“Ah, Comrade Polkovnik. Thank you for your report on the French SS, even if it arrived too late to be of use.”
His light toying with Nazarbayeva did not survive her first words.
“Comrade Marshall, I need to speak to you on a matter of extreme urgency and interest to the Rodina.”
Zhukov stood and moved off at speed.
“Follow me, you too Mikhail.”
The three were quickly in his private office where Tatiana took the lead.
“Comrade Marshall, I came here as quick as I could. I thought it was vital that you should have this information.”
Zhukov and Malinin could not help but exchange looks, their appetites whetted in expectation of something to balance the bad news of the day.
Nazarbayeva continued.
“This is from a GRU agent in Stockholm.”
Both men inwardly deflated as their imaginations immediately reduced the significance of what was to come.
The agent’s report was passed to the senior man, Malinin reading it over Zhukov’s shoulder.
Both read it and saw nothing of substance; certainly nothing to agitate the GRU officer.
A second report was passed.
“This report is a brief note from Foreign Minister Comrade Molotov to Comrade Marshall Beria, apparently as part payment of a promise.”
The two avidly consumed the second submission, spurred on by the identity of the writer and the recipient.
“I won’t ask how you came by this, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
It was common knowledge that the GRU and NKVD spied on each other with as much enthusiasm as they did the enemy.
“Sweden again?”
Both remained puzzled but could see the correlation.
“What am I missing, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“Comrades, you have a report from an agent indicating that Sir Richard Carruthers is presently making a weekend business trip to Stockholm on matters of modest importance. Also, that he has requested a private meeting with Östen Undén, the Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs.”
‘Yes, I can read that Tatiana!’
“On receipt of that request, Undén cleared his schedule, confirmed his availability, and immediately took himself away to his holiday home on the Isle of Muskö.”
Zhukov and Malinin looked on without understanding.
“Comrade Molotov states that his ambassador in Sweden has been summoned to an urgent Sunday meeting by the Utrikesdepartementet.”
The two looked vacantly at her.
“Apologies Comrades, the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs.”
Zhukov’s eyes narrowed, things clicking slowly into place.
“The venue for the meeting is the Isle of Muskö.”
The link was nearly made, but they lacked a vital piece of information, one that Zhukov sought immediately.
“Who is this Carruthers?”
Nazarbayeva pulled out a dossier with a picture of the chisel-faced English politician clipped to the cover, with two more taken during a visit to Moscow before the Patriotic War.
“He is a member of their parliament, Comrades. But, more importantly, he is the personal private secretary of their Prime Minister Attlee.”
Zhukov and Malinin physically relaxed as some of the confusion was cleared away. Two minds worked hard to assimilate the intelligence, unnecessarily, as Nazarbayeva had not finished.
“Comrades, Carruthers brings with him a proposal from the British, a proposal of a negotiated ceasefire.”
“Govno!”
The two voices merged as the senior men reacted.
“Are we that close to victory? Is the whole capitalist apparatus so ready to fall Comrade?”
“No, Comrade Marshall, it is not. As I said, the proposal comes only from the British. The other Allies do not know of it.”
As bombshells went, bombshells didn’t get any bigger than the statement Tatiana laid before them.
Nazarbayeva left ten minutes later, leaving Zhukov and his staff hard at work, revising the military plan to heavily test the resolve of the forces of the British Empire.
In the official orders, the 2nd Guards Tank Corps had been withdrawn to rest and refit, prior to the upcoming assaults in Northern Germany and Holland.
In reality, the survivors of the elite unit gathered themselves up and found time to lick their wounds in the area to the south-east of Visselhövede.
Yarishlov’s Brigade was in the best shape of the Corps’ major formations. Not because it had avoided the heavier combat, far from it.
They had just been lucky, far luckier than the 26th Tanks and the infantry of the 4th Motorised Brigade.
Those two veteran units, supported by a number of Army units, had been savaged in front of Zeven, enemy tanks and anti-tank guns being the least of their worries, as ground attack aircraft crucified the assault force.
The survivors of 26th Tanks would be merged into Yarsihlov’s own brigade, just as soon as they reached his position.
Kriks, his normal noisy nature curtailed by the loss of many a comrade from the old days, occupied himself with the business of finding anything and everything of worth to sell and barter at a later date, whilst his commander, tired and dusty from days of sustained combat, sought to put his unit back together.
Kriks had selected one of the few undamaged buildings on the outskirts of the village of Ottingen, a large detached house, once the impressive home of a lady of obvious means. Yarishlov had welcomed the gesture from his staff, who set aside the master suite as his own, the huge and inviting four poster bed dominating what was an extremely large room.
Yarishlov sat up to an ornate dressing table, presently serving as his personal desk, sorting his paperwork, and concentrating hard on his brigade’s needs. His aches and pains all but subdued by his overwhelming desire to sleep.
‘I am so tired it hurts.’
Kriks arrived noisily some time later, his good-humour partially restored by the liberation of an extremely large smoked salami and six bottles of Beck’s Bier.
Yarishlov woke with a start.
“Blyad!”
Kriks feigned horror, following it with the severe look that had made many a young soldier quake in his boots.
“Were you sleeping, Comrade Polkovnik? Sleeping on duty, Comrade Polkovnik? Wait until the Comrade Polkovnik hears about this. He will have your balls in a bag. A proper terror is our Polkovnik.”
Yarishlov, his mouth like the inside of a Cossack’s boot, looked mournfully at his senior NCO, resigned to the banter for the foreseeable future.
Kriks took pity on his commander, and made up for his comments with a Beck’s, tapping the top off and passing it over.
It was the best drink Yarishlov had tasted in living memory, cutting the dryness of his throat and washing away the dust, the last dregs removed by worming his tongue in the neck.
He ran the cool bottle over his forehead, enjoying the sensation as a headache started to make itself known.
In response to the question he was about to ask, Kriks anticipated and spoke first.
“Sat them in the stream for an hour. Had to hide them well or those bastards from the sappers would have sniffed them out in a moment.”
He offered another to Yarishlov, who accepted eagerly, consuming it at a slower pace to savour the full flavour.
“I thought I would wake the Comrade Polkovnik because our replacement tanks are about to arrive, hot from the train station.”
In confirmation of that, the sound of growling diesel engines accompanied by the distinctive rattle of a T-34’s track pins grew until it became all-pervading.
“26th?”
“No, Comrade Polkovnik, they are still some hours away. These are replacement vehicles, so the Supply Officer wishes to inform you.”