Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (21 page)

Again
, checking the paperwork, she quickly backed up her maths.

“Two divisions, the two formed of veterans of the old Blue Division, sailed from Bilbao last Thursday, destination unknown.”

Poking out of the bottom of the file was the corner of a photograph Nazarbayeva had deliberately left on her desk, and which had efficiently been included by Andrey Poboshkin, her staff Major.

“What are those
, Comrade?”

Zhukov welcomed the diversion
, as his mind processed the Spanish threat.

“Photographs of the NKVD operatives killed during the mission.”

The Spanish had ensured that evidence existed as to the identities of the would-be assassins.

“Seven?
There are seven photos here. I though you said there were six of them?”

Internally she was horrified, and
Nazarbayeva avoided touching the top photograph, sliding the third into a clearer position.

Unlike the others
Zhukov had quickly cast his eye over, this man was sat on some sort of bench, his face distorted, his tongue unduly extended.

“That man is
Polkovnik Akin Igorevich Vaspatin, the GRU’s senior man in Madrid. The device he is sitting in is a Garotte. He has been executed by strangulation.”

“Blyad!”

“Undoubtedly, that picture is the Spanish Government sending us a message. Official photograph of a dead Soviet officer in uniform, executed on an official garrotte.”

“Blyad!
Have you informed the General Secretary of this?”

“Not yet, Comrade Marshal, but I suspect that Comrade Beria may have done so by now.”

There was something in Nazarbayeva’s voice that grabbed their attention, even more than the sight of a Soviet Colonel publically executed by a supposedly neutral power.

“Go on, Comrade Polkovnik.”

“My prime source informs me that this man was the informant that blew the operation to assassinate the Spanish leader. He received no such orders from the GRU. We did not know of any mission.”

She stopped, raising her hand to her mouth, stifling a cough that died as quickly as it appeared.

“Vaspatin was
obviously involved in some way, but did not communicate any of it to us.”

Pausing to ensure her words had the full effect, she waited for the echo of her voice to depart.

“The only conclusion is that Vaspatin was operating under orders from another Agency, a conclusion Comrade Pekunin is testing as we speak.”

“Mudaks!”

Zhukov slammed the picture down, sending some of the others flying, pictures that showed young Soviet men lying dead, without dignity, openly paraded for cameras.

Nazarbayeva tenderly picked up the two photographs that had reached the floor.

“Brave men sacrificed to what end. No, betrayed to what purpose?”

Nazarbayeva touched a photo to her lips, an action that almost escaped notice.

Almost.

Zhukov spoke with unusual regret.

“What would their mother’s say to that eh? Knowing that their sons died for nothing, at the express direction of our leadership.”

Malinin interrupted,
believing that his commander had unwittingly strayed into dangerous ground, needing to deflect him before he said something that could never be withdrawn, or apologised for..

It was he that
had seen the woman’s gesture, and he acted on his guess.

“Wh
at do you think that the mothers would say, Tatiana?”

Zhukov looked up, taken aback by the use of the woman’s name, a break with formality he had not yet broached himself.
He knew his man well enough to know that it was not done in error, but for a reason.

Malinin leant forward and picked up the top photograph, taking in the traumatised body, beaten and violated, even after death.

Marshal Zhukov watched as a lazy tear made its slow journey from the corner of Nazarbayeva’s eye, dripping onto her tunic soaking into the coarse material just below her most treasured award.

“I think that all the mother’s would say that the Motherland requires sacrifices from us all, Comrade Malinin.”

Keeping his eyes on the red-eyed woman, Malinin checked the back of the photograph before showing the notation to his commander.

‘Oleg Yurevich Nazarbayev.’

‘Govno, you poor woman!’

“What would they say if they if they knew
, Tatiana?”

Raising her head to look directly into Malinin’s eyes, both senior officers watched
as an internal battle was fought and won, and a face resolved to express a mother’s true feelings.

“The mothers would say that there will be a day of reckoning, Comrade Malinin.”

The eyes, normally so full of intelligence and life, carried only death and hatred, burning through Malinin and into the wall beyond, probably all the way to Moscow, and the office of the NKVD chairman.

Zhukov, being extremely unzhukov-like,
took the GRU officer’s arm gently.

“I am truly sorry, Tatiana.”

That night, in a GRU officers billet on the Muhlberg, and a seedy bar in Lubeck, two parents mourned the loss of another their sons; many miles apart, and yet, somehow together, united in their grief.

We have been ordered to move off today; had our orders cancelled; warned for an alarm; had our passes stopped; had our foreign orders cancelled; had our passes and foreign orders renewed; and now have orders to move tomorrow. Great minds are at work.

Anon.

Diary entry of a soldier of the Great War.

