Beria glanced at the large Tsarist mirror and sneered at his own reflection.
“I will be there, Comrade General Secretary, and I will bring my file on the matte…”
After Stalin’s final words, Beria was left staring at a silent handset.
“A GRU briefing… a fucking GRU briefing is it?…”
He threw the receiver at the mirror, which flew away, dragging the master unit behind it.
Both clattered to the floor.
He shouted at the top of his voice.
“Danilov! Get me that fucking file!”
The file in question was presently on its way back to England on a BOAC Mosquito courier aircraft, where it would be picked up, at Per Tørget’s insistence, by Sam Rossiter himself.
It would not take long for Tørget’s reasons to become abundantly clear.
Nazarbayeva’s phonecall from GRU West Headquarters sent a GRU team to the door of Flat 1, 2 Franciskánska, Torun, where men with little time for niceties had a deep and meaningful discussion with the male occupant.
Eleven minutes after their arrival, the Peruvian diplomat, dripping blood from a swift beating, started to write out remembered details from messages that he had been involved with passing. He had, after the blow that broke two ribs, surrendered his contact, which resulted in a swift telephone call to the GRU office requesting reinforcements.
She lifted the needle off the record, and the sounds of the Viennese waltz died away as the urgent knocking was repeated.
The door knocks of policemen are the same the world over, and Renata Luistikaite recognised the imperative sound for what it was.
The Walther in her purse was too far away, for she knew that impatient men would kick down the door in seconds.
Smiling, she tried to click open the largest charm on her bracelet, but the hollow piece of silver containing her ‘pill’ refused to budge and her smile changed to a look of near panic.
As the door gave way, she made a desperate lunge for the window.
GRU Senior Lieutenant Vestulin kicked the scantily clad body in frustration.
“You fucking bitch!”
The rest of the team were already turning over the flat, searching for something incriminating, although they all knew that with the simple act of trying to kill herself, Renata Luistikaite had shown herself for what she was. The problem was that she was no use dead.
He kicked her again, so hard that she rolled onto her back.
She moaned unexpectedly, the blood spilling from her neck where Vestulin’s bullet had caught her in mid-run.
“Mudaks! Fyodor! She’s ali… Blyad! Come and look at this bitch!”
His friend and colleague, a Junior Lieutenant, took one look at the revealed features and spoke the words that had formed in Vestulin’s mind.
“Greim’s… she’s the sexy bitch from Greim’s.”
“Interrogation might be fun… if she makes it. Now, get an ambulance before she bleeds out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the world was a different place for Vestulin.
His friend and two of his men were lying dead on the floor of Greims, whilst he tried to prioritise his wounds, choosing to stem the bleeding from his shattered forearm, rather than attempt to do anything with the knee that had been ravaged by the last bullet the woman had fired.
All four were victims to Karen Greim’s skill with a handgun. The 9mm Viz35 lay next to the wounded woman, her blonde hair soaked with crimson blood where one of his bullets had clipped her scalp.
Her blouse had been ripped open by one of the GRU NCO’s who was trying to stop the bleeding from her ruined shoulder and upper chest, exposing her soft flesh.
Despite the pain, Vestulin found himself admiring the form of the badly wounded spy.
Still conscious, Greim looked first at the man trying to save her life, and then at Vestulin.
He did not anticipate her laughter.
The sound died away, leaving only the smile and blood running slowly from the side of the mouth, a mouth that twisted into a sneer of hatred.
“Too late, you Russian bastard. You’re too fucking late.”
‘So, you confirm it… it is today.’
Vestulin stared into the defiant eyes.
“Get me to a phone, now!”
Deniken had briefed the assembled unit commanders in silence, save for the odd gasp that accompanied the order to move the other way to that expected, namely into Poland.
Fortunately, they had an abundance of suitable maps, acquired for future training exercises, and now they would prove invaluable in combat.
A few quick questions established that no one had any first-hand knowledge of the area, the division not having been near the area during the German war.
Now that the division might be advancing to close on enemy positions entailed a change in the logistics, and the leading echelon was changed to be more infantry heavy, in order to secure the railhead at Köslin.
There had also been another decision made, which Deniken now shared with the rest of his officer group.
“Here… at Naugard… there’s a Polish fuel dump. I want it seized for our use, clear?”
Fuel was a thorny issue for every mechanised unit and, even though seemingly a favourite of those in command, the 1st GMRD was no different in having a low supply.
Nodding at one of his regimental commanders, Deniken outlined his plan.
“Comrade Antinin, I want one of your companies dropped off at Naugard. Secure the station and the surrounding area. I want to make sure we can get that fuel to Köslin.”
Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Antinin mentally assigned one of his units to the task and nodded his understanding.
“I want the rest of the 167th to get on the road now, but take only what can move fast and move now. The rest will take its place on the railway according to the shipping schedule. Seize that fuel dump… intact… and without violence.”
They all knew that might prove to be difficult.
“Make our Polish Allies understand that it’s needed by our vehicles as a matter of utmost urgency, Comrade.”
His tone hardened perceptibly
“But we must have that fuel, regardless, so if they hinder you, you may act as you see fit to discharge my order.”
Antinin was a no-nonsense officer who had survived the German War. He was also wise enough to know that Deniken had handed him a hot potato, but he accepted his commander’s apologetic look with good grace.
Deniken returned to the major issue as he saw it.
“I don’t like running across the front of a potential enemy position on a train, and that’s a fact, but orders are orders and I hope we can get through to Köslin before any attack… and still under cover of night.”
All agreed with that. Whilst the 1st Guards had only been lightly affected, stories of the maulings received by other units at the hands of Allied air power abounded and required no embellishment.
“Comrade Yarishlov, will you be able to get your tanks off whilst we still have darkness on our side?”
Yarishlov had already worked out the implications of distance, time, and the new order of movement.
“Comrade Deniken, my tanks and support vehicles are now more towards the end of the column, which means we may be running it tight. I’ve no idea what facilities there are at Köslin, but I’m prepared to drive my tanks straight off the trucks if it will get them in cover by daylight, and to hell with the railway timetable!”