Brian Garfield

THE ROMANOV SUCCESSION

For Bob and Mary, the Duke and Duchess of Leonia.

Few events occur at the right time, and many do not occur at all; it is the proper function of the historian to correct these faults.

—Herodotus

A Note

This is a novel of historical speculation. Some of its events and characters are real. Many are not. There were in fact three Romanov Pretenders to the Imperial Russian throne but they were not the three fictional Pretenders who appear in this book, nor were there any real-life counterparts for the fictitious Prince Felix Romanov, Prince Leon Kirov, Count Anatol Markov, Baron Oleg Zimovoi or Baron Yuri Ivanov. Except where actual historical personages are introduced (Stalin, Vlasov, Churchill and others), no resemblance whatever is intended or implied between the fictional characters of this novel and real persons.

PART ONE:

July—August 1941

HITLER ATTACKS RUSSIA

Moscow, June 22, 1941—Germany today invaded Soviet Russia.

Just after midnight this morning, Nazi bombers attacked Soviet defense installations along a 2,000-mile front from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Veteran German armies, estimated at over 3,000,000 men, rolled through the “Polish Corridor,” spearheaded by a blitz of German armor and dive-bomber destruction.

Preliminary reports from the field are fragmentary but it appears the Russians have been caught napping, lulled by the Molotov-Ribbentrop nonaggression pact signed 21 months ago. Resistance to the Nazi invasion is light, disorganized and ineffectual. The invaders are bypassing strongpoints and smashing through the most weakly defended sectors along a wide front.

Informed foreign observers in Moscow are wondering whether Josef Stalin’s vast USSR, the world’s largest nation, can possibly escape the same fate the conquering Nazi war machine has already inflicted on Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, France, Roumania, Hungary, Greece and Crete.

1.

When the light flashed he pushed himself out of the airplane and fell away into the slipstream. He felt it when he hit the end of the tape and it came free; his fist locked on the secondary ripcord to pull the lanyard if the hook-tape failed. But he didn’t need it this time: the pilot chute popped open and dragged the harness from his backpack. He knotted his muscles against the tug of the main chute.

Above him the B-18s wheeled ponderously, vomiting jumpers; the abrasive rumble of their engines disturbed the hot dry air. Alex Danilov’s silk took the air, billowed and brought him up hard. Then he was swaying, swinging, playing his hands through the shroud lines to spill a little air out of the side of the parachute and center himself over the DZ. Above him the soldiers dangled like marionettes.

Six aircraft and each of them disgorged fourteen chutists: eighty-four men and all of them had to touch down inside the marked 100-yard circle. That was the point of the exercise: precision. Yes sir—it would be twice as easy if we doubled the length of the drop zone but we want to get everybody into the smallest possible target area. In terms of Norway say a forest clearing. We want to be sure nobody gets a pine tree up his ass.

Norway, shit. Alex, the United States Army couldn’t mount a successful invasion of Staten Island right now.

He had twenty-eight seconds to hang from the lines between chute-opening and touchdown. Twenty-eight seconds was far too long if there were going to be people on the ground shooting at them. The next step in the training would be to lower the jump altitude. Bring the planes in at fifteen hundred feet, then a thousand, then seven-fifty. It could be done from four hundred but he’d settle for six. But that would rule out any margin for error—no room for a soldier’s last-minute clutch in the door, no room for backup chutes. When the training got down to that fine point they’d start to lose trainees but sooner or later it would have to be done; it was only a question of how soon.

Texas beneath him: no vestige of shade anywhere. Beyond the chalk lines a black Ford waited—a wilted corporal standing by, his faded blouse stained by the sweat that sluiced down his chest; moving back and forth slowly in the heat as if to create a breeze on himself.

The ground loomed too fast; the moment of terror came every time. He bent his knees and when he touched down he tipped right over on one shoulder and rolled to absorb the impact. Then he twisted to his feet and gathered in the shroud lines to collapse the distended chute. Around him the squads were hitting ground; Alex Danilov’s eyes watched them all, watched their touchdowns and watched the chalk line of the circle. Some of them were so close to it that the wind dragged their chutes over the line after they hit the ground but every one of them had touched down inside the deadlines and it pleased him.

He made a bundle of his silks and carried them toward the perimeter. The corporal made a hand signal and waited for him, plucking the wet blouse away from his chest. The Ford had stars on its fenders: the base commanding general’s stars, but the car was empty.

The corporal said, “General Spaight sent me to fetch you back to headquarters, sir.”

The Fort Bliss sun whacked ferociously against the rows of weathered clapboard: temporary barracks erected in 1917. Alex went inside and the G-1 nodded to him from behind the officer-of-the-day desk. Alex strode past the flag standard to the post commander’s door. When he entered the office his head just missed the top of the doorframe.

An aura of stale cigar hung around the dreary hot room: Spaight didn’t smoke but it was that kind of climate, it preserved everything like a sarcophagus.

Spaight was a brigadier; his hair and unkempt eyebrows were pewter grey: he had an easy amiable smile that squinted up the grid of tiny lines on his face. But he looked unnerved. “How was the jump?”

“Good. They’re coming along.” Alex hooked his cap over the prong of the hat rack.

“They weren’t much of a jump team before you took them over.”

“I just bark at them. They hate me so they’ve got to prove they’re harder than I am. Nothing new about it—I imagine the Greeks ran their armies the same way.”

“Pull up a chair, Alex.” Spaight tipped back in his chair and glanced uneasily toward the window where a fly seeking escape kept banging against the screen. Then he tapped a paper on his desk. “I’ve got War Department orders for you.” He looked bleak.

2.

SECRET     SECRET     SECRET

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

U.S. ARMY PERSONNEL REPORT

SUBJECT: Danilov, Alexsander I.

Following report was compiled by: Baltimore, Md., District Office. Bibliography of sources attached. The Bureau expresses its appreciation for the cooperation of BN&I, U.S. Army and U.S. Department of State in making dossiers on subject available.

Subject’s vital statistics:

Date and Place of Birth: 27 March 1907, nr. Kiev, Ukraine, Imperial Russian Empire.

Father’s name & occupation: Danilov, Ilya V. (1871-1920), officer in Imperial (“White Russian”) Army, 1889–1920.

Mother’s name (maiden) & occupation if any: Danilova, Anya F., nee Petrovna (1875-1931).

Subject’s physical description. (Attach photos). Height: 6 ft. 2 in. Weight: 180 lbs. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Grey. Distinguishing marks: Scars at throat (see photos). Smallpox vaccination, upper left bicep. 3 in. scar on back of right calf 2 in. below knee. Marital status: Single. Citizenship: U.S.A.

Summary of findings: Request for investigation of Subject was forwarded to this office from U.S. Army BuPers on 12 December 1940, pursuant to Subject’s pending receipt by special arrangement of temporary commission in U.S. Army. Clearance up to Confidential level was requested. Investigation was concluded 17 January 1941. Clearance denied by U.S. Army G-2. Temporary commission granted (Colonel AUS) for purposes of training U.S. combat troops.

Summary of results of investigation: Subject Danilov is naturalized U.S. citizen. Arrived U.S.A. 1924 as White Russian refugee (age 16). Mother became naturalized U.S. citizen 1929; subject achieved naturalized status on 21st birthday (1928). Attended Culver Military Academy (1924-25), Princeton University (B.S. 1929). Attended Sandhurst military college (G.B.—1930–31. Note: Subject’s family resided in England 1929-1934 but retained U.S. citizenship. See Appendix I, Family Affiliations).

Subject’s movements 1931-1935 have been subjected to a general trace but the Bureau recommends a more thorough check. Said movements took place outside the United States and such an investigation would be outside the jurisdiction of the Bureau. General summaries from Department of State files are attached (Appendix II, III, IV). During 1931–35 period, Subject’s activities have been described broadly as “playboy-oriented” (U.S.D.S. Report, Appendix III) with emphasis on social-set activities on the Continent: gambling, polo, yachting.

In 1935 Subject became associate of his stepbrother, Vassily I. Devenko. (See abstract on Devenko from U.S.D.S. files, Appendix V.) Note: Devenko’s private White Russian army has been described as a mercenary force but confidential reports via U.S.D.S. contraindicate such description.

In September 1935 Devenko’s White Russian Brigade enlisted in the service of the Chinese Government to combat Communist risings and Japanese aggrandizement in Manchukuo. Subject Danilov accompanied the Brigade as platoon leader, company commander and ultimately (March 1936) Operations Officer on staff of “General” Devenko. Subject’s combat record unavailable. Combat record of the Devenko Brigade as a whole has been obtained through sources in the Government of China (Appendix VI) and reports forwarded via the headquarters of Gen. Claire Chennault (Appendix VII). Consensus of reports is that the anti-Communist record of the Devenko Brigade is impeccable.

In May 1936 the Chinese Government attempted to reach a compromise with the Communists. As a result the Devenko Brigade left China (evidently at the insistence of followers of Sun Yat-sen). Complete information is lacking; U.S.D.S. reports surmise that the Brigade was disbanded temporarily (Appendix V). In August 1936 Subject Danilov joined Falangist training cadre after outbreak of Civil War in Spain. Records from U.S.D.S. are incomplete. Subject Danilov appears to have been attached to Franco army with liaison with German Condor Legion, but left this employ within nine weeks and departed Spain to rejoin Vassily I. Devenko when the White Russian Brigade was reassembled in Warsaw.

Subject Danilov served as chief-of-staff to General Devenko from October 1936 to February 1940. From 1936 to 1939 the White Russian Brigade served as a training cadre for the Free Polish Army. In July 1939 political pressure from Moscow caused Warsaw to dismiss the Brigade; it then moved, intact, to Helsinki to train Finnish combat troops. When Soviet Russia invaded Finland in November 1939, the Brigade volunteered for combat duty against the Red Army. It held frontline positions and U.S. Army reports indicate its performance was excellent (Appendix VIII).

Reports on Subject Danilov are more thorough regarding the period of the Russo-Finnish War, mainly because of the presence of American observers on the battle fronts. Dispatches from U.S. Army liaison-observers (see Appendix VIII and cable dispatches from Brigadier General John W. Spaight, military attaché-observer, in Appendix IX) indicate Subject Danilov’s performance under fire was exemplary.

In February 1940, during the Russo-Finnish War, General Devenko departed the Brigade on a leave of absence and Subject Danilov assumed temporary command. He remained in command of the unit until the conclusion of the war in March 1940. General Devenko then resumed command. Subject Danilov was wounded in action two days prior to the end of hostilities and was invalided off the duty roster. Subject spent March-May 1940 in Helsinki military hospital, then transferred for convalescence to civilian hospital in Stockholm. In September 1940 Subject Danilov returned to the United States (P. of E. New York City) in order to comply with conditions of naturalized citizenship requiring him to “touch base” on American soil at specified intervals.

On 4 October 1940 Subject Danilov was approached by Brig. Gen. John W. Spaight, U.S. Army, in an attempt to recruit Subject into American training cadre. (Appendix IX indicates the two men had become friendly in Finland.) Brig. Gen. Spaight had been assigned to take command of U.S. Army Paratroop Command Training Center at Fort Bliss, Texas, the appointment to take effect on 1 December 1940. At the same time Brig. Gen. Spaight approached the War Department with a request to make unusual exception to the regulations concerning commissions and promotions. His arguments in favor of granting a special temporary commission to Subject Danilov are recapitulated in Appendix X—principally to the effect that for purposes of training recruits there would be no adequate substitute for recent combat experience of the sort Subject Danilov had undergone.

This request for special instatement led to a requisition by U.S. Army BuPers for a Federal Security Report on Subject Danilov. This District Office’s formal report is attached (Appendix XI). In summary it concludes that while certain background details are lacking, making security clearance unfavorable, nevertheless Subject Danilov’s military background qualifies him uniquely for the requested assignment and that no indications have come to light which might negate Subject’s usefulness as a combat-training instructor for the U.S. Army.

(Note: U.S.D.S. files in Appendix XII indicate State Department ruling on question of citizenship ineligibility. Question was raised because of regulations by which naturalized U.S. citizens may forfeit citizenship as a result of having served in foreign armies. Department was asked to waive this regulation; waiver was refused, but naturalized citizenship was upheld nevertheless on the grounds that the Devenko Brigade was not an army of a foreign government; it was an independent nongovernmental organization leasing its services to various anti-Communist powers. Subject Danilov’s brief service in the employ of the Spanish government was not judged to be military service. Subject retains American citizenship.)

Date of this report: 21 January 1941.

3.

The fly kept banging against the screen and John Spaight watched it angrily but he didn’t stir from his chair. Dust motes hung in the July heat. “You did a hell of a job down here.”

Alex said, “You’re putting that in the past tense.”

“I told you—they’ve cut orders on you.” Spaight dropped his palm flat on the document on his desk. “I’ve got to ask you something Alex. We’ve never talked about it before. You spent eight or nine weeks in Spain training soldiers for Franco. Then you just bugged out without a by-your-leave. Why?”

Spaight was a friend but it looked as if he was trying to bait Alex and until he knew why he wasn’t going to fall into a trap. “A lot of us on both sides were misguided by our own zeal. Sooner or later you began to realize the Fascists were as bad as the Communists.”

“If not worse.”

“They weren’t any worse. Better equipped. I couldn’t see any other difference.”

“The point is, Alex, you got fed up and you just bugged out.”

He began to see it. “I was a mercenary there. Not a Spanish citizen. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Take it easy, Alex. There’s a point to all this. Let me put it this way—suppose we find ourselves allied with Russia against Nazi Germany. If we get into this war that’s exactly what may happen. Where does that put you, Alex? What do you do then, hating those Red Russians the way you do? You stick it out and follow orders? Or do you bug out again?”

Alex brooded at him. “John I’m a volunteer. I came down here to train soldiers, not to support political alliances. I’m not a spy, I’m a soldier—I do my job and that’s all I do. If you’re not satisfied with my work then you’d better ask for my resignation.”

“I wish it was that cut and dried.” Spaight lifted the typed page from the desk and handed it to him.

CJCS LETTER ORDER # 1431: 28 JULY 41.

FROM: CJCS, WDC.

TO: ALEXSANDER I. DANILOV, COL. AUS. 0479863.

VIA: CG FT BLISS TNG CMD.

SUBJECT: RELIEF FROM COMMAND, TRANSFER & REASSIGNMENT.

1. Subject officer is rlvd cmd of 2nd Tng Bn, 1st Spl Tng Rgt, 2 Div 4 Army, Ft Bliss Tex, Effective Immediately.

2. Subject officer is detached from 2 Div 4 Army.

3. Subject officer is reassigned Independent Duty JCS Command, WDC.

4. Subject officer will report to office of G-2 CJCS, WDC (A-X-32-B-21, Ft McNair) not later than 1000 hrs 23 July 41 for further reassignment.

5. Transportation by Ind TDY.

By order of CJCS,

G. D. Buckner, Colonel AUS

For G. C. Marshall, General USA, CJCS.

Alex folded the order along its original creases and slid it into his pocket.

Spaight said, “They’re sending in a Canadian to relieve you—veteran of Dunkirk. To teach us how to lose gracefully I suppose.”

“They’ll do all right,” Alex said in a distracted voice.

“Alex, they’re taking you out of here. Marshall’s G-2—that’s the cloak and dagger end. Frankly I’m not sure it’s the right place for you. I’m not sure you belong in this army at all under the circumstances. It was all right as long as you were down here—it gave you a chance to heal up, it gave me the best training officer I’ve ever had. But Washington, the Intelligence branch—that’s something else again.”

“They didn’t consult you about this?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I tried a phone call to Washington this morning but all I got was a runaround. But I’d have to be an ass if I didn’t figure you for one of their Russian desks in the Intelligence office.”

“And you want to know if I can be trusted there.”

“Alex, it’s a hell of a thing to have to—”

“If I can’t do the job with absolute loyalty I’ll resign.”

Spaight gave him a long scrutiny and then the smile-tracks creased around his tired eyes. “Good enough.”

He cleaned out his office desk and had the driver ferry him to the BOQ.

The wall phone was buzzing when he went by it and he lifted the earpiece off its bracket. “BOQ. Colonel Danilov.”

“Oh—Colonel. Base Central. Just tried to get you over to your office. They’s a long-distance call for you. You supposed to call Operator Three in Ann Arbor, Michigan.”

“All right. Can you make the call for me?”

“Yes sir. One moment please.”

When the connection went through it was poor. He had to shout through a hiss of static.

“Please hold on, Colonel.”

Then a man’s voice, a little quavery with age, in hard Kharkov Russian:

“Is that you, Alexsander Ilyavitch?”

Alex’s face changed. “Yes General.”

4.

He laid out his second-best uniform for traveling and showered in tepid hard water. Naked at the sink shaving, he caught his dulled scowl in the mirror. There were two puckered scars in his neck, one three inches beyond the other on the right side where a jacketed bullet had gone through—his talisman of luck: an expanding slug of soft lead would have torn his head off. But the scars were ugly and impossible to disguise.

His hair was walnutty brown peppered with grey at the sides and cropped militarily short against the high square skull; he had sun-broiled skin above the pale vee of shirt collars, a long nose and a very large mouth that formed a rectangular bracket around his teeth if he smiled. His torso was long; the cords lay flat along his bones and he was quite thin, with a runner’s wind.

For six months he had lived in this hot close room and done very little that he hadn’t been told to do. He had become a pest, ramrodding the battalion twenty-four hours a day, not giving it or himself any respite. Now they were pulling him out of his safe cocoon and that was what frightened him a little. They were throwing him into some War Department crush and he didn’t know if he’d had time to heal yet.

He thrust himself into his clothes, breaking through the starch; he drank one undersized shot of bourbon and left the bottle on the table for his successor. He had been drinking the stuff for months because it was cheap and available but he still hadn’t learned to like it.

He went back to the telephone in the hall. A G-1 major came through, waggled a hand at him and went into his room. Alex waited until the major’s door was shut.

“Base Control. He’p you?”

“This is Colonel Danilov. See if General Spaight’s still in his office, will you?”

“Yes sir. One moment please.”

Fairly quickly Spaight was on the line. “Alex?”

“I’m not sure which one of us owes the other a favor.”

“No need to keep books on it. What do you need?”

“My orders give me four days TDY to report in. I need to get to New York a lot faster than that. By tomorrow night if I can.”

“New York?” Spaight’s voice indicated his curiosity, “Okay. Where are you right now?”

“BOQ.”

“I’ll get back to you in ten minutes.”

He held the hook down long enough to break the connection. Then he made one more call, kept it brief and went back into his cubicle to make a final check of things he might have forgotten to pack. He hadn’t forgotten anything of course; he never did. But it was a clue to his unease and he deliberately stood to attention and drew several long measured breaths to calm himself.

He answered the phone on the first ring.

“You’re all set. Be at El Paso airport at eleven sharp—twenty-three hundred hours. There’s a half-squadron of brand new bombers ferrying through to Washington. I’ve got you a lift with them. Talk to the lead pilot, a Captain Johnson.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Drop me a postcard now and then.”

“Sure.”

“Good luck, Alex.”

He heard the car draw up, crunching gravel; Carol Ann’s horn blasted cheerfully—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. He gathered up his uniform coat and musette bag, glanced finally around the monastic cell and went out.

The dazzling brilliance made his eyes swim. He crossed the yellow-brown patch of lawn and tossed his things in the back seat; he slid in beside the girl and threw his arm across the back of the seat while she put the open Chevy roadster in gear.

“Time’s your train?”

“Ten-fifteen,” he said, compounding the lie. He didn’t want anyone to know about the plane ride. Spaight would keep it under his hat.

“I know a place to fill your belly.” Her long brown eyes flicked toward him. “Unless you’ve got anything else in mind you’d rather do?”

Alex shook his head.

Carol Ann had a shrewd quick way of smiling. “The Way the trains are these days you’d better get yourself around a good’ Southern meal.” She was a self-confident girl, a bit of a cynic and not much of a talker; they had met four weeks ago in a roadhouse bar and in a casual way they had filled needs in each other without talking about it. She didn’t know much about him and didn’t seem to want to.

The setting sun veined the clouds with streaks of marble pink. The hot wind raked his face and Carol Ann took the dips in the road too fast for the springs on the little car.

The Rio Grande was muddy and sluggish on his right. The landmark hills guided them into the dusty outskirts of El Paso—scrubby brush and the occasional billboard for Prince Albert Tobacco and the Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous. The car’s passage flushed a covey of quail.

Detour. Through a dry arroyo where flash floods had undercut the road. On the job a half dozen convicts in stripes worked with shovels and rakes and tar buckets, their dull Indian faces aglisten with oil sweat, and two flaccid killer guards with riot shotguns sat horseback. Their heads all turned to watch the girl behind the wheel.

She pulled into the dusty lot beside a stucco café festooned with red-and-white Coca-Cola signs. He held the screen door for her and went inside and let it slap shut on its spring. A deep-fried smell ran along the counter and the radio was twanging, Jimmie Rodgers the Singing Brakeman. They were all men at the counter, Mexicans at the back, all of them in Levi’s and high-heel boots and flannel shirts with the backs of their necks creased like old leather.

They took the booth at the front by the window where there was a little air. Fried steak, shucked corn, buttered green beans, a huge dollop of mashed potatoes with a two-spoon crater filled with lumpy gravy. The notice above the counter said We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone and beyond that there was a placard: Discussion of the President Is Prohibited. On the radio now an announcer was talking about Hank Greenberg.

Carol Ann said, “Well then, Coop.” She fancied he resembled Gary Cooper the movie star. “I’m not going to see you again. Am I?”

“Do you want to?”

She was eating, watching him. She made no direct answer to the question. She caught the counterman’s eye: “I’ll have another cup of that coffee if it’s handy.”

Gene Autry was singing Tumbling Tumbleweeds. Carol Ann stirred a lump of sugar into the coffee and fanned herself with the paper napkin. “If you ever get down this way you come and see me, hear?”

She was bony; he could see the tendons in her throat. The thin shirt hung from her shoulders and he felt sadness well up onto the back of his mouth. Her husband was a lieutenant with a construction battalion in Alaska. She lived in a drab quick-built apartment court north of El Paso near the river. She had two little girls, five and two. It was all he knew about her except that she was lonely and she was generous, giving fully of herself when it pleased her. It had been easy and quiet between them: neither of them wanted excitement. He hadn’t realized until now that it had been important enough to make him unhappy to end it.

“Where are they sending you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well you’ll handle it all right, now.”

He wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to fix the rocking chair.”

“It’s all right, Coop.”

He paid the check and she drove him to the station. There was dust on his Oxfords and she insisted on treating him: the shoeshine boy slapped his cloth across Alex’s toes with the sound of distant artillery. Then it was time to tell her to go. He kissed her on the lips, gently. It was something he had never done with her in a public place before.

She said, “I am going to miss you, Coop. You take care of yourself, hear?”

After she left it occurred to him that neither of them had asked the other to write.

He took a taxi to the airfield and waited around the hangars for the Air Corps formation to appear.

5.

There were six planes—the new B-24 Liberator type, long-range and fromidable. They gave him a waist-gunner’s seat in the third plane and showed him how to use the intercom and oxygen apparatus.

Everything he owned of any consequence was in the B-4 bag at his feet and except for the pistols none of it was of moment to him; he did not carry souvenirs of his life. It was one of the things that made him feel apart from the rest of his kind—the White Russian exiles with their passionate covetousness.

It was cold in the night sky. Through the turret perspex he watched the other planes bobbing slightly in the intangible balance of their staggered formation. The drone was hypnotic and soporific; in his mind he ran back over the tense telephone conversation with General Deniken—searching for clues to the things Deniken had left unsaid:

“Alexsander, you have been transferred to Washington. You’ve received your orders?”

“I’ve received orders, yes sir. I’m not permitted to discuss them.”

“I understand. Alexander, there is something you must do for me. I ask this in your brother’s name.”

He bridled slightly. “Yes?”

“You must go immediately to New York and meet with someone. You must do this before you report to Washington.”

“I don’t think there’s time for that, General.”

“Make the time. This is a matter of the utmost importance—it is vital. The Plaza Hotel in New York, do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“You must be there by tomorrow evening.”

“Will you be there, General?”

“No, they’re sending someone from Feodor’s group in Spain. I don’t know which of them it is. It may be your brother. It may well be Prince Leon himself. The matter is that important. I beg of you be there within twenty-four hours. I ask this in Vassily’s name.”

There was no way to refuse the old man. If the exiled shell of White Russia had a savior then A. I. Deniken was that man. He was the greatest White general of the Russian Civil War and he had been the last Supreme Ruler of All the Russias: to the White exiles and even to the surviving Romanov Pretenders like the Grand Duke Feodor he was the next thing to a Czar.

Put by Deniken it could not be refused.

In the early hours they took more than an hour to refuel at Wright Field in Ohio and then they were droning on through a dull summer morning, buffeting in the turbulence of the clouds. At three in the afternoon they came into McGuire Field. Captain Johnson walked back from the leading Liberator, a parachute pack trailing in his fist. “I’ve got to report in but I’m driving over to Philadelphia right away. If you want to hang around I’ll give you a lift to the Trenton station. It’s about an hour and a half on the train to New York.”

Alex waited for him in the PX canteen. Johnson collected him at three forty-five. He had a motor-pool Ford. Alex tossed his bag in the back seat and climbed in.

“My name’s Paul, Colonel. Most of them call me Papp—I’m four years older than the next oldest pilot in the Thirty-fifth”

Alex reached across his lap to shake hands. “I appreciate your trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Always bothers the taxpayer in me when we have to ferry those big jobs empty—seems like a hell of a waste of aviation gasoline.”

Johnson was a stocky man with blunt hands and short reddish hair and a square freckled face. He couldn’t have been much over thirty: “Pappy.” At thirty-four Alex felt old.

Johnson drove as if pursued, flashing along the narrow roads of the New Jersey pine barrens. It was hot under the sullen sky and they kept the windows wide open; Johnson shouted to make himself heard. “They got you aboard damn quick down at El Paso. You mind if I ask where you get your drag?”

“The base commander at Bliss is an old friend. We soldiered together in Finland.”

A sudden sidewise glance; Johnson’s face changed. “Danilov—sure. They had a piece on you in Colliers last year, right? ‘This man goes where the wars are’—something like that. Joined up over here to train ranger commandoes, wasn’t that it? Listen, you’ve seen those German planes in action. How do they really stack up?”

“They’re not as good as Goering and Goebbels want us to think. The Spitfires have been handing it to the Messerschmitts.”

“Weren’t you in China?”

Johnson’s professionalism was total: it was a characteristic of good airmen. Anticipating the question Alex said, “There isn’t a plane in the world that can match the Japanese Zero.”

“I’ll tell you something, Colonel, you give me a B-Seventeen Fort and I’ll take my chances against those peashooters. You ever seen a Fort up close?”

“No.”

“Sweetest airplane a man ever built. We had a flight of prototypes for tryouts last year. You think we’ll be in this war, Colonel? I don’t think it’s going to be decided by Messerschmitts or Zeroes or anybody else’s peashooters. I think it’s going to be dogfaces and carriers and long-range four-engine bombers. That’s the three things that will decide it—the rest is all window dressing. It takes carriers to open the sea-lanes. It takes heavy bombers to flatten the enemy’s communications and supply lines. Takes the infantry to root him out and finish him. That’s the whole story of this war we’re looking at.”

Johnson had the earmarks of a long-distance talker but Alex listened with respect because the pilot was a shrewd man and obviously it was a thing to which he’d given a great deal of thought.

Alex said, “I’d add one thing to that list. I’ve seen panzers in action.”

“I don’t agree. That’s only tactics. You can stop a tank easy if you’re ready for it. They’re sitting ducks. Too many ways you can hit a tank. Let me tell you something—I put my squadron through a little experiment last year. We mocked up twenty tanks on the ground out at Camp Hunter-Liggett in the Mohave Desert and then we took off. We made a regular war game out of it—phony flak, the works.

“We plastered hell out of them. On the scorecard it was Air Corps fifteen, Armor nothing.” Johnson flashed a glance at him. “Low-level precision bombing, Colonel. You’re right on top of your target—hell you can’t miss if your bombardiers know their jobs. You know how good a target a big fat tank makes from fifty feet altitude?”

“What if they’d been real tanks—taking evasive action?”

“Tanks can’t maneuver that fast. They turn like bull elephants—catch them on rough terrain even the best panther tank can’t make better than fifteen, eighteen miles an hour. They’re sitting ducks. But the War Department gave me that same line. Christ I felt like Billy Mitchell. They told me to take my ideas and shove them. Well I guess that’s all right—when the time comes maybe I can talk them into taking out that report of mine and dusting it off. We’re not into the war yet, a lot of things are likely to change.”

Johnson guided the Ford smoothly through the main street of a small town. On the outskirts he put it back up to fifty and went swaying through the bends. Light rain began to bead up on the windshield. Alex said, “You can really pinpoint a target as small as a tank, can you?”

“It takes training, Colonel. I never said it was easy. But one of these days it’s going to help win this war.”

6.

The train was jammed; he had to stand. It was a commuter express with stops at Princeton Junction and New Brunswick and Newark; filled with businessmen in black fedoras and wide snap-brims. There were soldiers on furlough and vacationing college students in ribboned bonnets and white shoes, giggling their way to New York where you could drink liquor at eighteen. The placards advertised Rupert’s Beer and the Radio City Music Hall feature, Gary Cooper in Sergeant York. Ivory Soap was 99.44/100ths% pure and Lucky Strike meant fine tobacco and the 1941 Lincoln Zephyr was the fine car for everyman. On the commuters’ newspapers the headlines bannered F.D.R. TO NATIONALIZE PHILIPPINE ARMY—Moves in Response to Jap Occupation of Indo-China. Mac-Arthur to Command.

Pushing through the crowd he carried his bag through throngs of redcap porters up the stairs and the long Penn Station ramp past the Savarin restaurant where middle-aged women sat in flowered hats watching the big railroad clocks.

Like battling stags two black Fords had locked bumpers in the center of Seventh Avenue and the boulevard was a tangle of hooting cars. He went through the station’s immense stone columns and made his way two blocks uptown to get out of the jam.

It was a five-minute wait and then he was riding uptown in a taxi with his B-4 bag on the seat beside him and his hand in the strap-loop: New York traffic always terrified him. Along Seventh Avenue the menials of the Garment District pushed their heavy clothes-hanger dollies through the tangle of trucks and cars and horsecarts.

The traffic in Times Square was intense and the big illuminated signs flashed at him painfully—I’d Walk a Mile for a Camel; Seagram’s for the Man of Distinction. Leather-throated newsboys hawked the Mirror and the Trib and tourists gawked at the enormous Paramount cinema palace.

The taxi had the peculiar De Soto smell of old leather and cigar ash. It decanted him in the semicircular drive before the Plaza and he hauled his bag into the oak-and-marble lobby. At the mail desk he identified himself and was handed a note on the hotel’s embossed stationery, neatly handwritten in the Cyrillic characters of the Russian alphabet:

“Alex—

You are booked in. Come around at eight o’clock to #917.—I.”

He puzzled it momentarily before he pocketed it and moved on to the reception desk. A clerk gave his uniform a glance of utter contempt. “May I help you?”

“Colonel Danilov. There’s a reservation for me, I think.”

“I’m not sure there’s—oh yes, here you are. Room Nine-nineteen.” Not troubling to conceal his disapproval the clerk struck his palm down on the counter-top bell. “Front!”

The bellboy had the red muscular face of an experienced Irish drinker. He regarded Alex’s single soft bag with displeasure, heaved it under his arm and took the key from the clerk. “This way sir if you please.”

On the ninth floor the middle-aged boy led Alex along the deep-carpeted hall to the northeast corner of the building and into a luxuriously spacious chamber that gave him a view of the whole of Central Park and across Fifth Avenue to the lights of the Pierre and the Savoy Plaza and the Sherry Netherland. The bellboy examined Alex’s twenty-five cent piece as if he suspected its worth and backed out of the room with a stiff bow.

Alex took his dop kit into the marble-tiled bathroom; washed and shaved and combed and emerged rereading the note. “I” could be Ivan or Igor or Ilya: there were numerous men with those names among his acquaintances in the White Russian exile organizations and families. It annoyed him a little: the passion for unnecessary conspiratorial secrecy.

A bottle of Polish vodka lay canted in a champagne bucket filled with ice. He lifted it out and brooded at the straw of buffalo grass that lay inside the sealed clear bottle. Someone knew his taste. He poured the two-ounce bartender’s glass full and downed it; replaced the bottle and settled into a chair, and waited. He neither smoked nor drank again; he only waited.

At eight he went out, turned to Room 917 next door in the hall and knocked.

“Yes?” A woman. “Who is it?”

His host had company then. Alex contained his impatience—made his face blank. “Colonel Danilov.”

He heard soft footfalls on a carpet. A key turned in the lock and the door pivoted to disclose a stunning dark-haired woman in red.

His face changed. “Irina.”

Irina Markova smiled. “Come in, Alex, don’t stand there looking like a stunned schoolboy with his hat in his hand.”

He entered the room warily; behind him the door clicked shut and Irina said in her low liquid Russian, “There’s no need to clench your teeth. Vassily’s not with me. We’re alone.”

He turned, feeling odd.

“Just you and I.” She smiled again. “How romantic.”

