French and American forces were responsible for the Czech sector, and within de Lattre’s area were the soldiers of the Czech forces that had fought through occupied Europe, side by side with the men who now stood aloof and unsupporting.
At least… that was the official policy.
De Lattre knew that items outside the agreed assistance limits had changed hands, up to and including vehicles, and he had done nothing to prevent it then or in the future.
For him the situation in the Czech lands was a simple struggle between good and evil, and he intended to make sure that evil did not triumph.
“I’m out of it obviously, all save some air assets that I’ve lent to our Gallic allies.”
De Lattre raised his mug in a modest toast to McCreery’s words.
The reconnaissance squadron had been a welcome supplement to his own air assets.
The group settled into silence marked with the occasional sound of slurping.
Eisenhower moved to the desk and fished out another new packet of cigarettes.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, there’s no advantage for us to exploit here. The weather’s bad, the Soviets are tucked up nice and warm in their bunkers, so all we can do is sit this out and hope the two parties negotiate it to a stop quickly.”
Stalin rubbed his hands in glee.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, we can turn these events to our advantage. The cold weather means the soft Allies will be tucked up in their beds so, apart from their nosey aircraft, we should be able to act in support of our Slovakian comrades and help them gain the advantage.”
“I agree, Comrade General Secretary. More agents should soon be embedded with the Slovakian military forces and reports will soon come back as to how we can best assist in ensuring an appropriate victory.”
Stalin sucked on his bottom lip, a sign of frustration more and more frequent as progress on another matter was not forthcoming. He voiced his frustration for the umpteenth time.
“If only Raduga were more advanced, then we could exploit this situation even more… perhaps…”
“I understand, Comrade General Secretary. My sources inform me that there’s no great progress since our last official briefing, although the centrifuge basing issues have all been resolved and performance levels are now considerably above expectations.”
“That’s good news indeed, Lavrentiy. Why have I not been informed before?”
“I rather suspect that the project director doesn’t yet know himself, Comrade Secretary General. I refer to information only recently arrived with me.”
Stalin laughed heartily, reverting to the peasant he once had been and, occasionally, was proud to let escape.
“Well done, Lavrentiy. Now, if you can magic some nuclear devices for the Motherland then perhaps we can move forward with our plans.”
Beria joined his leader in a rare moment of humour.
“I can work miracles but magic is beyond me, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, a matter on which I am still unclear. It seems that the German intelligence officer Gehlen has been killed. According to GRU reports, by communist agents no less.”
“Did you order such a thing?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary, and neither did the GRU.”
“Why hasn’t the woman informed us of this officially?”
Beria looked wholly smug.
“I rather suspect that the woman doesn’t yet know herself, Comrade Secretary General. The information has only just arrived with me.”
Stalin pondered that for a moment.
“So if not us, who… or was it some random personal event?”
“I am having this investigated as we speak, Comrade General Secretary. It comes at the same time as the death of a senior French intelligence officer, one who was known to have close relations with Gehlen.”
“Connected?”
Beria waited until Stalin had got his pipe going again.
“Wholly different ends. One shot down in the street… a messy affair… no refinement. The Frenchman was part of a wedding party that was bombed.”
Stalin raised an eyebrow.
“The wedding was attended by a number of the French legion… the bastard SS soldiers who fight for France. Apparently the perpetrator was a former inmate of one of the Nazi death camps. At first, sight a simple act of revenge.”
“But?”
“But it may not be. The Frenchman was not killed immediately, but died subsequently in hospital.”
“Go on.”
“He was expected to make a recovery and his injuries, although serious, were not considered life-threatening. There’s also the matter of a nurse who cannot be traced, something baffling the authorities.”
Beria’s memory failed him for once and he consulted one of his reports.
“Urszula Radzinski. She offered to assist at the makeshift hospital as she was in the area visiting from Krakow.”
“Very good, Lavrentiy, but is this going anywhere?”
“There is no Urszula Radzinski… at least not now. She was liquidated during our occupation for acts of resistance.”
Stalin puffed deeply, his eyes clear indicators of the processes going on within.
“So you think the two are connected. You think that someone took out two Allied intelligence officers. For what purpose?”
“That’s the problem, Comrade General Secretary. I don’t know. Neither do I know whom, assuming the killings were orchestrated by the same hand. When I do find out, I’ll be closer to knowing the why.”
“And the woman?”
“Nothing comes from her except that I’ve just told you. She’s drawing a blank.”
A knock echoed around the room and Stalin’s irritation was aroused momentarily, until Kaganovich, Beria’s deputy, hurried into the room.
In his assessment of Nazarbayeva’s efforts, Beria was wholly mistaken, for the GRU had acted quite swiftly on both matters, once they had become known.
That Gehlen had been the victim of the street shooting had only just come to light, but De Walle was known to Nazarbayeva and she had taken a keen interest in events, directing some important assets to gather information.
Which was why she had taken delivery of an artist’s drawing of Urszula Radzinski, drawn from the memories of hard-worked medical staff in the Falcon Palace.
She recognised the face… or thought she did.
GRU files arrived at her direction, and she and the staff worked through them one by one, trying to marry up the artist’s drawing with photographs or descriptions of suspected agents on file.
Two possible matches were brought to her and quickly rejected, the suspicion more based on hope than substance.
Food and drink were organised and the afternoon grew long as file after file received close examination.
At 1605, an excited junior lieutenant sought Rufin’s attention.
Within a minute, the young woman stood next to Rufin in front of Nazarbayeva’s desk, holding a report from the SD section.
“Relax, Mladshy Leytenant… what is your name?”
“Rikardova, Comrade Leytenant General… Hana Rikardova.”
“So, what do you have for me?”
The young woman held out the file in a trembling hand, her excitement working with her awe at being in her commander’s presence.
“Comrade Leytenant General. I have shown this file to Mayor Rufin and he thinks this is who you seek, Sir.”
Nazarbayeva nodded as she pushed her empty bottle and glass to one side and started to consume the numerous details on the jacket, particularly the numerous identities attached to the agent meticulously recorded inside.