Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (19 page)

Apart from a
wounded Lieutenant in the Independent Machine Gun Company, and a 2nd Lieutenant fresh from training and placed in charge of the 1st Anti-tank platoon, real authority within the British forces lay with two Lance-sergeants, one clad in a Centurion, the other a Bren gun toting Irish Guardsman.

Acting Oberleutnant Fi
schert found himself de facto commander command of very little, the small combined multi-national force exhausted by its efforts and its losses, but having achieved a great deal during the daylight hours of that awful Friday in September.

The new purpose-built facility was secreted in the woods that covered the Mühlberg, half a mile north-west of Niedersachswerfen.

Pekunin preferred to conduct the intelligence business close to
, but not on top of, the main military headquarters, probably because headquarters attracted agents from their fellow agency and supposedly stalwart allies, the NKVD.

The facilities they had switched
to inside the mountain were unsuitable, hence the priority given to quickly constructing the score of wooden huts that blended perfectly in with the trees and shadows of the German wood.

GRU personnel had finished transferring themselves and files from the underground facility, and the
phone lines and radios necessary to conduct business were now fully functional.

Colonel General Pekunin was sampling the tea available in the new centre, and finding things much to his liking.

His staff was hard at work collating and interpreting the intelligence flowing in from every corner of Europe, desperate to avoid the errors that had plagued operations to date.

A knock on the door interrupted his pleasurable thought processes, causing an irritation that disappeared as soon as he saw Lieutenant General Kochetkov, or rather the look on his second’s face.

“Ah, something tells me this is not good news, Mikhail Andreevich.”

The report went from hand to hand, Pekunin showing his deputy the tea stand
, before sitting down to read and absorb the information.

“Govno!”

Kochetkov had expected worse than that.

“We have confirmation?”

“Not yet Comrade, but it is an official government statement. It came in two hours ago, and is our sole source at this time. I have asked for further from our officer in the embassy.”

Pekunin re-read the report, picturing the man in question, already working out how to replace his intelligence source.

A polite knock on the door, and a Lieutenant proffered a recently arrived communication.

Dismissing the messenger, the GRU officer opened the sealed report.

“And here it is, Comrade General. Polkovnik Keranin confirms the information is correct, although he has not yet seen the corpse. Death was as a result of a car accident. Apparently the vehicle burst into flames, killing all three occupants, including your man.”

Handing the paper to his boss, Kochetkov seated himself, sampling the tea
, and finding it as satisfactory as his boss.

Waiting until Pekunin had finished, he posed his question.

“Do you have someone else in place? According to our files, no-one senior enough from what I can see, Comrade General.”

Pekunin gave a resigned shrug.

“We will not easily replace Comrade Vice-Amiral Søderling and his information.”

Finishing his tea, the GRU head replaced his cup, almost knocking the saucer flying, his mind being elsewhere.

“There is a man, still relatively junior, but he is advancing well, and is highly thought of.”

Pekunin moved to his personal filing cabinet and extracted a small folder marked with a numeric code.

“Not yet activated, but I have high hopes for this man.”

Passing the folder, Pekunin revisited the tea stand and provided both of them with a second cup, whilst Kochetkov learned of the life and career of Överstelöjtnant Boris Lingström.

The rarely used door to the basement room of the Swedish Army’s latest acquisition creaked in a monotone
, as it was gently opened to permit entry to the uniformed man.

A guard entered with him, intent on cleaning away the lunch tray that had been provided at 1300hrs on the dot, as the new regime demanded.

The meal had not been touched, but it was removed, as per orders, the wooden cup of water removed and placed on the simple desk.

The soldier tidied up quickly and left the room.

A second guard closed the door behind him and took his station in the ‘at ease’ position, back to the door and facing the other army officer, avoiding eye contact with the fanatical looking soldier.

The uniformed man examined the surroundings, finding their sparseness highly suitable for the
traitorous piece of filth in front of him.

The prisoner looked up and examined the new arrival with disdain, stiffening his back.

“What is the meaning of this, Colonel? You know who I am!”

Törget
trumped the older man’s look of disdain with one of real malice.

“I know who you are
, Communist.”

Søderling started to into a denial, but was cut short.

“You are dead already. The Government has announced your sad death in a car accident, something that your Soviet friends have already investigated.”

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

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. S
o, 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.