All the old passions slid back into place entirely against his will. A spiral of heat rose from his stomach: he felt tricked. “What’s this meant to be, Irina?”

“They need you, Alex. It’s supposed to be a seduction.”

7.

There was a sense of mystery about Irina that ramified from her like a spreading fog of intoxicating perfume. She was clearly aware of it; she did nothing to dispel it.

The natural shape of her blue eyes was slightly mournful—Eurasian. Her hair was gypsy-black and long. The fashionably broad shoulders and fitted long taut waist of her red dress made her seem tall although she was not unusually so. Everything seemed to amuse her as if her point of vantage over the human tribe were a bit Olympian; she seemed to have the knack of surviving the shocks of her explosive life without ever being touched by them.

It was a luxurious two-room suite, larger than his own. She moved languidly away from him. “I’ve sherry or vodka.”

“Sherry.” He’d need a clear head. He settled into a chair.

“I’ve ordered dinner sent up at nine.”

“Have you.”

“We’re having a tryst, aren’t we? It wouldn’t look quite right if we went out and mingled.”

Her mouth curved into a posture of wry self-mockery. She brought him a glass of sherry and then slid back into the couch that faced his chair across the low glass coffee table. She smoothed her skirt under her thighs—the gesture had a strong sensuality. “You look awfully drab in that uniform.”

“Why don’t you tell me what game we’re meant to be playing?”

“So matter-of-fact. Where’s your dash?” She tucked one foot up under her on the couch.

“I’d rather you didn’t try to be coquettish. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh dear.” She tossed her hair back, full of subtle mischief. “Now you’ve crushed me. Have I quite lost all my charms?” When she sipped the pale sherry her eyes mocked him over the rim of the glass.

“No.” It was an admission.

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t really fishing for that.” But her eyes went on glittering with amusement; then she said in a different voice, “Very well. They want to see you.”

“They?”

“Your brother. My father. Prince Leon. All of them.”

“Do they.”

“Is that all you can say?”

He watched the way her muscles moved when she set her glass down. “What do you want me to say, Irina?”

“I don’t know. I’ve no feverish desire to put words in your mouth. But some reaction—some hint of feeling. What will it take to provoke an emotion in you?”

“The fact that I don’t parade my feelings doesn’t mean that I don’t have them.”

“You used to burst with fires. That great Russian joie de vivre.”

“We were all children, weren’t we? And it was a different world.”

“You got fed up with seeing us all go on living in international luxury as if nothing had changed. The same old servants and horse races and hunts and chemin-de-fer—all our silly aristocratic posturings while Europe is falling down around our ankles. Isn’t that what you told Prince Leon the last time you saw him?”

“Something like that.”

She uttered a bawdy bark of laughter. “Oh really, Alex. Sometimes you act like one of those grim dedicated adolescents who hang on Oleg Zimovoi’s Socialist coattails.”

He had a disoriented sensation because the silent conversation between their eyes was separate and wholly different from the words: their voices spoke in dispute and accusation; their mute colloquy spoke of passions, regrets, remembered love.

“You’re a Russian. You were born in Kiev—you spent your childhood in St. Petersburg.” She spoke with surprising earnestness and heat: “You can’t deny yourself, Alex. You can’t put that behind you.”

“I have.”

“Your father died fighting for your country.” Her eyes challenged him.

“It was a long time ago,”

His father had been a Marquis, a brigadier with Wrangel in the Ukraine in 1919 and the Red artillery had destroyed the bunker with five of them in it. Alex was twelve years old and the news broke him apart.

They were living near Kiev just then, he and his mother in a rented dacha with only four servants.

The day after the news reached them Alex ran away to Kiev and enlisted in a White recruiting office; he claimed he was sixteen. He was in training barracks resplendent in his new uniform when his mother’s emissaries found him and dragged him home.

They found themselves under General Devenko’s protection when the terrible White retreat began after the collapse of Kolchak’s White armies. Ilya Devenko was a high staff officer in Deniken’s headquarters; he kept the mother and son from perishing in the chaotic horde of refugees fleeing south ahead of Trotsky’s relentless Bolshevik advance. Alex had clear recollection of the packed trains, the endless throngs trudging across the frozen mud of the Ukraine.

General Ilya Devenko had been a very tall man with a voice like lumps of coal crashing down a metal chute. Alex had known him as long as he could remember: the General had been a classmate of Alex’s father, a regular if not frenquent visitor at Danilov soirées before the war. The General’s son Vassily was twice Alex’s age in 1920 and at twenty-six was a full colonel of infantry with an outstanding record of gallantry in the field against the First Red Army.

General Devenko’s wife had died of spotted typhus in the Kuban campaigns of 1918 and perhaps it was inevitable that the widower general should marry Alex’s mother who was a general’s widow. The ceremony took place in Sebastopol in 1921, in the Orthodox Cathedral with Alex giving his mother away and Vassily carrying the ring for his father.

It made Vassily a stepbrother to Alex. Immediately after the wedding Vassily returned to the line to hold the Reds back so that the city could be evacuated aboard ships of the French navy. Alex went aboard a transport reluctantly; they spent his mother’s wedding night in the crowded salon listening to the crashing of the guns. She did not see her new husband again until three weeks later when they were reunited in Istanbul: the newlywed Devenkos, General Deniken, Alex and his stepbrother Vassily, the hero of Sebastopol. With a force which at the end numbered fewer than four hundred men Vassily had kept the Bolsheviks back for a vital eighteen hours while tens of thousands of refugees had been hurried on board the French ships and taken away onto the safety of the Black Sea.

Irina said, “It wasn’t so long ago you can have forgotten it.”

“No.” Twenty years but he could still see the horizon lit by the night barrages; he could feel the sucking mud around his feet and taste the brass of terror on his tongue and he could smell the cold sweat of the refugee mobs clawing at the passing trains. The empty-eyed faces of the soldiers slogging back toward the front; the gnash of Renault ambulances and Daimler-Benz staff cars beating through the cobbled streets, scattering pedestrians; the screams of agony, the stink of suppurating death along the rows of old buildings taken over for hospitals; the taste of dog meat and metallic boiled water; the incongruity—he’d never been able to exorcise it from memory—of a piano heard in a rubbled Sebastopol street while dust hung rancid in the city and 75 mm shells rumbled against the quays. He hadn’t been able to hear Tchaikovsky’s first Piano Concerto since then without nausea.

“No—I haven’t forgotten.”

“You’ve an obligation.”

“To a gang of baccarat and croquet players? To a pack of foolish Romanov Pretenders spending their pointless lives at each other’s throats to claim a throne that doesn’t exist any more?”

“To your brother for one.”

“Vassily Ilyavitch is not my brother.”

“There was a time when you were proud to think he was.”

“That’s an empty refrain, isn’t it? The past doesn’t exist now—not for any of us. There’s no St. Petersburg, there’s only Leningrad.”

An obsequious knock: the boy wheeled in the cart, fussed a while, backed his way out.

Irina lifted the steel domes off the dinner plates. He saw chilled grey Beluga caviar in a bowl at the center. Irina said, “They claim it’s beef stroganoff but I shouldn’t expect too much.”

“I’m used to the Bachelor Officers’ mess hall.”

“How awful.”

He drew up two chairs and when he seated her there was an electric contact where her hair brushed his hand. He went around the table and sat—watching her.

She didn’t chatter; she fell upon the meal. She had always been hearty about everything she did.

She was his own age—thirty-four—almost to the month; but you couldn’t know that by looking at her. Her stunning beauty was in the bones more than the complexion and objectively there would be no way to tell whether she was twenty-five or forty-five.

She was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever known.

She said, “Is there some particular part of my face that fascinates you?”

“All of it.”

“You’re still a devastatingly attractive man yourself. You’ve improved with age. Those sprigs of grey around the ears—très distingué. And you’ve never looked so fit.”

“It must be a product of the spartan life.”

“Now you’re being silly.” She had a rakish look—mischievous. “That American woman was quite right. You put one in mind of Gary Cooper.”

It startled him and she laughed at him. “In one of your letters to Prince Leon. He repeated it to me with great amusement.”

“How is he?”

“I think the leg bothers him more than it used to. He’s not young you know—he’s sixty-four, a year older than the Grand Duke. He hasn’t spoken your name in my presence. He’s taken it for granted you and I didn’t want to be reminded of each other.”

He let it slip by because he wasn’t ready to confront it quite yet. He finished the entrée, hardly having tasted it; he took a breath. “And Vassily? I suppose I should ask.”

She said, “I haven’t seen Vassily in several years. Not since the last time you saw us together.”

He was amazed and did not try to hide it.

Irina said, “Vassily wants a passionate peasant woman—he wants devotion, not questions. I’m far to abrasive for him, I don’t fit his conception of what a soldier’s woman should be.”

She pushed her plate aside. “It wasn’t very good, was it? The stroganoff. I did warn you. The coffee’s still warm—would you like a cup?”

He waited until she had poured; they took their cups back to the stuffed chairs at the coffee table. Then he said, “It’s time you came to the point. You’ve implied you’re acting as an emissary from Vassily and now you tell me you haven’t seen him in years. It’s time you sorted it out.”

“I suppose it is. They want you to come back. They need you—they need your skills. As a soldier.”

“What the devil for?”

“They’re planning a war.”

Finally he said, “You’d better tell me about it.”

“I can’t.” She spread her hands. The half-smile was directed against herself. “I’m only a messenger. They don’t let women into their councils.”

“Then why send you if you can’t explain it to me?”

“I’m only here to ask you to come back to Spain and talk to them—listen to them.”

“They could have asked me that in a letter.”

“Would you have gone?”

“I’m a soldier, Irina. I can’t just pick up and leave my duty post.”

“There, you see? That’s why they sent me. To seduce you into trailing along with me back to Spain. Baron Oleg—you know him well enough. Something convinced him that I need only drop a handkerchief and any man in sight will become my adoring slave.”

“You haven’t dropped a handkerchief, really. Have you?”

“No.”

“Did you tell Oleg you would?”

“I suppose I was evasive. I didn’t promise anything—but he drew his own conclusions when I agreed to come.”

“Why did you?”

“I wanted to see you.” She finished her coffee and put the cup down in the saucer. “Don’t stiffen up. That’s not a handkerchief. I’m being as honest as I’m able. I’m trying not to mislead you.”

“I’m puzzled, Irina. Who is it you’re betraying—Oleg or me?”

“Neither. I’ve brought you his message. I urge you to go to Spain.”

He said, “Oleg’s always tended to be more devious than necessary. He’s been infatuated with you for years.”

“I know.” She said it indifferently. “I’m afraid I don’t feel it puts me under an obligation to him. I’m not responsible for Oleg’s emotional foolishness.”

“But you came.”

“To see you.”

“What’s Vassily’s place in this?”

“They’ve coalesced—the factions. Oleg’s Socialists, the old-line liberal aristocracy, the reactionaries, even the partisans of each of the Pretenders. They’ve formed a consortium. It’s the first time they’ve ever worked together. Even during the Civil War they were always at loggerheads—Prince Leon insists that’s why we lost Russia to the Bolsheviks.”

“What’s that got to do with Vassily?”

“They’re planning something military. Vassily’s been selected to command it.”

“Command what? There’s no White Russian army—only a scattered pack of old-time exiles.”

“I can’t say, Alex. I do know that Vassily’s at the center of it.”

“Whatever their scheme is—is it his idea?”

“No; they brought him into it recently. He’s been in England you know—he’s still got a commission with the Free Poles.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He’s in hiding. There’ve been threats on his life—someone’s tried to kill him.”

His belly churned. After a moment he said. “Why?”

“We’re not sure. Apparently Vassily wants to believe it’s someone from the past—someone with a grudge. It’s plausible, isn’t it? His arrogance must have made him a good many enemies.”

“But you don’t believe it’s that.”

“I’m not certain—Prince Leon thinks it must be someone who’s trying to stop them by assassinating Vassily. He’s the key to it all—he’s the leader they’ve chosen to command it. Without Vassily the rest of them might not know how to proceed.”

He thought of Prince Leon, kindly and craggy, the best of the lot of them.

“Will you come with me?”

“I’ve got orders. I’m not a free agent.”

“It’s been arranged for you.”

He shot her a sharp glance. “You just keep chucking stones in the pond, don’t you? How do you mean that?”

“With your War Department. Don’t look so dubious, Alex. There’s an American colonel at Fort McNair who will arrange everything for you.”

He was working at the puzzle in his mind. “Is it their idea to throw in with Germany against the Bolsheviks?”

“No.”

“You said that very fast.”

Her eyes flickered. “Would Prince Leon have anything to do with the Hitler gang? Would Oleg? Alex, I’ve told you all I can. What have you to lose? I’ve made no conditions.”

Her eyes glinted in the lamplight. She reached for the Du Mauriers on the coffee table and leaned forward to accept a light from his match. She held his glance; he felt ripples of flame. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

But he made no immediate answer. He watched her throw her head back to sigh smoke toward the ceiling: he watched the long curve of her throat. She said, “It’s Vassily of course. You don’t want to have to work with him. What happened between you in Finland?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“No. I only know it cost him his command. He said it was between the two of you. It’s turned him bitter, you know.”

“It was his own fault.”

“What was it?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you—when we trust each other more than we do now.”

“What a sad thing to say.” She squinted in the curling smoke. “We used to trust each other with everything.”

“Yes.”

She sat back; it was a gesture of regretful withdrawal. They had been on the point of intimacy but it was gone. She said, “You’d be under Vassily’s command but you wouldn’t be working closely with him. You’d be continents apart. Does that make a difference?”

“Not particularly. It would still be his orders.”

“You hate him that much.”

“No. But I think they’ve picked the wrong commander.”

“No matter what the scheme is?”

“He’ll make a mistake—the kind you can’t patch up.”

“The others don’t feel that way, Alex. Are you that much wiser than the rest of them?”

“The rest of them weren’t in Finland.”

“It must have been something extraordinary for you to find it so unforgivable.” Then abruptly she said, “If you have that much reason to distrust Vassily don’t you owe it to Prince Leon and the others to warn them? At least give them the facts and let them decide.”

“You can’t destroy their heroes without injuring their self-respect—and God knows they’ve got damn little left as it is.”

“This is too important for that, Alex. You can’t be decided by those considerations when their lives may be at stake.”

“Their lives?”

“All of them. Prince Leon, Oleg, my father, Felix—the whole lot. They’re putting everything on the line. Everything they’ve got—everything.”

“You didn’t say that before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure you are. It was your heaviest shot. You saved it for last.”

“Neatly trapped. Am I so transparent? I surrender, dear. You always were a match for me.” Irina stubbed her cigarette out. “Then it’s settled. Good.” She rose from her seat. “Help me push this ghastly mess out in the hall, would you dear?”

He rolled the tray out through the foyer and when he turned away from it she was in the doorway looking at him in a way he could not mistake.

“Thank you, darling.” It wasn’t clear whether she meant the tray or his capitulation. “There’s a fair Courvoisier.”

“All right.” He had his hand on the room key in his pocket; but her face drew him back into the suite.

She brought the cognac to the couch. The two hotel glasses looked strange in her hand: it was made for crystal goblets. “I feel nervous with you. Isn’t it absurd? But you’re like a caged predator tonight.”

The cognac spread warmth down his throat. He wanted to gather her against him but too many demons stood between them.

Then Irina said, “Felix is racing his motorcar at Estoril this week.”

“He’s still doing that, is he?”

“Cars and airplanes. It’s all he thinks of.” She had another Du Maurier. “It must be wonderful to have life so simply arranged.”

“He’s never grown up.”

“I wish none of us had.” She went suddenly from that to what was really on her mind: “I was infatuated with Vassily—it was his raw power. But even then I began to think of you—I began to wish it was you. But I’d made the mistake and I suppose I was too proud to try to change back—perhaps I didn’t want to face the chance that you’d hate me.”

She bent her shoulders and brooded into the cognac. “Do you see what I’m doing now? It isn’t like me—I’m asking your forgiveness.”

Then she looked up: the light fell across her face in harsh shadows. “Perhaps I am dropping a handkerchief. But it’s not tangled up in this other thing. We had to settle that first.”

He knew it was no good trying to go back to where they’d been long before; clocks didn’t run backward. But that wasn’t what she was asking for. It took a great effort of will for her to express contrition: it was the first time he’d known her to humble herself when it wasn’t contrived. She was an aristocrat, the daughter of a Count—they were a class of people who’d go to war before they’d apologize for anything important. He had a feeling she’d agonized over this; she’d rehearsed it. But that didn’t make it any less genuine—it only emphasized the vital importance it had for her.

“Irina—”

“You don’t need to be gentle.” But she was watching him, ready to close everything down and bleed silently inside.

He touched her nape and she half turned on the couch; her breast trembled against him. Her face came up and she curled obediently into his arms. Then suddenly she was gripping his back with desperate strength and the tears burst from her. “Oh my darling Alex.”

Daylight curled around the drapes. Irina lay across the bed with sprawled abandon.

He waited until the day brought her awake. Her eyes were puzzled for a brief instant and then they softened; it made the planes of her face blur in contentment.

He kissed her and got to his feet. Her lips parted; she followed him with her eyes. She stretched opulently like a cat.

“I’ve got to go to Washington.”

“I know. You’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You could come down with me.”

“I haven’t finished doing Fifth Avenue.” She smiled, watching him knot his tie.

In the dining room, waiting to be led to their table, she wet her lips and contrived to touch his hand with elaborate casualness; at the table she devoured her first cup of coffee greedily and stared at him wide-eyed with her lips peeled back from her teeth: sultry and sensuous. She was the most sophisticated of women and the most primitive. Her appetites were atavistic and without inhibition and when she committed herself she held nothing back.

Walking him out to the portico she drew and held the stares of every pair of eyes in the plush lobby. She’s Garbo and Dietrich in one, young Prince Felix had said in awe after he’d first met Irina.

When the taxi took him away she was standing on the steps shading her eyes.

8.

Colonel Glenn Buckner had an office in an overflow annex not far from the War Department. Alex tried to get his bearings; the lettering in the corridors was baffling. Officers carrying documents hurried through in creased poplin—there was a kind of muted urgency about them. Alex asked directions and reached Buckner’s office ten minutes ahead of his scheduled appointment.

A half-bald sergeant sat at a small desk rattling a typewriter. He stopped long enough to look up.

“Colonel Danilov to see Colonel Buckner.”

“I’m sorry sir, he’s over to the White House. He’ll be here sometime, that’s all I can tell you. You can get coffee in the canteen down the hall.”

Finally at ten minutes before twelve a bulky brisk man in a blue flannel suit came along the hall. “Danilov? I’m Glenn Buckner.”

Buckner was not more than thirty. His hair was cordovan brown and all his bones were big. He had a wide square face and quick blue eyes. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

The sergeant said, “You had a call from Admiral King’s C of S, sir.”

“Later.” Buckner’s handshake was firm but he wasn’t a knuckle-grinder. “Come on in. Don’t mind me being in mufti—people on the Hill get nervous if they see too many uniforms goose-stepping into the White House so a lot of us wear civvies. The President’s idea. Shut the door, will you? Take a seat. Be right with you.”

It was a small room with a metal desk and two telephones; no window. The walls were pale yellow on plain sheetrock—temporary partitions. It had been carved out of a bigger room at some point. Buckner pulled open a wooden file drawer and rummaged; made a throat noise of satisfaction, lifted out a thin folder and carried it to the desk. “Go on—sit down, sit down.” Buckner cocked a hip on the corner of the desk and sat with one ankle dangling.

“I’d better start by establishing credentials. You know who I am?”

“Aide to General Marshall, I gather.”

“In a way. Actually I’m attached to the White House—military advisor on Soviet affairs. I was Military Attache in Moscow until a few months ago.”

Alex shifted mental gears; he hadn’t anticipated this.

Buckner said, “I’m told you hate the Bolsheviks.”

“No.”

Buckner smiled slowly. “Okay, You’d better explain that one.”

“I’m a White Russian, Colonel. We were brought up to hate Bolsheviks but you outgrow that after a while. I’m not crazy about Communists but I don’t hate them.”

“For a man who can’t be bothered to hate them you’ve spent a lot of time shooting at them.”

“That’s something else,” Alex said. “That’s Stalin.”

“Ah. I see now.”

“Stalin’s no more a Communist than Hitler is.”

“Well you’ve got a point there.” Buckner watched him speculatively. “You’re acquainted with General A. I. Deniken, I think.”

“Yes.”

“He commands a good deal of clout in Washington. Secretary Stimson’s known him for years. Your General Deniken was in a position to get the ear of the Secretary. He brought us an idea. Deniken approached Secretary Stimson. The Secretary and I conferred and then we took it to the President. He listened. The idea didn’t originate with Deniken, it came to him from a group of your people in Europe. Principally the group around your Grand Duke Feodor and his cousin, what’s his name, Leo Kirov?”

“Leon. Prince Leon.”

“Ordinarily it wouldn’t have cut any ice. I mean it’s a bunch of exiled leaders who’ve never even bothered to set up a government-in-exile on paper. There are three Grand Dukes all claiming to be the real Pretender to the Czar’s throne—and none of them speak to each other and one of them’s a Nazi. I mean it’s not the kind of situation anybody takes seriously from the outside. That’d be sort of like trying to restore the King of England to the North American throne.

“But Deniken wasn’t talking about restoring the monarchy in Russia. He was talking about winning the war, or losing the war.

“Right now this country’s in the same frame of mind that Chamberlain’s England was in at the time of the Munich pact. We need time to educate the people. Time for the President to convince those blind idiots in Congress that they can fight or they can surrender but they can’t just go on ignoring it. You can’t be an isolationist in the age of the long-range bomber and the aircraft carrier.”

The pencil point broke; Buckner threw it down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to speechify. I get pissed about it. All right, this proposal your people put forward—the President thinks it may help us buy the time we need.”

“You’re keeping a lot under your hat.”

“I have to. Look, this conversation is not taking place. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to meet President Roosevelt, Colonel. You’re only going to meet me. You understand why?”

“I think so.”

“If you flap your lip in the wrong places it won’t hurt anybody but me. I’ll deny it and you’ll look like an ass. Officially I’m not on the White House staff. There’s nothing on paper that empowers me to speak for the President. That’s the way it’s got to be—we’ve got to cover the President’s ass. Clear enough?”

“Yes.”

“If I’m challenged I’m prepared to testify that you and I are meeting right now to discuss your duties on your new assignment on the Soviet desk at War Department Intelligence. That’s your official roster duty, by the way, until you hand in your resignation.”

“My what?”

“We’ll get to that,” Buckner said. “This is a complex operation they’ve proposed. We’re going to need close liaison at all points. Your name was put forward by Prince Leon and his group—they said you were one of them and one of us at the same time, you’d be the ideal contact man.”

“What about you? What do you think?”

“I go along with them. It’s their operation.”

“From the way you’re talking I’m getting the feeling you’re making it yours. President Roosevelt’s.”

“It’s got to be a Russian operation. Led by Russians and manned by Russians exclusively. There can’t be a single American involved in it. We’ll provide support but it’s got to be invisible. You can understand that.”

“I might if I knew what it was.”

“I have to leave that up to your own people.”

“I’m an officer in the United States Army. You’re my people,”

“Not if you take this job on. You’ll have to resign your commission. That’s what I meant before.” Buckner smiled a bit ruefully; his smile laced crow’s feet around his eyes and gave him an outdoor look. “It won’t be a piece of cake, Colonel, but it could make you a mighty big place in history if that sort of thing impresses you.”

“Tell me this—who’s got the final authority over operational plans?”

“I’d hope we’d be able to take that on the basis of mutual cooperation. But the decision will have to be up to your people, ultimately. Frankly that’s one reason I’m pleased with this meeting. I have a feeling you and I should be able to work together pretty well.”

Buckner riffled the files in the open folder on his desk. “If your people blow the operation it’s their own neck. The United States had nothing to do with it. I hope they all understand that.”

“I’ll make sure they do.” It could affect their decisions; it might even cool them from the plan, if that seemed necessary. He felt handcuffed by ignorance: he had to contain his anger.

Buckner produced a typed letter-order. “You’re officially on thirty-day furlough as of now. Go to Europe, talk to them, get it all settled among you. Then come back and tell me what you’ve decided and we’ll get to work.” He handed it across the desk. “Don’t waste time. The war isn’t standing still for us. I’m going to book you on the diplomatic plane to Lisbon tomorrow afternoon.”

“You’d better make it two seats.”

It caused a momentary freeze. Buckner’s expression inquired of him; then it changed before Alex could speak. “The Countess. Sorry, I forgot.”

It was Irina’s mother who was the Countess but he didn’t take the trouble to set Buckner straight. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

Buckner had an ingratiating grin that showed a great many teeth. “Not when it counts. That’s what the President pays me for.”

Alex found himself liking the American despite his suspicions. Buckner didn’t have the secretive trappings that usually went with positions like his.

Buckner seemed to sense the line of his thinking. “You’re coming into this dead cold, aren’t you? It’s all brand new to you. I gather the Countess couldn’t tell you much about it.”

“No.”

“That’s a hell of a woman.” He was turning pages over; he paused at one. “This is your letter of resignation. You’ll decide whether you want to sign it—it’ll be waiting here when you get back from Europe.”

“You’re pretty confident. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had it typed up.”

“You’ll take the job,” Buckner said. “You’d be crazy not to.”

But Buckner didn’t know Vassily Devenko.

PART TWO:

August 1941

1.

The assassin stood in shadow just within the fringe of the oaks. He could not be seen out of the sunlight—he was merely another dark vertical shape in the forest shadows with the heavier mass of the mountains looming above and behind him.

It was his last chance. He’d tried it and miffed it twice before. Blow it again and his employers would have his head in a basket. But he didn’t feel nervous on that account. If you had nerves you didn’t go into this game in the first place.

He held the 8x Zeiss glasses casually by their strap. At intervals he fitted the reticles to his eye sockets and studied the long motorcars arriving by ones and twos.

The villa a thousand meters below him was a restored seventeenth century ducal summer palace, erected recklessly in the foothills of the Pyrenees by an insensitive Bourbon during a time of Spanish decline and retrenchment. Its builder’s wealth obviously had exceeded his grasp of architectural unities: from the assassin’s angle of view it resembled a village of semidetached buildings haphazardly assembled at different times.

He had never been inside it but he had seen photographs of the interior and had committed a draftsman’s schematic plans to memory. Its rooms were constructed on an awesomely grand scale—made possible by the mild Spanish climate which minimized the need to contain heat. The ceilings were very high, most of them arched or vaulted; there were floors of marble and walls of Alhambra tile; floors of inlaid wood and walls of common plaster covered with murals and extensive bas-relief. There were enough stately bedchambers to accommodate a score of royal hunting guests and courtesans; and plain quarters sufficient to contain fifty-two servants. Many of these were unoccupied now.

The assassin knew that the king’s chamber—the four balconied windows directly above the porte cochere—was occupied by the villa’s present owner-of-record, the Grand Duke Feodor Vladimirovitch—one of the three Romanov Pretenders to the throne of St. Petersburg and a leading member of the last ruling family of Imperial Russia.

But the Grand Duke was an old man and infirm. It was his first cousin, Prince Leon Kirov, who managed the Grand Duke’s villa—as well as his widespread business affairs, his social and familial obligations and his life.

Feodor’s estate was maintained by twelve house servants, five gardeners, two grooms and four chauffeurs. On the grounds they kept a string of jumpers and thoroughbred pleasure horses, seven automobiles and a flock of ducks and geese on the man-made pond. The Romanovs and Kirovs took their exercise on bridle paths or playing tennis on the lawn or practicing archery against targets stuffed with straw. There were garden parties all summer long and none of the motorcars parked below the porte cocèhre was below the rank of Duesenberg or Hispano-Suiza.

The thick green lawn stretched away from the house two hundred yards down a wide swath bordered by formal woods. The main gate at the foot of the lawn, just visible to the assassin, was made of heavy wrought iron and it was guarded by two liveried sentries who wore sidearms. Beyond the gate waited a ravenous pack of tattletale journalists from international gossip rags; now and then when a stately car drew up a photographer would rush forward and crouch to get a picture but that was all right so long as they remained outside the gate.

The assassin watched a silver-grey Rolls approach the gate. He focused his field glasses on it until he could read the number plate. It hardly paused; it swept grandly through the portals and up the driveway. The assassin lowered his glasses. He had watched long enough to know the security procedures and that was all he needed. It was inside the villa that he’d have to do the job. He glanced at the sky, slung the field glasses and walked back through the wood.

He opened the boot of the gleaming black Packard. He seated the Zeiss binoculars in their case and changed from his scuffed climbing shoes into a pair of elegant black pumps—a better match for his evening clothes.

The Packard moved slowly down the rutted dirt track toward its intersection with the road that ran past the gate of the villa.

2.

Within the villa the gathering of elegant people sprawled through more than half a dozen of the building’s public rooms on two stories. In the vaulted main ballroom—a spaciously proportioned chamber of seventeenth century grandeur, hung with old masters and ornate tapestries—a string orchestra played saccharine music and guests nibbled tidbits from an immense Louis XIV table set with crystal and silver and candelabra and vased blossoms from the villa’s greenhouse.

Toward the rear of the villa in the high arched gallery which gave out through glass panes onto formal gardens a separate balalaika orchestra provided accompaniment to a band of hired Cossack dancers who entertained inexhaustibly, squatting and leaping, grunting and shouting ferociously. Now and then a noble White Russian general would get swept up in the spirit of it and join the dancers.

Upstairs in the great drawing room the more sedate and elderly guests sat talking after each in turn had made the ritual pilgrimage into the bedchamber that contained the Grand Duke Feodor, confined to his canopied bed by a painful S-curved spine, the result of degenerative disc ailments that had afflicted him for more than a decade. The Grand Duke was sixty-three—not very old by Romanov standards of longevity—but the athletic strength of his St. Petersburg youth had been mocked by two decades of malaise, and what once had been a splendid towering physique was now twisted and cadaverous. A palsy of alarming intensity afflicted his long-fingered hands, mottled with cyanotic spots; his eyes blinked rapidly and his jaws worked and he looked at least eighty; his mind was lucid only at intervals. Prince Leon employed a Swiss physician full-time to watch over the failing Grand Duke with the help of two registered nurses from Harley Street and one of the three was always in attendance in Feodor’s antechamber.

The drawing room was occupied by a male elite. Most of them were fifty or more; all of them held titles or high military commissions from the long-ago Empire of Czar Nicholas II. The room was filled with cigar smoke and the fumes of Courvoisier and vodka and voices that said War, Invasion, Hitler, Minsk, the Stalin Line, Bolshevism, the Wehrmacht, the Red Army, Soviet Disaster—the last phrase spoken frequently and with energetic relish. To the extent that the rambling discussion was led its leader was Count Anatol Markov and he was speaking furiously. Betrayal, he said, and Vulnerability. Consequences. Country. Responsibility. And, he said, Decision.

3.

Sergei Bulygin drove fast down the narrow gravel tracks of the Spanish foothills, enjoying the freedom and the sense of solitary control, the exhilaration of the twelve-cylinder roar and the rush of wind about the cockpit of the open Mercedes touring car. It made him understand what drew the young Prince Felix so obsessively to motor racing and airplanes. The young prince had explained it once to the old soldier, the white teeth flashing in his long tan face. “We’re a useless class of people, Sergei. Our circumstances prohibit us doing the ordinary things that you can do—working, earning a living. A man’s got to take an interest in something to justify his existence.” It had sounded cynical but he knew better: the young prince lived for the racing.

The gravel road carried him down a narrow ladder of bends and on down the river through the farms and villages of the valley. Most of it was cluttered with carts and pedestrians and the occasional chain-drive lorry and he made poor time but he had anticipated that; he arrived in ample time at the corrugated metal airport terminal of Barcelona, parked at the curb and went into the primitive waiting room; it was just past five o’clock and Alexsander’s plane was due.

There was no sign of the aircraft but that was not alarming. The German-dominated customs people at Lisbon enjoyed enforcing their petty bureaucratic power by hectoring foreign travelers with endless paper delays.

Sergei had not seen young Alex since Helsinki but there wouldn’t have been much change unless the American food had put weight on him; scars at the throat now, of course, from that Bolshevik bullet on the Finland border but perhaps Alex had taken to wearing a scarf to cover that. A scarf would be good, Sergei thought: it would give Alex a dashing look like an aviator.

He was only a valet now in the service of Prince Leon Kirov but Sergei was a soldier, that was his real calling and he looked forward keenly to Alex’s arrival because he had a feeling it meant there would be soldiering to do. There was a big war on and there ought to be a piece of it for Sergei Bulygin who had been a lance corporal in the Imperial Russian Infantry.

Sergei watched the sky through the dusty window of the waiting room and finally he was rewarded. The airplane appeared suddenly at low altitude; it described a slow turn at the far end of the tarmac. Sergei stood up.

Alex and Irina were the last of twelve off the plane. Irina was radiant, beaming up into Alex’s face, holding his arm—it was like years ago and Sergei felt a warm thrill of pleasure.

Alex wore a Shetland jacket and butternut trousers; against his thick brown hair the darkly tanned face looked hard and outdoor-wrinkled. He was leaner than ever and he towered over the other passengers walking across the tarmac. The sunlight lit the grey of his eyes as he turned out of sight into the customs-and-immigration doorway and Sergei was shaken momentarily by the coldness of them.

