Failing, he sprayed it out from between his clenched teeth, sending it jetting on its way with a convulsive, chesty cough. The faintly blue smoke rose towards the high ceiling of the large, overheated and airless office, blending into a murky pall made thicker by the steam escaping from a leaking radiator. The heating system, along with the ventilation fans, had been faulty for over three months now, and it was still impossible to find labour sufficiently skilled to fix it.
‘Thank God this damned war will soon be over,’ Oropov muttered testily, knowing that it could be merely a matter of weeks before Germany was finally forced to capitulate. Russian troops had almost reached the Oder, the Western Allies had established a firm bridgehead east of the Rhine and troopers of Britain’s already legendary 1 and 2 Squadron SAS ranged throughout Europe, organizing and arming local resistance fighters and carrying out long-range reconnaissance and sabotage attacks as far north as Hamburg and Lübeck.
The remark was not really intended as dialogue, more as a private thought expressed aloud. Nevertheless, Oropov’s companion took it up, seizing on the opportunity for a mild rebuke to be administered, a propaganda point to be gained.
Tovan Leveski’s thin lips parted slightly in a mirthless smile. ‘One does not thank God any more – one thanks Stalin. It was the strength of the Russian bear which crushed the German jackal to death. But of course, comrade, I agree with your sentiments, at least. It will be good to have our brave young men back from the German front – to finish our necessary business in Poland.’
It was Oropov’s turn to smile, but with faintly malicious humour.
‘That too, of course. Although, personally, I was more looking forward to buying some decent Cuban cigars.’
Oropov’s grey eyes twinkled briefly as Leveski twitched, reacting uncomfortably to the obvious jibe. It felt good to score a point over the man, whom Oropov both disliked and distrusted. It was not just the fact that he was, basically, a civilian; it went a lot deeper than that, with potentially more sinister implications.
Leveski represented a new and unknown quantity. The exact nature of his sudden new post was ill-defined, as if deliberately vague. There were mutterings and rumours in the corridors of the Kremlin. No longer obsessed with matters of war, Stalin was stirring politically again. There was talk of new purges to come, of heads rolling and personnel once again disappearing at short notice and in suspicious circumstances. Stalin’s feared secret police, previously concerned with purely internal matters, were now extending their awesome powers. Now the newly formed KGB, with people like Leveski at its head, were moving in to take an active interest in military, European and overseas matters. It impinged directly on Oropov’s authority as head of wartime intelligence, and it was extremely disquieting. It was definitely a time for staying on top, and being clearly seen to be on top. A time to know exactly what was happening all around oneself – and, even more important, who was making it happen and why.
With these thoughts in mind, Oropov decided it was politic to adopt a more conciliatory attitude towards his companion.
‘Speaking of Poland, Tovan Leveski, what news from Warsaw?’
Leveski shrugged, a gesture of vague irritation. ‘Mixed, as ever. Confused and conflicting reports, rumours, snatches of Allied propaganda. The usual wartime rubbish. The very thing my new department was set up to rationalize.’ He broke off to nod deferentially towards Oropov. ‘With your cooperation, of course, comrade.’
‘Of course,’ Oropov said, nodding, his face suddenly more serious. ‘I was merely a soldier, doing a soldier’s job in a time of war. Now we must all work together in the cause of peace, and for the good of the Motherland.’
The brief speech presumed a response. Predictably, Leveski obliged.
‘A toast, comrade?’ he suggested.
‘A toast indeed.’
Oropov slid open a drawer in his desk and drew out a quarter-full bottle of Stolichnaya and two conical, stemless glasses. He handed one to Leveski, filled it, then splashed a generous measure into his own.
‘Rodina,’ Oropov grunted, waving the glass briefly in the air before placing it to his lips and draining the fiery vodka at a single gulp.
‘Rodina’ Leveski responded with suitable fervour in his voice. The word translated simply as The Motherland’, but it carried the patriotic zeal of an entire national anthem to anyone with a drop of Russian blood in their veins. In a society which had largely turned its back on the Church, it was the litany of a new and potent religion.
The time for pleasantries was over, Oropov decided. It was obvious that Leveski had not entered his office on a purely social visit. He returned the bottle of vodka to his desk, smiling up at the man politely. ‘Well, Tovan Leveski, what can I do for you?’
The little man cleared his throat, managing to make the apparently innocent gesture a censure of Oropov’s smoking habit.
‘We are a little concerned about the lack of information currently on file regarding Allied armaments projects.’
Oropov ignored yet another implied rebuke. He raised one shaggy eyebrow the faintest fraction of an inch. ‘We, comrade?’
‘I’, Leveski corrected himself hastily, uncomfortably aware that he had just let something slip, without fully understanding its relevance. Just like General Oropov, he had yet to adjust fully to the scope of his position and powers. ‘I find myself slightly worried about the gaps in our intelligence. I was briefed to acquaint myself fully with current military research, but I find some of your dossiers and files rather sparse, to say the least.’
Oropov made a steeple of his fingers, pressing them gently against his lips. He eyed Leveski stonily. ‘Specifically?’
‘Specifically, this “Manhattan Project”. As a military man, you must surely appreciate the momentous implications of a nuclear fission bomb. Yet we appear to have no idea at all just how advanced the Americans are in its development. Cause for worry, would you not agree, General?’
‘Indeed,’ Oropov agreed. ‘And, equally, a matter for the tightest and most efficient security screen we have ever encountered. The potential power of atomic weaponry is not lost on the Americans, either. Our files represent our finest efforts and the deaths of two top agents. I assume you have followed up on the cross-reference file relating to the German research facility at Telemark?’
Leveski nodded. ‘Of course. Again, a woefully thin report and a disgusting fiasco. The damned Norwegians and the Allies made fools of us. It should have been Russian troops who stormed that laboratory. Then the secret of heavy-water production would be in Soviet hands, not at the bottom of some damned fiord.’
‘Our troops were otherwise engaged at the time,’ Oropov pointed out rather icily. ‘But a tragic loss to Soviet science, I agree. However, I understand our own atomic research facility is now well established.’
Leveski’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘Oh yes, two or three years behind the blasted Allies, at a conservative estimate.’
He hunched his shoulders, as if to subdue a shiver of rage, finally releasing only a faint shrug. ‘However, that is past news. What matters now is the future. Do we have any active personnel inside the Manhattan Project?’
Oropov shook his head. ‘No one with scientific knowledge, I’m afraid. There is a woman – a minor clerical worker – who is able to send us copies of purchasing invoices, interdepartmental
