“Indeed, the battlefield calls you back, so I hear.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. I’m not designed for clean sheets and comfortable beds.”
“Ah, the call of the field. Muck and mud and the comradeship of men under arms.”
They shared the laugh of professionals who understood each other completely.
The door opened and coffee arrived on cue.
Bagramyan waited until they were alone again.
“Now, any decent officer would have something to sweeten this with.”
Yarishlov understood and retrieved a copy of Lermantov’s ‘A Hero of our Time’ from the window sill.
The pages had been hollowed out and held contraband.
He ‘sweetened’ both mugs with cognac.
“I believe that you have bombarded command with all sorts of requests these last few weeks?”
“I’ve sent a number of requests seeking an assignment, Comrade Marshal.”
“And so far have nothing in return.”
“No, Comrade Marshal.”
“No.”
Bagramyan sipped his scalding hot coffee and grimaced as Yarishlov took a deeper draught of his.
“I am advised that you could profit from a few specialist physiotherapy sessions at the Academy for Medical Science in Moscow.”
“Comrade Marshal, with respect, I get physiotherapy here, and the view is better.”
Bagramyan laughed and slapped his leg.
“Very true. The Academy is not the prettiest of buildings, neither does it have such magnificent countryside, Comrade Yarishlov. But it’ll do you good and hasten your return to fitness.”
Yarishlov had made all the arguments before, successfully, but he sensed he was about to have a card played that he could not counter.
Rank.
He was correct.
“Well, you will attend and that’s that, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Bagramyan drained the last of his coffee and gestured towards Lermantov’s tome.
Yarishlov poured an ample measure and the Marshal waxed lyrical over the fine cognac.
“That’s bloody good… by the mother, that’s very bloody good.”
“Apparently so… it’s Prunier cognac, Comrade Marshal.”
“Really? How in the name of the steppes did you get hold of that in here?”
Yarishlov considered his answer quickly and decided to take refuge in the truth.
“I have an extremely resourceful Praporschik who keeps me well provisioned, Comrade Marshal.”
Bagramyan drained the glass and savoured the contents, allowing the warming liquid to evaporate and warm inside his mouth.
Both men enjoyed the silence brought on by the fine cognac.
Bagramyan ended it with a reluctant final swallow.
“Well, tell your Praporschik that he’s transferred to my personal staff with promotion if he can guarantee a supply of this fine cognac.”
He stood, declining the offer of a refill.
“Can’t sit down for too long. Spent hours in the car getting here. Anyway, Comrade Polkovnik. While you’re in Moscow, you’ll attach yourself to the personal staff of the Commander of Military Training, Moscow Military District. I’m told he needs someone with tank experience.”
Bagramyan shouted towards the door.
“Vlassev!”
The door opened and one of the Marshal’s aides entered on cue.
“Orders.”
The Major produced a set of papers immediately.
“These are your orders for joining, travel documents, and everything that will permit you to reach Moscow and obtain a suitable billet. Also there are details of your therapy schedule the Academy, which I expect you to honour. Are we clear, Comrade Yarishlov?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
“Now, let’s get you properly dressed. Mayor?”
The Major went to the door and retrieved an officer’s tunic from a pair of hands that magically appeared.
“I believe you’ll find this correct.”
Bagramyan’s aide passed over the tunic of a Major General of Tank troops.
“Congratulations, Comrade Mayor General Yarishlov.”
The Major helped Arkady out of his tunic and into the new one.
He could not help but shoot a look in the mirror as the Major transferred the honorifics across to the new tunic, carefully avoiding wounding the burned man further.
“I read the after-action reports from Naugard. You and Deniken performed magnificently, Comrade Yarishlov. Your promotion is well-deserved, Comrade.”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”
The Major stood back and allowed Bagramyan to examine the newly fledged general.
“Excellent. Now that’s what I call a soldier. Again, congratulations, Comrade Yarishlov. You’ve given so much to Mother Russia. Now, your orders allow for you to remain here for another four days. I have ordered a car to pick you up at midday on the 5th. Good luck with your new assignment. Now, whilst I am here I shall visit some more of our Motherland’s brave soldiers. Take care, Comrade Mayor General.”
With only time to offer a salute, Yarishlov found himself alone with his reflection, the reflection of a man who now had a mission.
A man who, in his own eyes, was once more a useful soldier for his country.
He freshened his own glass with a modest Prunier and raised it to the reflection.
2355 hrs, Thursday, 31st October 1946, Glenlara, County Mayo, Éire.
“Well, God bless ‘em but you’ve to admire their bleedin’ sense of humour if nowt else, Bill.”
O’Farrell’s second in command’s grin was immediately illuminated by the lightning.
“Fucking All Hallows’ Eve. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a night!”
Around them the wind and rain of an Atlantic Storm threw itself against the rocky bastion of the north Éire shore.
“You think they’ll still come, boss?”
“You tell me. Stubborn fuckers from what I can see. Anyways, we ain’t got a choice but stand here getting fucking soaked, have we?”
The whole base had been ready to receive the Soviet submarine since 2200, the earliest time scheduled.
“This shite has gotta slow the sub up for sure. Go and get yourself dry for a while, Bill. Relieve me at one. Now fuck off before I think better of it.”
No sooner had William Parsons left his side than a shadowy figure appeared in front of him.
It quickly materialised into a hobbling Soviet Naval Lieutenant in wet weather gear.
“Ah… Leftenant Vlad. Top of the morning to you.”
They had long since agreed that no matter what, the cover name would be used.
“Leg playing you up now, is it?”
“Just a little. No sign of it yet.”
“It’ll be along directly, don’t you worry yourself. The Sovs won’t let a little thing like an Atlantic gale stop them.”
And yet the sea remained stubbornly empty.
‘Vlad’ pulled his hood around him and struck his lighter, the light illuminating his bearded face even as the wind struggled to destroy the flame before its work was done.
“Least we know those bloody fuel cells won’t disappear in all of this. Your man Lach… stroke of brilliance to think of it, otherwise we’d never have found the bastard things. Wish we’d had more time to practice with the fuelling procedure. That could give us away if we’re not careful.”
‘Vlad’, better known as Shandruk, emerged from under his hood with two lit cigarettes.
“Here.”
With cupped hands, the two smoked quietly.
“I’ve thought about that problem. I think we’re fine. How can a small monitoring team be expected to know how to run the equipment? Plus, the sub’ll bring the expertise with it… err… won’t it?”
“Maybe you’re right. We’ll know soon enough, so we will.”