Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (61 page)

Nazarbayeva, her mind cloaked in a protective wrapping of vodka-induced carelessness, opened the curtains and sat watching the display.

Overhead, Allied bombers plied their trade, as they visited the Soviet capital with thousands of pounds of high-explosive and incendiaries.

Below, the anti-aircraft batteries sent shell after shell into the sky, seemingly without any reward, save that their bark boosted the resilience of the Muscovites who cowered in their cellars and shelters.

Moscow had seen the war up close before, but of late, the Allied visits had become more numerous, and more devastating.

Advances in radar technology meant that their cargoes could be laid more accurately, even in the darkest and cloudiest of nights, something that Soviet repair engineers understood only too well, as the factories, offices, and worker’s accommodations suffered heavily over the weeks.

But not the Kremlin.

The decision had been made not to target the Soviet leadership.

Nazarbayeva’s nakedness was constantly illuminated by the flash of gun or bomb, but she swiftly concealed it as she elected to dress herself and take to the balcony, the better to see what damage was being wreaked upon her Motherland’s capital city.

The attack abated markedly, and she went out into the cool air expecting the illuminations and firing to fall away.

But the second wave of bombers arrived, and the battle was joined again.

She enjoyed the cooling breeze, so took a seat and poured herself another drink.

Poboshkin’s face flashed through her mind and she raised her tumbler to his memory.

A flash, larger than most, caught her eye, and she was treated to the spectacle of a large burning bomber falling from the sky with all the grace of a dead pigeon.

Instead of toasting her dead aide, she made a small gesture, offering her drink up to the men who were dead or about to die in the fiery fuselage.

She refilled the exquisite crystal tumbler and paid tribute to Poboshkin, raising her glass to his memory before sending the fiery liquid down her throat.

And then, in turn, to each of the other members of her staff, claimed by Beria’s orders.

She quickly tired of the display and the alcohol, and the bed drew her into its embrace… and sleep came…

… a sleep with lost faces…

… a sleep with vivid memories…

… a sleep with awful demons…

… a sleep with unexpected questions…

The DC-4, an original USAAF VIP transport version that had been captured intact during the early stages of the new war, held twenty-two souls, not including the crew.

Decked out as a military hospital plane, it had plied its trade without a single incident for months, despite frequently encountering the enemy aircraft that roamed deeper and more freely into the Soviet heartlands.

Not that a single casualty had ever been carried in its comfortable interior.

The markings remained in place purely to protect the important passengers.

As the modern transport aircraft taxied out to start its take-off, Nazarbayev eased her damaged foot out of her boot, feeling the relief immediately, and looked around her, assessing her travelling companions.

She recognised the sole naval officer, but wasn’t sure from where and when.

Putting him to the back of her mind, knowing that trying to recall the man would occupy her later, she examined the others, who were mainly military men.

Some she had exchanged nods with, acquaintances from meetings in the Kremlin and elsewhere.

Some she had exchanged nods with, but was none the wiser as to their identity or role.

Nazarbayeva suddenly realised that the man in front and to her right had turned round and was looking directly at her.

“May I, Comrade Mayor General?”

He indicated the seat directly across the aisle from her.

“As you wish, Comrade Leytenant General.”

The old man repositioned himself, allowing Nazarbayeva to weigh him up… his decorations… his difficulty in moving… his shortness of breath.

He flopped into his seat and extended his hand.

“Gurundov… Vassily Gurundov… People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs.”

“Nazarbaye…”

“I know who you are, Comrade.”

The man chuckled warmly, putting Nazarbayeva strangely at ease.

“Everyone knows who
you
are.”

He coughed and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away something unpleasant.

Unbidden, he offered up an explanation.

“Lungs are shot… Eastern front in the first war… German gas attack… still killed my fair share of the bastards though.”

He wiped again, as he was racked with another bout of coughing.

“Think the bastards will do for me soon enough.”

