BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 24)


By KATZMAREK ©


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and
interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are
entirely contestable.


This remains my property and may not be used for gain without
my express permission in writing.


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The three intelligence men, the groundcrew and engineers watched helplessly as John paced the airstrip. He was beside himself and refused anything to do with anybody. It had been half an hour since he'd returned from the mission and there was still no sign of Jana Ivanova.


Two technicians carefully removed the film from the two cameras the MiG carried. The negatives were reeled into a can, much like a cine camera, and these they carefully crated to be sent for processing.


Rhykov hadn't been able to talk to John. There was no getting any sense out of him in his present state. Ordinarily, Rhykov mused, if it was a man under his command who'd fallen into that condition, he'd slug him. But, he thought, such a big man as John might slap him back!


He saw all this as a possibility. That's why he'd argued against using both of them together. If it'd been John who hadn't made it back, then no doubt Jana would've been in a similar state. It all violated the most elementary rule, be it an ordinary military operation or espionage. 'Never send lovers on the same mission together.'


But he needed John to debrief. He had to know whether the mission had been successful so he could report to Moscow. And, he thought, he wanted to get this irritating Englishman off his back.


He walked out towards John. He was sitting on a log by the side of the airstrip, one of many that had been discarded when the workers had constructed it.


"John!" Rhykov said, sternly. There was no answer. John refused to look at him. "John," he said, more softly, "please, you must tell what happened. Maybe we look for her, yes? But we need to know what happened."


John turned slowly around to look at him. His eyes were red, and wild with panic. He lifted his eyes slowly until he stared Rhykov straight in the eye.


"It was Jerry," he said, "4 high on our 9. Messerschmitts! I told her to split."


"I heard."


"But, maybe she didn't hear, I don't know!"


"So, these planes attacked?"


"Dived. But we were too fast. Fired their cannons at long range, but they were miles off. Couldn't catch us unless..."


"Unless?"


"Unless we maneuvred. The MiG loses speed quickly in the turn. If she'd gone straight and hard, they wouldn't have got anywhere near us."


"And they did?" Rhykov asked.


"Jana must have turned to draw them off. I don't know... didn't see a thing. First she was there and then she wasn't."


"John," said Rhykov, "I know this is hard. Especially for you. We all liked Jana, even old arsehole like me, yes? But you... she loved you... thought your arsehole shit diamonds, no?" Rhykov chuckled briefly then was serious again. "If you say is true, then she wanted you to get back ok. This is true, I know. For love she did this, as well as duty. She is a hero and we will recognise her as such. But she will want the mission completed. You need to debrief, Jana would want this, not true?"


John nodded slowly. Yes, he knew Rhykov was correct. Slowly, he rose and followed Rhykov to the main tent. Some of his groundcrew nodded and smiled in encouragement. The Englishman stood impatiently outside the tent.


Later, after listening carefully to all John could tell them, Rhykov carefully folded his report and placed it in a brown satchel. He yelled for the courier and sent him off quickly.


"You may stay here for a day or so," he told John, "but after that, they will want you back." John nodded briefly. "But now," he sighed, "the Englishman wants to talk to you. Be, ah, careful about what you say. Chernagovka will sit in, just in case, ok?" John nodded again.


"Call me Ryan," the Englishman said, upbeat. "Well done. It's been a very worthwhile exercise, I think." John was silent. He merely looked up and managed a weak smile. "Tell me," he continued, "I'm curious. Are you English?"


"You need not answer," Chernagovka told John in Russian.


"Is it a secret?" John asked. Chernagovka shrugged. "I'm a New Zealander," he explained to the Englishman.


"A Red, eh?" John shrugged. He didn't care what the Englishman labeled him. "How come you're in Russia?" the English spy continued. Chernagovka, again, shot John a warning glance. John looked at him and decided it was all right to answer.


"I came here from Spain." 


