January 17th, 1936
Viktor pushed the reports back across his desk and sighed. He’d been
reading reports so long, he wondered if his legs might be still attached.
Stretching, he rubbed them a little, and a tingly trickle of blood started
working down toward his toes. “Yep, still there,” he thought. “Damn, and so
is my ass.” Slight movement by stretching had apparently been enough to
remind him of the fact. “Funny how the ass is complaining and my legs just
dutifully went to sleep.” Viktor found himself wondering whether he wasn’t
doing the same thing. He’d transferred here, to Military Intelligence, from
the Cavalry. His father's old friend, General Dumitrescu, was looking after him.
“He shows promise,” Dumitrescu had said to his father last summer,
slapping him on the back in a convivial private moment after a parade
through Sibiu, his hometown. “He should take a headquarters assignment now.
It’ll help his career.” Somehow the Headquarters assignment had morphed
into the Military Intelligence Staff assignment at the Governmental Ministry
of Intelligence. Now he’d spent the last 6 months poring over internal and
external reports. It was a nice break at first, not having to spend half
the year in the field, getting hot meals when you liked, showers, lunches at
the cafes… but Viktor was starting to feel the bureaucratic weight of it
the last few weeks. Maybe it was just the fact that it was January and it’s
snowing. Peering about, he noticed half the desks in the department were
empty. Considering a walk might do him good, he resolved to go to the water
cooler, which turned into a short step outside for some air, which turned
into a ‘quick’ cigarette outside the ministry building. As he lit the
second one, he pined a little for his coat, but not enough to go back into
the building. Instead, he walked around to the side of the great edifice
and took shelter in the archway of a lesser-used door. He soon forgot
enough of his own discomforts to marvel at how the snow coated the buildings
and streets of Bucharest for a few minutes. At least until Grigori found
him.
“Viktor, where the hell have you been?” Grigori asked him. Grigori
apparently also hadn’t bothered about a coat, but wasn’t above shivering.
“The old man wants to see us all right away!” One stubbed cigarette and
five flights of stairs later and Viktor was standing in front of the
Intelligence Minister’s desk. He smacked the desk with the flat of his hand
hard enough to make his nameplate jump. It couldn’t help but catch Viktor’s
eye on bouncing and landing: Mihail Moruzov. Moruzov was just finishing off
a tirade against the limitations of the Foreign Intelligence Branch;
limitations sparked largely by his own budget cuts, of course, but that wasn
’t under discussion. Then again, most state agencies had been forced to
tighten their belts. The country needed new industries, new technologies to
compete, or so said Goga and the King, anyway. “Nice way to co-opt the
unions,” Viktor thought cynically before being pulled by to his current
surroundings by the forceful voice of the Intelligence Minister.
“Codrescu,” Moruzov bellowed, “what do you have on the Russians?”
“Very little, sir,” Viktor replied respectfully, “I was put to work on the
Bulgarians recently.”
“Well, get to work on the Russians. I have to present an accurate assessment
to the General Staff by the end of the week of the troop situation on our
border.” Moruzov linked his pudgy little fingers together and put them in
his lap. Inclining his head to the foreign intelligence liaison, he
continued. “Our human resources cannot be adjusted from their current
assignments biased around the formations based in Odessa. We need more information about the potential troop buildups in Vinnytsa.”
“Yes, sir” Viktor said, but Moruzov scarcely seemed to notice. He was on a
role.
“The information we already have might be the key. Be sure to concentrate
on the supplies.” Moruzov rose from his chair. “You can learn a great deal
from these things. I’ve certainly been able to show them a thing or two
from them.” He pushed his thumbs behind the lapels of his suit and beamed,
no hint whatsoever of modesty. “Yessir, I’ve had an intelligence coup or
two in my time.” Puffed up to twice normal side, Moruzov practically
knocked over the Naval Intelligence officer, but took no notice. He walked
to the window and looked right through the Bucharest skyline. “The
logistics specialist, that’s what they called me. Yes, I’ve had a few
successes.” The assembled officers and civilians in the room shared a few
looks while Moruzov stared out the window, busy being hero of his own
daydream. The minister started to absently remove lint from his jacket, and
smoothed the front, all the better to appeal to his imaginary crowd, then
turned around to the staff, almost annoyed. “Well, don’t just stand there,
get to work on Vinnytsa!” Everyone filed out quickly and resumed their
posts.
“Samovars?” Moruzov said at the next morning briefing.
“Samovars, minister.” Viktor improved the display of the various papers in
front of the Intelligence Minister. "The French army may have marched on
its stomach, but the Russian army marches on its tea, and that means
samovars."
"So you're sure about an armored division?" Moruzov inquired, attempting to read the various documents.
"And another division, probably enhanced by a brigade, recently arrived." Either that, or an extremely caffeinated battalion, Viktor thought.
Moruzov gathered up the materials. "I will study these myself, and present my conclusions to the General Staff." His shuffling and aligning the stack crisply on the desk sufficed as a dismissal, so Viktor went back to his desk. He hoped the estimates on Russian tea consumption that he pulled out of thin air weren't too far off. Or that the scrap about samovar orders gleaned from the newspaper wasn't some commissar of tea implement's attempt at inflated production statistics for the glory of the motherland. Viktor smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to work. A month later, he was called into Moruzov's office. Two army staff officers, both Colonels, flanked Moruzov's desk. He wasn't nervous until Moruzov asked him to take a seat.
"They've heard about the staff Christmas party," he thought, and gripped his knees to steel himself.
"So this is Major 'Samovar' " said the Colonel on the left.
"-you're stealing my thunder!" shot Moruzov, albeit amiably. Major Codrescu, these Gentlemen are from the Army General Staff. "We wanted to take this occasion to congratulate your on your penetrating analysis of the Vinnytsa sector!" Viktor tried not to look stunned.
"Well..thank you sir " he got out. "But, how exactly are you so sure of its accuracy? And, if I may be so bold, why is it you are so pleased?" Dammit, I shouldn't have asked that, he thought. Too late to take it back now.
"It's accuracy has been confirmed by other means" stated the other Colonel matter of factly.
"And you know better than to ask!" Moruzov playfully added. "Suffice it to say it has been of some use at the highest levels of government."
"Oh, shit" Viktor thought, and started worrying again.
"The rest are details, some of which we are willing to share with you, considering your new security clearance," the first Colonel said, and tossed a folder onto the minister's desk directly in front of Codrescu, "and based on whether you accept the new position offered you."
"New position?"
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