The handkerchief disappeared and the conversation died as the engines ran up to take-off power.

Neither of them spoke until the ascent was complete, and the ‘hospital plane’ was set on its course to Rostov-na-Donu.

Gurundov fished in his pocket and brought out a flask of vodka, pouring two measures in the modest silver cups, and offered one to the female GRU officer.

“Let us toast to your successes and victory for the Motherland, Comrade Mayor General.”

Nazarbayeva shook her head.

“To victory, Comrade General Gurundov. My successes have not been great of late.”

“A setback… happens to all of us… but… as you wish… to Victory!”

They knocked back their measures, which amounted to hair of the dog for Nazarbayeva.

“You have done your best for the Motherland. Comrade Nazarbayeva, and Comrade Stalin understands that. Otherwise, why would he permit you and your husband to spend two weeks in his most favourite place in the whole Motherland, eh?”

Nazarbayeva’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Leytenant General, but how do you know that? I only found out myself some hours ago.”

Gurundov chuckled again, holding out his hands, palms first, in a silent admission that he knew what he knew.

He added an explanation to calm the clearly worried GRU officer.

“I work for Comrade Molotov… as an... err… unofficial advisor on military and other matters. I’m not really a General… well… not any more. I was once, but after the war I travelled the world in search of something that would help my lungs.”

He poured another measure for them both and continued.

“I visited many countries, without great success. This brought me to the attention of the Commissariat and I was asked to… um… advise and consult… you could say spy for them.”

Gurundov smiled disarmingly, but Nazarbayeva’s suspicions were aroused.

“But you’re not Comrade Molotov’s official military liaison officer, that’s Com…”

“No… you’re right… I’m not.”

He extended the flask again, and she accepted the refill.

“In many ways, I’m in your line of business. I gather information for Comrade Molotov… on matters that affect foreign policy. I report to no one but him, and owe no affiliation to anyone but him… and, of course, the Motherland.”

“I had no idea, comrade.”

“Excellent. That’s the way I like it, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

“So, why are you travelling to the Black Sea, Comrade Gurundov?”

He knocked back his measure of vodka and considered his words carefully.

“The sea air is good for my lungs, and Comrade Molotov has secured a dacha at Sochi, which he has graciously permitted me to use for a restorative break.”

She waited for the rest of it.

He decided to invest in the woman, to display trust… to remove her suspicions…

He lowered his voice and leant forward.

“Also, I am here to help with part of Project Raduga. I know you are aware of this project.”

Nazarbayeva simply nodded her understanding, although hearing the name of the Soviet Union’s most secret operation whispered by someone she had known for less than thirty minutes was a considerable shock.

“The aircraft will make a quick stop at Novorossiysk, where myself and
Captain Kalinin will alight and leave you to continue your journey. My language skills, amongst other of my talents, are apparently needed. I won’t be in Sochi for a few days yet, but I will call on you when I arrive.”

Nazarbayeva’s brain accessed a memory… of a naval officer waiting outside Stalin’s office… and who had accompanied him at the time.

She married the visual recollection with the live image of the Red Navy Captain sat three rows up.

‘Captain Third… no… now Second Rank Mikhail Stepanovich Kalinin… submarine commander… Stalin’s birthday… atomic weapons… what was his name… Nitina… no… Nishina.’

She took a chance.

“Language skills. Japanese, I assume?”

Gurundov smiled without smiling, remembering that the woman in front of him was not to be underestimated.

“Very perceptive of you, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

“So is there a problem with Raduga, Comrade Gurundov? I’ve heard nothing.”

“That’s because it’s only just come to light, Comrade.”

She waited to be enlightened further, but Gurundov did not volunteer anything further.

“Another?”

He produced the flask once more.

“Thank you, Comrade Gurundov. Shall we drink to the success of your mission, whatever it may be?”

He grinned from ear to ear and put her out of her misery.