"Ah! The Russians brought you back?" John nodded. "And you're happy here?" John nodded again. "Y'know," he dropped his voice, "we can, perhaps, see if we can get you out?" Chernagovka looked like he was about to speak. The Englishman looked in his direction.


"He doesn't want to leave," the Russian said quickly, "you heard him say he was happy here in Russia."


"Perhaps if I could speak to this man alone?" the Englishman asked, "he is, after all, a British Commonwealth citizen."


"He's Russian citizen!" Chernagovka said, his voice rising, "and a soldier in the Soviet Military Forces. You have no claim on this man!"


The two men faced off across the table with John in the middle, sullen and dispirited. He wished they'd take their argument outside, he'd no wish to be part of it.


"Perhaps he has family... he might want to send a message. They may not have heard from him."


"Is this true, John?" asked Chernagovka, "you might like to send letter to your family?"


"Perhaps," he shrugged, "mum, dad."


"But it must be subject to Military censorship!" insisted the Russian.


"I have a friend... from Spain, an Australian," John said suddenly, "perhaps you might know where he is? We had to leave him behind."


The Englishman agreed to make some enquiries and convey it back through intelligence channels.

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John had to leave the following day. The airstrip was to be decommissioned and the staff loaded up everything onto lorries. A staff car arrived with an NKVD man to convey him back to Minsk. Evidently, Rhykov was taking no chances of his man running off distractedly around the forest.


It was a long slow journey to Minsk. John thought they'd never arrive. His minder barely uttered a word the whole way. He couldn't believe any one could keep so quiet for so long.


At Minsk he was whisked straight out to the airfield and a Tupolev ANT6 transport. There, he was handed on to another NKVD minder and flown back to Novgorod. 


The squadron were devastated upon hearing the news about their squadron commander. John, though, was immediately promoted to take her place with the rank of Major.


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'Oz' Callaghan officially became the first 'double ace' at Duxford with his 10th kill.


It had been an uninspiring little 'scrap.' He'd spotted a Bf 110 on the 'deck' and harried it until it crash landed in a wood. 'Like shooting a duck!' he claimed. This time, there was no party, just another swastika stencilled below the cockpit of his 'kite.'


He was 'up there' with Douglas Bader and Robert Stanford-Tuck, but the congratulations were mute. Too many young Australian boys were not going to return home. Many of the 'old crew' were gone. 'Oz' counted 5 of the squadron who were there when he'd joined. The rest were dead.


The squadron was no-longer purely Australian. The kangaroo emblem still decorated their Spitfires but replacements had come from whoever was available. Now, English boys flew alongside them, as well as a Canadian and an American volunteer from Washington State they simply called the 'Yank.'


Catalina found a job with some Intelligence Unit. A job she couldn't even tell 'Oz' about.


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Benin at all but moved in with Professor Shapashnikov. Their relationship wasn't particularly passionate, nor in fact sexual. Although Benin sometimes shared his bed, they'd never made love. The most that'd happen between them was to wake up in the morning still holding hands from the night before. They appreciated someone to hold.


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Rhykov hated meetings. He leaned back in his chair trying to get the attention of the Stenographer. She remained imune to his gaze, however, and, head down, scribbled in her pad.


"So what is our response?" asked someone from the Interior Ministry. Rhykov couldn't care less. 'Make something up? Are you so lacking in imagination?' 


"The usual," said the representative from the Foreign Ministry, obviously bored rigid like Rhykov. "We will tell them it was a navigational training exercise and..."


"We always use that!" said the man from Interior. Apparently he was the only one taking any interest in the exercise. 


"So, what?" replied Foreign, "they know its bullshit, we know its bullshit. That's the whole point!"


"It said," continued Interior, "'blah, blah ...two aircraft were intercepted by the Luftwaffe *deep* inside the Reich Province of Poland and... "


"It *did!*" interrupted Rhykov, excitedly.


"Ahem," Interior continued, ignoring him, "... escorted to the border..."


"*Escorted*!" cried Rhykov.


"Comrade," sniffed Interior, "have the Sercurity Intelligence Services something to contribute?"