By twos and threes the arriving passengers appeared in the doorway with their luggage, were met and greeted and sometimes embraced; and trooped away across the waiting room. Finally Sergei was alone by the door and he saw them coming from the customs. Alex was folding visas and inspection documents into his passport and sliding it into his pocket, trailed by two porters carrying their grips. Then Alex looked up and found Sergei there.

The smile made him look very American. It was what Sergei had hoped to see. He lifted his big arms.

Alex laughed and folded Sergei in his strong hug. “Old friend—it’s so damned good to see you.”

Irina Markova had the expression Sergei could never fathom—like a cat’s. “I told you I’d bring him back, Sergei.” But then a shadow seemed to cross her face and suddenly her cryptic stare unsettled Sergei. He reached for their luggage.

He thought, Vassily Devenko should have died in Finland. “I’ll take you to the car. Was it a good flight? Was it the Portuguese who made you late? Has America changed at all since we were there?” He kept talking too fast for them to answer, all the way out to the car. They were laughing at him but it was good laughter and when he started the engine he made it roar out of his sheer exuberance.

The air was warm and a little damp coming off the Med. Irina found Alex’s hand and clasped it quietly. The Mercedes sighed in the road and the hair whipped around Irina’s face but she didn’t scarf it or tie it back. They passed under the lee of the mountain with Sergei monopolizing the talk and then they were curling along a river with the low sun stabbing through a spindle tracery of brush and trees. Small clouds scudded over the peaks. Alex felt deaf in the wind.

Sergei said, “The General Vassily Ilyavitch was not yet at the villa when I left. He is expected.”

“Yes,” Alex said. He turned and found Irina’s face deathly calm, chiseled in profile.

Sergei turned the car smoothly toward a massive open gateway. Flashbulbs erupted around them and Irina stared without expression past the photographers: they were beneath her recognition. They angered Alex—petty mongrels scrambling for scraps—but he didn’t let it show. A guard waved Sergei through and when he switched off amid the herd of big cars below the porte cochere the engine pinged with heat contractions and Alex heard music and a multitude of voices muttering from the villa. Colorfully costumed guests walked amid the profusion of formally shaped flower beds in the garden.

The car swayed when Sergei got out: he was a huge old man, a Kuban bear with his kind brown eyes and his wide Russian peasant face. The door opened under Sergei’s hand and Alex got out and waited for Irina; she swiveled to emerge and gracefully smoothed her elegant grey skirt. “You’ll enjoy the villa—it’s rather grand. Sergei, perhaps we can slip in by the kitchen? We’ll have to dress.”

But Sergei was looking past them toward the hills beyond the garden. Alex followed his gaze and saw a solitary horseman cantering down the distant bridle path.

“Heroes are always sculpted on horseback, aren’t they,” Irina said. “Isn’t it just like Vassily to arrive like that.” Then she laughed and the echoes rang back.

4.

The assassin saw the horseman from the open veranda above the garden. The rider threaded the hillside pathways with a Cossack cavalryman’s precision. The evening sun outlined him sharply on the crests—a tall horseman with heroic shoulders and the equestrian posture of a field marshal.

A long low ridge made a wall beyond the meadows and when the rider disappeared behind it the assassin knew it was no good waiting for him to reappear. Devenko was on the alert and he wasn’t simply going to ride boldly up to the villa. Devenko had a guerrilla’s appreciation of distraction and deception. While a hundred guests stood rooted waiting for him to ride out of the shadows of the ridge Devenko would be galloping circuitously toward the back of the villa; he’d leave his horse tethered somewhere in the woods and they wouldn’t see him again until he made his entrance through an unexpected doorway.

He knew that much because he’d made a study of Devenko. The man was a curious amalgam of melodramatic dash and practical caution. Too proud not to make his appearance here today; too careful—because of the prior attempts against him—to make an easy target of himself. That was why it had to take place inside the villa. There’d have been no point in waiting in ambush by the road because Devenko had anticipated that and had come on horseback rather than by car.

It was much too difficult to get a bead on a man if you didn’t know him. That was what the assassin’s employers didn’t understand; it was why the first two attempts had failed: they hadn’t given the assassin sufficient information.

The first shot had been in London. They’d given him a photograph of Devenko, a place and a time—“You’ll have no trouble. You’ve got five days to arrange your getaway and the exact scheme—that’s up to you. But he’s got Haymarket tickets on the twenty-ninth. The interval’s at nine-fifty and the curtain comes down at eleven-ten. You might think about catching him on his way back to the car afterward—at least that’s the way I’d handle it. But it’s your gambit.”

It was only a voice on a telephone. He’d tried to get more: “Where does he live? What’s his routine? What’s he like?”

But the employer refused to be drawn. “You’ve got all you need to go on. You’re supposed to kill him, not marry him—what difference does all that make?”

So he’d botched the first one because he’d had no way of anticipating the speed and agility with which the target was capable of reacting. He’d paced the target toward the underground garage until the moment came when no one else was abroad in the blacked-out street. Then he’d quickened his pace and drawn the gun but the target heard all of that and without even looking behind him he’d dived between two parked lorries and that was that: the assassin ran forward and snapped a running shot but he knew he’d missed and then the target was out of sight in the heavy shadows and you couldn’t go running through the streets of London brandishing a 7.62 Luger with a big perforated silencer screwed to the barrel.

“He’s faster than the telegraph,” he’d reported back. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well you know it now.”

It was nearly a month before the employer called back. “You’d better not blow it this time. It’s an RAF airfield in Kent—Biggin Hill, do you know it?”

“I can find it.”

“They’re flying him from Scotland. Some sort of conference with three or four Russian exiles. It’s set up for a hotel in Maidstone but we want him taken out before the meeting—so it’s got to be the airfield or the road. It’s the A20.”

“I know the road. What kind of car will he be in?”

“It’s a Bentley saloon, grey, two or three years old.”

“Number plate?”

“Angel Kevin six three three.”

“Chauffeur?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then that’s two of them. The price is higher.”

“The price is the same, after your last fiasco.”

He didn’t fight the point too hard; only a token face-saving riposte: “I’d have had him last time if you hadn’t been so jealous with information.”

“Never mind. It’s July fourteen. The meeting in Maidstone’s set for eight in the evening. You’ll have to work back from there to get his ETA at Biggin Hill.”

“There’s another way. Where does the Bentley live?”

“It belongs to one of the White Russians. He lives in London but he’ll be staying at the hotel in Maidstone. The name’s Ivanov. He’s got a detached house in Highgate. Shepherd’s Hill, Number Forty-three. They’ll be going down to Maidstone sometime on the fourteenth.”

“Bastille Day,” the assassin remarked, and cradled the phone.

On the fourteenth he’d parked on the verge with the nose of his Morris pointed out toward the main road; got out of the car with a brush and a jar of black watercolor ink. His license plate number was IPF 311; he closed the characters to make it read TBE 814. Then he screwed a new silencer onto the Luger and put on a white jacket, a pair of clear-glass spectacles and a white trilby hat. Any witnesses would remember only the disguise, and there would be at least one witness: if they weren’t going to pay for the chauffeur he wasn’t going to give them the chauffeur.

He had to wait more than an hour. Several cars and military vehicles came out of the service road and he kept watch in the driving mirror until the Bentley’s big square snout appeared.

He put the first bullet into the front tire because he wanted to prevent the target escaping. Then he had a clear shot at Devenko and no way to miss it because they hadn’t spotted the source of the trouble yet. He squeezed the trigger with firm gentle pressure and the Luger recoiled, mildly as it always did; the bullet left a small grey smear on the window, obscuring his view of Devenko’s left eye.

“It’s your own fault again, blast you. If you’d told me I’d have worked a way around it.”

“Around what?”

“It’s bulletproof glass in that Bentley.”

So this time he’d do it his own way. He turned into the passage behind the villa’s dining hall and let himself into a walk-in cleaning cupboard. It took a moment to find the light switch. He screwed a stubby silencer onto the Luger and then checked the loads and worked the jack-leg-action to seat the top cartridge so that he wouldn’t need to thrash around cocking it when the time came. He set the safety and slid the pistol down between his belt and his trouser-band against his left ribs under the formal jacket; unobtrusive but instantly available to his right hand. There were flatter automatics than the Luger but the flat ones didn’t fit his hand as well: didn’t point as naturally. The 7.62 bullets were small, the equivalent of .32 caliber, but he’d loaded them himself with the maximum charge of smokeless powder and at close range he had no qualms about their stopping power: the bullets were perforated into quarters and designed to expand violently on contact.

He had a pocket mirror and he inspected his disguise. The coat and slacks were cut very generously to make him look heavy; the dress Oxfords had five-centimeter lifts in them. They’d remember him as a man of substantial bulk and height when in fact he was five-feet-nine and weighed just over 150 pounds.

The rest of it was more traditionally stagy. He had a partial skullcap spirit-gummed over his forehead to hide the widow’s peak of his natural hairline; they’d remember him as half bald. He’d darkened the rest of his red-brown hair with a dye-pomade designed to cover grey; it gave him a Mediterranean cast he had confirmed with a pencil-thin divided mustache gummed to his upper lip. His features were unexceptional: he had always had the benefit of an anonymous appearance and he had learned long ago to eschew striking disguises.

It was all nicely in place in the mirror. He switched off the light, adjusted the hang of his jacket over the Luger in his belt and eased the door open a crack.

The hallway was empty of servants. He went toward the front of the villa, ready to smile, pleasant-faced, nerveless, almost jaunty with businesslike confidence because this time he knew the quarry.

5.

Heads turned when Irina entered the ballroom. She hardly noticed; she was used to it.

She smiled and gave her hand to a marquis; she presented her cheek for the tall marchioness’s ritual kiss and bussed the air two points to the starboard of her face. Voices rolled around her—hearty shouts in courtly French and Spanish and High German and the best St. Petersburg Russian; beneath them the orchestra played Chopin.

The wheeling dancers cut across her view of the crowd but she had a glimpse of a large man with a bald spot and her curiosity was stimulated: some vague familiarity perhaps.

Alex was approaching and she smiled when a dowager buttonholed him. Then a mutter ran through the crowd and the guests were turning in waves to stare toward the wide gallery doors. She heard the murmured name Devenko and felt several sudden glances whip toward her and slide away; then the doors parted and Vassily was there with his high austere eyes and stunning white mane. His handsome head dipped regally in acknowledgment of something someone said to him; he lifted one hard long hand as if in benediction to them all.

He had aged. Not the hair; that had been white since his twenties. But she saw deep vertical lines between his eyebrows and he looked tired.

She felt weight beside her. She didn’t have to look that way to know it was Alex. She found his arm and gripped it gently—pointedly.

Vassily’s hard grey stare struck her. He blinked, looked away, looked directly and expressionlessly at Alex and then returned his stare to Irina—and she thought she sensed an appeal.

He walked forward through the crowd ignoring all the rest: he still behaved with people he didn’t have time for as if they weren’t there at all.

He glanced again at Alex. Then he thrust out both arms.

Irina had a moment’s terror when Alex didn’t stir. But it was so brief an instant that she doubted anyone else detected the hesitation—then the two men were locked in the ritual masculine bear hug of Russia and Vassily’s deep voice was rumbling: “My brother—my good brother.”

Vassily turned and surprised her with a nicker of a smile. In a lower voice he said, “Surprise becomes you, Irina. It makes your eyes grow.”

She reached again for Alex’s arm. The Chopin continued in the back; around them some of the couples resumed dancing but she felt the continuing pressure of curious eyes.

Vassily had returned to Alex. “You look very well.”

“And you.”

“No, do not bother with that. I am old, aren’t I?” Vassily was forty-seven. Irina was fourteen years his junior; there had been a time when it hadn’t mattered.

“Vassily…”

“How is it in America?”—to Alex; he had cut her off deliberately. She became aware of the vivid gowns around them; she felt herself close up, become more guarded.

“… learning about twentieth century war,” Alex was replying, “but maybe not fast enough.”

“Really?” Vassily answered in an indifferent way. “Perhaps they need reprimanding by real soldiers, eh?” And back to Irina: “Has he looked after you properly? It is my duty as his brother to inquire.” He said it with dry scorn and she saw he forgave neither of them.

“They’re waiting for you both upstairs,” she said, very cool.

“Yes. Be kind enough to show us the way, would you?”

It was a little cruel of him but she had known far worse. “Come along then.” She led them away, threading the perimeter of the ballroom. Everyone watched and made way. Vassily’s commanding austerity kept them all at bay—even princes and the nephews of dukes. Vassily had no title whatever: he was a commoner. But there wasn’t a White Russian in the villa who didn’t owe Vassily his life.

They were watched with awe by eyes unused to awe—down the long gallery, the central corridor, the vast and opulent rooms in which Bourbon monarchs had entertained crowned guests. Vassily walked between them and a half-pace ahead now; out of the marbled turnings into the vast foyer. The sweeping stair made an elegant curve to the railed balcony above; the last of the day’s sun beamed down through the stained panels of the lofty domed ceiling.

Vassily laid his hand on the bannister and glanced back the way they’d come. His look was almost furtive. He knows fear after all. She touched Alex’s hand. “I’ll leave you here. They’re in the Grand Duke’s drawing room.”

Vassily said, “Walk up with us.”

“I don’t think I’d care to.” She turned away gracefully. There was the slight pressure of Alex’s reassuring fingers, then she was moving across the foyer, her face a study in composure. She did not hurry; nor did she look back to watch them climb the great stair. She didn’t need to. Their ascent was mirrored in the upturned faces of the people watching, like members of an audience awaiting a denouement.

The bald man appeared in the doorway, slipping past the edge of the crowd. It disturbed her: she couldn’t place him but there was something in the back of her mind, a sense that made her glide to one side in order to interpose herself between the bald man and the stairs. He tried to sidestep but a fat woman was in the way. She couldn’t explain it to herself. But she was sure the bald man’s eyes flashed bitterly—so briefly it might never have happened at all.

Very likely her imagination was betraying her. She went on along the gallery, greeting a few people—the ones who didn’t bore her. In the ballroom she accepted an old Kiev duke’s invitation to dance because he was her father’s cousin and had a good laugh which he hadn’t forgotten how to use. She whirled onto the floor holding the skirt of her long red gown.

6.

Heavy drapes were looped back from the long gallery of windows. The inner wall of the upstairs corridor was hung museumlike with pictures darkened by age from which several generations of Romanovs brooded upon the scene. Vassily Devenko strode past them without a glance.

Alex kept pace with him, recognizing the dark formal portraits: Alexander II, Alexander III, Vladimir, Alexis, Serge, Paul, Cyril, Boris, Andrei, Dimitri; then the late Grand Dukes George and Michael and finally Nicholas II and Alexandra Fedorovna…. The physical strength and magnetism of the family was evident in them all.

No one was in sight in the long wide hall. Vassily stopped abruptly. “A word with you.”

Through the bank of high windows the setting sun fanned the cloud bellies with marbled streaks of crimson and pink. A warm hint of cologne and tobacco smoke drifted under the tall arch-buttressed ceiling. Alex said, “Go on,” reserving a great deal.

Vassily shook his head. It emphasized the weary cast of his deep-lined features. “Doesn’t it strike you the way they all go on as if nothing’s changed? Living on the international scale, perpetuating this idiotic love affair with deluxe pleasures and genteel pastimes. And half the world’s blowing up just over the horizon.”

“You can’t change them.”

“I am not condemning them for it. If they gave it all up and put on sackcloth and ashes it would not make a bit of difference to the world. But the unreality of the way they can just go on and on like this—how hard it will be to persuade them to set aside their illusions.”

In jodhpurs and belted grey jacket Vassily had the look of a Prussian martinet; it struck Alex that all it would take to complete the image would be a riding crop slapping into his open palm.

Vassily said, “I asked them to bring you into this.” He put the emphasis on the first person pronoun and it startled Alex as it had been meant to. “I did it for several reasons. First because you are patently the best for the job—best qualified and best situated. Second because you once forced me to make a very careful reexamination of my own impetuosity—and it may be useful to have you in a position where you can do that again if the events call for it.”

Vassily was offering an olive branch but it didn’t have a pure color of truth.

Alex didn’t answer. Vassily nodded as if Alex’s silence confirmed a suspicion. “It is important we find some way to reconcile our quarrel.”

“I don’t carry grudges.”

“No. But you are certain I cannot be trusted. I must find a way to earn your trust back. If you cannot have confidence in my judgment none of this is going to work.”

Alex put it bluntly. “I don’t see how you’re going to do that.”

The weariness seemed ground into Vassily like grit. He glanced out the windows, his squint far-eyed with his visions; his face picked up the reddish reflection of the sunset and seemed very bitter. “They have tried twice to kill me. They will go on trying until they succeed. At first I thought it was an old enemy but it is not likely—too coincidental. Someone has learned of the scheme. They think by killing me they can prevent it happening. They cannot—they are fools. It is a historical turning, one of those events whose time has come. A thousand assassinations would not stop it.”

As if to shake off his premonitions he drew himself up to a parade-ground posture, hands behind him. “When they reach me there must be someone to pick up the baton.”

His face came around swiftly. “It is not a favor to you. It may make you their next target. But you are the best choice to succeed me.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

“How can you know that when I haven’t even heard the plan yet? I may think it’s drivel.”

“You will not.”

“Once before you thought I’d go along with your plans.”

“It was different. You must believe me.”

It was the closest he’d ever seen Vassily to begging.

Vassily said, “Do not fight me in there, Alexsander. It is too big a thing for personal quarrels. And the decisions may be yours soon enough—you would be a fool to shoot it down before you’ve had a chance at it yourself.”

“You’re talking as if they’ve already killed you.”

“I won’t make it easy for them.”

“Kill them first.”

“I would have done. If I knew who they were.”

“You have no hints at all?”

“Only suspicions and too many of those; they cancel one another out. We are getting off the subject. I want your backing in there. Have I got it?”

“I can’t promise it. If I can’t support the plan I won’t support you.”

Vassily brooded at him and the humanity evaporated from his hard face. “Then we shall have to persuade you of the Tightness of the scheme, won’t we? Come on then.” He swung with an abrupt snap of his big shoulders and strode across the gallery to a huge door. With his back braced as if against an awaited bullet he rapped his knuckles on the oak and almost immediately the door pivoted on oiled hinges and Irina’s father was there: Count Anatol Markov with his impeccable clothes and his urbane countenance.

Count Anatol gave them both a quick unemotional scrutiny and then averted his eyes as if he regarded them both as applicants for a servant’s job who had arrived for an interview at a time when the Count had more important things on his mind. It meant nothing at all, it was only his habitual manner: aloof, contained, distracted, ascetic. It was always off-putting at first and you had to get back into an almost forgotten gear to deal with these people: their lives were overwhelmingly opulent and until you acclimated yourself you didn’t see how anyone who lived in such surroundings and with such mannerisms could have any substance. The fact was that Anatol Markov had one of the cleverest minds Alex had ever encountered.

“We have been waiting for you. Please come in.”

The drawing-room furniture was elegant with intricate fragile curves. The heavy velvet draperies reached from ceiling to floor and they were drawn shut to keep out the waning daylight; electric lamps made the big room richer and warmer. It could have been a calculated effect, shutting out the Spanish vista so that they could have been anywhere: the old villa in France or even the drawing room of the Imperial dascha put-side St. Petersburg from which the Grand Duke Feodor had brought most of these furnishings in 1918.

The chairs were drawn up in a conversational circle and Prince Leon Kirov sat at its focal point beside a table on which was heaped a litter of documents in open folders.

There were eight chairs in the circle; three of them were empty. The five men sat back with their legs crossed, smoking cigars and pipes, watching Vassily and Alex. They nodded and lifted cigars in greeting but they didn’t erupt in customary Russian expansiveness. The seriousness of the occasion was an evident weight.

Count Anatol shut the door behind them and nodded toward the farther doors. Alex paced Vassily across the room; put his hand on the latch and went through.

In his high four-posted bed the Grand Duke raised eyes cloudy with dim sight. A woman in white moved courteously away from the bedside and the visitors approached the bed. The old man’s fingers plucked at his lap robe.

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Who is that? Are you Deniken?”

“Vassily Devenko and Alexsander Danilov, Your Royal Highness.”

Vassily bowed briefly; it went unseen. The Grand Duke seemed indifferent. “It is kind of you to come and see me.”

Alex said, “We wish you better health.”

“Yes…” Da, and the quavering voice trailed off. But then abruptly he groped for Vassily’s hand. “You have come.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Are we to be restored then?”

“I cannot say, Highness.”

“But the Bolsheviks…”

“The Bolsheviks are finished,” Vassily Devenko said.

7.

The assassin didn’t put much credence in anything beyond the five senses but the woman disturbed him. He knew who she was; he’d seen her photographs. But he’d never been face-to-face with her. There was no way she could have known him from any other complete stranger. Yet in her eyes at the foot of the stair there’d been knowledge. More than suspicion; certainty. It was there as if she could read him like cold type.

He drifted into the hunt room and took a glass of sherry from a servant’s tray and walked through the crowd carrying it—not drinking. He overheard snatches of talk—the weather at Marbella, the rationing under Vichy—and he put on a pleasant face but spoke to no one.

He took his sherry back along to the ballroom and saw the woman in red dancing with an old gentleman. He turned away, not so quickly as to bring attention to himself, and retreated from her sight. He argued with himself: there was no mystery to it, it had been coincidence; she was the sort of woman whose face could create imagined trouble—as if her inscrutable beauty were meant to be invested with whatever you chose to read into it. He had to dismiss her from his concentrations.

But he couldn’t. It stayed in the back of his mind that the woman could spoil it.

8.

Alex’s host was awaiting him at the Grand Duke’s door when he emerged from the bedchamber: craggy old Prince Leon on whom the entire retinue-in-exile depended so much.

“Glad to see you here, Alex. Very glad,” he murmured in his slow splendid deep voice. Genuine feeling trembled in it; he gripped both Alex’s shoulders and gave his grave paternal nod, the next thing to a smile; and limped back toward the others. His hair had thinned and gone silver; the lameness of his battle-shattered leg had grown worse; but his eyebrows remained thick and black over the obsidian eyes and he was very much in command of it all. The name at the head of the family was that of the Grand Duke Feodor but it was Leon who had kept them all together in their endless gypsy exile.

Alex waited for Vassily Devenko to reappear; the Grand Duke was still pressing his dream of restoration.

Count Anatol Markov had returned to his seat—in the circle yet apart from it, quietly drinking vodka from a chilled glass. He watched Alex as he might watch an inanimate object.

Alex had been a long time seeking clues to Count Anatol’s composition; it was very hard to understand the chemistries that had produced Irina out of Anatol’s genes. He was dry, distant, epicene in disposition; cynical and suspiciously skeptical of everyone. He was thin as a sapling, the hair lying across his neat little cannonball head in lonely strands. His face was pale and his mouth in repose looked like a surgeon’s wound.

Tragedy seemed to have hovered around him for decades. At Ekaterinburg in 1918 a Bolshevik fanatic named Jacob Sverdlov had engineered the assassinations of Czar Nicholas and the Empress Alexandra and their children. A month after the brutal murders Jacob Sverdlov had been found beaten to death in a Moscow street; systematically bludgeoned out of existence, every bone in his body shattered. It was fairly well accepted by a good number of the White exiles that it had been Count Ahatol who had thus avenged the Royal Family. It was said that it was the first and last time in his life that Anatol had shown passion; but surely Irina Anatovna was not the product of an emotionless conception.

Of the seven men in the room—Vassily would make the eighth—one was not a Russian.

Prince Leon said, “Our American representative, Colonel Alexsander Danilov. Alex, I am sure you know General Sir Edward Muir.”

He’d seen the old photographs; now he made the connection. The Scotsman nodded to Alex, neither rising nor offering a hand. He was a very tall old man, noble and grand with a white military mustache stained to amber by cigar smoke. His longevity appeared to fall little short of immortality: he’d commanded the British Expeditionary Force in the Crimea in 1919 and he’d been on the verge of retirement age even then.

Prince Leon said, “Sir Edward is here to represent the viewpoint of the British crown.”

“Unofficially of course.” The Scotsman spoke in a Russian that was fast and without hesitation but thickly accented with an Edinburgh burr. He wore grey evening clothes well-cut to his long gaunt frame but too heavy for the Mediterranean climate; there was a sheen of perspiration on his smooth ruddy face.

Alex moved toward the chair beside Prince Leon’s. “Am I here as an American army officer or as a White Russian?”

“Decide that for yourself,” Count Anatol said coolly. “After you have heard our plans.”

“Here is General Devenko,” Prince Leon said. “We can begin now, I think.”

“About bloody time,” said Baron Oleg Zimovoi in his harsh peasant Russian.

Before Vassily sat down he gave each man in turn a studied scrutiny. Alex saw him nod his head half an inch to the British general; Sir Edward cracked a sliver of a smile. It was the extent of their greeting—two men who’d soldiered against a common enemy in the bleeding Crimea of twenty years ago.

Vassily’s face was ungiving: he looked like a man who knew better than to expect too much. “What is it to be then—action or only more debate?”

“The decision will be made tonight,” Prince Leon said. “Every man here has made assurances of that.”

Vassily’s intolerant gaze swept their faces, lingering briefly on Anatol’s and Baron Oleg Zimovoi’s. “I remind you all—Hitler is not standing still while you dispute politics.”

Anatol’s eyes narrowed to slits in the pale flesh. “You doubt our word, Vassily?”

“Only your willingness to keep it if it means the sacrifice of some petty political objective.” Vassily snapped it; clearly his nerves were on a raw edge.

Prince Leon said, “We must put Sir Edward and Alexsander in the picture before the decisions are taken.”

Vassily leaned his head back against the top of the chair. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes. “Let us get at it then.”

“We are eight here,” Prince Leon said, “but some of us represent the proxies, so to speak, of large blocs of interest. I have commitments from General Deniken and his group, and of course I speak for the house of the Grand Duke Feodor. Prince Michael”—he inclined his head toward the old man in the chair beyond Vassily’s—“is here to speak for the house of the Grand Duke Dmitri. Baron Oleg Zimovoi has undertakings from his followers to honor the decisions we make here.”

The council’s spectrum was remarkably full—Oleg on the far left with his following of thousands of White Russian Socialists, the rest of them scattered across the center toward the right where Anatol the monarchist held the extreme position. They’d found a unanimity for which Alex could find no parallel in his experience.

It would have made a singular group portrait. Nearest the door sat Vassily—stern and arrogant, a political man only in his virulent old-fashioned hatred for Bolshevism. Then Count Anatol, the icy conservative with bored contempt in his eyes. Sir Edward Muir, who shared the firsthand memories of a brutal civil war that had seared and scarred them all. Prince Leon at the focal point beside him, his bad leg stretched out. Alex next: the youngest man in the group. Then there was General Anton Savinov—genial and rotund, a middle-aged Muscovite with a big-boned phlegmatic face and an easygoing chuckle—it had been some years before Alex had realized he was slightly drunk all the time. He’d been a hero—Wrangel’s right arm in the Kuban in 1919. That was the penultimate experience of these men’s lifetimes; the final experience had been the talking about it, the judging of everything else in the light of it.

At the edge of the circle sat the venerable Prince Michael Rodzianko—royal first cousin to the Grand Duke Dmitri who lived on a vast lakefront estate in Switzerland.

And finally Baron Oleg Zimovoi. There was no one who pretended to be fond of Oleg: he was everyone’s enemy, everyone’s scapegoat. He was a hard man, physically and morally tough, an old Socialist who had battled his way through life conceding nothing: physically an assembly of cubes and blocks in testimony to his stolid Byelorussian ancestry. His energies had been dissipated for years in the attempt to persuade the monarchist factions that there was a valid distinction between his brand of democratic Socialism and the Bolshevik brand of despotic Communism. It was a distinction the conservative White Russian wings did not choose to take seriously; Oleg had been regarded for years as a misguided pest, an intellectual fool or even a potential traitor. He was tolerated because of his lineage and because he spoke for thousands of Socialists among the White Russian exiles. He maintained a flat in Barcelona, churning pamphlets out of his typewriter and speaking out recklessly against Hitler, Stalin, Franco and the rest of his political demons. At any time there might be the measured tramp of Guardia Civil jackboots in his hall, the rap of a nightstick against his door.

They were a dramatically dissimilar lot. But they had one extraordinary thing in common. Each of them had enjoyed great power and had lost it. The remembrance of that power—now twenty years gone—remained in their bearings and their souls. The twenty lonely years had weeded out all the weak blunderers who had made a travesty of Imperial Russia’s last years; only this hard brilliant cadre remained, waiting for a sign that they were needed once more.

Prince Leon said, “The first thing we must do is dismiss every wishful fantasy. We have got to speak realistically—it is no good dismissing the facts out of hand.”

Vassily Devenko opened his eyes briefly. “The Bolsheviks have made suicidal blunders. That is fact—not wishful fantasy.”

Prince Leon paused as if that remark had taken him by surprise; it was merely a rhetorical trick and then he addressed himself to Alex: “You saw their army in Finland. How do you view them?”

“It couldn’t be poorer,” Alex said. “Their army’s got no morale at all. Unless you count fear.”

“Yes. The entire population’s disaffected.”

Sir Edward Muir said, “Are you quite sure you’re not seeing what you wish to see? I’ve gathered that Joe Stalin is in very firm control.”

“No,” Baron Oleg Zimovoi said—very quiet, very firm. “A year ago that was true. Today, no.”

Count Anatol Markov’s voice came into it with the dryness of a mistral soughing in autumn leaves. “A totalitarian system survives only so long as it can hold the monopoly of power. Communications, the means of indoctrinating the people, the ability to browbeat everybody into collaboration—so that if you refuse to betray your neighbor you will be arrested right along with him. That is Stalin’s leverage—fear, the threat of the Siberian camps. As long as he maintains it he stays in power. But he is not maintaining it. It’s crumbling.”

Prince Leon resumed:

“The weaknesses of this kind of regime show up in a crisis. It is a crisis right now—the worst they have ever had, the worst they are ever likely to have. The Germans are taking Soviet Russia at a rate of eleven miles a day. Stalin has lost an incredible area of territory—including the heavy industries of the Ukraine. Nearly a quarter of the Russian population is presently beyond his reach.”

Alex felt the weight of his meaning. It slowed his breathing and made his palms damp.

“He has lost hundreds of thousands of troops,” Prince Leon continued—resonant, soft-voiced, relentless. “Possibly more than a million. What is left of the Red Army is hanging by its fingernails—fighting the Germans only because they know they will be shot by their own commissars if they try to retreat.”

His face turned. “Oleg is in daily communication with Moscow. Oleg?”

The Socialist baron showed his teeth: more a rictus than a smile. “It is teeming with anti-Communist partisans. They are assassinating commissars by the hundreds. Sabotaging the Red Army, collaborating with the Germans. The villages have been welcoming the Wehrmacht with open arms—gifts of food and flowers and women. There is not one Soviet soldier in twenty who’s loyal to Stalin by choice.”

Vassily Devenko came into it. “If Hitler takes the Soviet Union he will have all the manpower and industry he will ever need—he will throw all of it against England and the neutrals in Europe and after that he will move across the Atlantic.” His sharp creased face came around toward Alex: “Is the American army prepared for that?”

“Right now the United States has a standing army no bigger than Sweden’s.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Prince Leon said, “Hitler’s goal is world empire. If he can take Russia and hold it the rest is inevitable.”

Baron Oleg Zimovoi said, “Entire battalions are deserting the Red Army—defecting. They would rather be German prisoners than Red soldiers.”

“Because it is not even their own land they are fighting for,” Anatol said. “It is Stalin’s. He has nationalized every plot of land in the Soviet Union.”

Prince Leon addressed himself to the old Scots general: “Can you see those people stopping the tide, Sir Edward?”

“My government want Russia to hold. Not to defeat the Nazis—that may be too much to ask. But to hold, to buy the Allies time to build up.” His glance, almost accusing, came to Alex: “Time for Roosevelt to persuade his people that they can’t keep ignoring the European war. He must convince his Congress.”

Count Anatol spoke again: “The Russian people need something to fight for—it comes down to that. Give them back their land—give them back their own country, and then they won’t be so damnably eager to see German jackboots trampling it. Give them back their pride as individuals. That is our purpose. To give them something to fight for.”

Prince Leon was watching Alex. “Do you understand us now, Alexsander? Do you understand what we’re saying?”

“You want to overthrow Joseph Stalin,” Alex said.

9.

The evening was warm; the spacious rooms were heavy with smoky body heat and a growing number of guests took their refreshment in wicker Madeira chairs in the garden. Irina drifted through it in an uneasy search.

The shadows beyond the villa were deep; around the lamps moths jazzed and Irina felt the day’s heat begin to lift. The manicured hedges made an exact circle and the lawn was a green disc with a round bed of vivid flowers at its axis.

She didn’t find what she sought; she went on inside the villa—still looking for the bald man in the rumpled suit. It had become a serious quest now because somewhere in the past half hour she had realized what it was that had alarmed her about the man.

It was the slight dent in the skirt of his coat that could have been made by the handle of a pistol in his belt.

10.

“The proposal is before this council to organize the overthrow of the Bolshevik government in Russia.