“Let us drink to our allies, and that they recover their commitment to the cause.”

He went to knock back his vodka, but realised that the woman had not moved.

Even with her urgent whisper toned down, Nazarbayeva failed to mask her concern.

“There’s a problem with their commitment? They’re absolutely essential to the project.”

He waved the empty flask at nobody in particular, solely to highlight the gravity of his next words.

“Yes, they are, and at the moment, Raduga is dead in the water for a number of reasons… one of which is because ‘they’ have doubts.”

“Then we must remove those doubts and reinvigorate them, Comrade. If I can help, then don’t hesitate to ask… please.”

“Thank you, Comrade. We may well need you, but in any case, I’ll see you at the dacha, once my work is done.”

The unequivocal statement was bound to draw a comment.

“That’s twice you’ve said that, Comrade Gurundov, almost like that’s part of your mission.”

His chuckle held less humour third time around.

“In a very real sense it is, but not part of the mission entrusted to me by the GKO.”

She passed back the silver cup, accompanying it with a look that required an answer to the question it posed.

“Comrade General Kaganovich has asked me to spend some time with you, on matters too delicate to be openly observed.”

“Comrade General Kaganovich?”

“But yes… shall we say… err… I don’t just report to Comrade Molotov?”

Some small sense started a fire in her brain, which stoked up to a raging inferno of thought processes, which quickly resolved into a single intense blazing memory fighting its way to the front of her recognition.

“Gurundov? The name is familiar to me for some reason, Comrade General.”

“My brother was Filip Karlovich Gurundov… a hero of the Soviet Union. He was killed by fascist tanks at Kharkov in 1943, along with his oldest son Alexei Filipovich. Perhaps that is where you have heard the name, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

He noticed the look that fell across her face.

“Comrade?”

“So… you are Vassily Karlovich Gurundov?”

“That is so.”

‘VKG.’

She made her move quickly.

“Have you ever been to Krakow, Comrade General?”

If he recognised the attempted pass phrase, Gurundov hid it expertly behind a mask of confusion.

“I once spent Christmas there. Wonderful place.”

“There’s nothing like Christmas in Krakow.”

Nazarbayeva hardly dared breathe.

Gurundov nodded.

“Comrade General Nazarbayeva.”

It took her a moment to realise that the words had not come from Gurundov.

“Yes?”

“Peltsov, Commander of the Southern Special grouping. I was wondering if I could pick your brain for any further information about the Allied threat?”

She looked at Gurundov who simply shrugged in acceptance.

“The Motherland’s needs must come before small talk. We will continue our conversation another time, Comrade Mayor General.”

Gurundov moved away as quickly as his damaged body would allow him, and Peltsov dropped into his place.

Nazarbayeva stared at the departing general’s back, willing him to turn and speak, or even simply mouth the response she sought.

‘Except May Day in Moscow.’

Gurundov turned.

‘Go on, old man, speak the words… now… just mouth them…’

The old general smiled and found a seat in which he could silently drop off to sleep.

Peltsov’s enquiries were pertinent, and she answered them as best she could, occasionally stealing a glance at the lolling head, and wondering what he had been about to say.

The plane was diverted from Rostov-na-Donu airfield, for unexplained technical reasons that an Air Force colonel confided were likely to be Allied aircraft visiting the facilities again, and the DC-4 was descending to Novorossiysk before Peltsov had finished his questioning and note taking, leaving Nazarbayeva no chance to renew her conversation with Gurundov.

He left the aircraft without any further chance to speak to Nazarbayeva, save a small nod and goodbye, and the old man made the short walk to the security compound, where he joined the small convoy that would take the road from Novorossiysk to the Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, as it was known locally.

The DC-4 climbed into the air once more, taking a combination of happy military personnel to a well-deserved break in Sochi, and disgruntled military personnel who had yet to arrive at Rostov, their final destination.

Plus one GRU General whose mind whirled with questions and possibilities.