"No," said Rhykov, "nothing at all!" He then rose and ran out the door. He trotted down the long corridor and burst through into an office. "Get me Novgorod," he told the startled secretary, "Lieutenant-Colonel Chernagovka.!


It took a good 10 minutes to place the call, with Rhykov pacing the room. Eventually he was reached and Rhykov grabbed the receiver. "Listen," he told the Lieutenant-Colonel, "that German official protest..."


"That worrying you?" Chernagovka said, "it's bullshit, it's..."


"Yes, I know it is. But the point is... have you read it carefully?"


"Why should I? Why should you? You drunk?"


"It says, now listen carefully, it said, '...two aircraft were escorted to the border...' What it *doesn't* say is that they shot anyone down."


"So? You believe what they say?"


"Of course not, but. Don't you think that Hoss or that insufferable prick Himmler would be rubbing our noses in it if they'd shot down Jana? They'd probably want to pack her body parts in a box themselves for express courier to Novgorod!"


"Probably," agreed Chernagovka.


"I don't think their fighters got anywhere near John and Jana. I think they were way too fast."


"But John reported seeing cannonfire?"


"Yes, but I don't believe it came from the Luftwaffe. I think it was anti-aircraft fire from the ground. At their altitude the tracer shells would be practically horizontal. I believe John assumed it was from the fighters."


"So, how does it help us?"


"I don't think Jana came down on the German side. I think she's somewhere on our side of the border. Perhaps she sustained damage from ground fire but was able to continue? Maybe then her aircraft gave out and she was forced to crash land? I don't believe the Germans had any idea she was hit otherwise they'd be gloating."


"True!" said Chernagovka, "in which case we should be looking at, say, a 20 kilometre corridor back from where they were schedualed to cross the border? I will get on to the Byelorussians..."


"My advice would be to go down there yourself. I know what would happen, otherwise..."


"Yes," the Lieutenant-Colonel interrupted, "a quick buzz around in a reconnaissance plane and an apology?"


"Exactly! They'll need some brass up their arses!"


"I'll leave straight away!"


Satisfied, Rhykov returned to the meeting. He apologised for the interruption citing a sudden security matter. They all looked at him and each other, even the stenographer looked up from her notes. 'At last,' he thought, 'he's got her attention.'


As he regained his seat, there was a sharp knock on the door. A GRU staffer asked for Rhykov. The others rolled their eyes in frustration, however, no-one was willing to challenge Intelligence.


Outside, the staffer told him that the film had been developed from John's cameras. He explained that a camoflaged Fw 190 had been indentified. That meant that some of the crack Luftwaffe fighter units were indeed in Poland. Rhykov returned to the meeting with the important news.


"Has the Secretary General been informed?" asked Foreign in a manner that indicated he wanted to be the one to pass on this important news to Stalin.


"Stalin receives all important intelligence immediately," he told him. The man instantly deflated. "I believe it's time for a general war alert."


"That's the Politburo's decision," said Interior, with a hint of accusation.


"Which means Comrade Stalin's," Rhykov retorted, "as this will shortly be a Military matter, is their anything else that needs discussion?"


"But it's not official yet," complained Foreign, "until it's official we must proceed with the agenda." Rhykov was the one to roll his eyes.


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It did take the urging of the GRU to persuade the local Byelorussians to mount a search. They complained about not enough resources for such a large area. But, with the assurance of the use of a bomber squadron and a threat or two, planes were in the air that afternoon.


But it was an old R5 on routine border patrol that reported that they'd seen evidence of a fire in the forest. They said it appeared to have burnt itself out. The location was given to a bomber who flew low over the area to check it out. Soon they radioed that they'd seen what appeared to be an aircraft's tail fin caught in a tree. Search teams of forestry workers, local Militia and Army were sent immediately sent in.


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News came back quickly from the Politburo. 'The Politburo considers a war alert at this time to be a needless provocation. The Politburo will continue to watch the situation closely and will take appropriate action should more evidence of a military build-up across the border be received.'


