  “My orders are direct from the General Secretary, and they require me to arrest you immediately.”

  Picking up the Chinese puzzle box, he made a deliberate slow play of unlocking it, completing the first three stages, clearly a ploy to allow him to choose his words carefully.

  “Then you must obey your orders, Comrade Nazarbayeva, for they were given to you, specifically, for a good reason. Otherwise our Socialist brothers of the NKVD would have been tasked with my detention.”

  “I am here to arrest you, and hand you over to them when they arrive, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

  Something changed in Pekunin’s demeanour.

  “And if I resist arrest, what will you do, Tatiana, eh?”

  The woman in front of him showed doubt and indecision, her normally iron exterior suddenly brittle under the pressure.

  “I will obey my orders, Comrade, and I will arrest you.”

  “And if I resist arrest, what then?”

  Her hand reached for the Tokarev, its cold metal turning her arm to ice as she pointed it at her mentor and friend.

  “I have orders to arrest you, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

  Pekunin reached for two things, placing the Chinese box and his favoured Nagant revolver on the table between them.

  “Listen to me, Tatiana. I will not be arrested,” he held up a hand to silence her protests, “There is no way I will place myself in the clutches of that NKVD snake Beria, you have to understand that.”

  She could, but could not find the words for the moment.

  Pekunin continued.

  “Before I resist arrest, take this,” he slid the puzzle box across the table.

  Their eyes met, the pain and anguish equal in both, the mutual feelings of respect and tenderness openly declared between them for the first time.

  “It is my personal gift to you. Use it how you wish. Believe it, and believe nothing else, Tatiana.”

  Shouts developed on the edge of their consciousness.

  “Clearly, our comrades of the Secret Police have arrived.”

  Tatiana had not taken her eyes off the box, despite the increased volume of an obvious disagreement outside.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, you must now accept one final order from me.”

  She automatically clicked to attention.

  “I will now reach for my revolver, and fire a shot into the wall beside your left shoulder.”

  She automatically inclined her head to the left, catching herself before she went too far.

  “You will then ensure that the Chekist bastards cannot hurt me, or my family, further. Will you do this for me?”

  She shook her head violently, relaxing her body posture.

  “No, Roman Samuelevich, I cannot. You are a good man, and this is all wrong. All wrong!”

  The external noise was now becoming overpowering.

  “But you must, or we are all lost, Tatiana.”

  Pekunin picked up the revolver and aimed at the wall. Nazarbayeva, by r
eflex alone, brought up her Tokarev.

  The door almost folded inwards as Lieutenant General Kochetkov burst in, brandishing his own weapon. Behind him, a scuffle between NKVD and GRU personnel was growing in intensity.

  He saw the situation in the office quite clearly, but misread it totally.

  His first bullet struck Nazarbayeva in the side of her right breast, passing through the soft tissue, and out again in an instant.

  Pekunin’s instincts made him change his target, one of his bullets taking Kochetkov in the chest.

  Nazarbayeva, part in understanding, part in self-preservation, placed her own bullet in Pekunin, the impact knocking him back into his chair.

  Through red teeth, he managed to speak.

  “Not good enough, Polkovnik, make the next one better. Goodbye, and good luck. Now!”

  He tried to raise the revolver, his strength ebbing with every beat of his heart.

  The NKVD General finally swept into the room with most of his entourage, in time to witness a bleeding Nazarbayeva put a bullet through the head of the traitor, Pekunin.

  The woman, tears, both of pain and of grief, streaming down her face, swivelled like a combat veteran, the Tokarev steady, aimed at the Chekist’s head.

  “Enough, Comrade Polkovnik, enough. You have performed magnificently,” he gestured at her obvious wound, “And you have been wounded. Stand down now, and let my men take over.”

  His relief was obvious as the muzzle of the automatic lowered gently, the woman’s gaze returning to the ruined features of her former boss.

  Her mind worked fast, her hasty plan to use bluster and authority to secure her needs.

  “Right, Comrade General. The wound is nothing, and we have work to do Comrade. You and your men secure these two vermin, and get them away. Have them photographed immediately. The Comrade General Secretary will wish to see the evidence of this night’s work.”

  She slipped the safety on, and placed the Tokarev on the table.

  “I have to report directly to Comrade Stalin straight away, so please get these two out of my sight immediately.”

  The NKVD officer was not about to be ordered about by some GRU pup, and certainly not a woman, until the mention of ‘the’ man, and the implied intimacy between him and the killer of Pekunin.

  The woman bulldozed on.

  “Mayor Poboshkin!”

  Her aide arrived at the door, the evidence of a struggle quite clear on his face and uniform. The large glowing red weal, where his face had been struck, failed to hide his concern for his senior.

  “Comrade Mayor Poboshkin. You are responsible for securing this room, once I have made my call to the General Secretary. No-one, repeat, no-one is to enter this room without the direct authority of,” she looked directly at the senior NKVD man, the question hanging, and drawing him into the conspiracy.

  “Dustov.”

  “Without the direct authority of Comrade General Dustov. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  “Attend to your orders then, Comrade Mayor.”

  Addressing the NKVD officer, she pulled another chair over to the desk, and picked up the telephone.

  “Once that is out of the way,” she gestured at Kotchetkov’s body, “I will inform the General Secretary that his orders have been carried out, and that you and your men have discharged your instructions to the letter.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Totally bamboozled and railroaded, Dustov organised his men, and the bodies of both GRU senior officers were whisked away.