“We must act now with great care,” Prince Leon continued. “We have been powerless exiles for half our lives, trumpeting pronouncements that have no meaning. We have learned how to be harmless. Tonight suddenly our decisions can affect hundreds of millions of people. Once we go beyond this point it will be the first time since Kolchak that our political directives will have real significance.

“Obviously that is one reason why we have got to set aside our own differences. We cannot allow this thing to be sabotaged by our own conflicting aims. In this room tonight we cannot try to resolve the political debates of centuries—but we must find a way to neutralize these differences at the outset.”

Vassily Devenko’s face contorted with pained disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you I am.”

“You could be five years in this room talking it through. In the name of God we have no time for political quibbling.”

Count Anatol’s cold voice cut in. “Even you ought to see that we cannot simply assassinate the Soviet leaders and sit back to quarrel among ourselves afterward. You cannot kill Bolshevism simply by eliminating its leaders. We must provide something that takes the place of the Bolshevik apparatus—otherwise a new Stalin will take over and then what will we have gained?”

Sir Edward Muir said, “You’ve got to present a united movement to the eyes of the Allies. My government are prepared to deal with you as a unified group but you can hardly expect Whitehall to go very far with a loose collection of bickering factions. If you do not settle your differences before you begin, I’m afraid there will be little hope of receiving the support you will need to have when you go into the field.”

Vassily curbed his tongue but Alex knew that expression.

Old Prince Michael stirred and sat upright. “The common enemy is Stalinism. Leon is correct—we must not lose sight of that. Whatever our differences we must all recognize the evil of this monster and the vicious proletarian ideology he pretends to represent. What have the masses ever created? Group intelligence is always far inferior—yes—a civilization achieves its level of greatness in proportion to the amount of significance it gives the individual and his dignity. Yet these heathen atheists glorify the mass spirit, the mind of the mob, as their greatest achievement.”

He stopped to clear his throat and no one interrupted: they gave him their respect because of his birth and the royal house he represented. The Grand Duke Dmitri was one of the three legitimate Pretenders alive; the second was Feodor, infirm and abed in the next room. So long as the houses of these two Grand Dukes spoke with a common voice the weight of the Romanov dynasty supported that voice. But if the two houses divided then the pivotal authority would devolve onto the Grand Duke Mikhail—the only one of the three not represented here because Mikhail lived in Munich and was an ardent Nazi.

Therefore there was no question of curtailing old Prince Michael’s discourse. Having cleared his throat he went steadfastly on:

“The madman has persuaded many of them that they have made great collective strides forward. Give him another ten years and it will be too late to save our country at all—the rot will have gone too deep. So I must say to you that I feel Leon is quite right—it is a cancer consuming Mother Russia and we must destroy it before it is too late.”

The old man paused to examine his audience and Anatol chose the opportunity to speak. “Let us not underestimate the old tribal barbarities of our country. Russia has always been a nation in which a small number of leaders have controlled all policy. Stalin did not invent that—it is the nature of Russia. If we upset Stalin it will be to no avail at all if we do not replace his regime with powerful leadership of our own. Otherwise another Stalin will emerge and that will be that.”

Baron Oleg was scowling. “So we should forestall the rise of a new Stalin by substituting our own Stalin for him. You reactionaries never fail to amaze me. You would negate everything we want to achieve. The idea is to free our country—not replace one tyrant with another!”

“Please.” It was Prince Leon: he said it softly, for emphasis, and eyes swiveled to him.

Leon put both hands on the arms of his chair as if to rise; but he kept his seat when he spoke.

“I believe there is a solution you all may find acceptable.”

Alex watched him. Leon had spent a lifetime holding them all together, preventing the factions from splintering. It was natural and inevitable that Leon would have devised a scheme to catalyze them now.

“I think we agree our immediate goal is to depose Stalin and annihilate the system by which informers are forced to produce names, and the secret police make lists, and mass arrests take place in the night.

“I believe we all agree also that the very first step in any new government in Russia must be to return the farms to the farmers.

“It is a primary rule for any successful revolutionary leader to destroy the forces that brought him to power. Lenin did this by forcing out Trotsky and many others but he made the mistake of keeping Stalin too close. When Stalin took it on he did what Lenin should have done. He wiped out virtually all of the ‘Old Bolsheviks.’ But it has weakened the hierarchy and it makes him vulnerable now.

“We know he has nothing left but a few key people and a horde of nondescript mediocrities. He is afraid to surround himself with capable people—they might prove too dangerous. His sycophants follow him like craven beggars. I think it is clear they go on supporting him because they can count on salvation only so long as he prevails.

“There is a small number who are loyal to him out of conviction—Beria, Malenkov, just a few. Stalin and this handful must be killed but the rest may be brought into the new system. Offer amnesty to the lower echelon of bureaucrats and I do not see much danger of a post-Stalinist Bolshevik revival.”

Prince Leon stopped momentarily. His eyes held them: he wanted their attention now. “Very well. What we must provide is a cadre, a top echelon of power. What I propose is a compromise I believe we all can accept regardless of our ideological leanings. I propose a Union of Russian Republics to be proclaimed under a figurehead Czar.”

Anatol snorted. “A constitutional monarchy. I suspected as much.”

“Yes.” Leon’s firm expression challenged him. “A prime minister system not unlike the British. No, Anatol, please let me finish. I propose that we replace the Bolshevik junta with a new Supreme Ruler of All the Russias.

“The new Czar must be connected by blood to the royal line because these things are still important to the Russian soul, even today. That is one reason why we must reject the thought of putting the mantle on General Deniken, our last Supreme Ruler. Deniken is old. He may be a hero to us in exile but to the Russian people he has the name of an enemy tainted with defeat. And he smacks of the old system, the White Armies with their weaknesses and corruptions.

“The Czar must be a new face but with a name people will recognize. And he ought to be a figurehead of some charm and dash rather than iron-fisted strength. Having this Georgian beast in the Kremlin has been a trauma to the Russian spirit—I believe they will respond best to a leader who is more to be liked than feared.

“The Czar will be the head of state only ceremonially and this must be made clear from the beginning. The real power shall reside in a cabinet of ministers led by a prime minister.

“At the beginning we shall have to provide interim ministries until there has been time to establish a constitution and arrange for elections. Very likely that will have to wait until the end of the war with Germany but we cannot allow postponement to become an excuse for self-perpetuation. There will be free elections in all the Russian republics and it is essential that we show the people proof of this by beginning to set up the apparatus.

“We must earn the goodwill of the people and the bureaucracy, and we must do it quickly. This is one reason we must have as our figurehead a man of overwhelming charm—a man who won’t intimidate the people. He must be a young man, too young to be held responsible for any of the horrors of nineteen-seventeen. He must have presence and speak well in public and he must be able to relax with the people.”

Count Anatol said acidulously, “You do not want a Czar, Leon. You want a cinema star.”

Baron Oleg Zimovoi exhaled a ball of pipe smoke and spoke through it. “You are talking about a specific man, aren’t you? You have someone in mind.”

“Of course I do. Can’t you guess, Oleg?”

“I am afraid to.”

Anatol’s eyes lay uncomfortably against Alex. Then they turned back to Prince Leon. “Are you putting Alex Danilov’s name into the drawing?”

Alex sat bolt upright in alarm.

Prince Leon said, “I admire many of Alex’s excellences but political charm is not among them. No. I have in mind a great-grandson of Nicholas the First—the son of the Grand Duke Mikhail Andreivitch.”

“Prince Felix,” Anatol said.

Oleg snatched the pipe from his mouth. “That motor-racing playboy—you are not serious!”

Anatol said, “I agree with Oleg. Have you ever tried to pin that boy down to a political argument? He would rather talk about cricket matches at Maidstone. He is a frivolous child,”

“And you smiled when you said that,” Prince Leon answered. “No one can help liking him—and no one can possibly fear him.”

General Savinov had developed a slight list in his chair but his voice remained sonorous. “I rather like the boy myself.”

Prince Michael Rodzianko said, “You cannot restore a monarchy without acknowledging the fact that there remain three Grand Dukes eligible to assume the throne. The young prince’s father is one of them—how can you bypass the father and crown the son? It is unthinkable.”

“The point of it is that he is not a Grand Duke,” Prince Leon said. “He is not associated with the Czars of old. We must make every effort to avoid giving our enemies excuses to condemn our actions. By crowning a young charmer we demonstrate at once that the throne is merely ceremonial and yet that we are prepared to honor the great Russian traditions. I put it to you that there is no better candidate than Felix. No Grand Duke would be acceptable to the left-wing factions and nobody without royal blood would be acceptable to the monarchists. Felix is the ideal compromise.”

Anatol shifted his aloof eyes toward Alex. “You know him better than we do. What is your impression?”

Alex did not know Felix terribly well. He was not certain that anyone did. Felix was a frenetic exuder of passions and trivialities but it was more smoke screen than self-revelation; there was a private core to the young prince. Whether it could be dangerous he had no way of telling.

Finally he said, “He meets the qualifications.”

“Then can we agree on this? I impress upon all of you the seriousness of this decision. Once taken it opens the way to the fulfillment of every dream we have harbored for twenty years.”

Eight men in a closed room, seated comfortably on expensively upholstered chairs, stared at one another in a silence that was broken only by the throbbing of a balalaika in a distant part of the palace.

Baron Oleg Zimovoi was the one to break the spell. “I am not thrilled with the idea of restoring even a semblance of the old order. But Leon has the rectitude of inevitability. If the rest of your factions can stretch a point to find this scheme acceptable the socialists will not be the ones to block it.”

“We need more than your indifference, Oleg. We need your active support.”

“You have it.”

“Very well.”

A shiver ran through Alex: his eyes widened. It was done: as simply as that it was done.

11.

In the massive dining hall the banquet was laid on for half-past nine—an early hour to dine in Spain but many of the guests had distances to travel home.

The assassin found himself seated between a pair of very old men who accosted each other with delight: “My God, Leonid, I thought we were both dead.” One of them wore the white uniform of an admiral in a navy that had not existed for twenty-one years.

The table sat six guests at each side and one at either end; there were four rows of four tables each with white-draped serving tables along the walls. The White Russians were serving a seven-course meal to more than two hundred people and the assassin was mildly impressed by the sheer dimension of it.

There were empty seats at the favored tables and that confirmed his expectation that the men in the drawing room did not intend to interrupt their closed meeting to attend the dinner. He had ample time and it would be an excellent meal; there was no reason for concern. He laid his napkin across his lap and masked his face with a benign politeness when the vintner across the table addressed him.

The room was yellowed by the warm glow of crystal chandeliers and tapers and brightened by the spectacular coloration of the ladies’ gowns. It all made a pleasing contrast to the drabness he had left four days ago—the rubble and dust of London’s blacked-out streets.

There was a cheer and a standing toast when the Grand Duke was wheeled in to take his place at the head of the main table. An Archbishop took the dais, dressed in rich vestments and swinging a censor, flanked by bearded priests in black robes and caps and a pair of nuns in black habits and white babushkas. One of them handed a triple-barred Byzantine cross to the Archbishop and the holy man began to chant in the Slavonic archaisms of the Old Church. The assassin understood none of it but a word now and then; his Russian was passable but this was the Latin of the Orthodox Church, the language of ritual and antiquity. When the ceremony was finished, the next ritual began—the drinking of a great many toasts in vodka. They began with the memory of the Czar and the health of the Grand Duke and went on from that to whatever came to mind: the Admiral beside him lifted his glass toward the vintner’s wife and proclaimed with gallant cheer, “To the purest and holiest of Russian womanhood!” And the woman who was nearly as fat as her husband acknowledged it with a polite dip of her head and a twinkle. Occasionally the assassin heard the smash of a glass although the practice had dwindled because of the in creasing difficulty of replacing crystal.

The Luger was a hard pressure against his rib. He shifted his seat to ease it.

12.

Prince Leon spoke to Alex: “Do you think we’re completely mad then?”

“No. If there’s ever going to be a time it’s now.”

“We must be sure it hasn’t been merely the warped judgment of old men living in the past. We need your young view. For God’s sake do not patronize us—do not humor us.”

“No.”

“You honestly believe it can be done?”

“It could be done.”

Count Anatol said through his teeth, “Remember how the Bolsheviks did it twenty-three years ago—remember how few they were?”

Leon said, “Vassily has formulated a military plan. I think it is time we heard it.”

Vassily inhaled. “In outline we need three things. One, a distraction to occupy the Kremlin guard and the Red Army units in the area. Two, a major force to occupy the Kremlin and defend it while key commando squads neutralize the leadership—Stalin, Beria, Malenkov, Zhukov, Vlasov, perhaps a dozen others. Three, a cell of practical leaders prepared to take over the mechanisms of high government and the centers of communication and propaganda.”

General Savinov blinked owlishly in his chair. “Excellent,” he muttered. “Superb.”

Alex said slowly, “How large a force have you got in mind?”

“Regiment size,” Vassily answered promptly. “You can’t do it with less.”

“How do you plan to get them into Moscow?”

“It can be done—that’s all that needs to be said.”

“You’re talking about a fairly large-scale combat operation then.”

“I am,” Vassily said flatly. “I can do it. But it will take a great deal of support and money. Preparation, intelligence, recruitment, training, planning, transport, ordnance, supply. And time. That is why it must be authorized right now without any further stupid debating. We have got to have it rolling before the Germans take any more ground. Even now we may be too late.”

Anatol said, “Putting us in the curious position of hoping that Stalin can hold out.”

Vassily ignored that; he was staring at Alex, “You don’t agree with it, do you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

The weaknesses he saw were as much in Vassily’s character as they were in the plan itself. But what he said was, “The time scale doesn’t permit it—you’ve said it yourself. It could take six months to prepare it and launch it. I don’t think we’ve got that kind of time. The war in Russia will be decided by the end of the year—either Hitler will take Moscow and Stalingrad ahead of the winter or he won’t make it at all. He knows his Napoleonic history—that’s why the panzers are rolling so fast. They’ve got a deadline and they know it. And that means we’ve got a deadline too.”

Vassily’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “Have you an alternative proposal?”

“No. Right now? No.”

“Give me the authorization and support I ask for,” Vassily told the council, “and I will have the Kremlin within one hundred days. I give you that pledge on my honor.”

Anatol’s eyebrows went up in black arcs. “Alex, could you promise a faster result than that?”

He had to be honest. “No.”

“Then it appears we must choose between Vassily’s plan and none at all.”

13.

The assassin excused himself quietly and walked to the nearest door, some twenty feet from his chair. He stopped a servant and said, “Where’s the lavatory, please?” The servant gave instructions with jabs of his finger. That much would be seen by anyone in the room who might have been curious enough to be watching. It would explain his abrupt departure and it wasn’t likely the others at his own table would take much notice of his absence for quite some time.

He found himself in a narrow corridor that ran through the interior darkness of the villa. A turning brought him to a junction and he made an unhesitating turn to the right. The hall was narrow and plain—an access for the serving staff. It took him to the foot of a flight of unadorned wooden stairs: he climbed quietly on the balls of his feet into the housemaids’ wing of the building.

It made for a long and circuitous approach and it was not the route he would use for his escape; he had rehearsed the timing in his mind and it was based on a judgment of several factors, not least of which was the age and decrepitude of Devenko’s companions in the drawing-room conference. The room was architecturally the front sitting-room of a suite which contained the Grand Duke’s bedroom and two smaller bedrooms which presently were occupied by a doctor and two nurses. The doctor was at dinner in the dining hall below; the nurses would be no trouble.

The escape path he’d chosen was the fastest and most direct means of exit from the villa: down the portrait-gallery corridor, down the main staircase and across the foyer and out. From there it was a few strides into the deep shadows of the trees that encroached on the building; once in those trees at night he would be free to move at will. The Packard was parked half a kilometer along the road; he would be well away before a search could be organized effectively or the police brought in.

The assassination would be clean and simple because that was the approach that guaranteed success. If the door was locked he had prepared a ruse to induce them to open it—a “telegram from London for the General Devenko”—a tired-familiar gambit but as effective as any and more disarming than most.

One of them would open the door—perhaps carelessly, perhaps cautiously. In either case it was a matter of slamming the door fully open, finding Devenko, taking his shots and then making his run for it. They were old men in that room, all but the one who was Devenko’s brother and who therefore would react first by crouching at the victim’s side in concern. Even if any of them gave chase there was no cause for fear because he had the advantage of the interval during which they would be stunned and bewildered. And he had the gun.

He left the maids’ wing and went along the narrow hall to the front of the upper story; let himself out into the gallery and walked slowly past the head of the great stair, looking down into the foyer. It was quite unoccupied—every servant in the house had been called into the busy platoon in the dining hall.

He moved without sound along the rank of Romanov portraits. Midway along the gallery stood a small table supporting a half life-size bust of Peter the Great; he debated moving the table across the corridor but decided against it—there would be time to dodge around it. He went on to the drawing room door and stopped to listen: heard voices within but not the words. The oak was thick and sturdy.

He looked both ways along the corridor and lifted the Luger from his belt, testing the silencer to be sure it was screwed tight; locked his grip, flicked off the safety and lifted his left hand to knock.

14.

Irina had not been able to single out the bald man in the dining hall until he called attention to himself by rising from a table across the room and walking toward the door behind him. She watched him talk to one of the waiters and she saw the waiter’s gestures; when the bald man nodded his thanks and went on through the door she settled back in her chair in relief.

It occurred to her a moment later that he would have behaved just that way if he had been trying to allay suspicion. And she remembered the dent in his jacket again.

Abruptly she excused herself from the table and hurried across the room. She went through the door into the corridor beyond it—but he had gone.

The nearest bathroom was just beyond the corner. She knocked and when there was no reply she tried the knob. The room was empty. Now her alarm was real and she was running toward the front of the villa. The end of the servants’ hall admitted her to the ballroom and a dozen surprised musicians stopped chewing their dinners to watch her run across the corner of the great room to the door beyond—the front gallery, past the statuary and across the foyer to the villa’s main entrance.

Sergei Bulygin stood just outside the door smoking a black Spanish cigarette. He came to attention when Irina appeared.

“Come along Sergei, I think there’s trouble upstairs.”

They had crossed half the length of the foyer when she heard the shouts above, the pound of running footsteps.

15.

It had come without warning. They’d been getting down to details: Anatol had said, “Oleg, you must uncover your mysterious contact in the Kremlin.”

“I cannot. I have given him my word. His position is fragile there.”

Alex had suspected there had to be someone like that. Oleg had been tossing out bits of information that could only have come from a source inside the Soviet government.

Vassily said, “I will have to know who the man is—I have to be in touch with him.”

“I will not divulge it here. If you do not know his name you cannot drop it accidentally in the wrong places,” Oleg said and that was when there was a knock at the door.

Anatol was nearest and more agile than old Prince Michael; he went to the door and opened it unsuspectingly—you couldn’t talk through those doors without shouting—and then suddenly the door slammed back and Anatol was thrown off his feet and Alex saw the man with the gun.

All the old instincts sent him diving across the rug toward Vassily: “Down!”

But Vassily was tired, his reactions had slowed and he didn’t understand the threat quickly enough—he hadn’t been facing the door.

Alex wasn’t across half the distance when the pistol chugged, muttering twice through its silencer.

The bullets hammered Vassily Devenko, spun him to one side in the chair; there was a gush of blood the color of death where the two slugs had torn into the heart.

He saw disbelief and anger in Vassily’s face. Rage drove him half to his feet and then the splendid body failed him and Vassily stumbled and fell back across the chair.

Alex exploded with an unthinking wrath. The doorway had emptied: the assassin hadn’t waited to see the results of his work. Alex leaped over Anatol and careened into the gallery and saw the assassin running toward the head of the stairs. There was a small stone bust on a stand: Alex scooped it up and hurled it and ran after, uncaring of the gun in the fugitive’s fist.

The stone bust caught the running man in the small of the back. It pitched him forward off balance and he caromed off the heavy bannister rail onto the stairs: he pitched out of sight, tumbling, legs flying and Alex had the angry satisfaction of hearing the pistol clatter loosely down the stairs. He ran full out….

He reached the head of the sweeping stair and checked himself against the rail and had a momentary tableau impression: the assassin lying awry across the steps, one foot high in the air; Irina staring in shock from the foyer below; huge old Sergei Bulygin reaching for the fallen pistol.

The assassin’s leg pivoted and he collapsed motionless against the bannister posts, his neck twisted at an acute angle.

Alex said to Sergei, “You won’t need that.”

He walked down the stairs stiffly to the sprawled figure. Sergei met him there. Irina watched from the marble floor of the foyer—expectant, intent.

“Yes,” Sergei said, bending over the assassin. “This one is dead.”

“God damn it.”

“What?”

He’d spoken it in English; he only shook his head. “He can’t tell us anything now, can he?”

Irina’s hand had gone to her throat. “Alex—”

He went down to her: took both of her hands. “He’s killed Vassily.”

For a moment it was as if she hadn’t heard him: she stared into his face. Then slowly she turned away from him. He saw her shoulders stiffen. “It’s my fault. If I’d trusted my intuitions—if I’d only acted a little faster.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I thought I saw a gun under his coat—I just wasn’t certain enough. I didn’t do anything about it until it was too late.”

“It isn’t your fault, Irina.”

“Isn’t it?” She gave him a level glance. “I don’t want to see him, Alex.”

“No.”

“Hadn’t you better get this one away from here?”

He hadn’t thought. Now her meaning grenaded into him. Irina said, “You don’t want the Spanish police here—not tonight. There are too many vulnerable people here—the Guardia Civil would take great pleasure in embarrassing them.”

What she hadn’t said was that the Guardia would take even more pleasure in arresting him for the murder of this one on the stairs. He’d been persona non grata ever since he’d walked out on the Falangist army.

Irina said, “No one’s heard anything. The villa is too solid. I’m going back into the dining room.” But she was searching his face with great intensity. “Vassily knew he was going to die.”

“He told me that.”

“You’d better go up then. But hold me first, Alex—I need to borrow your strength.”

He pressed her against him. After a moment she drew herself up and moved away. “I’ll be all right. Go on.”

Sergei threw the dead man across his shoulder and carried him upstairs. Alex caught up at the landing.

A few of them were trickling out into the gallery from the drawing room—Oleg and General Savinov and Anatol. They looked dazed but a fierce gleam of enraged satisfaction illuminated Oleg’s face when he recognized Sergei’s burden.

Alex stooped to retrieve the bust of Peter the Great. It was intact except for a chip out of the base. He found the chip against the moulding and pocketed it; and carried the bust back to its stand.

Old Prince Michael stood bewildered in the door. “What are we to do?”

Alex shook his head, putting them off; he said sotto voce to Sergei, “Are you willing?”

“Of course.”

“Are there back stairs you can use?”

“No one will see me.”

“Search him first. Then bury him where no one will find him.”

“In the stable, I think. And cover the grave with straw.”

“All right—but keep it private, Sergei.”

“I have no love for the Guardia,” the big man replied, and turned toward the rear of the hall.

Alex went into the drawing room. They had one of the nurses there but it was no good; Alex had known by the way Vassily fell back that he was dead.

The others crowded into the room behind him. Anatol was visibly shaken. Prince Leon seemed to be in command of himself but he said quietly to Alex, “What shall we do?”

The rest of them stared at Alex and he saw they were putting it up to him: they expected an instant solution from him. Only Oleg looked as if his mental machinery was unimpaired by shock.

Alex said, “Don’t let anyone in.” General Savinov was just inside the door; he kicked it shut.

The nurse was a stocky woman with brown hair and a pleasant face. She was watching Prince Leon as if for a sign. Alex said to her, “Would you leave us for a bit?”

“The doctor must be brought,” she said in awkward Russian; she was English, he remembered.

“We’ll send down for him. Please wait in the Grand Duke’s room.”

She left them—trembling with fear.

Oleg said to Leon, “Can she be trusted?”

“I believe so. But for what?”

“You believe so? You’re not sure? This thing is too important for suppositions, Leon.”

Count Anatol burst out with sudden sarcasm, “What would you do, Oleg—murder her to guarantee her silence?”

Oleg remained stubbornly calm. “We must have assurances. She is in love with this doctor, is she not?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must have the doctor sign a certificate that Vassily died of natural causes. Everyone knows he has been under a great strain. A heart attack—everyone will believe that. And once the doctor’s signature is on the certificate the nurse cannot reveal the truth without betraying him.”

“You are too clever by half sometimes,” Anatol snarled.

Prince Leon said cautiously, “I see no need to be devious, Oleg. We must simply tell the truth.”

Alex said, “No.”

They looked at him.

“Too many people would be hurt. We’re not in a country where you can trust the police.”

One of them—perhaps the nurse—had laid Vassily out and covered him with a blanket from one of the adjoining chambers. But he was there in the center of the room, a mute macabre focal point, and they clustered near the door to be away from him. Oleg said vigorously, “We cannot have all our plans—the fate of Russia herself—founder on this murder. Leon, I fail to see how you could even entertain a notion of going to the Spanish police. Among the seven of us don’t you think they’d soon worm it out of at least one? What we were discussing here, what we were planning?”

“It would appear,” said Count Anatol, “that our enemies know our plans already. Otherwise why was Vassily killed?”

Alex tried to steady them. “We’ve got to take up one thing at a time. The first matter’s the doctor. I’ll fetch him.” He turned to the door, his heart still chugging.

Prince Leon said, “Before you go, Alex.”

He turned and waited for it.

Leon said, “Vassily half-expected this. They tried to kill him before.”

“I know.”

“It was Vassily’s wish that you succeed him.”

“He told me that. Obviously it is up to the rest of you.”

“There is no question in our minds.”

Count Anatol said, “I should not accept it too eagerly if I were you. It puts you at the top of their list, whoever these killers are.”

Alex didn’t reply to any of them; he needed time. He left the room and went down into the villa in search of the doctor.

16.

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning and most of them had gone home or to bed.

The announcement would be made in the afternoon by which time Vassily would be embalmed and on view in a casket with his wounds concealed by clothing and the mortician’s art.

Sergei Bulygin found him pacing the veranda. “It will be a long time before anyone finds that vermin.”

“Thank you, Sergei. Did you find anything on him?”

“This—his invitation.” A faint aroma of the stables rolled off Sergei’s clothes. “Are there instructions?”

“Not tonight,” Alex said. “Sleep—there’ll be things to do today.”

Sergei nodded and made a half-turn, and paused. “I grieve with you for the General’s passing.”

“Yes…”

“I will mention him in my prayers.” Then Sergei left him.

A sweetness of honeysuckle flavored the air; the moon had come and gone, the stars made patchwork patterns among scudding cottonball clouds. He stared toward the mountains with preoccupied inattention.

A shadow fell through the doorway and he turned to find Prince Leon there. The Prince limped onto the veranda; he had an unlit cigar between his fingers and was nipping at the end with the blade of a brass-handled dagger. It was a knife the Prince had cherished for many years: Peter the Great had carried it at Azov in 1696.

“The question is, why did they kill him? What did they hope to gain?”

“Maybe they thought the scheme would die with him.”

“Presupposing they knew a great deal about the scheme. But if they knew that much would they not have known it was too big to be destroyed by one man’s death?”

“If you’d killed Lenin in nineteen-sixteen there might not have been an October Revolution.”

“It is not the same thing.”

“They’ve delayed the program. Maybe that’s all they expected to accomplish.”

“We have assumed the assassin was a paid hireling—a professional.” Leon laid the dagger on the stone rail and searched his pockets for matches. The dagger’s blade glinted dully. “It could have been the Germans you know.”

“How would they have found out about it?”

“How would anyone?” Leon got the cigar lighted. “Someone did—that is the sum of our knowledge. It leads to the conclusion we have a traitor among us.” His voice was very soft.

“Who knows about this besides those of us who were in that room?”

“Not many. The Americans—two or three of them. Deniken of course. The Grand Duke Dmitri and perhaps a few of his advisors in Switzerland. Churchill and a few of his people.”

Alex shook his head. “Then any one of them could have let something drop. A secret’s only a secret as long as one person knows it.”

“We can only hope the details of it do not reach the Kremlin.” Leon puffed on the cigar and took it away from his mouth. “Have you decided, Alex?”

He had tried to weigh it: tried to deal with the realities. But the guiding consideration was emotional, not susceptible to reason. The factors of history should have dominated his thinking: the opportunity to free the land of his birth from the evil of Stalin’s tyranny; the chance to help two hundred million people realize the dreams for which his father and millions of Russians had died; the possibility of making the gift of justice to a nation which had never in its history been free of despotism.

Against those he had tried to weigh the odds: the rocky instability of the coalition backing the scheme; the unlikelihood of prevailing with a small commando force where the mighty Wehrmacht of the Third Reich had not yet succeeded. The scheme was absurd from any objective vantage; Stalin’s armies numbered millions. In so many ways it had to be viewed as an exercise in fruitless and suicidal fantasy.

But it wasn’t any of those things that had decided him.

He said, “If you’ll trust me with it then I’m prepared to accept it.”

Leon said, “I don’t have any reservations about trusting you with the command. My reservations have to do with the practicality of continuing without Vassily—without what was in his head. It doesn’t seem possible for you to reconstruct his plan from the hints and clues he gave us—and even if it were, would we have enough time?”

Alex shook his head. “He was right about the time limit. If it isn’t done within a hundred days I doubt it can be done at all. But I wouldn’t like to waste five minutes trying to retrace Vassily’s plan. It wouldn’t have worked. If I take command the plan will be mine, not Vassily’s.”

Leon’s answer was a long time coming. “I think perhaps you had better tell me what it is that would not have worked.”

“The Kremlin’s a fortress. The rock underneath it is honey-combed with bunkers and tunnels—miles of them. The Soviet High Command uses those bunkers for its main headquarters because they’re protected from air raids. This is all common knowledge, Leon—it’s been in the press. The rooms underground are sealed off from one another by armored doors like the waterproof compartments in a modern freighter.”

“I am sure Vassily was aware of all this.”

“If he was it was a bad mistake to ignore it. The idea of storming the Kremlin with a regiment of shock troops just isn’t workable—they’d never get near Stalin. He’s too well protected.”

“He must have had more to his plan than that. More than he told us. He would not have made so obvious a mistake.”

“Probably not. I have an idea of what he had in mind.”

“Then I should like to hear it, Alex.”

“He’d have put his people in Red Army uniforms. Infiltrate them into the Kremlin like saboteurs. Take the chance a few of them would be caught out—count on some of them getting close enough to the Red leaders to be able to assassinate them before there’d been a general alarm.”

Leon watched him in surprise. “Are you clairvoyant, then?”

“It’s a plan he wanted to use once before. In a different context.”

“It sounds brilliant to me. Ingenious.”

“Any wild scheme may work. But that one overflows with risks. Vassily didn’t have much of a head for security—how can you expect to infiltrate a thousand men into one place and be confident that not a single one of them will be captured and reveal what he knows?”

“I see,” Leon said dubiously.

“His idea was to take the Kremlin. He told us that much. It wasn’t a sound objective—the Kremlin isn’t the White House or the Houses of Parliament. It’s an enormous place—a small city in itself, really. You’d have to expect a drawn-out pitched battle. It would take incredible luck to secure the fortress before Red reinforcements arrived. There are divisions—army corps—preparing defenses on the outskirts of Moscow. They could reach the Kremlin within half an hour of the first alarm.”

The cigar had grown a tall ash. Leon tapped it off. His eyes were half-closed, his lips pursed—the expression of a man formulating an argument.

Alex said, “There was a chance. The odds were against it but there was a long chance it might work. Vassily wanted to take that gamble.”

“Are there better odds to be found?”

“Yes.”

Leon said slowly, “You believe he knew this.”

“Yes. He wasn’t a fool.”

“Then why, Alex? You must tell me that.”

“Because if you do it the way it should be done, it won’t produce heroes.”

“You maintain he deliberately chose the less likely alternative because if it worked at all it would make him a hero.”

“I rather suspect it would have made him dictator of Russia in the end. I think he was willing to risk losing the whole packet for that.”

“That is a harsh judgment, Alex. He was arrogant, yes—he was in love with being in command. But I never knew him to show the slightest spark of political desire.”

“A dictator’s not a politician. He’s a conquering general.”

“Vassily’s favorite general,” Leon said slowly—pushing the words out with reluctance—“was Napoleon.”

There was a clatter of china from within—servants clearing up. It seemed to distract Leon; he put the cigar in his mouth and crossed the veranda to shut both doors. He returned slowly to the balustrade and Alex realized he had been using the time to compose his thoughts. He limped to the corner and stood there leaning on both palms, looking toward the dim heavy shadows of the mountains.

Alex said, “Vassily’s out of the picture—it serves no purpose to keep talking about him.”

After a while Leon nodded. “You have hardly had time to formulate a tactical scheme but I infer that you have a strategy in your head. Can you outline it for me?”

“I’ll try. We’ve got to remember we’re not going to war—we’re trying to effect a palace coup. Our objective isn’t military, it’s political. We need to keep the Russian army intact so that it can fight the Germans. What I’m saying is it’s no good trying to storm Moscow with a regiment of rangers armed to the teeth—we don’t want to lose the loyalty of the generals at the outset.”

“What is the alternative then?”

“Trick Stalin and his coterie into an entrapment. Draw them to a place where we can reach them.” He drew a breath. “Then blow them sky high.”

“How do you propose to get them in the open?”

“I’ll need the help of Oleg’s man inside the Kremlin. I can’t explain it better than that before I’ve talked with Oleg.”

