Chapter 311: New Official Takes Office
Meanwhile, at the Kremlin.
Beria, newly appointed to office, paced slowly along the long corridor outside Stalin's study.
Spring sunlight slanted through the tall windows, briefly illuminating the polished floor before a patrolling guard drew the heavy curtains shut. The corridor immediately returned to its familiar gloom.
A moment later, the office door opened.
Stalin's secretary stepped out and lowered his voice.
"Comrade Beria, Comrade Stalin is waiting for you."
Beria's eyes lingered briefly on the man's face.
The secretary's eyebrows were slightly raised.
To an ordinary person, it meant nothing.
To someone who had spent years in counterintelligence and political security, it meant everything.
Stalin was in a very bad mood.
Beria entered.
His judgment proved correct.
Stalin stood beside the bookshelf, pipe in hand, exhaling thick smoke with unusual force. Irritation and worry lingered across his face.
The moment he noticed Beria, however, those emotions disappeared.
A familiar smile returned.
"Sit down, Comrade Beria. I imagine the work at the NKVD has been rather complicated."
A glass of vodka was placed before him.
Beria accepted it and took a cautious sip. The harsh liquor burned down his throat, and the fumes seemed to sting his eyes.
"Not particularly complicated, Comrade Stalin. Merely... busy."
Stalin emptied his own glass in two swallows and chuckled.
"Then I'm afraid I must make you even busier."
He returned to his chair.
"Does the NKVD have any intelligence assets in Mexico?"
Mexico?
Beria hesitated for a fraction of a second.
His first thought was the ongoing American conflict with Mexico. Perhaps Stalin intended to exploit the war and cultivate friendly elements within the Mexican military.
"The NKVD has several agents who have established contact with Mexican military officers and political organizations..."
Stalin raised one hand.
"I don't care about the Mexican military."
He drew on his pipe. The tobacco glowed red in the dim room.
"I care about one man."
That was enough.
Beria immediately understood.
Only one Soviet exile in Mexico could possibly concern Stalin this much.
Even so, Trotsky's name had become so politically dangerous that Beria avoided speaking it aloud.
"Comrade Stalin, is this concerning... the Trotskyist problem?"
"Exactly."
Stalin's voice became colder.
"The poison of Trotskyism is spreading from Mexico. He continues to damage the international prestige of the Soviet Union, slander our state wherever he goes, and mislead comrades in other countries."
He slowly tapped ash from his pipe.
"Allowing him to flee to Mexico was already a concession in recognition of his past contributions."
Stalin's eyes narrowed.
"But Soviet tolerance has limits."
His tone remained calm, which somehow made the words even more chilling.
"This poisonous weed must be uprooted."
He looked directly at Beria.
"Can you solve the problem?"
A cold sensation ran down Beria's spine.
He stood immediately and saluted.
"Yes, Comrade Stalin. I guarantee that this poisonous weed will be eradicated before the Finnish campaign ends."
Stalin nodded once.
"Good."
Beria did not linger.
Only after leaving the Kremlin and settling into the rear seat of his car did he finally release the breath he had been holding.
The vehicle began moving.
Beria leaned back, closed his eyes, and began considering how to carry out the task Stalin had just placed in his hands.
At nearly the same time, the public opinion offensive against Soviet Russia continued to gather momentum.
Molotov's recent press conference had been aggressively edited before reaching European audiences.
His accusations against Germany disappeared almost entirely.
What remained was the absurd declaration that Soviet bombers had not dropped explosives on Finland, but "bread."
The phrase spread everywhere.
"Bread Equals Bombs."
It became a joke, a newspaper headline, a radio slogan, and a weapon.
Then came the next blow.
Two days later, a documentary titled The Bombing premiered simultaneously in Berlin and several major European cities.
Because the screenings had an obvious political purpose, admission was free.
By the following morning, the film had become a sensation.
Audiences watched peaceful Finnish streets dissolve into burning ruins.
They saw collapsed houses.
They saw civilians fleeing beneath falling bombs.
They saw bodies beneath rubble and corpses blackened by fire.
Some viewers walked out before the film ended.
Others remained seated in stunned silence after the final frame disappeared.
Whatever their reaction, the effect was the same.
The image of Soviet Russia as a brutal aggressor deepened across Europe.
Civilian donations for Finland surged to an unprecedented level.
Money.
Blankets.
Medical supplies.
Food.
Clothing.
Letters.
Thousands upon thousands of handwritten messages were translated and sent toward the Finnish front.
For soldiers who had spent weeks surrounded by snow, death, and exhaustion, those letters often did more for morale than chocolate or a warm meal.
Simon received one of his own.