The others at the meeting shot Rhykov smug looks. At last they'd got one over Intelligence and they were enjoying it. Rhykov steamed and, once again, concentrated on the Stenographer.


She was large with an ample bosom. Such a chest couldn't be concealed by her NKVD uniform. As Foreign droned on about diplomatic responses, Rhykov dreamed of her on her knees in front of him. He saw her with her jacket and shirt open and those beauties spilled out. 'Was she married?' He couldn't care. He'd had married women before. He preferred them, they were experienced.


Everything was now out of his hands and in the preserve of the bureaucrats. There was little more he could contribute. The GPU was, ostensibly, 'political' intelligence, while the GRU was military. In practice there was a great deal of crossover. But the two hadn't really cooperated too well in the past and found themselves treading on each other's feet.


The GPU had acquired immense influence during the recent purges. It was they who were charged with finding the evidence with which to charge senior Party men with disloyalty. Much of the evidence was heresay and rumour, but, at the end of the day, Stalin hadn't really cared. They were given a list and told to find the dirt.


Everyone feared them. They were the Soviet inquisition and a bad word from them could see someone imprisoned, executed or exiled.


But Rhykov hadn't been a part of that. He was a 'foreign relations specialist' and his job was external.


Ok, he had been tasked with finding the odd Russian exile who was causing trouble. He had even arranged for them to be assassinated, often by a local hired killer.


He was a subterfuge addict, there was no getting away from it. He liked the shadowy world of disguises, of mind against mind, of espionage and deceit. He knew how to manipulate people, to get them to trust him and do his bidding. Sometimes, however, he was so lost in this play-acting that he feared he didn't know his own self. Could he really have a friend or confidante? It wasn't possible, no-one should get too close to him, it was too dangerous for them.


The meeting was coming to an end. The draft document for Russia's provisional response to the German protest had been decided upon and was to be submitted to the Politburo for approval. It was all bullshit, Rhykov thought, and we shouldn't be talking to these Germans except from behind a machine gun. Then, he smiled, little conversation would be required. 


The Stenographer hadn't left. She was still packing away her notes of the meeting.


"My dear," he smiled, "I require some dictation later in my office, about 2?"


"Of course, sir," she replied.


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Chernagovka wasn't happy. As he flew down to Minsk to stir up the Byelorussian search effort he pondered his options.


If Jana was dead, or so severely injured she couldn't continue flying, then the GRU's plan for the pair was in tatters. The GPU had too stronger hold on John through Rhykov and, without Jana's influence, he, Chernagovka, and the GRU didn't have any control of him. Rhykov was the problem. He was dead against the GRU's proposal from the beginning.


He had thought he'd outflanked him with Jana Ivanova. The little mission for the Military they performed was a test, he'd hoped, the first of many such escapades with the team culminating in... Chernagovka's grand plan.


He, Chernagovka, had dreamed the whole idea up, it was his baby. He'd pushed the plan through the tangle of GRU hierarchy. He'd played politics with this thing and it had almost reached fruition. Could he put it back on track? It all depended on Jana's condition.


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The GPU had an agent in Tokyo code named 'Icarus.' 'Icarus' was, in fact, a German Journalist called Richard Sorge and around the middle of May, he sent a message to his masters in Moscow.


'...indications are that Germany will attack the USSR no later than June the 20th.'


He was wrong, Germany attacked two day's later, on the 22th.


It appeared his warning fell on deaf ears. The GPU was convinced but Stalin was not.


Another gem from August 1941; '...Heard from General Yamaguchi that the so-called Southern Faction of the Japanese Government has had its way. The army will move South against the Philipines, Dutch East Indies, Borneo and Malaya. The Japanese Government has rejected the German delegation's proposal to move against Eastern Siberia. Timetable has been set, sometime in late November.'


Again he was incorrect. Japan attacked on December the 7th.


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KATZMAREK ©