“Then do so.” Leon turned to stare him in the eye. “Consider it settled, Alex. I will deal with the others. You will want to move very quickly.”

“I’ll have to start in the States then.”

“That is where the purse strings are. You have met this Colonel Buckner?”

“Yes.”

“You have rapport with him?”

“I think so. As long as our objective is the same.”

“Yes. Do not count on the Americans too much—they want us to do their fighting for them. They want to defeat Germany with their money and our blood. They are willing to fight to the last Russian, as Anatol puts it.” He changed the subject abruptly: “There is something else I must ask you to do. Last night I spoke of installing young Prince Felix on the figurehead throne. But the truth is that I am not sure he will accept.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“He has never had much love for pomp and ceremony.” Leon scraped ashes from the cigar against the stone. “Will you intercede for me with Felix? He has always respected you—he told me once he wished he could care about things the way you do.”

“Leon, it’s you who’s respected. By Felix and everyone else.”

“No—I am taken for granted. You are much closer to his own age. He can’t pretend to regard yours as grandfatherly demands.”

“I’m not a glib talker, you know that.”

“You measure your words. That makes them more valuable. He respects you for that—he will listen to you. Will you do it?”

“If you’re sure it’s best.”

“Thank you. Felix will be racing in Madrid tomorrow. You can be there by car in time to catch him at the end of the race. Then you can fly on from Madrid the following day—it should not delay your schedule.”

17.

He shaved with the great care of dulled concentration. The scars at his throat seemed livid; his face looked weary and very old in the mirror and he was startled by the image. Vassily looked like that.

He put on fawn slacks and a white shirt and prowled the corridors tieless and throbbing as if with hangover. When he knocked at Baron Oleg Zimovoi’s door the echoes of his rapping seemed to carom throughout the villa.

He heard a groggy mutter and finally the door opened just a crack and a suspicious eye glared at him.

“I’m sorry to wake you. It’s important.” He had chosen the hour deliberately because Oleg’s defenses would be down.

“Well come in then.” Oleg stepped back ungraciously, walking away from him in a satin dressing gown that flapped around his calves—a curiously elegant garment for a workingman’s politician.

It was one of the smaller bedchambers in the south wing of the villa but it was nonetheless a spacious room, richly furnished and carpeted. A valise lay carelessly open on the floor and last night’s suit was strewn in rumpled disorder across a chair; Oleg had no valet. The room stank of strong pipe tobacco; moths crashed around the lamp.

Oleg sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his face, grinding knuckles into his eye sockets. “Time is it?”

“Half-past five.”

“In God’s name, what is it you want at this hour?” Then he looked up, bloodshot but suddenly alert. “You have been fool enough to accept the job.”

“Yes. There’s something I need to know. This contact of yours in the Kremlin. How much can we count on him for? How highly placed is he?”

“Highly enough. The man is General Vlasov.”

It took Alex completely by surprise and he made no effort to conceal it.

“Vlasov has been one of us since Stalin began the purges eight years ago. Actually his sympathies were always with us. By ‘us’ of course I mean the exiled democratic Socialist wing. Vlasov is far too liberal to suit most of my colleagues in this venture. That is one reason I did not expose his name in the meeting. Anatol—to him the difference between Socialists and Bolsheviks is not a centime’s”

Alex knew of Vlasov; the Soviet general had been recently in the news. A wirephoto came to mind: a great slab of a man—very big ears and thick eyeglasses, heavy nose and jaw. He’d had a Red Army in the Kiev sector when the Soviets were trapped there by German armor and Vlasov was the only commander to fight his way out of the trap: he’d used a clever tactic, a planned retreat in the center to draw the panzers in and then a flanking movement, snapping both wings shut behind the Germans to trap them inside the circle. Vlasov had kept his army intact while Budyenny had given up and now, a month ago, Stalin had appointed him Commandant of the Moscow Army. Vlasov had been described as Stalin’s favorite general; he shared responsibility for the defense of Moscow and he was regarded as Zhukov’s most likely successor.

Alex said, “How do you maintain contact with him?”

“The usual thing. A series of drops. Couriers—blind exchanges. There is no way for anyone to trace the chain.”

“That’s too clumsy—too slow. I’ll need direct contact.”

“My dear Alex, I am your only means of communication with him and the only one you are going to have.”

“That’s no good. Suppose you’re arrested by the Spanish police? It could happen at any time.”

“I am prepared to take that risk.”

“I’m not.”

“You have little choice.”

“Vlasov’s security is expendable.” Alex spoke harshly for effect. “If the operation succeeds his cover won’t matter; if it doesn’t he’ll probably be found out anyway. I’ve got to have direct contact with him. Not through you—not through anyone.”

“Impossible. I am the only one he trusts.”

“Then tell him he’s got to trust me as well. Or doesn’t he trust you enough to believe that?”

“Well riposted, Alex, but I have given him my word.”

“Ask him to release you from it.”

Oleg tried to argue wordlessly but it was the easiest thing in the world to meet and hold a man’s stare until he got tired of the game. Finally Oleg went to the dresser where the contents of his pockets were strewn; opened a pouch and spooned his pipe into it, tamping with his thumb. “Does it matter that much—or are you only trying to prove who is in command now?”

“I’ve got to work directly with Vlasov.”

“If you prefer not to work through me then perhaps you had better work out a scheme that excludes Vlasov.”

It had always been exasperating to deal with Oleg; he fought out of stubbornness more than conviction.

Oleg said, “The reason Vassily is dead is that too many people learned about it. I cannot put Vlasov in that jeopardy.”

“He’s already in jeopardy. I can’t do the job without him,” Alex said. “Your loyalty to the idea—the coalition—is it a sham?” He maintained an impassive facade and watched the determined resistance in Oleg’s eyes change to sardonic self-deprecation when he saw he was going to have to surrender his control.

Finally with grudging logic Oleg said, “I suppose your intransigence is more reasonable than my own. Very well. But you must let me do it my way. I shall advise you when you may approach him. Do not attempt it until you have my clearance.”

“It’s got to be done quickly.”

“It will be. We haven’t much time, have we—or the Fuehrer will do our job for us.”

He had got what he’d come for; he turned to go but Oleg’s voice arrested him. “You need men—I can provide them. If I ask them a thousand men will enlist with you.”

“I won’t need a thousand.”

“Vassily wanted a regiment….”

“We’re not using Vassily’s plan.”

The room began to stink of Oleg’s pipe. He gave Alex a long scrutiny. “I see. But you still need people. My offer is genuine.”

Alex supposed his hesitation was obvious. After a moment Oleg said, “You are afraid of an imbalance in your force—too many rabid young Socialists—that would displease our conservative friends. But there is a risk in neutrality, young Alex—if things go awry you will have no strong allies among us. I know the hardships of working alone, remaining aloof from all the rest. Often it is the best way but it is never easy.”

“I haven’t heard anybody suggest the job’s easy.”

“Of course. All right—tell me how many of my people you can absorb without incurring the anger of Anatol and the others. Give me a number and that many young men will be on whatever doorstep you wish on the appointed date.”

“They’d want training. It’s better to use professional soldiers.”

“You may find that the professional soldiers of the world are otherwise occupied at the moment.”

“Then keep the offer open.”

“Of course. But for your own sake do not take too much time—it is the one thing you haven’t got.”

At noon he waited in the garden for Irina. The others hadn’t yet finished lunch and Prince Leon was on a trunk call to Zurich, something to do with the Romanov finances, the sort of call you had to make cryptic and reserved because the lines passed through Vichy France.

A rickety airplane stuttered along the horizon to the south, possibly carrying mail to Barcelona. When Irina appeared on the terrace he climbed the steps and took her hand.

She looked wan but self-possessed. She pushed her hair back from her temples. “You’re leaving right away then.”

“As soon as a few things have been signed.”

“I’ll go with you to Madrid,” she said. “I’ll bring Felix back if he agrees to come.”

“How much have they told you?”

“I’ve made a few surmises.” She had one of her Du Mauriers going; she coughed on the smoke. “I’m very glad you’ve taken it on. Vassily still had all his respect for you in spite of what happened between you.”

She’d given him the opening but he didn’t take it and he felt the distance grow: the violence of Vassily’s death had estranged them. He didn’t know what it meant—what could be done about it.

She said, “I just want to ride to Madrid with you. We’ll sit together and you’ll hold my hand.”

18.

The day was blazing hot and tinder dry on the two-kilometer Madrid course. Felix swept his left hand from the wheel to downshift before going into the turn. His eyes judged the banked edge. He allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder at the Alfa Romeo: it was gaining. Felix’s grip whitened on the wooden wheel and he cut across the turn, wheels skittering, running in second with his foot flat down on the hard-sprung metal plate of the accelerator and the tachometer needle beyond the red line.

The thunder of engines and wind pierced the cotton stuffed in his ears; dust raveled high above the oval strip, high enough to turn the sky pale, caking the spectators who stood in knots around the track and the mechanics in their grease-black coveralls waiting by the impromptu pits.

The Alfa behind him dropped back on the inside of the tight turn and now, coming out of it, Felix allowed his outside rear wheel to skip along the dusty loose shoulder, freewheeling for the few seconds it took to build up engine speed in high gear. It was a winning trick, practiced into habit; he felt the engine take hold when he sideslid back onto the hardpan. The ripsaw-buzzing Bugatti shot into the straightaway, surging ahead sharply enough to snap his neck back. The bright exhaust tubes shimmered before him.

The wound-up 57SC engine pushed toward its deafening limit in the tach’s red zone. The Bugatti’s polished long snake of a gearshift lever whipped violently with vibration and wind howled across the stark square top of the windscreen.

It was a race for the big cars, not the limited-formula Grand Prix cars he was accustomed to; these were eight-cylinder monsters running at well over a hundred miles an hour. The smallest mechanical malfunction, the slightest error of judgment, a slick of dropped crankcase-oil on the track could smash you to pulp or cause you to be pulled out of the car without a single mark on you, but dead all the same.

A sheared brake-rod had cost him ninety seconds in the pit after the seventeenth lap. He still had nearly a full lap to make up: the pack was running twenty lengths behind him but in fact it was Felix who was behind. It wasn’t the Alfa he had to beat; the Alfa was two laps back; it was the four Mercedes Benz 540K juggernauts, and the D8S Delage but he had a feeling the French car hadn’t the staying power to make the hundred laps. There were three 4-liter Hispano-Suizas in the crowd and a 4-liter Talbot-Lago rushing the inside rail with a hard vicious uproar, and a pair of old Mercedes Benz SSKs; a Frazer Nash-B.M.W., an aging American Duesenberg supercharged SJ, an Invicta and a Daimler. But it was the swollen great Mercedes Benz 540Ks, pledged to win for the Master Race, that had to be caught—and Felix meant to do it.

Another lap and he’d gained a few lengths; he was calculating the ground he had to eat—a hundred and twenty kilometers before the finish: how many meters did he need to gain per lap?

There were drivers who liked running half a lap behind; they would sit there out of the dust and racket and coast until the last ten laps. They called it “stroking”: conserving the delicate machinery for the last push, waiting for the pack-leaders to drop out. Felix was a charger, he pushed his car to its limit and relied on his pit crew and the tough Bugatti engineers who’d built the car. They hadn’t built it for loafing—they hadn’t built him for it either.

He always drove against the red line.

Fiftieth lap… fifty-fifth… sixtieth. The pack was ahead of him and he had their dust in his teeth; he slid forward among the stragglers. The Alfa was still right behind him but the Alfa had an extra lap to make up and wasn’t going to do it. Up ahead one of the German team’s cars had got into a long fender-crashing duel with the Talbot-Lago, wheel hubs screaming and cars lurching, and the rest of the crowd was veering away from that idiocy, some of them falling back for safety. The big red Mercedes made another pass at the Talbot-Lago and the smaller car broke away, giving in, losing ground into the turn because he had to go at it from a bad angle. The red Mercedes thundered ahead with his three teammates blocking the crowd behind him. That was going to be the one to beat—the red one.

The Bugatti’s 3.3-liter engine powered him past a low grey Auto Union with dark smoke coming out of its exhaust. He went tight into the lap turn; the Bugatti’s low heavy chassis kept it on the track and allowed him to cut inside a wide-swinging Hispano-Suiza and the old Mercedes SSK that was crowding its tail. He was against the rear of the solid pack now and had to make openings for himself. Coming out of the turn against the inside of the oval he shot across the front of the Invicta and went across the straightaway to the outside edge, losing half a car length but gaining an opening beside the Daimler which he squeezed through before the Paraguayan had time to try and block him. He had grit in his teeth and a mote in his eye; he blinked it furiously and found the shift knob by laying his open palm forward and letting the whipping flexible lever slap into it. There was a slot to the left of one of the big Mercedes and he judged it without turning the car that way because as soon as the Mercedes saw him make that move the slot would be closed; he’d have to take it in the sharp turn, pry a path between the Mercedes and the Hispano-Suiza to its left before the Mercedes could find room to swing left. The Mercedes had all the bloody power in the world with its enormous eight-cylinder pushrod engine but it was an unwieldy behemoth and it wasn’t going to be able to cut him off when it was in the middle of a turn that strained its cornering to the limit; the Hispano-Suiza was an older car with a smaller engine but it could hug the inside curve and gain lengths and Felix knew the Hispano-Suiza’s driver would have to play it that way, outmaneuvering because he couldn’t outpower. It would leave a spread between the two cars and he had to get the Bugatti into that—at the crest of the turn when it was too late for the Mercedes to anticipate it and too early for the Mercedes to block it.

Now without really thinking it out his body made a rapid sequence of motions to convert theory into practice. The left foot went onto the brake pedal and lay there without pressure. The left hand gripped the shift lever and the right hand at two o’clock on the wheel locked tight, the right arm tensing for its anticipated leftward turn. The left hand popped the gear lever into neutral, without use of the clutch, and the right foot slammed down on the accelerator while the left foot lightly applied the brakes to bring her down to cornering speed. She was in neutral, braking on the end of the straightaway, and now he revved the engine up far across the red line. If there was a weakness anywhere in a piston or a rod it would explode now.

Left foot hard and fast from brake to clutch, and ram the clutch all the way to the floor. Engine still revving: left hand shift into third. Swinging into the turn now with the Mercedes waddling toward the outside and the Hispano-Suiza predictably shearing toward the inside. You could drive a battleship through there now. Dust wheeling up, the awful whine of superchargers drilling through the cotton waste in his ears, the hard seat and the tight leather harness bucking and pitching him around on the Bugatti’s drum-tight suspension. Tires chittering on the track surface and the stink of imperfectly burned gasoline in his nostrils despite the swift sucking wind that made it hard to breathe at all….

Pop the clutch.

The engine, freewheeling beyond its safe margin of operate ing speed, suddenly ran up against resistance from the transmission and the differential gear between the back wheels. Now either something was going to break or the twin-cam power of Ettore Bugatti’s finest engine was going to hurtle him into the gap.

The wheels slithered and gripped. The seat surged forward, pushing him back hard. The rear end was breaking a little to the right but he had that under control and he knew how much room he had to slide toward the Mercedes. He came into the crest of the turn doing a good fifteen miles an hour better than the Mercedes.

The German hadn’t much steering room and couldn’t accelerate yet; it gave Felix time to oil through the gap and then he clutched, revved it in neutral just enough to run the engine up without breaking into a powerless slide: popped the clutch again into fourth and surged ahead of the Mercedes’s massive grille.

The Hispano-Suiza’s driver was Enzione, the Italian, and Felix had a glimpse of the approving grin on his face before the Bugatti’s power took him ahead of the Italian. The big Mercedes kept pace within a meter of his rear fender all the way down the straightaway but he lost the Mercedes on the far turn and then he had just four cars ahead of him—three Germans and the French D8S Delage.

One of the Germans rolled off to the shoulder into the pit for tires and on the eighty-first lap the Delage broke down on the lap turn, braking into the ambulance driveway. Felix had only the two Mercedes ahead of him and he was crowding the green one by the eighty-seventh lap.

He had fuel to finish the race without another pit stop; he was not so certain of the tires. But the red Mercedes was a good twenty lengths ahead of the green one and so there was no question in Felix’s mind about stopping for tires. The four tires could be changed in thirty-four seconds but with only twelve laps left that would cost him the race.

And if the Bugatti’s tires were thin so were the Germans’: they were carrying more weight on theirs and none of them had been into the pits for anything but fuel since the fortieth lap.

There had been some talk around the pits this morning about the Fuehrer’s direct personal interest in this race, which was the first contest outside Nazi-occupied territory in which the newly modified 540Ks had been entered. Enzione had said casually, “They’ll do anything for a win you know. Anything. I suspect it will cost them unspeakably if they don’t take the cup.”

“Then they’re too tense,” Felix had replied, “and tense drivers make, mistakes.”

“Don’t count on that too much. Streicher particularly—Streicher can be something less than a gentleman.”

Felix knew that; he’d raced Georg Streicher for years. He knew most of Streicher’s bag of dirty tricks and he’d heard the brown-shirted veteran’s cries of German invincibility.

To beat Streicher he first had to get past Erich Franke, whom he didn’t know so well: he’d run on the same tracks with Franke a few times but that had been more than a year ago when Franke had still been a second-string driver getting his apprenticeship done on obsolete cars, running respectably fourth and sixth and sometimes third in cars which in other hands wouldn’t have made the first half of the field. You knew he was very good but you never worried about him because he was running inferior machinery. Now they had trusted him with a 540K and Felix had the feeling Franke would have been another half-lap ahead if it weren’t for Streicher’s intimidating presence out front. The Germans didn’t realize that habit of command and subordination was a weakness on the motor track.

He wished he knew Franke better now; wished he had paid more attention to Franke’s repertoire in the past. Franke had won at Molsheim this season, taken a second (to Streicher) at Montlhery Autodrome and another second (to Von Brauchitsch) at the Targa Florio; they were all races in which Felix hadn’t been entered and he regretted that now.

Streicher was good of course: at one time he’d been the very best. But he was not as good as he had been. He needed a little help to win now. That was what Franke was there for: to provide interference for those who tried to get near Streicher.

On the eighty-ninth lap Felix made his bid against Franke, coming out of the turn on the inside and bolting ahead. This time there was no competing car to clutter up the inside rail; there was all the room in the world and Felix used the Bugatti’s superior cornering balance to move ahead. They had lapped the field now and the red Mercedes ahead of him—Streicher—was nosing into the rear of the pack, shouldering the Invicta aside.

Halfway down the straightaway he glanced in the mirror and saw Erich Franke on his rump. Hardly a handspan separated the two cars. He kept his foot to the floor and rushed toward the lap turn.

The Alfa Romeo whined past both of them at reckless speed approaching the turn but Felix paid that no attention; the Alfa was still a lap behind and the driver was only trying to prove something to himself; he had no chance to win unless all the leaders dropped out.

Going into the ninetieth lap. He took his foot off the accelerator, easing for the turn. In the mirror Franke’s green panzer was still riding his rear end like a hungry barracuda. He saw the Mercedes’s nose dip when Franke braked. The Mercedes would have to drop to a slower speed than the Bugatti to make the turn; Franke would have to stay to the outside and he would have the inside to himself. That was how he judged it and he drove accordingly, braking hard when he came into the curve along the inside rail.

Then he heard the sliding scrape of tires and in the mirror he saw the green Mercedes’s snout yaw toward the center of the glass and he realized that Franke was still there, still crowding him into the inside of the turn, and he knew there was only one reason for Franke to do that.

Franke was going to ram him from behind, break his wheels loose in the turn and toss him tumbling off the track.

He hit the accelerator and straightened the wheel.

It sent him careening toward the outside of the turn. His outside wheels rode up on the steep embankment. In the mirror the Mercedes was still there, swaying because he’d taken Franke by surprise and Franke had been forced to correct his steering.

At the top of the turn he was bending in along the very outside rim of the track and his wheels barely had purchase. Either the Bugatti would grip or it would slide off the track.

The seat bucketed under his rump, off-wheels juddering on gravel. You couldn’t touch the brake because that would be death. You just had to hope the frame would take it, stay flat enough for traction. Anything less low-slung than the Bugatti wouldn’t have the slightest chance.

With two wheels off the track surface the Bugatti held the curve and he skittered onto the verge of the straightaway, accelerating hard and eating toward the center track.

That was when the green Mercedes behind him broke loose. Centrifugal force pulled it right off the track and he glimpsed it up in the air, tail high. In the mirror it executed a ponderous somersault right over the astonished faces of the Italian pit crew in their dugout. It slammed down just beyond the dugout, flat upside-down and when it burst into an enormous sheet of flame he knew there was no chance Erich Franke would come out alive.

But Franke must have known that anyway. From the outset. Because once he’d committed himself to the ramming attack there’d been no way for the Mercedes to get through the turn.

Under the eyes of flagmen and race officials the cars idled around the course one half-lap, keeping their positions until the crash trucks and firemen had rushed across the oval.

Through some blind trick of fate the machine had arced clear of the eight men in the Italian dugout and crashed directly behind it in a place where there were no spectators because from that place the roof of the dugout would have obscured their view of the race. No one was hurt except Erich Franke.

Less than twelve minutes after the crash the flagman ordered the race to continue.

On the ninety-fourth lap he passed the Invicta on the straightaway and bluffed an SSK out of the inside position on the far turn. The Talbot-Lago and the Auto Union went into the pits, out of the race. Streicher was in the open, trailed by the one-off-the-pace Alfa Romeo, with Felix closing the margin in grim earnest now because the bloody Fuehrer was not going to win this race; Felix wasn’t dead yet and there were six laps left to decide it.

High anger had infected the Alfa Romeo’s driver and Felix saw him skid too fast through the lap turn, roaring relentlessly in pursuit of the red Mercedes—pure rage driving the car, the search for some obscure vindication because even if the Alfa overtook Streicher it would mean nothing in the record books: Streicher was on his ninety-fifth lap, the Alfa on its ninety-fourth.

The Alfa swung into the far turn beside the Mercedes; the Mercedes gave ground gracefully and the Alfa shot out ahead of it onto the straight. There was something sardonic in the way Streicher lifted his left hand off the wheel for a moment—as if in benediction to the charging Alfa Romeo.

That left nothing between Felix and the German except space: a half dozen car-lengths which Felix made up in the turns, two steps forward in each turn and one step backward in the straightaways where the Mercedes’s superior power took it away from him. On the lap turn with two full laps remaining in the race Felix was within a single car-length of Streicher’s rear hub.

Then he was approaching his own pit dugout and he saw Sergio DeFeo standing on the verge making semaphore Waves of his arms.

Felix ignored the pit boss and pushed the fuel pedal to the floor.

In the far turn Streicher accelerated hard and his tires almost broke loose but he held his lead. But Felix saw his head cock to the side as he went through the turn and that meant something significant: an alert driver normally didn’t do that. It meant Streicher was tired.

But it was the last lap turn coming up: two kilometers left in the race and Streicher still had a jump on him. Felix had part of the Mercedes’s heavy slipstream but he had to overtake.

The crowd was roaring in anticipation. Felix swung left toward the verge—Streicher veered the same way, blocking him. On the long straightaway Felix weaved to the right but Streicher stayed with him, just ahead, the great swollen Mercedes taking up too much room. Streicher wasn’t pushing it full out; he had two thirds of his attention on his wing mirrors. There was more than enough unused soup in the Bugatti to get ahead of Streicher because the Bugatti could accelerate faster than the big car but first there had to be an opening and Streicher wasn’t going to give him one.

He was going to have to make one for himself by outfeinting Streicher; it was the only chance left. The raw final question was whether the old lion’s reaction time was still quick enough and Felix didn’t think it was. He feinted left and broke to the right. Streicher stayed with him but he’d expected that; he feinted left again, straightened, and broke left, and got his nose in before Streicher pushed hard to the left and crowded him against the verge. He had to drop back and they were approaching the far turn now, and Streicher damn well wasn’t going to let him by on the inside even if he had to slow the big Mercedes to a crawl.

That was the answer then—if Streicher wasn’t alert enough to second-guess him. But if Streicher countered with the right move it would finish the race with a German win.

Going into the turn he began to swing wide. He did it hesitantly in order to give Streicher the idea that he only wanted to move Streicher out into the middle before veering back to the inside where the Mercedes couldn’t go because of its centrifugal momentum in the turn. It was the sensible way to do it—the classic ploy—and Streicher wasn’t having any: he stayed two meters off the inside edge of the track, ready to veer either way.

The crest of the turn, and now was the time. Felix slammed throttle to floor and went whistling toward the outside bank of the turn, accelerating so rapidly that both rear wheels broke loose and skidded to the right.

It slid him into line with the straightaway and he dropped the pressure just enough to give the tires a bite before he straightened the steering wheel and drove his foot hard against the accelerator.

Streicher was coming across at him like a projectile but his reaction had been just a hair too slow and Felix saw the prow of the Mercedes off his left shoulder when he reached the whining top of third gear and slipped the rear right wheel off the track onto the loose embankment. The free tire spun a fog of dust into the sky and then his engine speed was up in the red zone and he yanked the Bugatti back onto the track at top revs in fourth and that was the race. The Mercedes chewed up his tonneau all the way to the line but Streicher had no way to get past him and the chequered flag dropped across the Bugatti with the German a single handspan behind.

The pit crew formed quickly around him and he stood under the hard hot sun waiting for his belly to stop chugging. Someone said, “Good, your Highness. Damned good.”

He found a cigarette and took the time to light it and draw deep before his attention came slowly around. “Franke didn’t make it, did he.”

The pit boss, DeFeo, kicked the ground with his foot, splashing a little spiral of dust. “Dead when they pulled him out.” Then a sudden burst of anger: “Didn’t you see me wave you off?”

DeFeo came around the car and pointed to the right front wheel. “Look at it. It’s shredding. You’d have blown it in another half-lap. I could see the pieces flapping for God’s sake.”

“But it didn’t blow, did it, Sergio.” He went to the front of the car and unbuckled the bonnet fasteners and lifted it back to have a look at the intricate confusion of the long Bugatti engine. Heat contraction made it crackle and ping. Little wafts of steam drifted up from the valve covers. He laid the flat of his palm against the steel bonnet and pushed it down.

The middle-down sun burned like a flame at his back. The horizons turned bronze. Enzione came over from his own dugout—grinning. “Beautiful driving.”

“Streicher’s getting too old.”

Enzione nodded; he was twenty-eight. “Lap time gets shorter and the young ones get harder and harder to beat. You and I, we’re getting old too.” He swung himself closer and dropped his voice. “None of us could see that much in the dust back there. Did Franke try what I think he tried?”

“Yes.”

“The pig.”

Felix had to go up to the winner’s box but there was something else first and when he walked up out of the dugout he turned to his left instead of his right. Enzione hurried to catch him, half-running on his thin short legs. “Don’t do it. Not now, anyway.”

“It doesn’t feel like waiting.” He left Enzione standing in his tracks and went along to the Mercedes dugout.

He walked right up to Streicher and hit the unflinching German in the pit of the stomach. When Streicher clutched the injury Felix clouted him across the temple.

Streicher straightened slowly. A sunburned wedge on his chest was visible within the triangle of his carelessly open jumper. He got his breath and said, “The answer to your question is no. I didn’t put him up to it. It was a suicide thing to do—he knew that before he began it. You could see that much?”

By not denying it Felix confirmed it; and Streicher drew a ragged breath. “Then use your head, Highness. He was too good a driver for me to sacrifice. I give you my word of honor. I had nothing to do with it.”

“What is the word of honor of a Nazi flunky worth on the open market these days?”

Streicher wasn’t going to be baited. “You ran a good race. Very good. You might consider joining our team—as you can see there’s an opening now.” He went even more dour: “There may be several in fact.”

Felix took one parting shot: “It was time you thought about retiring anyway.” He left that behind him; turned and walked heavily toward the winner’s box.

19.

He made his way through the congratulatory crowd, answering their hoots with a spare nod. An eddy of heat rose from his stomach; he was thinking about Erich Franke and the closeness of it.

He put the crowd behind him and advanced toward the officials-only car park with the hard sun in his face. Someone spoke to him and he replied with detached courtesy without breaking stride.

He saw two people silhouetted beside the gate; he said, “Well then—this is a surprise,” but he was too washed-out to put inflection in it.

Irina Markova’s eyes were kind; it was an unusual expression on her. “Was that deliberate—what the German tried to do?”

“Yes.”

He shook hands with Alex Danilov. Alex’s long face seemed distracted. “I need a word with you.” The tone of his voice made it more than an idle invitation.

He glanced into the car park. Drivers and pfficials were pulling out. He said, “Have you got a car with you?”

“Yes.”

“I was going to borrow DeFeo’s to get to the airport. Run me out there—we can talk on the way.”

Irina said, “Alex was going there anyway.” There was something poignant about the way she said it.

He said to Alex, “I thought you were cleaning rifles in Texas or something.”

“He came to his senses,” Irina said drily.

“Marvelous,” Felix said. “Then you’ve decided to rejoin our gay little band of Ruritanian fops?” He turned with them and they walked along past the wire fence. Cars shot past, throwing up dust. Someone waved and shouted at Felix from a passing roadster; he waved casually and went on talking to Alex: “I don’t know if there’s going to be much of a polo season for you. The war and all that.”

Irina said, “It’s rather more serious than that, Felix.”

He saw the open Mercedes touring car by the road. Sergei Bulygin loomed beside it in chauffeur’s livery. “My God there’s the old warmonger.” He trotted forward and embraced the old man; Sergei thrust him back and beamed at him and Felix said, “Home from the wars, are you, old friend?”

“Why I imagine that’s only temporary, Highness.” Sergei gave Alex a pointed look; Alex only smiled; and Sergei opened the doors of the touring car. Irina slid into the front and Felix found himself moving into the rear seat beside Alex.

Irina twisted around to face him. “Are you still flying your own plane?”

“Of course.”

“Where on earth do you find fuel for it?”

“If you’re filthy rich there’s always a black market.”

Sergei knew the outskirts of the Spanish capital well enough to choose the empty roads and they drummed along at a good speed with the wind dry and hot in their faces. Alex said, “It’s no good talking now. We’ll find a spot at the airfield.” It wasn’t altogether clear whether he was concerned about the noise of the wind or the presence of Irina and Sergei.

Felix said, “Well then let’s talk about something interesting like the recipe for an American dry martini. You do have one, I hope?”

The hangar’s makeshift toilet room was rancid with the smell of disinfectant. Felix leaned his forearm against the wall over the urinal and dropped his forehead against the back of his wrist.

It was like Alex to come out of hibernation in the Texas desert and trigger a volcanic eruption in his life.

After a while he rolled his head back and forth, stood up straight and went to wash his hands.

He spent longer at it than he had to. Looking at himself. The eyes against him did not dance; the high cheeks were impassive. He had a lot of straight dark hair and his eyes were a very dark blue: the face was precise lines and angles and he looked like one of those French cinema stars, the ones who played troubled artists who inevitably fell in love with the wrong women. The appearance of physical fragility was false; the cliché about women was true enough. Perhaps it was simply because he had been born to that physical stereotype.

Old enough to know better; nothing to show for his life but an empty royal title and a steamer trunk full of racing trophies and a juvenile penchant for foolish bravado, casual promiscuity, pointless trivialities, adolescent pranks. He was ten years too old for all that and he knew it but ordinarily he arranged his life so that he didn’t have to think about it.

He had a look at the towel and shook his hands as dry as he could and went back through the big cluttered hangar. At the mouth of it Alex and Irina stood two paces apart, not talking; the low sun threw their shadows across the tarmac like something out of El Greco. Irina held herself severely upright. A close-guarded distance held her that way. He had been surprised to see her with Alex again; he was not surprised at her evident reserve. Devenko’s death would have done that. Her shoulders were high and taut; her body had its graceful pride and her face was striking as always but less willing now to display haughty amusement. Her long fingers touched the vee of her collarbone; her neck seemed very long because her hair was done up high. Her beauty never failed to stir him but he had never made advances to her—partly because she was a bit taller than he was and that had always mattered to him.

“I have communed with the wise water spirits of the loo,” he said. “Unfortunately they seem to be preoccupied with the outcome of Dominguez’s next bullfight.”

A fly alighted on the corrugated metal edge of the vast doorway, washed its legs and took off into the air. Felix’s hand flashed, cupped the fly and tossed it away over his shoulder. He said, “Outrunning the best in a motor race—I’m told that’s better than sex. It isn’t, but it’s probably better than prancing about in a bemedaled suit making puerile speeches to unwashed hordes.”

Irina strolled away, kicking pebbles, pretending an interest in the sparse row of light planes parked against their chocks outside the hangar. Felix’s was one of them.

Alex looked weary: his eyes were bleak. “You don’t need to like the idea.”

“I see. I’m expected to bow before the wisdom of a group of dreamers whose continued existence is nothing so much as proof that there’s life after death.” He made his voice lavish with scorn. “I’m expected to be dutiful and responsible—I’m expected to be grateful for having been born the son of a Grand Duke. I’m expected to live up to the family name no matter what my own pleasure may be.”

Alex said, “You’re too angry, aren’t you.” He said it gently with the suggestion of an American smile. “What were you fighting the Germans for in that race? Couldn’t have been Russian pride, could it?”

Felix threw up his hands. “What’s going to happen to my lifelong ambition to marry a rich widow with a bad cough?”