Looking through the sights, the target loomed large, its eyes betraying awareness and alertness, neither of which was going to save its life on this misty morning in the forest.

A hand reached out and touched the rifleman on the shoulder, giving a moment’s pause.

The owner of the hand placed a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, the finger then moving to point out a new problem.

There was no noise, save the
sounds of the woods; trees creaking and swaying in the modest breeze, the low chatter of birds and other creatures, and the grunting of their prey.

The
fully-grown male wild boar would have made a tasty meal, one they had been prepared to risk a shot for. That decision became history, as the finger pointed towards an indistinct shape in the shadows.

Raising its head high, the boar sensed the new presence, having failed to note the men in the trees above it.

The snout savoured the air, sampling the new scents on the breeze and finding them a threat, to not only him, but also to the female and two young he knew were nearby.

The litter was out of season, a rarity in the life of a wild boar, but one
that gave the male a reason to act in defence, rather than move quietly away.

A foot set out of place broke a twig, not loudly,
but enough to precipitate the animal’s action. Tensing his large body, the boar defended in the only way it understood; all-out attack.

The owner of the foot, a Goumier scout, cursed his carelessness,
quickly checking for signs of the Russian soldiers he and his unit were hunting.

His priorities quickly changed
, as sounds of the approaching whirlwind reached his ears.

The boar came into view.

As the Goumier’s eyes widened, the animal covered half the distance to his target.

“Ye elahi!”

Three hundred angry pounds of wild boar hammered into the petrified Moroccan, the impact snapping his legs below both knees instantly, the boar’s lowered head tossed upwards, an automatic act that brought its sharp tusks into play.

Tusk met bone
, as the boar opened the inner thighs, destroying the femoral arteries, his forward momentum carrying him beyond the dying man before the Goumier had even started to realise his death was approaching.

“Brothers! Help! Brothers!”

Even as he shouted for help, his voice grew noticeably weaker.

The boar turned and crashed back into the now-prone figure, the tusks destroying everything they hacked at, silencing the Moroccan when one tusk penetrated his eye socket.

A bullet took the boar in the side, passing through and into the undergrowth beyond, the pain only serving to enrage him further, increasing the frenzied attack on what was now rapidly becoming a lump of ripped flash.

Another bullet hit the beast, destroying his left hip
, and spinning him away from the bloody mess.

Two more shots quickly followed, either of which could have been the one that extinguished its life.

A dozen anguished cries rose into the early morning air, the sight of their comrade causing great distress to the other members of the Goumier patrol. Three more shots were fired into the dead boar, more in anguish, than to serve a purpose.

A blanket was
stretched out on the earth, and the remains were reverently covered up before being carried away for a burial in accordance with the man’s faith.

In the trees, the four men
had not dared to draw breathe, the staccato rattle of their beating hearts seemingly louder than that of the disturbed forest around them.

The Goumiers disappeared.

Nikitin relaxed his rifle, looking to his companion for guidance.

Starshy Serzhant Nakhimov was weighing up the pros and cons of the situation, and having difficulty finding a
ny con.

A whispered order
, and the NCO turned to the two men in the adjacent tree, simple hand gestures passing on his instructions.

When he reached the ground
, Nakhimov waited for the other man, checking the two men above were covering as ordered.

“Right Vassily, tonight we dine on boar. Come on.”

The two men moved gingerly to the location of the fight, the large quantity of blood and human detritus startling them.

The dead boar proved difficult to carry, but they managed to get it up and into a
jury rig. Comprising two stout branches and weapon slings, the whole contraption more resembled something used on a safari in Africa

Struggling under the weight, they thanked their luck that
the hiding place was close by.

Apart from the two men on watch, the whole contingent was present in the dry, warm cave. Waiting until dark spread its wings over the forest, the boar was cooked over a fire whose smoke disappeared into the cave system and, if it popped out in plain sight, would undoubtedly be lost in the increasing darkness.

The sounds filling the cave were those of contentment, as hungry mouths ripped at greasy meat, filling bellies that were contracting as every day passed.

Ivan Alekseevich Makarenko
,
commander of the last remnant of Zilant-4, chewed the sweet pork, happy that his men had been fed well for a change, but already planning to relocate, now that the hunters had come close again.

Nakhimov read the look on his General’s face and, pausing to rip another hunk of meat from the carcass, he moved to his commander
’s side.

“You have orders
, Comrade Mayor-General?”

Makarenko considered his thoughts
, and made an instant decision.

“0200
, Comrade Nakhimov. They can sleep for now, but we move out at 0200.”

Producing his map, the firelight just sufficient for planning the march, he drew the NCO closer.

“We are here. This is where your forage party came across the Africans,” he circled an area just east of Colroy-la-Roche.

“We will go north-west as quickly as we can, passing between,” the officer screwed up his eyes
, but was none the wiser.