A check of the newly installed wall clock, which had ticked relentlessly through the still of the night, indicated that breakfast time was already upon him, his first meal since his late Sunday evening arrival.
One last look of appreciation for his baronial surroundings and he left the room in search of the mess hall.
At the bottom of the hexagonal stairs, he found no clues but luckily an orderly emerged from the kitchens.
“Excuse me. Could you please show me to the mess hall?”
“Of course Commandant, follow me if you please.” Crisp was conducted back upstairs and shown into the impressive stone columned dining room, wherein sat a number of allied officers eating large breakfasts and chattering incessantly.
His eyes took in the officers, none of whom noticed his arrival. Twelve French and four Brits, with solely one other in the uniform of the US Army.
And so it was that the last member of the third class sat down for breakfast in the grand dining room of the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg.
Chapter 27 – THE CHANCE
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
Whilst the great men sat in the Kremlin and made decisions affecting the lives of everyone on the planet, and allied officers listened to the sage words of Germans in the symposiums, a conversation took place in a vintner’s in Selestat.
Bossong’s was an old shop, a symbol of a bygone age, but it still served its purpose well. Ancient wooden shelving created specifically for housing delicate vintages surrounded the open central area, where stood a tall table with all the paraphernalia associated with the tasting of fine wines.
The layer of dust and mulchy smell were all part of the image, as were the huge oil lamps that cast their flickering shadows around the room.
A gothic style wall clock loudly chimed five o’clock in the afternoon, completing the scene.
The owner had continued trade as well as he could over the German occupation and, with the coming of the allies, had recovered some of his considerable hidden stocks for sale to the allied liberators at a fine profit.
Loose tongues had immediately wagged and a requisition order from the French Army had arrived, born by a smartly turned out French Commando officer, reducing his best Alsatian stock to a bare minimum. Admittedly, he would be paid but not at the rate he was securing from the allied officers who presently frequented his establishment.
One such, a Polish liaison officer with the French First Army, had visited for his regular bottle of Trimbach, only to find the owner sympathetic but not forthcoming.
Despite the fact that the previous Friday there had been well over a hundred bottles available, today the owner had none for sale.
“But Monsieur, surely you can find a bottle for me? I have promised my girl some of your fine Trimbach.”
“Commandant, I regret I cannot, even for a good customer such as yourself. I have none available and neither do I have any Edelzwicker either, for both supplies have been requisitioned by the Army of France.”
The Polish Major leaned forward, inviting the proprietor into conspiracy.
“Surely they would not miss one bottle Monsieur Bossong?”
The owner looked up at the doorway, even though he knew no one was there.
“Commandant, again I regret, but I have signed a document and must deliver them all to the Château where they will be checked in. The figures are precise.” The owner consulted a document on the desk.
“One hundred and six bottles of Trimbach and fifty-eight bottles of Edelzwicker by tomorrow afternoon. I have even been given a permit and military transport has been detailed to arrive here at 2pm tomorrow. For me to be paid I must ensure they are all checked in at the Château.”
The owner wrung his hands in the manner common to all those of subservience over the ages.
“Forgive me Commandant, but I cannot appropriate one for you as I will not risk the wrath of ‘Deux’. Please feel free to select another wine and I will sell it to you at cost as a token of my apology.”
The Major grunted acceptance and looked over at other wines arranged in a large wooden rack down one long wall. He studiously picked up a particularly good Moselle and chose his words carefully.
“Surely one soldier looks like another in our uniforms Monsieur. And besides, French Military Intelligence is all over at Baden-Baden with their top brass.”
The Moselle was returned in favour of a dusty Liebfraumilch.
“Commandant, I experienced the pleasures of the Gestapo and their agents crawling around here for nearly five years during the occupation. I know the type intimately. The man with the infantry officer was Deuxieme Bureau.”
The Liebfraumilch was returned and the Moselle reselected.
“Maybe some General has a party planned then eh? In any case, I have to get moving. May I have this one monsieur?”
The Major passed the bottle and its label drew the admiration of the proprietor.
“An excellent choice Commandant. If you give me a moment.”
Etienne Bossong turned around to the rear bench, where he wrapped the wine in embossed tissue paper and included his card.
As his back was turned, the Major leant forward and scanned the signed purchase documents.
The details went swiftly into his mind and his stance was apparently unchanged when the bottle was passed to him.
“On my account Monsieur?”
“It shall be so Commandant. Good night sir.”
“Bon nuit, Monsieur Bossong.”
Hiding his disappointment, the owner withdrew his ledger and entered a further sum on the growing account of Major S.Kowalski.
Outside Stanislaw Kowalski mentally processed his day so far as he made a few swift notes in a small pocket book.
Having taken leave, he had signed for a jeep and spent the day driving around Northern Alsace sightseeing, paying particular attention to large buildings like castles and Château’s. After eight hours of the Alsatian countyside, he decided that he had done enough for one day, and he had gone to get a bottle of fine wine, prior to taking his woman rowing on the River L’ill.
Now, by the strangest coincidence, his evening plans would change. That which he sought all day appeared to have dropped into his lap by chance, although the following day Kœnigsbourg would have been his first enquiry. He smiled to himself and mused that if you wrote it in a story it wouldn’t be believable. Anyway, for whatever reason, Madame Fortune had smiled.
Obviously, Irma now had to wait as he would take a drive over to Orschwiller and see if he could definitely confirm this ‘Biarritz’ at the nearby Château before passing the information on to his contact. Sergey Andreevich Kovelskin was the name he was given at birth and he was an Officer of the GRU, born and bred on the banks of the Volga.
Chapter 28 – THE DATE
Little did we guess that what has been called the century of the common man would witness as its outstanding feature more common men killing each other with greater facilities than any other five centuries together in the history of the world.
Despite his seniority, Pekunin had little doubt as to his fate if neither his nor Beria’s assets came up with the information on the French Symposium.