His exasperated tones melted away in the smoky clattering racket of a revving Curtiss Hawk. The biplane turned slowly against its rudder and bumped out toward the runway. Its propwash swayed around Irina, pasting the clothes to her body, unraveling her hair. She lifted one hand to shade her eyes and watch it take off.

Felix was a dialectical man and knew it; filled with contradictory moods. He said, “Suppose I accept this absurd proposition today and begin tomorrow to regret it for the rest of my life? I’ll try to be honest, Alex—I suppose I’ve got to for once. Look here, I’m the sort of chap who’s in demand at dinner parties because I’m good at charming the old ladies, but I will sometimes slip a dose of tartar emetic into some old fool’s claret. Now I’m sure Prince Leon can’t expect these qualities to disappear magically as soon as he hangs a mantle on me. My morals are a bit of a nervous tic, aren’t they—something I can’t help.”

“Are you worried about that? I’m not.”

“You’re very reassuring.” He watched the fine line of Irina’s profile turning to indicate her interest in the departing Curtiss. “Of course I’ll accept. I’m too vain not to. Emperor of Russia? The question is whether they’ve got any business offering it to me. I’m just not suitable for it, am I?”

“That decision’s already been made.”

“It can be unmade.”

“The timetable doesn’t allow for that.” Alex gave him a grave look. “They had good reasons for choosing you.”

“An accident of birth. They neglected to consider my character.”

“Don’t think so little of yourself.”

He shook his head dismally. A kind of desperation made him change the subject: “Let me understand this—what’s re quired of me?”

“I’ve told you that.”

“No. I mean immediately. What’s my part of this adventure of yours?”

“You’ll go in with us.”

“In battle?”

“They feel it’s important—politically, for the future.”

“To say I was one of the first, you mean.”

“To say you were the first. You’re to be the one who leads the liberation.”

“That’s absurd. I’ve got all the leadership qualities of a lemming. The truth would get out—then where’d we be?”

“What truth?”

“That I didn’t lead anything. That you were the real leader.”

“When the time comes you’ll be the one to give the order. That will be the final truth.”

He looked down at his hands as if they were unfamiliar objects. “It’s suicidal. We’ll all be captured. They’ll hang us from the highest gallows in Moscow.”

Alex shook his head gently. “You risk your life every time you drive on the racecourse.”

“That’s a different thing—it’s for my own amusement.”

Alex said in his slow spare way, “I know the way your juices shoot up when you’ve got your neck stuck out a mile. You’re alive because you’re in immediate danger of being dead. Stop fighting this—you’ll enjoy it.” He looked at his wristwatch and shot his cuff. “I’ve got a plane to catch. You’ll go back to the villa with Irina.”

“This instant? I had plans….” He realized the inanity of it but it was too late to recall it.

Alex said, “There’s a good deal to do. Prince Leon will lay it out for you.”

“Like jewels on a dark velvet cloth,” he said dubiously. “What do they expect me to contribute at this stage?”

“If you’re going to be the leader of a liberation movement you’ve got to start acting like one.”

Irina was staring at Alex; they were exchanging some sort of private signals with their eyes and the intensity of her expression astonished Felix: he was convinced that was exactly the way she’d look with a man on top of her.

Shaken by it he said lamely, “We’re all making a ridiculous mistake.”

PART THREE:

September 1941

1.

It was the same as before: the bustling uniformed messengers, the corridor, the sergeant rattling his typewriter outside the door, the sitting and waiting because Colonel Buckner once again was “at the White House” and late for the appointment.

“Look,” Buckner said when he finally appeared, “I don’t do it on purpose. While you’re waiting for me I’m up there cooling my heels waiting for an audience with him. He always runs two hours later than the appointments secretary figured. You know what it’s like to live in a small town that used to have four thousand people and now it’s got eighteen thousand but there’s still only one doctor in town? That doctor’s waiting room—that’s the White House.”

Buckner slid out of his black raincoat and hung it with his floppy fisherman’s hat on the standing rack just inside his door. Then he went to his desk and waved Alex to a seat.

“Next time I’ll remember to come at eleven for a nine o’clock meeting,” Alex said. He smiled to show he was joshing.

“Okay. Tell me about the red epaulets.”

Alex wore khakis with red tabs on the shoulder straps. He said, “They’ve put rank on me.”

“Three pips. Lieutenant General?”

“Major General,” he said. “The ranks are a little different.”

“Yeah,” Buckner said. “The Russian army still has third lieutenants too.”

It had been done that last morning at the villa: Prince Leon had brought out a velvet-lined box made of inlaid woods. The red epaulets were in it together with a collection of medals and yellow citations brittle at the edges. “They were Vassily’s father’s. We are settling a commission on you.”

“In the White Russian Army?”

“Deniken is still the commander-in-chief. It is by his authority.”

“A Major General? That’s absurd. I’m thirty-four years old.”

“Please do not dispute it, Alex, it is a matter of politics. Governments will deal with a Major General at high level where they would force a mere colonel to use the servants entrance.”

“It’s a rank that implies command of at least a combat division—ten thousand men.”

“On paper you will have one. Never mind, it is all politics.”

“The cable from Barcelona was a little cryptic,” Glenn Buckner said. “How did Devenko die?”

“We put it out that it was natural causes. Heart attack. But he was shot—a paid gun.”

“Did you catch the killer?”

“Yes.”

Buckner leaned forward, intent. “What did you find out from him?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

Buckner made a face and sank back in the chair. “Crap.”

“He had nothing in his pockets except a forged invitation to the party.”

“Did you fingerprint him?”

“No. I doubt it would have mattered. We didn’t want it reported to the authorities there—and anyway what could we have found out? We might have learned he was a gunsmith from Milan or a greengrocer from Cardiff but that wouldn’t have got us anywhere. It was a paid job. Maybe if we had an army of detectives and a year to poke around we’d have found out who hired him.”

“Shouldn’t you have tried? Don’t you need to know why?”

“We’ve got more important problems.”

Buckner rubbed his mouth with his knuckles. “It must have had to do with this operation. Otherwise it would be too coincidental.” His hand dropped onto the desk. “Now they’ve given you Devenko’s job.”

“That’s right.”

“Which may make you the next murder victim.” Buckner scowled, picked up a pencil and bounced its point on the blotter. “I’m going to put heavy security on you while you’re in this country. We can’t afford to have you taken out.”

“Just don’t restrict my movements.”

“They’ll be Secret Service—they know their jobs, they don’t get in the way.” The American’s wide face broke into a crooked grin. “It isn’t you I have to care about—it’s the goddamned operation. Christ I don’t like wars much.”

“It’s nobody’s favorite pastime.”

“I get a feeling it was Devenko’s.”

“I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I only met him once—in England a little while ago. I got the impression he was a little tilted that way.” Buckner went back to the file drawers and rifled a folder. “Your letter of resignation from the U.S. Army. Need a pen?”

“I’ll use my own.”

Filled with contradictory emotions he bent over the brief document, read it, hesitated momentarily and finally put his signature on it.

“Date it a week ago, while you’re at it. And sign the copy.”

When it was done Buckner took it from him and tossed the two copies carelessly on the corner of the desk. Alex returned to his chair and experienced a momentary cold hollowness: as if he were resigning from reality.

Buckner watched him quietly. “You’re on your own now—if anything goes wrong it’s your own neck. We had nothing to do with it.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, now I’m dealing with you as the official representative of an Allied military operation. You’ve got the same status as the Free French and the Free Poles. Which is to say however much status we choose to grant you. It makes things a little precarious for you. But I guess you can see it’s the only way we can do it. All right—brass tacks now. What are you going to need from us?”

By “us” Buckner meant the government from which Alex had resigned less than two minutes ago; it gave him a very strange feeling—as if suddenly he were in an alien capital.

“Right away I’ll want two men.”

“Americans?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sticky.”

“I want them for training and organization. They won’t go in with us.”

“I’ll see. Who are they?”

“Brigadier General John Spaight for one. He’s in command of-”

“I know who he is. Who’s the other one?”

“An Air Corps squadron commander by the name of Paul Johnson. They call him Pappy. It’s a heavy bomber squadron -the Thirty-fifth I think.”

Buckner was writing the names down. “Major? Colonel?”

“Actually I think he’s only a captain.”

“The Air Corps works in mysterious ways,” Buckner muttered as he scribbled. He looked up. “I’ll try. They may not want any part of it—it could cost them their commands.”

“Not if you put them on temporary detached duty with the assurance they’ll return to their current posts.”

“How long are you going to need them for?”

“Not more than ninety days.”

“What do you need these two particular guys for?”

Alex shook his head.

Buckner didn’t press it. “I take it you had time to get the details of the plan from Devenko before he died.”

“No. But it isn’t his plan. It’s my own.”

Buckner showed mild surprise. “They’re going along with that? They set a lot of store by Devenko, didn’t they?”

“I didn’t give them much of a choice.”

Buckner thought about that and nodded. “They haven’t exactly got a surplus of qualified commanders to choose from. Which makes your security all the more vital. If you get knocked off who else have they got?”

“I don’t know. Most of my generation hasn’t gone in for anything more serious than steeplechasing.”

“Uh-huh. So what are you going to man your force with—jockeys and playboys?”

“My brother and I had a White Russian outfit in Finland. I expect to recruit out of that pool.”

“Aren’t they scattered to hell and gone by now?”

“No,” Alex said. “I know where to find them.”

“There’s one thing more. The timetable.”

“I’ll have it as soon as I can.”

“I didn’t mean yours. I meant Hitler’s. Inside a month it’s going to start raining in Russia. Another month and that’ll turn to snow. It’s September now—by November it may have been decided. If Hitler takes Moscow you can forget your pipedream.”

“Hitler won’t take Moscow. Not that fast.”

“You have a private line to the Reichschancellery that tells you this in confidence?”

“I spent some time in China,” Alex said. “The Japanese are being absorbed there.”

“What’s that got to do with the price of vodka?”

“Stalin’s got some of his best divisions on the China border waiting for a Japanese strike. The Japanese aren’t going to turn that way. Zhukov has already put in requests for those troops to be transferred to the Moscow front. Stalin will sign the authorizations—maybe a week from now, maybe a month; it depends how close Guderian comes to Moscow.”

“The timetable still applies. Stalin’s ahead of the game once it’s decided for sure. Your object is to knock him over while he’s off balance—while the war’s still undecided. That gives you your deadline.”

“It’s not a deadline,” Alex said. “It’s only a gamble. You know how military ops go. You can’t predict a thing. You go by the odds. I think Stalin’s on a tightrope and I think he’s going to stay on it for quite a while.”

“But the longer he has the better his chances. To fall off or to reach the safe end.”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t let any grass grow under you.”

“I’m already in motion,” Alex said.

2.

He found the two of them standing awkwardly beside a grey Plymouth at Andrews Field—John Spaight in a well-cut grey summer suit, Pappy Johnson in baggy seersucker. Alex stepped out of the Ford and the asphalt underfoot gave way softly in the heat. The two Secret Service men stepped out vigilantly.

“I’m quitting,” Spaight said by way of greeting. “The only reason I came was to get out of the heat at Bliss. This is ridiculous.” There were sweat stains on his suit.

“It’s a volunteer thing,” Alex said. “You can both go back right now if you want.”

“Not until you clear up the mystery.”

Alex shook his head. “If I explain it to you then you’re in. I’m sorry but it has to be that way.”

Spaight sighed theatrically and threw up his hands. “Look, we’re here.”

Alex consulted his watch. “We’ve got time before takeoff. Let’s get under some shade.”

In the flying officers’ dayroom a huge ceiling fan revolved slowly and Pappy Johnson settled himself under it hipshot on the corner of the billiard table. Spaight brought three open bottles of Coca-Cola inside with him and handed them around and chose a place on the leather couch.

They had the place to themselves; it was two in the afternoon. Alex said, “How much did Buckner tell you?”

“Enough to whet our appetites,” Spaight said. “A clandestine operation—commando—vital to the war effort, all that kind of crap. He give you the same spiel, Captain?”

“Something like that. He sort of hinted I might end up in command of some uninhabited island in the Arctic Ocean if I didn’t volunteer.”

Alex said, “Disregard that. There won’t be any penalty if you decide to pass it up.”

“What’s my job supposed to be?”

“Training pilots and bombardiers.”

“Where?”

“In Scotland.”

Johnson gave his toothy smile. “That’s a lot closer to the war than I am now.”

Alex turned to Spaight. “I asked for you for my chief of staff—for training and preparations. But it means I’ll rank you.”

“I did tell you they’d promote you, didn’t I?”

“It may go against the grain. Does it?”

“Come off it, Alex. I don’t mind taking orders from a man so long as I respect his brains. I’m a little flattered you picked me.”

“You’re only along for the ride. There won’t be any glory in it—you’ll both be left behind when this thing goes into operation.”

Spaight thumbed the Coca-Cola bottle shut, shook it up and spouted foam into his mouth from eight inches away. “Can we at least watch from the bleachers?”

“I doubt it. Buckner wouldn’t allow it.”

“Buckner’s a colonel,” Spaight said. “I’ll pull rank on the son of a bitch.”

“I doubt that too, John.”

Spaight nodded reluctantly. They both knew what neither had voiced: Buckner spoke with the voice of the White House.

Some of it was going over Pappy Johnson’s head. “Where’s that put me, then? Bottom of the totem pole again—the story of my life?”

“That’s what you get.” Spaight told him archly, “for wanting to fly a damn fool airplane instead of pushing a pencil like the rest of us cunning ambitious bastards.”

It was going to work out, Alex thought. His two key staff officers were hitting it off.

A flight sergeant in fatigues put his head in the door. “Looking for General Danilov, sir….”

“I’m Danilov.”

“Told me to tell you your plane’s ready to go, sir.” The sergeant saluted nervously, muffled his curiosity about the three men in civilian clothes and went.

When they were passing outside through the doorway Spaight said, “I notice how cleverly you’ve avoided telling us anything about what’s really going on.”

“There’ll be time to talk on the plane,” Alex said, tightening his eyes against the hot blast of afternoon haze.

The Secret Service watchdogs emerged from the shadows and crowded into the front seat of the waiting staff car beside the driver, two professionals in dark grey suits and hats. They had become an irritant to him in the past week; it would have been nearly impossible for a tail to keep up with Alex’s movements because he had been on the run the whole time-Washington to Ohio, Michigan, back to Washington, New York, Washington yet again, now Andrews Field. If anyone was going to take a shot at him it would most likely be in Scotland after he came to rest. In the meantime these two had become as ponderous as excess baggage.

The plane was an Army C-39, the military version of the DC-2 passenger liner; inside the fuselage were sixteen seats in single rows on either side of an aisle in which Alex had to stoop when he made his way forward. Pappy Johnson had a word with the two-man flight crew and when the engines began to chatter Johnson came back to his seat and remarked, “That guy trained half the kids in my squadron. It’s him you want for this job, not me.”

“Has he ever dropped a bomb on a mocked-up tank?”

Johnson gave him an interested look. “No…”

“Then you’re the one I want.”

3.

The transport landed them at Logan Field at four in the afternoon and Alex came down the stairs ahead of the others and saw the three winged behemoths parked in a row beside a trio of C-47S at the end of the runway. Spaight and Johnson emerged from the passenger door and Pappy Johnson said, “Dear sweet Jesus.”

John Spaight said, “They look like alligators with wings.”

“You wait till you see them in the air. That B-Seventeen’s the best combat aircraft ever built.” Johnson came down the four metal steps eagerly and all but plucked at Alex’s sleeve. “Those for us?”

“Yes.”

“You mean it? All six of them?”

“That’s our Air Corps.”

Johnson stared at the three majestic aircraft with disbelieving awe. They dwarfed the Dakota transports beside them. “You do know how to make a man happy, Skipper.”

Alex saw John Spaight wince. The two Secret Service men came down onto the concrete and Alex said, “This is where we leave you two.”

“Not until you’re airborne, General. That’s the orders.”

A civilian DC-3 was taking off, lifting and turning toward the south, beating up through a patchwork of clouds that hung out over Cape Cod Bay. Spaight said, “Let’s don’t gawk all day, Captain.” He prodded Johnson’s elbow and the five of them walked into the terminal.

An officious Army major had all the paperwork laid out in the airport ops room. Alex had to put his signature on a dozen documents. The major kept talking in a clipped angry voice: “I’m not sure where you gentlemen get your drag but that’s nearly a million and a half dollars’ worth of airplanes. Every air squadron in the country’s screaming for up-to-date bombers and the War Department in its wisdom decides to send these to goddamn England. Okay, I’ve put up six copilots and six flight engineers and five pilots out of the Ferrying Command pool—I gather one of you gentlemen will be lead pilot on the formation?”

“Me,” Pappy Johnson said.

The major’s acidulous attention flicked across him. “You’d better meet your crews then—Mister…?”

“Colonel,” Alex lied gently. “Colonel Johnson.”

The major didn’t turn a hair. “Okay then Colonel. They’ll want you to file a flight plan upstairs while you’re at it—but meet your crews first.”

Johnson ducked out of the room and the round-shouldered major came back to the desk and glanced through the papers Alex had signed. “I supposed it’s all in order. But it’s understood that you people are personally responsible for these aircraft. It’s damned irregular.” He turned stiffly past Alex and around behind the desk; reached forward and stacked the signed documents neatly. Finally he said, “Just take care of those Flying Forts. We haven’t got a whole lot of them to spare.”

They waited in a private lounge behind the ticket counters. The two Secret Service men drank coffee and read newspapers. Spaight was smoking a cigarette. “Alex, you can’t just leave me in midair with my ass upside down.”

“I can’t make exceptions. I’m sorry.”

“Then you’ll have a lot of people indulging in speculations. Putting the pieces together I come up with a bombing attack on the Kremlin. Is that the plan?”

“No. That would wipe out some artwork and a few upstairs flunkies.”

“Then I don’t follow it. How can you get at Stalin from the air?”

“I’m sorry John. It’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“You’re a pill, you know that?”

“Yes.”

Johnson came in wearing a flattened Mae West over his flight jacket. It was a leather jacket with a big mustard fur collar lying open across his shoulders. Under the straps of the life jacket his pilot’s wings could be seen. He tramped his lambskin-lined boots against the floor and beamed through his sweat. “Let’s get some altitude before I swelter to death.”

Spaight stubbed out his cigarette; Alex reached for his grip.

Pappy Johnson said, “Thanks for that impromptu promotion.”

“I’ll see if I can make it stick.”

“No need. I don’t care that much about rank—I fly airplanes is what I do.” He pivoted toward the door, talking over his shoulder: “We’ll refuel at Gander, be in Inverness tomorrow afternoon. Coffee and sandwiches on board. You’ll have to ride the nose seats in my plane—those Dakotas are jammed with stinking big crates of stuff, they took all the seats out. All that junk belong to us?”

“That and more coming by convoy,” Alex said.

The Secret Service guards went outside ahead of him. When he came through the doorway something chipped splinters out of the jamb beside him and something whacked his thigh like a sharp small hammer and then he was down and sliding.

4.

He caromed against the backs of the Secret Service man’s legs; the man went down and his automatic pistol fell from his hand. His partner was down on one knee with his pistol extended at arm’s length, looking for a target.

Spaight and Pappy Johnson went belly-flat on the pavement. There was no cover except back through the doorway and the sniper had that zeroed in. He was somewhere across the runway in the tangle of scrub; there was a road beyond that, parallel to the runway, and then the Bay.

The guard was scrambling for his dislodged gun but it was close to Alex’s hand and he picked it up by instinct because it was there: he put four fast shots into the scrub a hundred yards away, spraying from left to right, not because he expected to hit anything but because he wanted to rattle the sniper and throw off his aim. The .38 automatic bucked mildly against his palm, slipping on the sweat. He couldn’t see where the bullets went; he hadn’t expected to.

The other guard was sprinting left, breaking and zigzagging, angling toward the litter of weeds and shoulder-high scrub. It was probably his run that flushed the sniper: there was a quick crashing in the brush and then it all went still. The running guard was halfway across the runway and still zigzagging; the first man was drawling in Alex’s ear, “You all right sir?” and reaching for his pistol. Alex handed it to him.

They heard the roar of an automobile and the sickening grind when its gears jammed into first; the screech of tires and then Alex had a glimpse of the moving black roof of the car. The guard beside him fired the last two out of his pistol and went into his pocket for a new magazine. His partner was pounding into the scrub across the field but the car had gathered speed; it wheeled inland to be absorbed into the Boston traffic.

“Shee-yit,” said Pappy Johnson.

It took five hours and a telephone call to Washington before the Boston police allowed them to take off and even then all of them had to sign affidavits. A nervous doctor wanted to put Alex into hospital for observation but he managed to veto that. A big splinter from the doorjamb had gone straight through the fleshy outer part of his right thigh, drilling a subcutaneous tunnel and shredding the skin on the way out; the doctor ran an alcohol swab clear through it to cauterize the wound and taped it up with heavy bandaging. It hadn’t bled much; there weren’t many blood vessels in that part of the anatomy. Nor were there many nerves. A muscle had been frayed. It was more stiff than painful when he moved it.

The doctor said, “Best thing to do is sit on it. Tourniquet effect. Wad something up and put it under the bandage. Move it every ten minutes or so. An hour or so you’ll go into minor shock—don’t worry about it if you spend the next twelve hours asleep. But keep as warm as you can. Have you got heat in that plane?”

Pappy Johnson said, “No. We’ll be using electrically heated flying suits.”

“Set his up as high as it’ll go.”

They had dug the bullet out of the wall inside. It was a jacketed .30’06—the standard hunting and military caliber; they’d been sold by the millions in war-surplus ever since 1919. The police were sending it to the FBI lab along with whatever other clues their technicians had discovered in the sniper’s shooting position but that was seacoast sand and it hadn’t held footprints or tire tracks. They weren’t going to learn anything.

It was still daylight when they drove him down the runway to the hardstands. Pappy Johnson chinned himself up into the forward hatch of the leading B-17 and reached down for the luggage and then Spaight was boosting Alex up inside the cramped forward cabin of the bomber. He had to go under the pilots’ seats into the Plexiglas nose of the plane where the bombardier and navigator usually sat. It was a matter of picking a path across a tangle of boxes and cables and fire extinguishers and the exposed inner structurings of the airplane. Spaight gripped his elbow but Alex said, “All right, I can walk,” and climbed forward slowly; he’d been injured enough times to respect the practicalities.

Above him he saw Johnson hunch into the austere cockpit, splashed with its hundred droplets of glittering instrument faces. The copilot was a young man with gangly grasshopper legs and red hair; he was reaching for a clipboard. “Six-tenths stratocumulus at five thousand feet, Captain.”

“Okay. Wind ’em up if you’re done with the preflight.”

Spaight helped Alex into the wired jump suit and the parachute pack; they settled into their seats while the engines hacked and wheezed and came alive one by one. Spaight handed him the flying helmet and he put it over his head: stiff leather chin cup, fur-lined visor, throat mike, earphones, goggles strapped up against the forehead. Now he could hear the pilots’ chatter again and presently the tower said, “Army Seven Nine Six, runway four, you’re cleared for takeoff,” and the airplane began its ponderous roll, bouncing on its tail wheel. He felt the tremors against the raw wound in his thigh.

The Flying Fortress roared down the runway. Tugged upward by the vacuum created above its cambered wing surfaces it lifted off, banking steeply; the city of Boston tilted and swayed beneath him and then they were climbing out to sea with the long arm of Cape Cod curving away like a crab’s claw.

They ran up the Maine coastline with cloud tendrils slipping past the wings. The synchronized engines sent smooth tremors through the plane at rhythmic intervals. Pappy Johnson came on the headset:

“We’ll do this lap at ninety-five hundred feet. You won’t need oxygen. How’s the patient?”

“Still respirating,” Alex said.

Spaight reached over to check the dial of the thermostat on his suit. Alex was still sweating from the ground-level heat and he pushed Spaight’s hand away. Spaight switched off his throat mike and leaned forward to be heard above the racket:

“That had to be the same people that killed Devenko.”

Alex nodded.

Spaight said, “They won’t quit after one bad try, Alex.”

“Next time we’ll give them a little bait, I think.”

“What?”

“Let’s take the next one alive, what do you say? I’d like to hear the answers to a few questions.”

“You can’t hear much if you’re dead.”

He felt near it by the time they came down over the lakes of Newfoundland into the barrens of the wilderness base at Gander. He was awake again but only just; all his joints were stiff with cramp. When the engines died out the silence left him with a lightheaded sensation of nightmare unreality.

There wasn’t much feeling in his fingertips but he got the parachute pack unbuckled and stumbled to the hatchway. They lowered him gently to the gravel and he started walking aimlessly in the dawn with Spaight at his shoulder trying to conceal his troubled concern. “Should you be walking on that?”

“If I don’t I’ll have bedsores,” he said drily.

“I hope you were kidding about baiting them into another try.”

Alex shook his head, trying to clear it. The air was cool and sharp with a damp chill; the sky was half clouded with a band of red spreading above the dreary eastern horizon. He shivered a little. “If they’re going to try anyway I’d just as soon have it on my terms.”

“They could be sighting in on you right now.”

“In Labrador?”

“Who knows who they are, Alex? Who knows how many they’ve got? They reached Devenko in the Pyrenees—they reached you in Boston. They’ve got a hell of a net.”

“Or a handful of people with good sources of intelligence.”

“We need to know where to look for them. Haven’t you got any ideas at all?”

“The field’s too wide. I haven’t got time to waste on it. The other thing comes first.”

“Not if you’re killed it doesn’t.”

“We’ve been around that bush before. We’ll just have to see to it that I don’t get killed, won’t we.”

Spaight said morosely, “Isn’t that a little like asking the sun not to come up in the morning?”

The rest of the planes trickled down to base within the next ten minutes and it took nearly an hour getting them all ready for the long nonstop transatlantic jump. Alex went into the ops shack and sat by the round metal stove in the middle of the room. The place had the flavor of a pioneer camp but air traffic roared in and out incessantly: it was the intermediate stop for aircraft to and from England—British planes, Americans, Royal Canadian Air Force. Pursuit planes came in and out with wing- and belly-tanks for extra fuel range; some of them could make the jump and some of them had to fuel again in Greenland and Iceland. Convoy patrols and sub-chasing PBY amphibian Catalinas chugged across the field at steady close intervals and there wasn’t a ninety-second silence between any of the takeoffs and landings. On top of the ops shack a radar dish swiveled and six radio controllers kept moving up and down the tower steps with coffee and cigarettes. They had grey weary faces like combat veterans who’d been too long in the front lines.

Finally Pappy Johnson came in and took a seat beside him, wrapping his hands around a hot coffee cup. “Copilot’s filing the flight plans. How you making it, Skipper? You look a little like a ghost right now.”

“I feel a little like one.”

“You going to be all right?”

“I’ll sleep my way over. I should be all right by the time we get to Scotland.”

“That thing going to leave you a limp?”

“No.”

“I reckon you’re a little more used to getting shot to pieces than I am. I mean those scars all over your neck and all.”

“You’ve never flown combat, then.”

“Naw—I got into this lunacy from flying airmail. I started out with air shows and then got work doing the mail. In those days we got our weather reports by phoning the next airfield and finding out if it was raining there.” Johnson grinned. “More reliable than the met forecasts we get now.”

Alex knew them all over the globe—the barnstormers and bush pilots who made their livings walking the wings of fabric-and-wood biplanes and slept out under the wings of their Jennies. “I’m surprised you opted for bombers then.”

“No future in single-seaters, Skipper. The war ain’t going to last forever. When it’s over they’re going to need cargo pilots, not peashooter jockeys. Old Pappy’s always thinking ahead, see.” He shook his head. “Besides I’ll tell you something else—if I’m going to get shot at while I’m up there I’d just as soon be in one of these babies.”

“It’s a big slow target for the enemy.”

“But a Fort’s damn near impossible to shoot down with anything less than a direct artillery hit. You can knock out three of the four engines and the son of a bitch will still fly. You can knock off half a wing and still keep it airborne. That’s a forgiving airplane, it ain’t like a lot of these slapped-together military designs—the thing about a Fort, it wants to fly. There’s never been an airplane like that B-17. Probably never will be again. And you’ve got ten machine guns poking out of those turret-blisters all over the airplane from nose to tail and top to bottom. I’d hate to be the Nazi peashooter that had to go up against a flying gun platform.”

Tickle Johnson in his enthusiasm and he was off like a candidate on the Fourth of July. Alex listened with half his attention and soaked up the warmth of the cozy rustic room.

Then Alex said, “All right, Pappy, suppose I give you a target about nine feet wide and eighty feet long moving at anywhere from twenty to sixty miles an hour—on the ground, in a straight line. Suppose I paint a big bright X on top of it. Can you hit it with bombs?”

“Skipper, I could drop a doughnut into a coffee cup from ten thousand feet with a B-Seventeen and a good bombardier. What is it you want me to hit? Sounds like a bus.”

“Something like that. But it’s not a matter of hitting it two out of three or nine out of ten. You’ve only got one crack at it. What gives you the best odds of destroying it?”

Spaight came in and sat down on the bench, listening with interest. Pappy Johnson said, “Just one bus, right? Not a whole convoy of them.”

“We’ll start with one. What’s your opinion?”

“Well ideally you’d want a squadron of planes. That way you’d cancel out the chance of error.”

“You know how big our bomber force is, Pappy.”

“Three planes. Well that’s plenty, what the hell, one target? One lousy bus?”

“You’ve got to train my people to hit that target, Pappy. That’s your job.”

“Then I’d go in treetop and set delay fuses on the bombs. Armor-piercing noses on the bombs so they’ll penetrate the roof of the bus instead of bouncing off.”

“Treetop?” Spaight said. “In a four-engine bomber?”

“Skipper wanted to know the best odds. I’m giving them, General. I didn’t say it was the only way to do it. But it’s the best.”

He came awake just once. The sun was drilling right down through the nose perspex. Hard silver reflections shot back against his eyes from the ocean far below. John Spaight said, “Christ look at all that water.”

“That’s only the top of it.”

Pappy Johnson’s voice crackled on the intercom:

“You want to get out and walk back to Texas, General?”

“I wouldn’t mind. I’m beginning to get the feeling I’ve signed on with a pack of lunatics.”

“Just keep that in mind,” Alex said. “It’ll probably help explain some of the things you’re going to have to do.” Then he went back to sleep.

PART FOUR:

September—November 1941

1.

In the latitudes of northern Scotland there was daylight until after ten o’clock and they made landfall by twilight with the formation intact, the three Fortresses in a V-triangle with the three transports riding below and behind them.

Alex stretched his limbs one at a time in the confined space.

Spaight was muttering in the throat mike: “If you wanted a sardine why the hell didn’t you draft one?” Spaight had that trait: every morning he made a joke—a sour joke about the weather or a caustic joke about the food. Somewhere in him was a core of bitterness; underneath the hard competence there was dissatisfaction. Alex hadn’t got too close to it but he had the feeling Spaight had been born with an impulse toward perfection and felt unfulfilled whatever he did. He was introspective and if he’d been more of a golfing backslapper he’d have had two or three stars instead of one but the fact that he had one at all was testimony to his extraordinary talent for organizing people and commanding their loyalty. He lacked a head for imaginative tactics but he had the genius of a first-rate staff officer: if you told him what had to be done he would produce everything that was needed for the job and put it all in the right place at the right time. Spaight was married and thrice a father but he kept his family rigidly segregated from his professional existence and he hadn’t once mentioned his wife since they’d left Washington. He was a soldier and she was a soldier’s woman and that was the way the game was played.

Pappy Johnson came on the headset. “Picking up some radio chatter from the Channel. I’ll cut you in.”

Static in the earphones and then he picked up the voices, quite distinct—a very calm crisp Welsh voice, “Break right, Clive, the bugger’s on your arse.”

He could hear the banging of the cannons and the fast stutter of machine guns above the whine of pursuit engines and then the same voice again, still dispassionate: “I’ve taken some tracers—on fire. I’m bailing out. Due east of Dover—I can see the cliffs. Someone save me a pint of bitter and a pair of dry drawers.”

In his imagination he could see the Spitfires and Messerschmitts in the twilight wheeling among the barrage blimps; the Heinkels in ponderous formation lining up for London and the Hawks and Spitfires trying to get at them before they could drop their sticks of bombs through the swaying beams of the searchlights.

There was a break in the static and Johnson said, “Sorry, I’ve got to change the frequency and get landing instructions.”

Spaight said, “You’ve got to hand it to those bastards.”

They were dropping across the mountains of Scotland in slowly fading twilight; the hillsides were indeterminate, dark and heavy. The B-17 thundered lower between the ranges and finally he saw the lights of the runway through the perspex. The bomber descended toward them like a climber on a sliding rope.

The runway was rough; the plane bounced and pitched along the center stripe between the cannister lights. A small van came shooting onto the gravel and curved in to intercept, running fast down the edge of the runway with a big FOLLOW ME sign across its rear doors, Turning on its tail wheel the bomber went along slowly after the van, unwieldy and awkward on the ground. Pappy Johnson was complaining into his radio: “This runway’s got a surface like a goddamn waffle. This Jesus shit airfield wouldn’t get certification from the civil air board of the corruptest county in Mississippi!”

