Shandruk/Ulianov thought on his feet and at lightning speed.
“My men are checking them as we sit here, Comrade Wood. After the storm yesterday… routine check couldn’t be done… plus we had flying boat flyovers. I’ll ensure the answer is radioed to…”
“No!”
His snappy voice drew gazes from those who had been trying hard to avert their eyes.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. No, avoid the radio as per your last orders.
“You, O’Farrell… you let us know by the normal route when the state of the fuel is known and, for that matter, when you’ve taken delivery. Expect two visits in total. The first rendezvous will bring further information. Clear?”
“No, but it’ll do. One thing. What sort of delivery, boss? Fishing boat?”
“Fuck me but I’d forget my bloody head, so I would. Submarine.”
“OK.”
Again, both men were impressed as to how the new man took things so easily in his stride.
“Now, the weapons and explosive. Get it hidden… probably in more than one place, but that’s your business. Get it listed and a copy of that list to us sharpish. No fucking gung-ho operations, laddie. We’ll allocate the resources… but you’ll get enough to have some fun with the bastards over there.”
All four men reached for their whiskey glasses simultaneously, and they clinked together.
Wood spoke a toast.
“Ní síocháin go Saoirse!”
Irish whiskey lubricated dry throats.
The four rose and shook hands.
“You’re doing well, young Thomas. The council has its eye on you, so it does. Keep it up.”
The two turned on their heels and walked from the bar, followed by the two IRA soldiers who had watched over them.
O’Farrell and Shandruk sat back down, as leaving straight after the others would have been poor tradecraft.
Not that the watchers would have been waiting for them, of course.
G2’s men and women had other fish to fry, namely developing a list of people visited by O’Scanlon, Deputy Commander of the Northern Forces and, more importantly in so many ways, Stephen Wood, the IRA’s Chief of Staff.
O’Farrell and Shandruk used the time to try and work out where the fuel might be stored and how the hell they had missed it in the first place.
1412 hrs, Saturday, 5th October 1946, Lieutenant General Kaganovich’s office, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
“Welcome, welcome, Comrade, and very many congratulations on your promotion. Well deserved, of course.”
Nazarbayeva took a seat and accepted the plaudits with good grace.
“I understand a few people have their own issues with it, but to hell with them, I say. A drink in celebration… as equals!”
Despite her insincere protestations, Kaganovich produced a bottle and two glasses and, just as quickly filled both, seemingly in one graceful movement.
“Your health and your success. Congratulations, Comrade!”
The vodka disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived.
“Apparently, you made Comrade Beria look a fool during your last briefing?”
“It was not my intention, Comrade, but the report he presented was flawed and incomplete, so I had no choice but to reveal it for what it was. Our leadership must know the true situation.”
No matter how often he spoke with the woman, he could never quite understand how politically naive she was, or how little she understood the precariousness of her position, especially in her dealings with his boss… or for that matter, his boss’s boss.
“And what’s the true situation as you see it, Comrade?”
“We’re technologically inferior to our enemies across the range of arms, except submarines, and that’s only thanks to the German boats. Our efforts to narrow the gap are being hampered by shortages of the necessary minerals, fuels, and by the same blight that affected our Germanski enemies. Too many projects, too many people working separately, using valuable and finite resources, when one project could push ahead and succeed.”
“Give me an example, Comrade.”
“We selected the SKS and AK-47 to replace the Mosin rifle and the range of submachine-guns, and they have proceeded at great speed… successfully so. An example of success in giving our troops the best. And yet, our tank bureaus seem to be trying to produce a nest of vehicles, all with different characteristics, each consuming resources that defeat the overall objective. We have the T-54 tank, which seems wholly effective and the equal to most of the enemy tanks, and yet we continue to dabble with new designs in the same class… designs that seem to offer no great improvement. We have seven… seven different groups working on a range of bigger and heavier vehicles, instead of concentrating on the T-54 and improving it, like we did with the T-34 and IS series. The IS-III has been improved without huge modification, and is now more than capable on the modern battlefield. That is a success. The Germans failed to understand this simple concept and poured resources down blind alleys to satisfy their leader’s whims. It seems to me that now we too seem to have lost the art of keeping things simple, Comrade General.”
Kaganovich, having been subjected to what amounted to a speech by the exercised GRU officer, could only grin at her candour and clear exasperation.
“Do you always speak so freely, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”
“Comrade General, I try to speak honestly, for the sake of the Rodina.”
He refilled the glasses and offered a toast, hoping that the woman would heed his words for what they were.
“To all those who serve the Rodina as best they can, regardless of the consequences to themselves.”
They drank the toast.
“Regardless of the consequences, Comrade General?”
“As I said, Comrade Nazarbayeva, you made Marshal Beria look a fool, at least as far as he was concerned. He’s a… err… unforgiving man. At the moment, he’s very busy now trying to make up for his mistakes but I advise you make your peace with him as soon as possible.”
He checked his watch and rose to his feet.
“Unfortunately, I’ve an appointment elsewhere now, otherwise I’d offer you more vodka, Comrade. Was there anything else?”
Nazarbayeva shook her head.
“Nothing that cannot keep, comrade. Your man keeps me supplied with the information I need… thank you.”
“Excellent. Now, I must go I’m afraid.”
“Thank you for coming, Comrade Marshal.”
“Is it what you suspect?”
“I don’t know myself. Haven’t watched it. One of my aides learned of its existence and managed to appropriate it. She quietly arranged for a copy to be made and the original is back in place, hopefully not having been missed. We’re going to watch the copy.”
“I’m not comfortable with this at all, but if it’s what you suspect, it might be of great use to us, eh?”
“Indeed, Comrade Marshal.”
The knock on and opening of the door were as one, and Senior Lieutenant Laberova entered, snapped to attention, and saluted the senior officers.
“Well, Ludmilla. Is it the same person in the film?”
“Without any doubt, Comrade Leytenant General. I got a good look when the General walked past me. One and the same.”
“Thank you. When you’re ready then.”
The two men turned to the blank wall of the staff recreation room as Laberova locked the door, turned out the lights, and started the projector.
A bedroom sprang into view, one that seem modestly appointed but none the less clearly in a building of some importance.
Two oil lamps burned brightly, but the focus was on a large naked man and a woman lying on the bed, a woman they both knew.