“Excellent idea, Comrade Malenkov, and if I might suggest, Comrade General Secretary, we need to move quickly on this matter, so, as we have the very best tools to hand, perhaps we can set them to work straight away?”
“Comrade Khrushchev, please continue.”
Stalin sat in his chair and was puffing on a cigarette in no time.
“To mark the seriousness of the situation, we should send only a high-level delegation to specifically conduct negotiations… a delegation so impressive that the Allies cannot fail to understand the sincerity of our words.”
Stalin nodded and went further.
“Which would also encourage them to send negotiators of equal worth… I’m assuming you mean military, Comrade Khrushchev?”
Nikita Khrushchev giggled like an old woman and held out a hand, gesturing at some still stood at the end of the table.
“But of course, Comrade General Secretary.”
Nazarbayeva, easing her foot in her boot as the pain of standing played havoc with her old wound, suddenly realised that the talking had stopped and she was under scrutiny.
“Who better than they, Comrade General Secretary?”
Zhukov and Kaganovich had been forewarned by Khrushchev, but feigned surprise.
Nazarbayeva had no need for such devices.
“Excellent idea, Nikita Sergeyevich. Anyone else?”
Some words can carry hidden meanings, and Stalin’s most certainly said ‘I like it and that’s that’.
There were no more ideas.
“We’ll immediately appeal to the Allies to send a high-ranking military delegation to Sweden to discuss the latest tensions and developments. Make sure they know that Marshal Zhukov will be leading that mission. That should ensure an appropriate level opposite you, Comrade Marshal.”
“But Comrade General Secretary, I need to speak with you on an urgent matter.”
A number of hearts stood still for a second, for a number of different reasons.
“Speak now, Comrade Nazarbayeva, there is little time.”
“I cannot, Comrade General Secretary. I must speak with you privately.”
Stalin either misconstrued or simply dismissed the possibility out of hand.
“Then private matters must wait, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Again Nazarbayeva’s effort to tackle Stalin face to face had failed, again by the efforts of the conspirators.
He turned to Beria.
“You’ll take care of the invitation?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. Immediately this meeting concludes.
“Excellent. I want you sat opposite your counterparts by Friday afternoon at the latest. Deal with this matter and reduce tensions along all fronts… land, sea, and air. Admiral?”
Isakov was suddenly focussed.
“You’ll brief these officers on the submarine tomorrow morning, and supply everything they require.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”
It was not until later that Isakov spoke with Stalin and was told that, in this instance, everything was not necessarily everything.
“Well, I’ve read it twice and I still don’t believe it, Walter.”
“It’s hot stuff, that’s for sure, General.”
“Zhukov… haven’t seen that man since Berlin… liked him… felt he was straight. You?”
“Same as, General.”
They lapsed into the silence of individual thought.
Outside there was a squeal of brakes, a metallic graunch, and then a blizzard of expletives.
Bedell-Smith rose up and went to the window.
“Well that’s just swell. George is here and his driver just clipped McCreery’s staff car.”
Eisenhower choked on his cigarette, the laugh turning quickly to lung wrenching spasm.
“Sorry, Walter. Would that be the brand new Humber that he had sent down here last week?”
Before Bedell-Smith could answer there was another graunch as Patton’s driver drove his own vehicles away and parked up.
More expletives followed, shouted in with an Aussie twang, as McCreery’s driver took to cursing the ‘fucking Yank bastard’s’ parentage.
A military policeman arrived to sort out the problem, and the Aussies protestations were cut short by authoritative words from the German officer.
Bedell-Smith’s attention returned to the matter in hand.
“So, I’m assuming we’re going to respond in kind, Sir?”
“You betcha, Walter. Can’t afford not to… President Truman’s wishes aside… I intend to let them know we’ll be there. If it helps ease the storm that’s gathering, how could we do otherwise? Also, it’ll give us the chance to ask some serious questions. I’ll get something organised on that score. Anyway. I’ll need to speak to the President but I don’t see any objections.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Absolutely, Walter.”
“What th… hey, hang on, Sir!”
“Hang on nothing, Walter. You’re the man for this. We’ll get you some sidekicks with clout, but it’ll be your ball to run with. You know all the questions… heck, you even know some of the answers already. Has to be you.”
Bedell-Smith couldn’t find a reasonable argument against, so capitulated.
“So who are you going to send with me? George?”
Eisenhower laughed without coughing this time.
“Like I’d send George. Jeez, can you imagine? No, I’ve been given a God sent opportunity to put him somewhere out of harm’s way for a while. Our German cousins have asked for him to observe some of their exercises over this weekend, and then to have him attached to their headquarters for a month as an advisor.”
Bedell-Smith was relieved.
They had been looking for something to do with George Patton since he had returned to Frankfurt six weeks previously.
Some in high position had suggested ‘General – Paperclips’ or ‘Officer commanding Headquarters car parking’, but Ike had come down hard on them, mainly men who hadn’t served much in the ETO, reminding them of Patton’s previous good service.
“No, I think we’ll need a Frenchman, a German, and someone else. Need some balance to proceedings.”
“Von Vietinghoff?”
“He’s just asked for leave. Family bereavement. Couldn’t say no, not really. Would’ve been the perfect man.”
“Anyway, Sir, shall I send the message?”
“Let me speak to the President first.”
Truman was wholly enthusiastic and encouraged Eisenhower himself to lead the delegation, something Ike successfully resisted.
Within hours, the Soviets received their reply, as did the Swedes, who would be responsible for hosting both new military delegations at Camp Vár.
1109 hrs, Thursday, 13th March, 1947, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.
Madame Besoinine answered the urgent knocking on the door, Jerome having been confined to his bed with a nasty chest infection.
A second later she was dead, a knife driven up through her throat and into the brain beyond.
Without words, two men grabbed the still-erect body and lowered it gently to the ground as two others moved quietly into the house beyond.
They split into two teams and swung into their plan, moving through the ground floor with silenced pistols at the ready.
Two pairs of young eyes observed them in silence and moved away quickly, knowing that sooner or later the bad men would come upstairs.
They found refuge in the bedroom of Madame Fleriot, who listened to their report with growing anxiety, although the situation brought back instincts learned in a different time, when Armande Valerie Capucine Fleriot had existed within a murky and dangerous world.