The FOLLOW ME van circled to indicate their parking place and Johnson cut the engines. It was dusk now and the tower was carping in a crisp Scottish voice: “Let’s get the rest of the wee birds down now, lads—we want to switch off these lights, don’t we now.”

He inched painfully to the hatch and lowered himself by his arms. The leg had gone very stiff. Ground crewmen climbed into the bomber and Pappy Johnson stopped by the running board of the van to look back at it the way he might have looked at a woman.

The driver gave a palm-out salute. He saw to their seating and drove them down the gravel strip and decanted them beside a wooden hangar, and sped away to meet the next plane.

Felix was there with his compact movie-actorish looks and his readiness to laugh or spill tears or burst into rages; he emerged from the hangar in an immaculate white uniform his tailor must have worked around the clock to build.

Alex saluted him. It made Felix grin like a schoolboy. “Welcome to the toy shop, Alex.”

“Where’s our headquarters?”

Felix indicated the decrepit hangar behind him. “Right here, I’m afraid. Well then come in, all of you. My God that’s a big ugly monster of an aircraft.” He turned around with a casual wave that drew them all inside and walked through a small door cut into the hangar’s great sliding gate. Over his shoulder he added, “I’ve got Sergei off in search of billets for you and your friends.”

Alex suppressed a smile. Felix was playing the game to the hilt: he’d already taken over. They’d given him a new role-leader of men—and it looked as if it was the role Prince Felix had been waiting for all his life.

2.

Black felt curtains overhung the hangar’s few small windows; the high naked lighting within was harsh even though the building was so huge that the farther corners were in shadow. “It used to be a service shop for aircraft on North Sea rescue patrol,” Felix told them. “They’ve moved most of that over to Scapa Flow now. It’s obsolete and cobwebby but it’s ours.”

The room wasn’t far short of an acre in dimension. Vertical steel supports sprouted from the cracked concrete floor here and there; the ceiling was a skeleton of metal and the roof above it was an arched tunnel of corrugated steel gone rusty in patches so that it looked like camouflage paint. Without the clutter of aircraft for which it had been designed the floor space looked infinite; the scale was intimidating, it dwarfed them all.

In the front corner a plywood partition seven feet high marked off an office that might have been used by the maintenance director at one time; it had an open doorway and Alex could see the end of a desk within. The remainder of the huge room was undivided except by the eight steel pillars—two-foot-square I-beams, the sort they built bridges out of.

It had been Vassily Devenko who’d obtained the use of it and he must have done a good deal of very fast talking because even if they’d intended to abandon the building they’d have wanted to demolish it for scrap.

Along the south wall under the blackout-draped windows were stacked dozens of wooden crates with consignment bills-of-lading taped to them. Two men in English uniforms with slung rifles stood sleepily near the door; they were not Englishmen, they were White Russians; Alex recognized them both from Finland. When they saw his face they both stiffened almost imperceptibly—the gesture of coming to attention; he nodded to them both as he went by them.

He made introductions; he said to Pappy Johnson, “Prince Felix is the man you’re going to train to drop the lump of sugar into the cup of coffee. He’s our lead pilot.”

Johnson was startled, then dubious, then polite: “Fine—that’s just fine.” He essayed a smile.

“You don’t mean to tell me I’ve got to fly one of those bloody four-engine battleships?”

“Felix is a first-class pilot—don’t let him fool you.”

Johnson was squinting. “You’re the Prince Felix Romanov that won a couple of air races.”

“In racing planes, Captain—not stinking huge blunderbusses.”

“You rated to fly multiengine?”

“I’ve flown twin. Never four.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Alex said. But Pappy Johnson did not look happy.

A short man—very wide but not fat—emerged from the corner office and strode forward in a British uniform with a colonel’s pips on the shoulderboards.

Felix said diplomatically, “Colonel Tolkachev has been showing me around.”

Tolkachev’s broad ruddy Cossack face was expressionless when he gave his formal salute. “Welcome to Scotland, Colonel.”

It was a studied slight: he knew full well what Alex’s rank was but Alex wasn’t in uniform and it had given Tolkachev the excuse to address him by the rank he’d held when Vassily had been the brigade’s general.

Tolkachev turned to John Spaight and clicked his heels. Spaight shook hands informally with the adjutant. “How are you, Tolkachev? Put on a little weight, I see.”

Tolkachev had been Vassily’s right hand and he was still Vassily’s man and there was no mistaking the enmity, it came off him in waves.

Tolkachev said, “I believe you will find the regiment in order.”

Regiment, Alex thought, picking up on it. No longer brigade. Well they’d been cut up badly in Finland.

“Where’ve you got the men billeted?”

“Across the field. They are smaller hangars than this one.”

“How many men on the roster?”

“Six hundred eighty-two combat personnel. Two hundred eleven support personnel.”

“All from the old outfit, are they?”

“We have had a few recruits. Some of the Poles came over—it looked like more action with us than they had where they were.”

“Is there still a company of Finns?”

“No sir. Helsinki recalled them to defend the border. They are fighting the Bolsheviks again you know.”

“Then we’re all White Russians with a sprinkling of Free Poles, is that it?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job of keeping the unit intact.”

“That was General Devenko’s doing, sir.” Tolkachev wasn’t giving an inch.

“You’ve been here what, nearly a year?”

“That is right.”

“With what duties?” It was like pulling teeth.

“Miscellaneous defense,” Tolkachev replied. “We have fourteen pilots—the British supplied us with those light aircraft you saw at the end of the field. The air detachment has been flying air-sea rescue missions and spotter flights looking for enemy shipping in the North Sea. The rest of us have been manning antiaircraft stations along the coast, guarding rail shipments of war materiel, doing sentry shifts at Scapa Flow. We have done a good deal of combat training and parade-ground drilling—the General said we were going into action.”

“So you started commando training.”

“Yes sir.”

“How far along are they?”

“That would depend on the nature of the combat mission.”

Alex was tired; he’d need a clear morning head to get down to the details. “I’ll want a meeting of all field-grade officers at nine in the morning and a general formation at noon.”

“Very good sir.”

Alex turned to Prince Felix. “Well how are you then?”

Felix spread his hands wide. “Like a duck to water, old man. I’ve been flying those puddle jumpers.”

“I’ve been expecting a message from Baron Oleg.”

“It came this afternoon. It wasn’t much of a message. We’re to expect someone tomorrow evening.”

Then Oleg had kept his word. It would be someone from Spain, hand-carrying the contact drill for reaching Vlasov.

It would be none too soon. Without Stalin’s favorite Red Army general none of this was going to work at all.

3.

At six in the morning Sergei knocked and he struggled out of sleep, filled with random pains.

There was no shower and the bath water wasn’t heated because it had not occurred to any of them to light the boiler. He washed with cold water and sponged himself with a cloth; it was bracing if nothing else. When he had shaved he surrendered the bathroom to Spaight and got into his Russian dress-whites because of the regimental formation he’d scheduled for the day; and found his way into the kitchen where Sergei had eggs frying in the bacon grease.

It was a farm cottage that Sergei had rented: the little garden backed up on the airfield’s fence and the hangars were visible and within walking distance. The owner of the house was a Royal Naval Reserve petty officer serving aboard one of His Majesty’s destroyers; the wife and children were living thirty-six miles away with a sister-in-law in the town of Inverness.

It was a comfortable bungalow, very small rooms with everything in its place and chintz headrests on the armchairs.

“It’s a hell of a house to run a war from, Sergei.”

“Yes sir.”

He’d done eating and got into his second cup of coffee when Spaight stumbled groggily into the kitchen, suffering badly from the change in time. “Christ I feel like a quart hangover. I woke up trying to scrape the moss off my tongue. How you making it this morning?”

“Feeling no pain,” Alex lied. “Sit down and revive yourself on some of Sergei’s coffee.”

The cup was almost engulfed by Sergei’s huge hand when he set it down. Then he put his grave eyes on Alex. “Will there be soldierly duties for me as well, my general?”

Sergei was overage and overweight but he had lived his entire life for the single purpose of soldiering for Russia. Alex said, “You’ll fight with us, Sergei. We couldn’t do it without you.”

Sergei went back to the frypan beaming.

“John, I’m going to handpick you a parachute company. You’re going to have to equip them and train them for jumping.”

Spaight shot a quick warning glance to his left.

Alex said, “I’ve trusted Sergei many times with my life and he’s trusted me with his. You might listen when Sergei speaks—the British Expeditionary Force awarded him a DSM in the Ukraine.”

The Distinguished Service Medal was a citation the English didn’t take lightly. Spaight showed his surprise and then nodded. Sergei happily served up his eggs and ham-sliced bacon.

Alex said, “The heavier things are coming by convoy. Transports have a way of ending up in the Atlantic trench. It’s going to be another of your jobs to keep leaning on Glenn Buckner to deliver the goods we need—regardless of U-boats.”

“Tall order,” Spaight remarked. “What else?”

“You’ll be in overall command of training.”

Spaight pushed his empty plate away and swallowed the last mouthful. “Okay. Now you can tell me what I’m training them for.”

“Paratroop commando tactics. The same drill we had at Bliss.”

“Uh-huh. With the two of us trading places. I’ve already said that’s all right with me—but I’d still like to know what kind of operation I’m preparing them for.”

“Just teach them to jump out of those Dakotas. The men have seen their share of combat in Finland—you won’t have to teach them a damned thing about handling rifles or digging holes or maintaining battle discipline.”

“That’ll speed things up. My God the times at Bliss I’d have given my left nut for a training cadre that had any kind of combat experience at all. Do you have any idea how much of a godsend you were to my command, Alex?”

“You’ve seen combat,” Alex pointed out.

“Twenty-three years ago in French mud. That wasn’t combat, that was a screwed-up slaughterhouse in the trenches.”

“I’ve seen your combat record.”

“Where the hell did you turn that rock over?”

Alex said, “You took a patrol a hundred miles inside German-occupied territory on an armed reconnaissance. You came back through the lines with four German colonels and one of the Kaiser’s major-generals for prisoner interrogation—and you didn’t lose a single man. That’s what I want you to train these paratroops for. That mission all over again. To get to the objective without being seen or shot at. To attain the objective without fuss and without noise.”

“Son—if I can call a major general son—that was a nice quiet little farmhouse in the Rhine country that the Boche were using for a rear-echelon officers’ billet. Like this house here. We had to put knives in half a dozen sentries just before dawn and that was all there was to it—we caught the brass hats with their pants down standing in line waiting for the latrine. That ain’t exactly the same idea as walking into the Russian goddamned Kremlin.”

“We’re not going into the Kremlin,” Alex said.

Spaight grinned. “Aha. That’s piece number one of the puzzle.”

At seven he finished reading over the document he had spent odd moments of the past week writing. It consisted of nineteen pages of neat Cyrillic script. He folded it in thirds and sealed it in a buff-colored envelope and went in search of Sergei.

He found the old soldier cleaning a Mannlicher rifle. The tiny bedroom stank of solvent and oil. The square of newspaper on the floor was a repository for cloth patches that had come off the ramrod with star-shaped stains of tawny oil; the weapon hadn’t been dirty but Sergei had carried it around the world with him for twenty-six years and the reason he could still rely on it was that he hadn’t taken it for granted. It looked like a venerable antique but by now it was part of Sergei’s arm and he could put a bullet from it into a moving head at five hundred meters.

Sergei’s big face was the texture of old rubber that had dried and gone cracked-grey in a desert sun. Tension made him flick his tongue across his lips. “I shall be the eyes in the back of your head then.”

“You understand how it must be done.”

“I must not kill him. If he tries to assassinate you….”

“When, not if. They won’t give it up now.”

“When he tries to assassinate you I am to shoot him where it will not kill him.”

“You understand why, Sergei?”

“Of course. We must find out from him who has employed him.”

“We’ll try to make it easy for him,” Alex said. “I’ll stagger my routine. I won’t follow any pattern from day to day except for one habit we’ll show him. Every morning at exactly half-past seven I’ll leave this house and walk through the back gate in the base fence and walk straight to the main hangar. He’ll be watching my movements. He’ll try to find a pattern and he’ll learn there’s only one time of day when he can anticipate where I’ll be—half-past seven in the morning, going from here to there on foot. That’s where he’ll try to kill me. It won’t be for two or three days, perhaps a week.”

“You must go armed of course.”

“I’ve got my pistols. I’ll wear them from this morning on.” They were a pair of British Webley .45 revolvers he’d acquired from a captured Japanese lieutenant general in the mountains of Kansu Province. Once in the Shensi he’d nearly bought the farm when the hammer spring of his Smith & Wesson had broken at full cock and since then he’d carried two revolvers—revolvers because he had never trusted automatic pistols, they jammed too easily with a little mud or cold weather. He’d settled on the big .45s because when you hit an enemy with them he went down and lost interest in fighting.

Sergei was assembling the Mannlicher mechanism and began to thumb cartridges into the Krag box. Alex watched him set the safety. “I’ve got an envelope I want you to keep for me.” He produced it. “Put it where it won’t be found. These are the plans for the operation. If I’m taken out they won’t have time to try to reconstruct my plans or devise new ones. If it happens you must get these plans to Prince Leon immediately.”

“I understand.”

4.

Officers’ call was at nine. He was in the hangar by seven-forty, ready to go over the mound of papers that abstracted the regiment’s status: its personnel, its supplies, its readiness.

Tolkachev came strutting out of the office. He didn’t offer a greeting; just stood at attention waiting.

“Let’s go back to your office.” The leg twinged angrily when he strode past the Cossack.

He waited for Tolkachev to follow him into the cubicle. “Shut the door please.” There were enlisted men elsewhere in the hangar; it wasn’t for their ears.

Tolkachev shut them in. Alex stayed on his feet. He felt brittle. “We haven’t got room here for personal antagonisms. Are you prepared to work under my command?”

“I will not resign voluntarily from the regiment.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Finally Tolkachev said, “I have been adjutant here for nearly two years, sir.”

“You’ve been used to having it your own way here. You’ve been the operations man—General Devenko wasn’t to be bothered with the details of running a unit. And in the last few weeks you’ve got accustomed to being in command—there was no one here but you. That’s got to change. Can you accept that?”

“I would be willing to take orders….”

“But not from me, is that it?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“I commend your candor, Tolkachev.”

“I must resign then?”

“No. You’re a first-rate combat soldier. I’ve got a job for you.”

“I see.”

Tolkachev didn’t see—not yet. Alex said, “I’ll want the company rosters now.”

Tolkachev got them from the files. Alex spread the papers on the desk and stood leaning over them on his hands. He studied names: put faces to them from memory and summoned recollections of their talents and excellences. Here and there he checked off a name with the blunt point of a pencil.

When he’d done he had checked fifty-eight names and he withdrew from the desk. “I need forty more than I’ve marked.”

“For what purpose?”

“Combat skills and good minds. Russians only—no Poles.”

Tolkachev bent over the rosters. Alex left him alone until he’d finished and then went over it, the names he knew and the names he didn’t know, and he erased four or five of Tolkachev’s marks. When Tolkachev stiffened he said, “I’ve got to use my own judgment.” He glanced up and surprised a look of white-hot hatred on Tolkachev’s flat face. “Give me half a dozen more. I want the very best of them.”

Tolkachev did the job again and when Alex was satisfied he put the rosters aside. “All right. Now you’re going to have to reorganize the regiment. You’ll have to shuffle the assignments. These men whose names are checked off—I want them assigned to a special training company. They’re to have a barracks to themselves. Their officers will live in that barracks with them and there’s to be absolute security maintained at all times on that building.”

“Yes sir.”

“You don’t understand what it’s all about—that’s the way it’s going to stay, Tolkachev. These hundred men are mine—them and the pilots. The rest of the regiment will remain yours to run. You’ll continue performing the Allied defense duties you’ve been performing. You’ll have to spread yourselves thinner to make up for the men I’ve drafted. Once the new company is formed up there’s to be no contact between its men and the rest of the troops in the regiment. We’ll have our own mess hall, our own recreation areas segregated from the others. You’ll have to rotate assignments in the regiment to keep a twenty-four-hour guard patrol on the training area, including the company barracks—I can’t waste these men’s time having them pull sentry duty. I’ll want two men on each entrance. No one will be allowed in or out of the trainees’ area without a pass signed by me or by General Spaight. No one—including yourself. Is this clear?”

“Yes sir. Absolute security. I understand.”

“The sentries will be armed with live ammunition. Anyone who tries to disobey their challenges is to be shot. Not to kill but shot where it’ll hurt. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then pick good marksmen.”

Tolkachev said drily, “You have the best ones in the training company, sir.”

“Then teach the rest of them to shoot better,” Alex said gently. “All right—you’ve got a great deal to do. You’d better do it. Incidentally you’ll have to move your office—we’ll be needing the use of this hangar.”

“Yes sir. Just one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“The British have suffered us here because we’ve performed useful services. We have freed British units to go to the fronts—we have been doing the work that their own people would have had to do otherwise.”

“I understand that. You’ll go right on doing those things.”

“No sir—not quite. The reason they gave us the use of this airfield is that we have been able to fly offshore patrols and rescue flights for them. If we stop, they will probably want their airfield back.”

“You’ll have to let me worry about that, Tolkachev.” But he could see the way the Cossack’s mind was working: Suppose he throws a spanner in it and we lose our base on account of him}

Alex said, “You’re just going to have to take your chances. I’m giving you more than you’d have given me. More than you probably deserve. If a soldier’s not prepared to take orders from his superior then he’s not much of a soldier.”

“Was that how it was with you and General Devenko then, sir?” Tolkachev hadn’t hesitated: it had been there in him, bottled up, waiting for the chance to come out.

“When your commander’s orders are clearly wrong you have the right to challenge them, Tolkachev. Not otherwise. Now get out of here and get to work.”

Tolkachev’s face had gone impassive again. He drew himself up. “When do you wish it finished, sir?”

“When?”

Tolkachev gathered his dignity about him and wheeled out of the office.

The blackout curtains were open. Through the window he saw squads running the verges of the runway at double-time with heavy packs strapped to their shoulders. Sergeants barked the rhythm of the run and he recognized a captain and two lieutenants who ran along with them. Limping from the window back to the desk he wondered if the muscles of his thigh would knit in time for him to run like that before the mission took off.

Officers’ call; then regimental assembly: hard eyes full of challenge; uncertain eyes averted.

Then at two in the afternoon a De Havilland Beaver bounced lightly down the runway and decanted a passenger.

The group captain wore RAF wings and a DFC; he was short and wiry with freckled sharp features and a shock of heavy red hair. The light of merriment danced in the Scot’s eyes. His name was Walter MacAndrews.

Felix said, “We’re here by the good group captain’s sufferance.”

MacAndrews had a good firm handshake. “Heard a great deal about you from His Highness. I must say you look every inch of it.” He had to throw his head well back to look into Alex’s face.

On the way across the tarmac to the main hangar he explained, “We’ve got the responsibility for northern Scotland—air and coast watches. All the bloody patrol bases, includin’ this one. You might not believe it but I was a self-respecting Spitfire pilot once.”

Felix said. “He lost too many planes so they grounded him.” It was spoken with wicked mischief and from the way MacAndrews grinned it was evident they’d done a good bit of pub-crawling together.

MacAndrews said, “Well that’s a bit true, isn’t it, but I cost the Jerries three times as many aircraft as I cost His Majesty’s government and I thought we were square. Now I understand you’ve come to reorganize things here?”

“In a way.” Alex piloted them into the hangar office. “The regiment will be able to continue doing sentry chores and coast-watch flak tours. Railway guards, all the rest of it. But I’m going to have to pull our pilots out of it.”

MacAndrews showed a little distress. “We haven’t got that many planes to spare up here, General. We’re a bit of a shoestring army.”

“We won’t be needing the planes. If you’ve got other pilots to man them you’re welcome to take them back.”

It relieved the Scotsman. “That I can do. We’ve got a number of overage pilots not unlike myself—most of them dying for the chance to fly spotter patrols. We’ll collect the aircraft immediately.”

“I’ve got to impose on you for something else,” Alex said. “I need the use of land.”

“Land?”

“A field or a meadow. Something at least a mile long and reasonably flat.”

“For landing aircraft is it?”

“No. Something else.”

When MacAndrews saw it was all he was going to get he smiled with amusement. “And I take it you’d prefer it wasn’t a common right in the middle of a curious town full of people. Then it’s got to be something in the highlands, hasn’t it. How far afield may I go?”

“I’d like it as near here as possible.”

“Yet you want privacy. That’s a wee order, General. But there might be a spot or two. Give me forty-eight hours then—I’ll come up with something.” His eyes twinkled: “I don’t for a single minute suppose that’s all you’ll be wanting.”

“There’s only one other thing I can think of at the moment. We’ll want about thirty old cars. The next thing to junk will do—as long as they’re capable of chugging along at a few miles an hour. Don’t expect to get them back. We’ll pay for them of course.”

“Any particular make and model, then?” But there was no bite to MacAndrews’ sarcasm; he was too agreeable for that. “I can only assume you mean to entertain your men with bumper-car races on the meadow.”

“You wouldn’t be too far off,” Alex said.

Five minutes after MacAndrews’ Beaver took off a twin-engined British cargo plane made a rough landing and taxied awkwardly around to the main hangar behind the FOLLOW ME van. The first man out of the plane was not a member of its crew; his rank was too high for that.

“I’m Cosgrove, Bob Gosgrove. War Office.” The English brigadier had an empty sleeve pinned up and the face of a man weary of war. “They told you I was on my way?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir.”

“Bloody crowd of imbeciles in Communications. Well they’ve sent me up to fetch and carry for you. What do you need from us?”

“That’ll take explaining,” Alex said. “Come inside. Coffee?”

“Got it running out my ears,” said Cosgrove. He had an engaging smile; he was a gaunt grey man with a thick mane of hair and a faint resemblance to Vassily Devenko—very tall, the long angular face, the heavy hair almost white.

When Alex was alone with the English brigadier the hearty mask sagged. “All right then. What is this show about?”

“I’d have to know your authority for asking that.”

“You’d better put in a call to London then.”

If it was a bluff it had to be called. Alex rang Tolkachev on the base line and told him to get through to General Sir Edward Muir. Then while he waited he drew Cosgrove into conversation, plumbing him.

He found the brigadier forthright and direct. “Bloody hush-hush. The PM’s known far and wide for his cloak-and-dagger indulgences but I rather think most of them have come a cropper, haven’t they? Gallipoli’s a case in point. I was there, I know.”

Later he said: “The Home Office have agreed to give you use of these facilities but I hope you understand it’s a risk for them. I’m told the Assistant Secretary was a bit pained—they don’t like the idea, it may be in violation of international law.”

“I’m not a lawyer. That’s someone else’s department.”

“Up to a point,” Cosgrove said. “It means your people are going to have to be on their best behavior every moment. The slightest incident could dash the whole show. These Scots are bloody sensitive with foreigners.”

“The operational unit is restricted to base from today on, Brigadier. I don’t think we need worry on that account.”

The call came through and Cosgrove courteously left the room while Alex took the telephone.

Sir Edward’s voice crackled at him. “Hello there Danilov. Glad to hear from you.”

“I’ve got a Brigadier Cosgrove on my doorstep, General. I thought I’d better ask you about him.”

“Oh he’s quite straight. Lost his arm in Turkey in the first war. He’s a good man—the best when it comes to filling impossible orders. He’s number-two man under General Sir Hugh Craigie—chief of supply for the Military Intelligence branch of the War Office. You’ll find him a first-class hustler. What’s the American expression? A moonlight requisitioner?”

“A chiseler, you mean.” Alex was amused.

“Shall we just say he’ll find what you need and provide it.”

“How many of these people have been informed of the mission?”

“None of them. They know only that it’s got the Prime Minister’s approval.”

“Cosgrove wants to know the scheme.”

“Naturally he’d want to, old boy. It’s up to you to decide what to tell him. I’m sure he’d do a better job for you if he knew the whole truth—but you’ve got to weigh that against security. It’s your decision.”

He could picture the old man—Kitcheneresque, on the surface a relic with his manner of colonial ferocity; beneath it the acute mind that belied his age.

“What’s your schedule then? How soon may we expect action?”

“I’ve just arrived—I haven’t got a target date yet.”

“Get one. The Prime Minister will insist.” A pause on the line; then Sir Edward said, “My aide has just handed me a note. It appears you’ll have to disregard what I’ve just told you. Brigadier Cosgrove seems to be the bearer of an inquiry directly from 10 Downing Street. This is one of the Prime Minister’s confidential memos—for my eyes only, destroy after reading, all that nonsense. He seems to have decided to take advantage of Cosgrove’s trip up there.”

“It’ll be a demand for information,” Alex said.

“Yes of course.”

“Thank you General.”

“Right. Ring me if you need anything from here. Good-bye then.”

When he called Cosgrove into the Officers’ Mess the brigadier sat down with the confident air of a man who knew his credentials had just been confirmed. “I hope you had a pleasant chat with London.”

Alex walked to the window and back to exercise his leg. “The plan’s my own and it can’t be shared. It isn’t vanity-it’s a question of secrecy.”

Cosgrove nodded—unperturbed. “Yes of course. First things first, then. What will you require from us?”

“Practice bombs for one thing. Hundred-pounders. With armor-piercing points. Two tons of them.”

Cosgrove drew out a notepad and scribbled on it. “And?”

“Aviation gasoline. Petrol.”

“In what quantities?”

“Just keep it flowing—I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Do you know how difficult it is for us to get petrol into this country?”

Alex grunted. He ticked off the next item: “Uniforms for one hundred officers and men.”

“What sort?”

“Red Army. Russian.”

Cosgrove grinned brashly at him. “Now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we.”

“You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.”

“Very well. We’ll take your people’s measurements. I’ll have them cut and dyed right here in Scotland. The insignia shouldn’t be a problem. The difficulty may be the boots but I’ll do a bit of digging here and there. Now what about arms?”

“The Americans are providing some. Mainly I’ll need Soviet weapons.”

“You mean small arms—the sort of things they stamp out in those Ukrainian works.”

“The Finns captured a good lot of them two years ago. That would be the place to start looking.”

“I’ll do what I can. What’s next?”

“I want a forger who knows the current Soviet forms.”

Cosgrove reacted with a slow sly smile. “What the devil sort of build-up did London give me?”

“And a communications man who knows Russian wavelengths. We’ll have to alter the wireless equipment aboard our aircraft.”

“A little slower, old boy. I’m still choking on your Soviet forger.”

“That’s right at the top of the list.”

“I can’t promise miracles. I’ll do what I can.”

Cosgrove’s cavalier air troubled him. It all was too much of a game, too much of an entertaining exercise. The Cosgroves and Buckners weren’t laying anything of their own on the line; the weakness of this operation was its dependency on the Allies. To Roosevelt and Churchill at this point the operation must seem a minor and rather childish adventure: you had the feeling the President had sat in his Oval Office one afternoon with Buckner and some others, screwing a cigarette into his long holder and giving the program a patronizing benediction with his jut-jawed conspiratorial grin: All right we’ll give them a hand and let them take a crack at it but let’s not shut the back door.

You couldn’t blame them—but it made for uncertain footing.

“I’ve got to have that forger.”

“My dear fellow, you people have your own man in Moscow—why not get the real thing? Have him smuggle the papers out.”

Alex said quietly, “All right. Who gave it to you?”

“We’re obliged to protect our sources, aren’t we. I’m sure you understood from the beginning there were strings attached. My government aren’t giving you their backing out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“If someone gave it to you, he could just as easily turn around and give it to the Kremlin too. I’d like to know your source, Brigadier.” He emphasized the rank in contrast to the stars on his own epaulets.

It had no discernible effect. “I don’t think there’s too much chance of that.”

Then the connection became clear in Alex’s mind and he didn’t press it further because he felt he had the answer. It had to have been someone in Deniken’s camp; they were the only ones that close to the Allied governments. And if it came from Deniken then it had got to Deniken from Baron Oleg Zimovoi—an attempt to cement Oleg’s position, an avowal of indispensability.

He remembered with displeasure Oleg’s insistent concern for Vlasov’s security: now it appeared Oleg had reversed himself when he saw an advantage to it and jeopardized Vlasov far more dangerously than Alex could have done. It would be Oleg’s manner of demonstrating to the White Russian coalition his importance to the scheme: I’m the only one with an inside man in the Kremlin—the thing can’t be done without me.

It was altogether worthy of Oleg. He wanted to be sure that after it was over the other contingents would be forced to remember the key role he’d played. They would have to reward him with a high seat in the new government. This was what he’d lived his whole life for: power. Now that it might be at hand he would use any means to secure it.

But Oleg could be dealt with. Having worked out the truth Alex was able to dismiss it.

“Can you give me dates?” Cosgrove said.

“Rough ones. Five days to organize training. A minimum of nine weeks’ training. We’re in September now—I’d say we’ll shoot for operational status in middle or late November. I’d like to cut it shorter than that but I don’t think we can.”

“You’re dealing with a great many bureaucracies. Things never happen as fast as they’re promised.”

“It’s your job to cut through that, Brigadier.”

“Quite.” Cosgrove smiled again. “By November Hitler may be making speeches from the Kremlin.”

“Evidently you’re well briefed on the scheme. Why did you bother to ask me?”

“They didn’t send me here blind. But no one knows your tactical intentions. Naturally I’ve asked questions. Certain things are implicit in your answers to them—in your requisitions. I gather, for example, that you won’t be requiring transport by sea.”

“No. I’ll want the use of two long-range aircraft.”

“Transports? You’ve got three of your own, haven’t you?”

“There’s a political echelon to follow us in. They’ll need aircraft.”

“I must say it looks bonkers to me. On the map all you can see is Jerries between here and there. You can’t go up through the Prime Minister’s fabled soft underbelly because there isn’t an aircraft in the world with the range for it. I suppose you could go in through Alaska and Siberia but it would take bloody forever. If the Nazis weren’t in Riga and pushing for Leningrad that would be your route—it’s only five hundred miles Riga to Moscow—but what’s the point of it, you can’t refuel behind Jerry’s lines.”

“Your guesses are your own, Brigadier.”

“You’re not being very cooperative.”

“I haven’t told anyone the plan—not even my own people.”

“Of course. But the PM’s getting restless about this thing. He likes to keep his hand in. You can’t keep him at arm’s length without finding him at sword’s point. You’re thinking of one kind of risk—think of the other.”

Some people were born with blue eyes and some were born to play games and both Churchill and FDR were game-players with all the dedicated enthusiasm of nine-year-old boys looming over a board cluttered with toy soldiers. Blindfold them, obscure their view of the pieces and they would become hot-tempered very quickly.

That was one level. At another level the Allies had a case for quid pro quo. They had invested trust in the scheme; they had a right to be trusted in return. It was remarkable that London and Washington had got behind the operation at all. Aristocrats in exile were commonly thought to be forever hatching fanciful schemes to regain lost thrones. For important governments to support such wild-eyed schemes was unthinkable in the normal course of things; but the course of things was not normal just now. In wartime it became excusable to interfere with the internal affairs of one’s allies because such matters could affect the global balance of power. But still you didn’t simply disperse blank checks to every exiled king and ex-president who came begging for support. You expected certain things in return. They had every right to be stung by Alex’s rebuff.

Cosgrove said, “You’ll have to give ground. If you don’t you may lose the whole package.”

“I’ll lay it out before it goes into operation.”

“Not good enough, old boy.”

“I can’t be more specific at this time.”

“Quite a politician, aren’t you.” Cosgrove scratched his shoulder; it made the empty sleeve move. “I’d hoped not to have to use this. But I’ve been instructed to render no aid and support unless we’ve reached a satisfactory understanding beforehand. I’m to report back to my superiors this afternoon. Naturally if they disapprove of my report you’ll find yourself without a mission. For example the six aircraft you prize so highly will undoubtedly be seized for use by the War Office. Must I go on?”

Alex suppressed his anger. “Very well. If you’ll set up a meeting with the Prime Minister I’ll spell out the plan—with Winston Churchill, in private. Agreed?”

Cosgrove’s relief was transparent. He rubbed his long jaw. “The PM will want his advisors around the table.”

“Negative.”

“For the Lord’s sake why?”

“I haven’t got time for a debate and I don’t want anything written down. I’ll give it to the Prime Minister in however much detail he wants. After that they can discuss it among themselves—but I won’t wait for them. I haven’t got time.”

5.

There was plenty of light but they stood in a sort of darkness because the great size of the cavernous hangar diluted the light. Ninety-odd enlisted men stood in platoon formation—four ranks, twenty-three columns, flag guards at the ends—and the six officers had their backs to the formation. Off to the side stood the regiment’s fourteen flying officers: young men, brash, apart from the others in kind, blooded in air combat over Finland and the English Channel and the North Sea. Spaight and Pappy Johnson watched from one side and Felix waited beside the makeshift podium platform until Alex had made his round of inspection.

Then Felix mounted the platform. He looked neat, trim, businesslike. The uniform he had chosen for the occasion was a simple white one without embellishment.

Felix had a surprisingly deep voice for a man his size and he had the projection of an actor. No one had trouble hearing him even though the curved high roof put a metallic echo on the edge of his words.

“Gentlemen—Russians. My name is Felix Mikhailevitch Romanov. Now we know that a Romanov is good for nothing.”

It was a bit of a pun: the Romanov was the monetary unit of old Russia, now worthless. No one laughed and there weren’t many smiles but Alex sensed a slight relaxation among them.

