“The trap is to feel that we have to do something. The difficult decision is to do nothing. Action is always easier to decide upon.”
Karl Koller, head of the DRL, made a quiet but firm contribution.
“I agree, Herr Feldmarschal.”
The two nodded at each other, already knowing which way the dice would be cast.
“And you, Wilhelm. What do you think?”
Wilhelm Hoegner, Prime Minister of Bavaria, had already decided where his support lay.
“I say we do it. Too much has been invested already for our plans to be destroyed by inactivity, Herr Kanzler.”
The scarcely veiled barb drew silent scowls from both military men.
Speer decided to defuse that particular tension immediately.
“The Feldmarschal is correct in what he says. The difficult decision is to do nothing, and I’d have no problem making that decision…”
…those assembled held their collective breath…
“…were it the right decision, which I believe it isn’t.”
He focussed on Diels.
“This can be done by way of accidents or other events… nothing to tie us to it in any way… nothing even remotely… given the way we now seem to be under suspicion for other recent matters?”
“I’ll put my best man on it and it will be done without any link to us. No mistakes, Herr Kanzler. We’ll eradicate these risks immediately.”
Speer made great play of considering the choices, even though he had already made his.
“So be it, Kameraden. We’ll move quickly and remove the threats. It will be done so that we cannot be blamed or even associated in any way with events. It’s limited but necessary action. When can it be done?”
Diels looked at Pflug-Hartnung, prompting his man to answer.
“The order will be passed to our man. It’ll be up to him to get this done as quickly as possible, Herr Kanzler. My orders will state that operational secrecy is paramount. I expect that will cause some delay, but not too much. He’s an expert at what he does and he won’t let us down. It will be done as you direct, Herr Kanzler.”
Speer nodded.
“Good. That’s all, Kameraden. I wish you all good day. Thank you. Diels, a moment of your time, please.”
The military men saluted and the civilians nodded before shuffling out.
The two men were alone.
Speer hammered his hand on the desk.
“You better get this right this time, Rudolf. No fuck ups, no mistakes… we can’t afford to show our hand too early or the whole fucking thing may come tumbling down around our heads.”
“You can rest assured, Herr…”
“That’s what you said last time… and now we’ve paperwork flying around that links us to the deaths of Gehlen and that French asshole! You fuck this up, Rudolf, and I’ll make sure you have an interesting last few days of your life. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Herr Kanzler.”
“Now go and get it done… just let me know the moment success is reported.”
“Yes, Herr Kanzler.”
Once they had left the room, Speer turned back to reading the latest reports regarding strains in Berlin, where the Soviet-held area lay surrounded by Allied zones, and where tensions were clearly mounting.
Sat in her quarters with a bottle of Slivovitz for company, Nazarbayeva pondered the decision to send the information to the Allies, and wondered how it had been received.
Slipping out of her clothes, she took a healthy swig of the fiery fruit brandy and collapsed on the bed.
Refilling her glass, she laughed to herself, half expecting the information to be seen as nothing but an attempt to drive a wedge between the new Allies, but something told her that existing natural suspicion would simply be fed by the latest information.
In any case, it was all quite true and had been presented without embellishment or addition.
The door opened and General of Artillery Poliakov slipped in to the room.
The phone rang and Nazarbayeva took a scheduled report from her office as Poliakov slid himself inside her and started to grunt with pleasure.
Halfway through, she finished on the phone and started to properly enjoy herself, rising rhythmically up to meet his thrusts, the extreme pain as he brutally squeezed her breasts and dug in his nails almost cleansing her of the mental agony and anger she had felt since her sexual encounter in the Moscow dacha.
Her husband was lost to her so she sought other solaces, and hated herself each time, her needs and wants only temporarily satisfied by the sexual encounters with the passionless Poliakov, and each time her growing guilt burgeoned
When she was alone again, she went through the same old ritual of hating herself, crying, despair, and pledging herself again to Yuri, her husband.
Her other self mocked her, for her husband had no need for a wife who has no respect for him or herself, for a woman who would sleep with a common soldier in a dacha in Moscow.
At the end, as ever, Tatiana Nazarbayeva sought solace and answers in a bottle.
As ever, she fell asleep before either came.
1359 hrs, Sunday, 9th March 1947, Opera Square, Frankfurt, Germany.
“Zwei… mit frites und mayo. Danke.”
There were a number of street vendors plying their trade but ‘Ludwig’s’ had the reputation as having the very best bratwurst in Frankfurt, and his stall was always busy.
He busied himself selecting the bratwurst and repositioning them on the small grill.
What he was actually doing was sending a message to the British officer who stood waiting patiently for his order; a bratwurst in this place or that meant different things.
He placed the last bratwurst in the position signifying ‘all clear’ and then hastily put the order together as the queue started to multiply.
“Danke.”
“Bitte.”
The officer handed over a five-dollar bill and received his change before hurrying away, already stuffing fries and sausage into his mouth.
‘Ludwig’ served through into the afternoon and as usual was out of stock before four o’clock arrived.
He pushed his barrow past the ravaged old opera house and along Hochstrasse, before turning right at Börsenstrasse and pulling the double doors of his modest premises closed behind him.
He had made the usual checks and, satisfied that he had not been followed, he lifted the cash tin and climbed the stairs to the small flat.
He came back down after stowing the cash tin and went through his cleaning routine, leaving the trolley ready for tomorrow’s labours, all save a fresh supply of foodstuffs.
Back upstairs he made himself coffee and removed the note that had accompanied the five-dollar bill.
He didn’t look at it; it wasn’t his business. He simply inserted it into the spine of a hymnbook.
‘Ludwig’ savoured the coffee and then took a gentle stroll to his normal place of worship.
Inside St. Katharinenkirche, he took in the evening’s service with his normal piety, singing and praying with vigour.
Pausing to chat with the pastor, simply to suggest a hymn choice for the following week’s service, ‘Ludwig’ returned to his spartan lodgings, his work complete.
When the congregation had departed, the pastor closed up and went straight to the pew that had been occupied by his contact and retrieved the hymnal that had been left in plain sight.
The message went on another journey.
1127 hrs, Monday 10th March 1947, Justizzentrum, temporary government building #3, Magdeburg, Germany.
Its destination was a desk in the Justizzentrum, one belonging to Horst Pflug-Hartnung.
In his hands he held the information requested and he grunted at its completeness.