He sat beneath a pine tree and slowly read the translated words.
Then he looked at the original letter.
The uneven handwriting and clumsy strokes made one thing obvious.
It had been written by a child.
Even the most withdrawn hunter possessed a softer corner somewhere inside him.
Simon was no exception.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
He carefully folded the letter and slipped it inside his greatcoat.
Then he drew his hunting knife.
Four more notches were carved into the stock of his rifle.
When he finished, Simon slung the weapon over his shoulder and disappeared into the snowy forest with the rest of his squad.
Another hunt was beginning.
Copies of The Bombing were also flown south to North Africa.
Tunisia.
With the German Army now in complete control of the region, supplies stockpiled on Mediterranean islands began moving into Tunisian ports.
Military engineers worked beside local laborers to repair docks, ferry terminals, warehouses, and loading facilities in preparation for the next great wave of matériel.
Among the crates of ammunition and engineering equipment came several reels of The Bombing.
The soldiers were considerably less impressed than civilians back home.
For men already living beneath artillery fire and aircraft engines, watching another city being bombed was hardly entertainment.
Most treated the screening as an excuse to sit around, smoke, eat, and talk.
"What is this rubbish?"
A German veteran complained as he dragged on a damp cigarette.
"I'd rather watch French girls dancing."
A bearded soldier beside him spooned canned meat into his mouth.
"Müller, it's better than nothing. Besides, how frightening can the Soviet Air Force really be? I talked to some pilots who fought them in Spain. Their opinion was... difficult to describe politely."
"That's because they were pilots."
Another soldier snorted.
"When Soviet aircraft are flying over your own head, you'll still dive into a trench like everyone else. Don't pretend you're made of steel, Oka."
Laughter spread through the group.
Then the projector stopped.
The company commander had arrived.
Conversation died instantly.
Men straightened where they sat.
The commander looked over them once.
"Pack your equipment."
A few soldiers exchanged glances.
"The next stop is Tripoli, Libya."
That announcement erased whatever boredom remained.
The war was moving east.
So were they.
Farther ahead, in Egypt, British and French commanders were already trying to predict where the German blow would fall.
A preliminary conference had been convened over a large military map.
De Gaulle no longer carried the same imposing confidence he once had.
Repeated defeats had worn away at even his iron temperament.
His face was tired, his uniform less immaculate than before, and his expression resembled that of a rooster that had lost too many fights but still refused to leave the yard.
Montgomery looked little better.
He supported his chin with one hand while tracing positions across the map with the other.
"Mr. de Gaulle, German troops attacked Oman yesterday."
He tapped the Arabian Peninsula.
"That suggests the Middle Eastern forces are not preparing to cross Sinai."
De Gaulle remained silent.
Montgomery continued.
"Their real objective is likely the elimination of our remaining positions across the Middle East while simultaneously securing themselves against a possible Soviet advance southward."
His finger moved toward the oil-producing regions.
"Oil keeps their war machine alive. Germany cannot tolerate instability anywhere near these fields."
He looked up.
"The offensive against Oman is the strongest evidence."
De Gaulle slowly shook his head.
"No."
Montgomery frowned.
De Gaulle leaned closer to the map.
"I have fought the Germans too many times to believe that."
His voice was tired, but there was certainty beneath it.
"They do not waste their attention on an enemy already drowning in another war. Soviet Russia is trapped in Finland. Germany knows it."
He tapped Oman.
"This is a feint."
Montgomery studied him.
De Gaulle continued.
"The Germans have used the same method repeatedly."
"When they invaded France, they created pressure elsewhere while the true Schwerpunkt moved through the Ardennes."
His finger crossed from Jordan toward Sinai.
"The attack on Oman serves the same purpose."
"The main German force in the Middle East is almost certainly concentrated in Jordan, preparing to strike Egypt through Sinai."
Montgomery's brows tightened.
"That seems excessively risky. What if the Soviets suddenly move south?"
De Gaulle gave a weary sigh.
"They aren't afraid."
He looked toward Montgomery.
"They weren't afraid when they drove armored columns through the Ardennes either."
For a moment, silence settled over the room.
Then De Gaulle spoke again.
"The German Army is an extraordinarily dangerous force because it combines two qualities that should not coexist."
"A willingness to gamble..."
His finger stopped over Egypt.
"...and discipline severe enough to make those gambles work."
Montgomery looked down at the map again.
De Gaulle straightened.
"Still, we should verify it."
"Contact the Soviet Union. Ask whether they have observed any major German troop concentrations along the regions bordering Iran and Soviet territory."
"If the Germans truly are shifting their main forces toward Jordan, then we need to know before they cross Sinai."
....
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