He poured himself a full glass and, pausing only to acknowledge the raised glass of a faintly familiar Artillery Colonel across the room, he poured the fiery liquid down his throat in one easy movement.
Taking in his surroundings with the apparent effort of a man already closely acquainted with the contents of a bottle, Wyachaski used all his field craft to discover what was behind the warning that the owner had given him.
There it was, no field craft needed, the open presence of two GRU officers causing his heart to skip momentarily.
Both men seemed more interested in the cellar’s occupants than the drinks in front of them, and alarm bells began to ring in the intelligence officer’s ear.
He picked up his hat, flicking carefully at some imaginary piece of dust in the studied manner of a man under the influence, before placing it back on the table.
Only an experienced field agent would have realised that the badge now faced towards the steps, rather than towards the hat’s owner.
Karin Greim, eponymous owner of the establishment, noted the signal meant to caution the arriving contact and ensure she would steer him away from Wyachaski as soon as he arrived.
She now played her own part and whispered to her trusted business partner, Luistikaite.
Renata Gabriele Luistikaite passed herself off as a Lithuanian national, although she had been brought up in England since the age of three. A five foot ten inch svelte blonde, men were drawn to her obvious charms like moths to a candle, something that had proved useful in the past year since the two women had escaped detection by the NKVD and GRU agents set to find them. Luistikaite had been a very fortunate survivor of the ill-fated Operation Freston insertions, but now formed a solid team with Greim.
Karin Greim was Polish by birth, and her recruitment into the Abwehr had come about when her Uncle and both her brothers were confirmed as victims to the Soviet slaughter in the Katyn Woods. Hidden beneath her obvious charms was the cold heart of a killer who would like nothing more than to wipe out the entire Soviet nation with whatever weapon came to hand, and she was skilled with most.
Luistikaite held an honorary commission in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, whereas, although without any rank per se, Greim, a consummate spy, was universally known as the Captain.
Not that anyone there really looked upon them as anything more than very attractive women.
Renata grabbed a bottle of their finest vodka and glided across the room, grabbing the undivided attention of the two GRU officers as she moved. Grabbing the attention of the majority of men and women in the room would be truer, such was her presence.
Greim used the moment to run her hand over the 9mm Viz35 pistol that was concealed in a shaped recess under the bar top.
Comforted, she continued to wipe glasses as she watched the GRU officers.
The two men rose, inviting Renata to sit, which in itself was reassuring that they were there for pleasure, rather than business. The trio were joined by ‘Greim’s’ youngest employee, and the four of them became engrossed in themselves.
Whilst many eyes were on Luistikaite’s backless red dress and the legs that trailed invitingly out from supersize slits, two pairs were totally focussed on her actions. More specifically, they waited to see the colour of the cigarette holder she extracted from her evening bag.
‘White’.
Wyachaski and Greim relaxed imperceptibly, deliberately avoiding any eye contact.
Carelessly, the Polish Intelligence officer knocked his vodka, spilling it across the table.
Cursing, he stepped back to avoid the small flow of liquid, grabbing his hat to save it any indignity.
Greim hurried over and wiped the table down, replacing the glass with a clean one.
The moment passed and Wyachaski settled himself back down to enjoy another drink, his polished silver hat badge reflecting some candlelight into his eyes.
An occasional glance at Renata and the teenager revealed a relaxed group, and the absence of any warning indicators spread that relaxation further.
Clearly there was a downpour outside, as the Polish officer who tumbled in deposited water everywhere he moved.
“Podpulkownik, how lovely to see you again.”
Greim took the new arrival’s sodden overcoat from him and pointed to where the Signals Officer should sit.
The other occupant of the comfy booth rose and extended his hand.
“Wyachaski. You are well?”
“Zajac, and no, I’m fucking soaked.”
Exchange complete, the two relaxed into the comfy seating and enjoyed a quiet drink.
Zajac noticed the two GRU officers and silently interrogated his contact, receiving no sign of alarm in response.
Leaning forward, Zajac produced a cigarette packet and offered it to Wyachaski.
It contained only one.
Indicating that his colleague should take it, Zajac produced another packet and extracted one for himself.
The two men settled into quiet conversation about the forthcoming military exercises being run by 2nd Polish Army.
Greim busied herself with providing another bottle of vodka and then cleared the table of its rubbish.
Back at the bar, the cigarette packet went into the bin as if it was nothing of importance; it would keep for later.
Wyachaski had waited to drop his bombshell.
“My friend, it’s no exercise.”
Zajac choked so hard that many faces swivelled to watch his impending demise.
The GRU officers were quickly distracted by Renata’s joke about the ‘lightweight’ drinking capacity of army officers, and returned to their ogling and flirting.
“No exercise?”
Pouring another drink, Wyachaski laughed loudly and slapped his comrade on the shoulder.
He drew close to Zajac’s ear and whispered.
“The Russians are planning an attack and gearing Świerczewski’s 2nd up for a small part. 1st isn’t trusted.”
Zajac nodded openly, as if in receipt of a personal secret of great import, which he was.
He slapped Wyachaski’s shoulder and, in turn, laughed.
“There’s more.”
“I’m sure there is.”
He poured another drink for the both and raised his glass in a toast.
“To the end of the war.”
Wyachaski could only share the sentiment.
“To the end of the war.”
Something in the intelligence officer’s tone gave Zajac a moment’s pause and he guessed what was about to be passed on.
‘The date… it’s been decided… at last!’
“Go on…”
“I have a verbal message for you to take back to Zygmunt.”
Zygmunt Berling was the commander of the Polish 1st Army.
“Go on.”
“Pantomime twenty-six.”
The monumental importance of this message was not wasted on the signals officer, but he said nothing, controlling his excitement.
Wyachaski continued.
“On the 25th, BBC Radio for Occupied Europe will do the normal messages after the Nine o’clock news… the anthems of all occupied states are played at the end of that, yes?”
He received a nod of understanding.
“Normally our anthem is played by an orchestra. Confirmation will be our anthem sung by a male voice choir. Cancellation if a women’s choir, clear?”
“Clear.”
There was little more to be said.
The two shared another drink, paid their dues, and went their separate ways.
Zajac, the officer who had travelled to Versailles to speak with Eisenhower, returned to his staff car, whose driver waited irritably and ushered him in swiftly, closing the door with a flourish.
The vehicle sped off to the temporary site that had been selected for the upcoming exercise.