  Stalin took the call, listening to the brief details of Nazarbayeva’s report.

  “General Kotchetkov shot you? You are wounded, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”

  Only Molotov now remained, Bulganin already on his way to the airfield to take a flight eastwards.

  He waited as Stalin listened to Nazarbayeva’s reply.

  “None the less, I insist, you must have medical attention, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

  Stalin’s mind was working, wheels within wheels, priorities shifting, other possibilities occurring as he found himself smiling in unfeigned delight.

  ‘Why not? Lavrentiy will enjoy it and competence earns its own rewards.’

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva. It appears that you have removed the two most senior men within GRU West. That leaves us with a dilemma. Kotchetkov was the natural successor, and I am surprised that his treachery went undiscovered until now.”

  He reminded himself to encourage the NKVD to explore the late General’s family, and uncover evidence of their undoubted complicity.

  “You have created the problem, Comrade Polkovnik, so it falls to you to solve it.”

  Her wound was aching now, the blood clotted, and the adrenalin gone.

  “How can I do that, Comrade General Secretary?”

  “You will find a way, Mayor General Nazarbayeva, you will find a way. Now, tend to your wound, and organise your command. I will look forward to hearing your plans tomorrow.”

  The phone went dead in her hand.

  Even though her mind suddenly filled with the implications of Stalin’s statement, she acted on her hasty plan, opened the window, and dropped the puzzle box into the small shrub to its right, closing the window quietly.

  She recovered her pistol and left the room, nodding to Dustov, leaving him in her wake. The troubled NKVD man was still wondering how exactly she had bulldozed him, but decided the details would not make his report to the Chairman.

  On her way to the medical facility, Nazarbayeva recovered the box and put it in pride of place in her room, hidden in plain sight.

  Bandaged and more comfortable, the new commander of GRU West returned to her billet and sat on her bed, eyes glued to the Chinese Box that Pekinun had so wanted her to take, as she began the process of unravelling what had just happened.

  2258hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Headquarters of 1209th Grenadiere Regiment, 159th Infanterie Division, Neuwied, Germany.

  Oberstleutnant Gelben was a happy man. His command had still not moved forward, one of the few units that were still strangely uncommitted, as the 159th Division took its position in the line of defence.

  That the 1209th Grenadiere was not committed was all due to his efforts, solely designed to ensure that his combat formation did not get in the way of anything his masters were planning.

  Removing the competent Major in command of the 3rd Battalion had been a masterstroke, denying the Army his expertise, and demoralising the unit in one single stroke.

  When the time of reckoning came, the Motherland would know he had done his duty.

  His self-congratulation came to an abrupt end with an imperious knocking, the sounds author failing to wait for an invitation before stepping inside his private quarters.

  One look at the man’s face told Gelben that he had no future, other than that decided by the Feldgendarmerie Colonel.

  “Pyotr Gelben, agent for the Communist State, I arrest you on charges of spying and murder.”

  The GRU agent considered his pistol, the comforting shape just beyond easy reach.

  His eyes betrayed him.

  “Agent Gelben, I will shoot you, but I will not kill you, and I do have such skills. You have some questions to answer, and answer them you will.”

  After a moment’s delay, Gelben made his choice, and surrendered himself into whatever the future held.

  Gelben was not alone, and other GRU agents found themselves rounded up, plucked from comfortable obscurity, and thrust into the limelights of interrogation and pain at the hands of silent, faceless, and uncaring men. However, some GRU agents were not detained, rather, left in place to be monitored, their contacts betrayed unwittingly as they went about the normal business of espionage, all of them to be subsequently offered a simple choice. Resist and die; assist and live. Many brave men and women chose the former option, but the majority chose the second, that being employment against their former masters.

  2302hrs, Thurs
day, 25th October 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  The staggering news had arrived as Zhukov and Malinin were trying to find some way of keeping the military initiative.

  Alert orders had gone to the units arraigned above the Alps, preparing them to pursue the plan, once the command was given.

  As always, supply issues were the bane of their plans, but one other area did suggest itself, and they were already sketching out the draft orders for the assault on the Moselle as well as a small-scale excursion into Denmark, something planned, but not of priority, now brought to the fore because of its low use of consumables.

  The reports of the death of Pekunin had stopped them in their tracks. Each man mirrored the other, slumped in a chair, silently drinking warm tea.

  They made eye contact as the sounds of feet, synchronised marching, coming closer, growing in purpose, and, in their opinion, increasing in threat.

  The door burst open, the space filled by a Colonel of NKVD in combat uniform, PPD in hand, a man there to obey his orders to the letter.

  Zhukov and Malinin stood in anticipation.

  “Comrade Zhukov, I am commanded to relieve you of your command and accompany you to Moscow, where you must answer for your failures.”

  He did not wait for a reaction as, in his mind, if there were any, he would gun the ‘Victory Bringer’ down.

  “Comrade Malinin is to retain his position until your replacement arrives.”

  The challenging look drew a curt response.

  “And if I choose not to retain my position, Comrade Polkovnik?”

  The officer’s contempt was unconcealed.

  “Then that has been anticipated, as your replacement is also already on his way here.”

  His eyes flicked down and narrowed.

  “Surrender your weapons immediately,” the barrel of the PPD reinforcing his request.

  An NKVD Lieutenant slipped past him, and swept the two weapons up into his custody.

  The two former commanders exchanged looks, in some ways shocked by events, in other ways stoically dealing with the expected result of defeat.