This, De Walle knew only too well, and he had played on it to get the man to create a wonderful meal for him and his guests.
A simple salad of lettuce and tomato, topped with hollowed boiled egg, the egg yolk creamed and mixed with roasted garlic and black pepper, all garnished with bacon and cheese. That was followed by baked whole Rabbit with medallions of fresh venison, served with a beetroot and onion compote, Dauphinoise potatoes, and creamed cabbage. To finish off, a dessert of Crème Brulee accompanied by raspberries soaked in Benedictine.
It had been a working dinner, although the serious business had often been interrupted with moans of pleasure and favourable comments.
The man had worked wonders with the venison and rabbit, the gravy being almost worthy of bottling in its own right.
Now, filled with the finest cuisine, the five finished their discussions with cigars and the very finest Napoleon.
De Walle, stuffed to the brim and feeling extremely amenable, relit his cigar, creating a light smoke screen between his guests.
The man in the uniform of the Dutch Brigade stretched contentedly, Michel Wijers preparing his body for the short walk to the hotel.
“So, gentlemen. We have the basis of a plan, lacking only the most important details. Where and when?”
That was about the gist of it.
“We all have assets who could turn up the first piece of information, allowing us to fix the date.”
Lieutenant Colonel Rossiter USMC, the merest hint of a gravy mark declaring defeat in his stalwart effort to keep his jacket clean, grunted his agreement and added to the winding-up.
“Find us the location and I can run the operation, once I have the assets in place. And I will get them ready on the basis of your present information, General.”
The Luftwaffe Oberst, commander of the 40th Transportstaffel, had already declared his needs. Parts for his aircraft and experienced technicians to service the specialised craft. Promises to seek out both vital cogs in the plan reassured him, as did the presence of the fifth person.
Rossiter looked at the man, once a sworn enemy and adversary in the dark world of military intelligence, inviting the German’s own closing statement.
“We will find them, rest assured Kameraden.”
The dinner at an end, the five stood as one, exchanged handshakes and left to go to their billets.
De Walle remained, watching from the first floor window.
Rossiter and Wijers walked together, openly and without concern, their presence in Baden-Baden plausible even if their true identities were known to an observer.
Trannel, Luftwaffe Oberst, his uniform back at his squadron base, walked in an affected and uneasy civilian gait, his feet only recently venturing in the murky world of espionage.
Last to leave, and so slick in his field craft that De Walle almost missed the man, was Reinhard Gehlen, ex-GeneralMaior and one-time head of intelligence gathering for the Nazi regime.
De Walle tested a second glass of the Napoleon as he thought through the day.
It had been Uhlmann’s idea, prompted by his belief that the USMC Lieutenant-Colonel Rossiter was something more than he presented. That was confirmed by asking a direct question in Versailles, bringing the Marine head of OSS an invitation to dine in Baden-Baden, along with an opportunity to run an important operation in Soviet-held territory.
Draining the glass, Georges De Walle decided enough time had elapsed for him to leave the building.
Speaking to no-one in particular, he nimbly descended the stairs.
“Much rests on you, Herr Gehlen.”
On entering the spartan room, her Commander in Chief greeted her with a huge, unforced grin.
Having returned her impressive salute, Zhukov stepped around his desk to pour some tea from a small service on the tatty wooden bureau to one side.
“You are looking well, Polkovnik. The doctors kept me informed, of course.”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshall, I am feeling much better.”
“You haven’t met my right-hand, have you?”
Zhukov knew she hadn’t, so it was delivered as a statement.
He indicated his CoS with a hand still containing an empty tea cup.
“Comrade Polkovnik-General Mikhail Malinin,” his introduction interrupted by another formal salute from the intelligence Colonel, “This is Polkovnik Tatiana Nazarbayeva of the GRU.”
Malinin was not actually in the habit of shaking the hand of any common Colonel, but he had heard much about the present company and it seemed appropriate.
Zhukov gave each a cup of tea and returned to his chair.
“Please sit. So what wonderful news do you bring me tonight, Polkovnik?”
“First, if I may, Comrade Marshall. My husband Yuri and I both wish to thank you for your kindness in granting him leave.”
Zhukov smiled mischievously.
Wiping his lips dry, the smile remained throughout his words.
“The least I could do for a valuable asset of the Motherland, Comrade Polkovnik,” his mock formality easily seen through by those present.
“Besides, I understand that Starshina Nazarbayev had a choice of documents to rely on.”
“Indeed, Comrade Marshall, that is true, and my husband felt weighed down by them, truly.”
Both men laughed freely, imagining how the man must have felt with such authorisations in his possession.
“In truth, Comrades, he surrendered the document from Comrade Stalin into my possession, so it can be preserved for our family when the war is over. He retains your document, Comrade Marshall, otherwise he would not get back to his unit.”
That prompted Zhukov to speak more sensitively.
“Comrade Polkovnik, your husband’s unit will soon be committing to the front.”
If anything, the Marshall’s voice took on even more of a sympathetic edge.
“I am conscious that you have lost a son already in this war, and that you have three others still serving.”
Nazarbayeva’s face was set, listening, harbouring her own thoughts without external display.
“If you wish it, I can arrange for your husband to be transferred to a rear-line formation, away from the possibility of harm?”
The silence was brief.
“Comrade Marshall. For myself and my husband, I thank you, but that cannot be. Neither of us would accept such a favour when the Motherland needs all her sons,” and she smiled broadly, overcoming her inner grief with humour, “Even the old one’s with bad attitude.”
Zhukov understood and, in truth, he had expected such a reply, but he made the offer none the less, a sign of the esteem he had for the officer in front of him.
“The offer will stand always, Comrade.”
As if by common assent, each cup was drained and set aside.
“Now then, what does the GRU have for me this evening?”
“Comrades, the RAF Bomber attack that was repulsed the other night was apparently called Operation Casino. Your figures on their losses are inaccurate. Here are the actual numbers that we have confirmed so far.”
Zhukov’s figures were supplied under the new regime of factual reporting, the NKVD having spread throughout the Red Banner Army, encouraging commanders to report correctly, an issue highlighted in early air war reporting.
Instead of the two hundred and thirteen confirmed kills, two hundred and seventy-three as reported in the GRU file was significantly higher, and marked an even greater destruction of Bomber Commands capacity to attack.
Handing the file to Malinin, and waiting for his CoS’s startled look, he asked the obvious question, for which Nazarbayeva was ready.
“That is confirmed, Comrade Marshall, straight from an agent placed to gather such information directly.”