“There is already a plan to provide you with proof, but it will take some time to implement, Knocke.”
A nod of acceptance was all that was forthcoming.
“However, my superiors have needs that must be satisfied now. A token of your compliance, such as I have requested.”
Knocke opened a folder on the desk in front of him and lifted out the sole document therein, a four page report detailing the precise make-up of the 1st Chars D’Assault Brigade ‘Camerone’.
‘How did he know that?’
Momentarily thrown, Kowalski took the document and skim read it before sliding it into his briefcase.
“Very good, Knocke, very good,” the first for the file, the second most probably for the anticipation of his request.
“Proof, Herr Maior. Get me proof, or our relationship is over,” Knocke’s eyes carried a coldness not seen before, “And you will die.”
Both men stood, their chairs scraping on the wooden floor with the speed of their movement.
“Never ever presume to threaten me, you German bastard.”
Knocke said nothing; no words were necessary.
“I assume this pass will hold good for all eventualities?”
“That is so, Herr Maior.”
The GRU agent went to turn away and then thought the better of it.
“The proof you need will come. Until then you will do as you are told. Are we clear, Knocke?”
The expression on Knocke’s face was similar to that of an Owl about to feast upon a helpless rodent.
“Alles klar, Herr Maior.”
The jeep started first time, and the Polish officer moved out of the security cordon, bumping along the road so recently damaged by the passage of a number of Legion Panther tanks.
Kowalski hardly noticed, his thoughts all-possessing.
He smiled, safe in the knowledge that he possessed irrefutable physical evidence of Knocke’s treachery, and that the man was now forever entwined in his betrayal.
If the German went along with Soviet plans then he would prove useful; if he didn’t, then the evidence of his betrayal would fracture the legion.
Knocke lit another cigarette as he watched the Russian drive away.
A knock on the door received the expected invitation, and the sound of people shuffling into the office broke Knocke’s small reverie.
Turning around, he assumed the parade ‘at ease’ position, making eye contact with the three people opposite.
He beckoned them to sit, taking his own seat and moving four folders to one side.
“He asked for the order of battle as we expected.”
The four others folders all contained information that the agent could have asked for.
“So, I am now a Soviet spy.”
De Walle pursed his lips.
“That will be what he thinks obviously. So, he will now provide proof of your family’s existence, which is what you need. But we play a dangerous game here.”
Von Arnesen had nothing to add to that.
“If it all goes bad then I can just disappear from the Brigade, a victim of accident or whatever.”
Knocke spoke directly to De Walle.
“But if it goes right, then we can feed the Soviets misinformation,” and switching to make eye contact with the third person sat opposite, he continued, “And my family can be returned to me.”
They held eye contact, Anne-Marie de Valois understanding the importance of his family, as well as his needs, his wants and his fears.
It was a dangerous game indeed.
Chapter 72 – THE BOMBERS
The war against Russia will be such that it cannot be conducted in a knightly fashion. This struggle is one of ideologies and racial differences and will have to be conducted with unprecedented, unmerciful and unrelenting harshness.
She awoke with a start, her eyes gradually coming into focus, the feel of a cool, damp compress on her forehead assisting her in coming to terms with the unexpected appearance of the outside world.
Tatiana Nazarbayeva had been extremely unwell, the aggressive viral infection striking her down until now, when its stranglehold had finally been broken.
She gently pushed the tending hand aside, and tried to raise herself up in bed but her strength failed her.
Forcing her eyes to open as far as they could, she tried to shake off the tiredness that threatened to send her back into a deep sleep.
“How long have I been here?”
The nurse shrugged.
“I’m not sure, Comrade Polkovnik. I am new to this hospital, but you were here before I arrived. One moment please, Comrade.”
The nurse took up the record sheet, flipping the page.
“You were brought here on the 16th August, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“And today is?”
“The 28th, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Tatiana’s mouth dropped wide open, her shock at her prolonged absence from duty wholly apparent.
“I will fetch the doctor, Please lay back and relax, Comrade.”
She did so, still reeling from the news that she had been unwell for twelve days.
Taking in her surroundings, she saw little to stimulate the mind. A modest room with one window, with nothing but trees to see, although the darkness of night did not even permit her that view. A bedside table and an armchair completed the ensemble in the freshly painted white room, all illuminated by a single light bulb, also very obviously recently installed.
The doctor arrived quickly, examined Nazarbayeva, and was very pleased with what he found. He was especially pleased from a personal stand point, as a number of extremely important and powerful people had made it quite clear that his continued happiness was dependent on the female GRU officer’s recovery.
The notes appeared again and he made his notations, whispering instructions to the nurse, who nodded constantly as he went.
The doctor missed the clip and the folder dropped to the floor with a slap, rousing a sleeping figure curled up on an armchair.
Tatiana did not notice and croaked a request.
“Comrade Doctor, I am thirsty. May I have a drink?”
“Of course, Comrade Polkovnik,” and he nodded to the nurse, who was already filling a glass.
A hand came into Tatiana’s vision, gently relieving the nurse of the task.
“Allow me, Comrade Nurse Lubova.”
Tatiana focussed hard, her heart racing at the timbre of that voice.
“Yuri?”
“Tatiana.”
Starshina Yuri Romanovich Nazarbayev smiled lovingly into his wife’s eyes as he placed the cool glass to her lips.
Both Doctor and Nurse beat a hasty retreat.
She consumed the water greedily, coughing as her efforts took a wrong turn.
“Yuri, what are you doing here, my husband?”
“I was ordered to attend here and aid your recovery, my love.”
“Ordered? You were given leave to come to me?”
Yuri Nazarbayev smiled the smile of a man with a secret, and turned away to his tunic. He extracted two documents, neatly folded but already heavily thumbed.
“No Tatiana, I was ordered.”
She took the proffered documents and opened them one at a time, her eyes taking in the enormity of the papers in front of her.
“Oh.”
There was a lot she could have said. After all, it was rare enough that a soldier received a direct written order and pass signed by the Theatre commander himself, but there it was; Zhukov’s signature standing out proud on a document ordering her husband to immediately attend his wife, and providing him with authority to make the journey by any means he chose.