Felix said: “Romanovs have also been known for their frivolity and for their troublemaking. Very well. I have come here, by your leave, to make trouble. To make trouble for the tyrant Josef Djugashvili who calls himself ‘Stalin’—steel. His name, we know, might better be ‘blood.’”

Felix stood absolutely straight up. His eyes moved gravely from face to face. “I would speak to you of the Russian people, and their nature—proud, tempestuous, filled with elemental cruelties and great passions. We have always been lavish expenders of our own blood. Peter the Great built St. Petersburg on the crushed corpses of one hundred thousand subjects. Ivan the Terrible—Genghis Khan—the rulers of Russia have extracted an awful toll in blood. In our Civil War—in which some of you fought—Russia expended the lives of twenty-five million human beings.

“But Josef Stalin has introduced murder and terror on a scale that has never been attempted by the despots of the past.

“Six years ago Stalin began to purge the secret police and the Red Party of those leaders who threatened his power—at least in his imagination. And four years ago he turned his attentions to the military. In the end thirty thousand top-ranking officers were liquidated at Stalin’s whim—including the head of the Army itself, three of the five Marshals, thirteen of nineteen army commanders and more than one hundred divisional commanding generals. These were merely the top officers—the thirty thousand. The ranks have been decimated. Men like you—Russian soldiers. Kulaks, peasants, workers. There have been single days when in the streets of Moscow alone a thousand people have been shot to death. At this point in time the toll has reached ten milliort victims—one Russian out of fourteen!

“I speak to you of these things for a reason. You fought in Finland. You saw the state of the Red Army. You came to know firsthand the pitiful state of the Russian people.

“It is our wish to change that state. It is our wish to restore dignity to our great motherland. To bring freedom and self-respect. To remove the yoke of terror and slavery. To free Russia.”

Felix lifted his hands from his sides—an elegant all-encompassing gesture. “We do not intend to restore a czarist dictatorship to the throne of St. Petersburg—to replace one tyranny with another. Our sole aim is to depose the Stalinists—to open Mother Russia to liberty and to make it possible for our homeland to choose its own freely elected government.

“I was chosen to lead this movement by the leaders of the Free Russian Movement in Exile. I think you know who we all are. We’re not a secret cabal. The heads of all the principal exile groups are participants in this movement—the Socialists, the conservatives, the liberal wings—all of us have banded together with one common goal: the liberation of the motherland.”

They were breathless now—some of them had spent their lives waiting to hear these words.

Felix said: “There are just over one hundred of us in this building. It is up to us, and us alone, to bring freedom to Russia. We hundred men have been asked to change the lives of hundreds of millions.

“I shall be at the controls of the leading aircraft when we go to do battle with the Bolshevik devils. I do not ask you to go to war and fight for me. I ask you to follow me into the battle. It was felt I should lead you because the people of Russia might respond to me—to my name. But I do not ask you to follow me out of any idea of loyalty to my person or to the dynasty of the Romanovs. I ask you to join out of love for Mother Russia. And if I fail you I expect to be treated accordingly.

“I have told you what it is that we intend to do. Now General Alexsander Danilov will tell you how we intend to do it.”

When he mounted the platform Alex held himself suitably erect but Felix turned and offered his arms and Alex accepted the bear hug with more than simple formality. He was overwhelmingly proud of the young prince. It had been a fine speech: brief, strong, candid, whole. It had electrified every man in the vast hangar.

Some of the officers had beads of sweat on their foreheads. Sergei Bulygin—holding a pennant standard at the right end of the formation—had tears on his cheeks and was beaming with a pride he seemed almost unable to contain. Pappy Johnson, who neither spoke nor understood Russian, stood agape: Spaight had been murmuring a translation in his ear.

Their emotions had been brought to a peak; now he had to steady them—get their intellects working.

He said, “Rigid security is now in force. All leaves and passes are canceled and any unauthorized contact with persons outside this unit will be treated as a court-martial offense. This stricture applies to officers as well as enlisted men. You are not to communicate with anybody about anything. You are not to speak one word to anyone outside this unit. That applies to your former comrades in the regiment as well as to outsiders. No one outside this room is privy to our plans and we must keep it that way. Our area will be guarded by sentries from the remainder of the regiment but you are not to speak to those sentries except to identify yourselves when it is necessary to pass through their positions. Are there any questions?”

No one spoke: no one moved.

“You have all volunteered blind for this mission—not knowing the nature of it when you agreed to stand forward. But I have to remind you that it is too late now to change your minds unless you are prepared to spend several months in solitary confinement. That alternative is offered to anyone who prefers it. It is not a punishment, it is a means of insuring that our plans are not leaked until after the mission has been completed. Questions?”

Again there were none; he shifted his stance to take weight off the bad leg. “Very well. The mission is twofold. Part One is the isolation and destruction of the Bolshevik leadership—Stalin and his key aides. Part Two is the seizure and operation of key headquarters and centers of communication.

“Part One is solely the concern of our fourteen pilots and their combat leader, Prince Felix Romanov. Stalin will be attacked and destroyed from the air, by bombardment. The details of that scheme are not important to the rest of you.

“Part Two requires the engagement of sixty-eight of you—officers and men—on the ground. These sixty-eight will be dropped into selected spots by parachute. Wearing Red Army uniforms and carrying forged papers, you will infiltrate headquarters of the Red Army and centers of wireless and print communications. You will neutralize the occupants, taking them by surprise, and you will take over the operations of those centers until you can be relieved by a second wave who will arrive when they have received the signal that the mission has been accomplished.

“The second wave will not consist of men from this unit. It will be manned primarily by military and political leaders who are prepared to take over the reins of the Russian government. As Prince Felix has told you the identities of these men are not secret. They include Prince Leon Kirov, Baron Oleg Zimovoi, Count Anatol Markov and quite a number of others. Prince Felix Romanov will become head of government. I will command the Armies of Russia until such time as we are able to reorganize the General Staff. The German Army must continue to be resisted in the field.

“I have told you that the plan requires sixty eight men from this unit. There are ninety-six of you here. The difference between those two figures represents those of you who will wash out during training. The sixty-eight men who effect the liberation will be the best among you. If you intend to be among them then you will need to be just a little better than the next man in training.

“Can sixty-eight men seize control of the largest country in the world? I would point out to you that Lenin did exactly that in nineteen-seventeen with just one hundred and fourteen shock troops. Do you think we can do as well, gentlemen?”

There was silence in the hangar after the echo of his question stopped reverberating—and then abruptly the room rang with a deafening roar from a hundred throats.

The word they shouted was “Da!”

After formation he retired to the partitioned office with Spaight and Pappy Johnson. Spaight said, “How long have I got?”

“Seven weeks starting Monday.”

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.”

“If you can’t do it you’d better say so. Right now.”

Spaight dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he looked up. “God damn it the hell if I can’t.”

Pappy Johnson said, “Man I’m still trying to get my breath.”

“Get it fast,” Alex told him. “You’re going to be in the air fourteen hours a day.”

“Shee-yit.” Johnson was leaning against the sill on both hands. After a moment he gathered himself and turned about. “I got two problems right off, Skipper.”

“Name them.”

“First thing, I don’t speak but two words of Russian. No, three. Da, nyet and tovarich.”

“And your accent’s atrocious,” Spaight remarked drily.

“How’m I supposed to train fifteen Russian pilots?”

Spaight said, “They’ve been attached to the Royal Air Force for a year and before that nearly all of them were flying combat in China or Spain. English is the international pilots’ language. You won’t have trouble with that.”

Pappy absorbed that. “The other thing ain’t so easy.” He turned to Alex. “Ain’t enough high-octane around here to taxi those Forts once around the ballroom. How can I teach them anything if I can’t get them off the ground?”

“You’ll have gasoline by the beginning of the week. In the meantime you’ll have your hands full setting up a ground school. Only five of them have ever flown bombers.”

“Five’s a lot better than none. One more thing then. Where’m I going to find grease monkeys who’ve laid eyes on a B-Seventeen?”

“Colonel Buckner has three ground-crew chiefs on the way here from Boeing. They should arrive tomorrow. Any more problems?”

“Is there anything you forgot to take care of?”

“We’ll spend the next seven weeks finding that out.”

“Well here’s one for starters. You’ve given me pilots but what about navigators and bombardiers, gunners, all that stuff? A Flying Fortress takes a combat crew of ten, Skipper.”

“We’ll wash at least thirty of the ground troops out of training thirty days ahead of D-day. You’ll have those thirty days to make air gunners out of them. I know it’s not enough time but do what you can. We’ll have Red Air Force markings on the planes and the plan doesn’t include shooting our way in. You might run into a stray Luftwaffe plane but I doubt it.”

“Fair enough. But—”

“As for navigators and bombardiers you’ve got a pool of fifteen experienced fliers to draw from and you’ve only got six airplanes. Three bombers, three transports that don’t need bombardiers. Your copilots will have to double as navigators but their problems won’t be acute—it’s a simple flight plan once it’s in motion. If the weather’s bad we won’t go in anyway, we’ve got to have optimum weather for the mission. Six pilots, six copilots—that leaves you three spare pilots. They’ll be your bombardiers. Next question?”

“No. But if you’re fixing to take over the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics with three B-Seventeen bombers and sixty-eight ground troops then you have got the balls of a brass gorilla.”

6.

The grey Bentley had handsome Coventry coachwork and a high kneaded leather seat in which Count Anatol Markov sat bolt erect. At the count’s elbow was a telephone to speak with the driver but there was no need for that. The car had picked him up at the customs gate and now moved him almost without sound through the streets of north London and across toward Highgate.

Anatol observed dispassionately that bomb damage in this sector didn’t seem severe. Here and there a house had been shattered and twice they had to detour around cratered streets but north London had hardly been turned into rubble; either the newspapers had exaggerated the Luftwaffe’s efficiency or other areas of the city had taken the brunt of Hitler’s air war.

The Bentley made the left turn off the Archway Road at Highgate Wood and slid smoothly to the curb before a high Victorian house faced with genteel stonework and brick. Count Anatol’s index finger pried the watch out of his waistcoat pocket and snapped the gold crested lid open. It was four-fifteen.

“Ivanov” was a name like Smith or Jones or John Doe: a common pseudonym; but it happened that Ivanov was Baron Yuri Lavrentovitch’s real surname and that this was the only common thing about him. His grandfather had been a minister in the government of Alexander III and the genius for finance could be traced back a dozen generations in Ivanov’s lineage.

The Baron was bald except for a grey monk’s fringe that went around the back of his head like a horseshoe. His physiognamy was that of a Mediterranean Scrooge—fleshy at cheek and jowl but querulous at jutting chin. He wore a dark Saville Row suit with mother-of-pearl buttons down the center of the waistcoat; it had been tailored to the millimeter but it wouldn’t have convinced anybody that he was English. He was no bigger than a twelve-year-old schoolboy.

Count Anatol towered over him but it didn’t trouble the Baron. “Sherry perhaps?”

“I had my fill of it in Spain. I would prefer whisky.”

Ivanov spoke to a servant in English that was too quick and slurred for Count Anatol to follow. When the servant left the room Ivanov settled into a Queen Anne divan that dwarfed him ludicrously. He had made no effort to scale the furnishings of his house to his own proportion; it appeared to be a matter of complete indifference to him.

Count Anatol’s preference ran to hard chairs with straight backs. He drew one up from a corner. “You look very well.”

“My dear Anatol, for a man my age I look bloody marvelous. I cannot say the same for you.”

“It was a rather nervous flight from Lisbon. A Messerschmitt gave us a looking over.”

“I suppose it serves to remind the Portuguese who is in charge.”

“Are we expecting anyone else?”

“No. There was to have been someone to speak for the Grand Duke Mikhail but it did not prove practicable for anyone to make his way here from Munich. I keep in contact with them of course—in the diplomatic bags through Zurich.” Baron Ivanov held a key post with an international bank in London and the firm’s German banking operations continued to function under the Reich to provide Speer and Krupp with capital for war production. “When necessary we can arrange more rapid communication but I prefer not to strain that avenue with anything that’s not vital.”

“I am afraid it is an avenue you shall have to open wide. There is not much time left.”

“That’s what we are here to discuss.” The Baron spent his life dealing with the tyrants of finance; it wasn’t a profession for a man with nerves.

The servant brought drinks. Neither of them spoke until the man had left the room. Then Anatol said, “Our General Danilov must have begun his exercises in Scotland by now.”

“He arrived last night with six aircraft. Three heavy bombers, three transports, two American officers—one a brigadier.”

“You are keeping close watch on him,” Anatol said.

“Not as close as I should like. He has shunted my key man there into the cold. But we will work around that.” The sealed brass humidor on the side table was crested with the Imperial Russian Eagle. The Baron selected a Havana. “Has Danilov revealed his plan to any of you?”

“No.”

“He appears to be as difficult to deal with as his brother was.”

“More so. At least we had Vassily Devenko’s sympathies.”

“Not to the point where he felt free to confide in any of us.”

Anatol said, “He’d have done so when the time came. Alex will keep it to himself until the last moment—then he will go first to Leon, not to us.”

“We must circumvent that.”

“That may require extreme measures.”

“My dear Anatol, the entire scheme is extreme. With Danilov we have one advantage over his brother—we need not fear his ambitions. Vassily had it in him to be another Stalin. Alexsander Danilov isn’t that sort.”

“I have seen the changes power can effect in men,” Anatol said.

“Danilov lacks the ruthlessness for it. I have studied his dossier. He is not a killer—not the kind who takes pleasure in it.”

Anatol resisted the impulse to ask the Baron if he had had a hand in Vassily Devenko’s assassination.

The Baron ashed his cigar. “You indicated you had important information.”

Down to the meat of it now. Anatol said, “I have Vassily Devenko’s plan.”

If Ivanov was surprised he made no show of it. “How did that happen?”

“I was the first to think of searching his body after he was killed. I was not observed.”

“He carried the plans on him?”

“A notebook. A shorthand cypher—it has taken me this long to translate it. That is why I did not communicate earlier.”

“Have you got it with you?”

“In my head. The notebook is in my vault but I have had the translations destroyed.” Anatol leaned forward a bit in the high-backed chair. “Devenko’s was the superior plan.”

“Why?”

“There are too many variables in Alex’s alternative.”

“He has not revealed his plan. How can you criticize it?”

“I know this much about it. It entails luring the Kremlin elite into a trap outside Moscow. It involves aerial bombardment and support from the Allied governments which must be maintained right up to the end in order for the scheme to work. If that support is withdrawn at any point then the Danilov plan is aborted. He must have uninterrupted support from at least two governments that we know to be capricious. And he must depend on the weather as well—he can’t hit a target from the air if there’s a storm. There must be a good many other imponderables but those are two we know of.”

“And the Devenko plan?”

“Straightforward. Relatively simple. A regimental infiltration of the Kremlin. It relies on surprise but that is the only variable.”

“Why didn’t Danilov want to use it then?”

“I was not present when he outlined it for Leon. But I suspect his motives. He’d had a quarrel with his brother—they were estranged. They fought for my daughter’s affections among other things. I suspect Alex is refusing to follow Vassily’s scheme simply because it was Vassily’s. He may feel compelled to prove he can do it his own way.”

“You think the man would jeopardize the operation merely to prove a point?”

“It is more than a point. It is an obsession, I think.”

The Baron said, “And you suggest…?”

“Alex should be removed.”

“Removed how? And replaced by whom?” The baron’s tiny hand held the cigar idly before his breastbone. His voice was calm. “You see the difficulty. We lack the votes to have him dismissed by the coalition. He has always been a favorite of Leon’s. I would not be amazed to learn that Leon arranged the assassination.”

“Leon?”

“To make room for his own protégé.”

Anatol shook his head with disbelieving amusement. But it was half an answer to the question he had not asked earlier-only half because it might be a smoke screen; the Baron was clever enough.

“We should have to remove him by violent means,” the Baron said, “and such things have a way of being traced back to their origins.”

“No one has traced Vassily Devenko’s murder back to its origins.”

“Someone will. In time. No; if we had a part in Danilov’s death and it came to light before we cemented our positions of power then we should lose our chance forever. The risk is too great.”

“No greater than the risk of losing it all by supporting Alex.”

“Answer my second question then.”

“We have men capable of commanding the operation. The plan in Vassily Devenko’s notebook is quite detailed. It should not require great imagination to put it into operation—only persevering leadership. I am sure Tolkachev could handle it, for example; the regiment is accustomed to following his orders.”

“Tolkachev is a staff officer. He lacks the spark for command. I cannot see men following him into the jaws of death.”

“It was not a cavalry charge with naked sabers that Vassily had in mind. The operation would not require that sort of leadership.”

“Yes. But would the Red Army fall into place behind him after the coup?”

“Will the Red Army fall in behind Alex and Prince Felix?” Anatol riposted.

“They may when they realize it was Alex’s initiative that sparked its success.” The Baron sucked on the cigar; it hollowed his cheeks and gave his face a predatory cast. “I have the highest respect for your judgment, Anatol. I am only anticipating the arguments my colleagues will raise. It is a great risk to upset the operation now that it is in motion. You must be very certain of your stance.”

“I’ve weighed the alternatives.”

The Baron said, “You do not like Danilov personally, do you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Who can say. Chemistry perhaps.”

“Politically he is too liberal for you of course.”

“That goes without saying. I should think you would feel the same.”

“I do. But we are not putting him forward as a political candidate. He has a remarkable record as a soldier.”

“Perhaps. It is my impression he is too susceptible to his emotions.”

“Warmth is an essential quality in a leader.”

“I do not agree,” Anatol said.

“I am not a warm man myself but I recognize its value in others. Your daughter flew to America some weeks ago to meet him in New York.”

“She was acting as Leon’s envoy.”

“It was a bit more than that.”

“What is it you wish me to say?”

“I want you to admit you do not approve of your daughter’s being in love with him.”

“Irina is a grown woman. I do not interfere in her life.”

The suggestion of a smile. “You were much happier when she was dallying with Vassily Devenko. He was more your sort of son-in-law.”

“I would have preferred that naturally.”

“I must ask you to examine your motives, Anatol. Spend the night—consider it all. We shall discuss this again in the morning.”

7.

A dark old Austin came chugging up from the gate. It was one of the regiment’s vehicles and Sergei Bulygin was driving; Alex couldn’t see the passenger behind the glare on the windscreen.

He didn’t want visitors inside the restricted area. He swung through the hangar door and limped quickly outside onto the tarmac.

And suddenly he was face to face with Irina.

He looked at her over a stretching interval until her mouth softened and parted and her long breath lifted her breasts. He felt his throat thicken; when he lifted his hands she came forward, hurrying with her fluid free stride: she gave him both her hands and her eyes danced above her wicked blinding smile.

“It’s all quite official,” she said. “I’m here as a courier.” But there was mischief in her eyes.

Sergei dropped them at the bungalow and drove away beaming conspiratorially. Irina had one large grip. He carried it inside and she said, “At least tell me you’re pleased to see me.”

He swept her into his arms and she turned her face up for his kiss.

Abruptly she curled away from him and delved into her voluminous handbag.

It was a bulky brown envelope sealed with wax and a Spanish diplomatic stamp. “Oleg said it was vital.”

“We had word he was sending a messenger. I hardly thought….”

“I should have come in livery and a little red cap. Hadn’t you better open it?”

“In a while,” he said. “Glass of whisky? It’s all we’ve got. But it’s good unblended local product.” He realized he was still staring in disbelief. “You’ve put a damned lump in my throat, Irina.”

“I’m glad I haven’t lost the power to enthrall. Scotch whisky will do.”

When he came back she was sitting in the parlor with one leg across the arm of the chair. It was a pose no one else could have brought off with dignity. She tossed back her whisky and displayed her subtle mocking smile. “You’re being heroic again. I confess it suits you. What happened to your leg? You’re favoring it.”

“A man used it for target practice.”

Her face changed. “Hadn’t you better tell me about it?”

“In Boston a few days ago. It was a rifle. The bullet hit the doorjamb beside me—it was wood splinters that nicked me. It isn’t serious.”

“Did they capture him?”

“No.”

“Of course it’s the same ones who murdered Vassily.”

“Possibly.”

“You sound dubious.”

“It was hardly a hundred yards. He’d have killed me if he’d meant to.”

“Then you’re convinced he wasn’t shooting to kill?”

“I’m not convinced of anything—but there wasn’t much wind and he had an absolutely clear shot. You can kill a man at five times that distance with a good rifle.”

“Perhaps his sights had been pushed out of alignment somehow.”

“It’s possible,” he conceded. “I think he’d have had time to correct his aim and fire again.”

“Wasn’t there any trace of him? Didn’t you see him?”

“No to both questions. If we knew who he was we’d know why he did it.”

“They may try it again—someone better with a rifle.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve taken certain precautions. Talking about it won’t clear it up—let’s have a look at your package from Oleg.”

It was a brief letter folded into a book—Clausewitz’s On War, a very old volume, the second Russian edition; published in St. Petersburg in 1903. He riffled the pages but there were no underlinings or marginal notations.

Oleg’s letter was written sparsely in a formal Russian free of post-Revolutionary innovations.

Barcelona

24 August 1941

My Dear Alexsander,

I honor our agreement. V. is in possession of a copy of Clausewitz identical with the enclosed. The pagination of this edition is unique; it was not printed from the same plates as the first or third editions.

Because of the need to involve no intermediaries it has been necessary to keep the code rudimentary. In order to encode a message, you must first find the word you require in the Clausewitz. Write first the number of the page, always in three digits (page 72 must be written as 072, page 3 must be written as 003). Then the number of the paragraph, in two digits (the first paragraph is 01). Then the number of the line within the paragraph, in two digits. Then the number of the word within the line, in two digits.

Each word thus becomes a nine-digit cluster—for example the word “headquarters,” found near the middle of the fifth page of the Clausewitz, reduces to 005020703. If it is necessary to repeat a word in the same message, try to find the word again on another page rather than use the same numerical designation.

Once you have coded the message in the sequence of nine-digit numbers, reverse the entire message. (The above-mentioned “headquarters” thus becomes 307020500. The word that preceded it now follows it: the entire message must be reversed as a unit.)

Finally you must break the message into clusters of five, rather than nine, digits. The divisions become arbitrary and the space after each fifth digit is filled with the letter “X” for transmission.

Transmission of course will be in standard Morse key.

Wavelength is to be 5.62 megacycles on the shortwave wireless band. Hours of transmission must necessarily be limited to nighttime when reception is possible at long range. V. will identify himself by the codeword “Kollin” (found on page 361 of the Clausewitz). You will identify yourself with the codeword “Condottieri” (found on page 237).

It is arranged that V. will make his first transmission at 0135 hours (Greenwich time) on 16th September. He will transmit only the codeword “Kollin,” repeating it three times. This will indicate to you that V. is ready for reception. You will then broadcast your coded questions and/or orders to V. At the end of your transmission you are to switch over to Receive and you should receive acknowledgement from V. in the form of the single codeword “Kollin” followed by the single word “Carnegie” (found on page 87). You are not to respond to this; the codeword “Carnegie” used by either of you indicates “end of message.”

Twenty-five hours later (0235 hours 17th September) V. will broadcast his reply to you. At this time you must make your own arrangements between yourselves for the scheduling of subsequent communications.

I anticipate your objection that since I am in possession of the code I shall be in a position to eavesdrop on your communications with V. Unfortunately there was no rapid means of communications which I could establish which would not have raised the same objection.

I should warn you that V. agreed to this only with the utmost reluctance. His position, as I have assured you previously, is both fragile and dangerous. I beg of you do not exploit V.’s vulnerability more than you must.

The specific plan must be kept secret at all costs. I think Prince Leon and I have been able to persuade most of the others that they must not inquire too closely into the details of your plan, but Anatol Markov—for reasons which he regards as cogent and sensible—pesters us night and day for the details of the proposed campaign. We have put him off with the truth—that we do not know the plan—but our appeals grow thin with repetition; you must be on your guard—Anatol will not be above trying to slip his spies into your confidence. He is an ambitious man.

My wishes for success in your mighty and holy endeavor.

With best personal regards, Oleg, Baron Zimovoi

The last part of it was pure Oleg—the gratuitous needle jabbed into his old foe, Irina’s father. Alex tore the last page off and passed it to Irina.

She uttered a bawdy bray of laughter and gave it back to him. “Doesn’t he realize how transparent he is?”

“Oleg sees enemies behind every tree. It’s his stock in trade. Part of the way he keeps his following together—he convinces them they’re being persecuted.”

She cocked her head and squinted at him. “I never saw you take such a sly interest in politics before.”

“I’ve got to take an interest in these people when they’ve got it in their power to cripple my plans.”

Irina pressed it. “What do you want, then?”

“To do this job. Do it well.”

“And then what? Afterward.”

“I suppose they’ll find a place for me in the new setup.”

“And that’s all?”

“I’m a soldier. It’s what I do.”

“To justify your existence?”

“Is that wrong?”

“It’s too simple.” She showed him her impatience. “Alex, it’s no good. You keep yourself so hidden—I wish you’d give me something more to go on.”

Things stirred in him; he stood up and moved around the little parlor. Finally he said, “Do you know why I took this job?”

“Tell me then.” She cocked her head, smiling as if she’d won a point. “It’s all tied up in what happened between you and Vassily.”

“We were holding a section of the Finnish left. It was cold—my God, the snow. The Reds had no stomach for it. They were surrendering in groups—platoons of them, whole companies. All they wanted was to be put away in a warm place where nobody was shooting at them. We must have had a thousand of them in the prison compound…. It’s something you have to know,” he said in a different voice. “I still feel Vassily standing between us.”

Irina lowered her face; the fall of her hair hid it from him. “Poor Alex.”

“Moscow kept throwing new divisions in and we’d give ground for a while—draw them into it, tire them out; then we’d spit them out again and move back to where we’d been before.

“It was the biggest army in the world and we were whipping them. We were feeling reckless and invincible. If you’ve been like that you can understand how the Germans expect to conquer the world.

“We weren’t sure how many people Stalin was willing to sacrifice to prove his point up there. We were all filled with success and the general feeling was that Stalin couldn’t afford to squander too much against a second-rate power like Finland when he had Hitler to think about. We had a few contacts in Russia, we knew pretty much the extent of the purges there and we knew Stalin had wiped out millions of his best fighting men. He still had unlimited manpower to draw on but it was rabble—civilians who didn’t have much stomach for fighting. Vassily kept harping on that. But I kept realizing Stalin still could afford to lose twenty for every one of ours. I was inclined to set up entrapments, make it expensive for them and minimize our own casualties. It didn’t make sense to me to go on the attack. Not in those circumstances.”

“And Vassily wanted to attack, was that it?”

“Well he kept attacking them whenever he had a chance to. I couldn’t prevent that; but that wasn’t what blew it up. A few times he ordered me out to chase a retreating Red column and I argued the point with him. Sometimes he’d win the argument, sometimes he’d let me win it. We had different theories but we worked well enough together—he needed me around to steady him.”

“Then what went wrong?”

He chose his words. “We were on the border—right on the border. We’d pushed them back to it again, I think it was the fourth time in five or six weeks. It was the third time we’d used the same patch of forest for a headquarters. We were on fairly high ground there, we could see right down into Russia. From that corner of Finland it’s about thirty miles to Leningrad.”

He heard the breath catch in her throat. Her eyes were wide with a tension that was almost erotic.

“He wanted to take two of our battalions out of the lines. Dress them in Red prisoners’ uniforms and march right into Leningrad. He wanted to wage guerrilla war there—blow up installations, sabotage industries, wipe out commissars.”

Irina sat back slowly; her hands wrenched at each other. “How like him. How gallant—how adventurous.”

“How stupid,” Alex said. “It would have been suicide. We’d have been hanged for spies. But that wasn’t the point I tried to get across to him.”

“No,” she said. “You’d have been more concerned about the Finns.”

“That was it. As soon as Stalin got wind of what we were up to he’d have had the excuse to commit the Red Air Force and a massive army to the border campaign. He’d have overrun the whole of Finland in a matter of weeks. That was what Vassily wouldn’t see.”

“How did you stop him?”

“I told him if he didn’t give it up I’d inform Helsinki of his plans. They’d have pulled us out of there overnight and he knew it. He never forgave me for that—it made me an informer.”

“You had to do it.”

“I had to do a lot of things over the years to keep Vassily from plunging into one thing or another. Out in China he wanted to turn his back on the Japanese and go after the Chinese Communists in the mountains. He’d have left a thousand square miles wide open to the Japanese. I reasoned him out of it that time. This time I had to threaten him with exposure. He couldn’t stand that.”

“You hated him—didn’t you.”

He drew a breath. “I spent half my life protecting him from his wild impulses. Up there on the Finland border I used up my tolerance and charity.”

“Because you knew you were a better man than Vassily.”

“A better soldier at any rate.”

“And that’s why you’ve taken this job.”

“I’m guilty of the sin of pride.” He stood unmoving, watching her face. “He couldn’t have brought this thing off, Irina. He’d have gone for glory instead of reality—he’d have blown it. I’m going to succeed where Vassily would have failed. All right, I’m an ambitious fool. There it is.”

After the longest time she palmed the hair back from her temples. “Darling, take me to bed and hold me in your arms. I don’t want to talk any more tonight.”

8.

In the morning she was watching him with a drowsy expression that told him she wasn’t quite awake enough to be sure whether she wanted him to make love to her. But she was enjoying the way his eyes traced the contours of her nakedness.

“I don’t suppose you realize what time it is.”

“Quarter to seven,” he said. “The men have been up for two hours.”

“How inexcusably uncivilized.” She yawned and stretched and sat up; she looked somehow bruised by the daylight when he threw the curtains back. He stood to one side in the shadows and swept the Scottish scrub with an alert scrutiny. Two sentries stirred at the gate and a solitary guard marched along the fence farther down. Beyond the bleak military buildings the highlands lifted in faint craggy tiers into a mist the color of the North Sea. A pale disc of sun rode low above the headlands in a grey overcast and he saw gulls beating their way toward the glint of food. A low haze covered the green-grey earth and the tufts of weedy bushes were indistinct along the flatlands tilting toward the sea. The air had that heavy sweetness that landsmen called the smell of the sea and sailors called the smell of land.

If there was a gunman he was well hidden and in any case it was a poor light for shooting. Nevertheless he closed the curtains before he turned back to Irina and bent over the bed. She gave him a soft-lipped kiss and when he straightened he watched for her quick slanting glance of mockery which was the next thing to a smile but she was looking at the bandage on his thigh. Then she tipped her head back and searched his eyes with an odd intensity.

He began to get into his fatigues. Irina propped both pillows behind her, drew her knees up and leaned forward. She was hunching her shoulders together, pressing her breasts against each other as if to suffocate something.

He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks; he felt her hand on his arm. “What?”

“Nothing. I only wanted to touch you.”

“You’ve got such a strange look on your face, Irina.”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “May I stay, Alex? Is there something useful I can do here?”

“It would be better if you went back.”

“Why?”

“The rest of them are confined to barracks and the training areas. They’d resent it.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I’d want to spend the evenings with you—the nights.”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t time for it.”

“Doesn’t it help, knowing you’ve got someone who cares what happens to you?”

“Of course it does.”

“I want to be here, Alex. I want to watch it take shape. I’ve got a stake in this.”

He threaded his belt through the loops, waiting for her to come out with it.

She said. “There were a lot of Free Poles in the brigade. Auchinleck was putting together a great deal of human flotsam to hold back the Afrika Korps. The Poles volunteered to fight in North Africa. Vassily didn’t like desert warfare—he was toying with some silly idea of taking the rest of the regiment back to China. Then Leon told him about this project and naturally it galvanized him—he forgot about China. But this scheme wasn’t Vassily’s idea. And it wasn’t Leon’s.”

It hit him and he turned slowly, adjusting to it, absorbing it.

Bitterness bubbled to the surface and Irina said, “I couldn’t trust anyone but Leon to listen to me. The rest of them—even my father—I knew they’d turn me aside. They’re not in the habit of listening to a woman’s ideas,”

She combed the hair away with her fingers and tossed it back. “Do you know how long ago it came to me? It was when the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact was signed. A week before Hitler invaded Poland. Almost two years ago. I knew one of them would violate the pact—one of them would attack the other and that would be our chance.

“The whole conception was mine, darling. The coalition, the design for a new government, the choice of Felix to be the figurehead. Dear old Leon saw the possibilities at once. We’ve worked together ever since. We had to think of every objection—we had to have an answer for everything.”

She watched him without guile but he took his time thinking it out.

She said, “May I stay now?”

“I can’t refuse you, can I.”

“No.” she said. “I planned it that way, don’t you see?”

He buckled the holsters flat against his waist and when Sergei locked the bolt of the Mannlicher rifle Alex opened the door and went through it quickly. Walking down the short driveway and across the narrow highway he had time to survey the barrens on either side. Sergei was back there in the corner of the house with two windows to observe through and if anything stirred in the brush Alex would hear the pane shatter when Sergei’s rifle moved.

Everything in him twanged with taut vibration. He heard the distant screech of the gulls and the movement of a vehicle somewhere. The gate sentry demanded his pass and got it and then he was crossing the tarmac toward the main hangar, still ready to dive flat.

It was a little far to hear the glass breaking out now but the haze hadn’t lifted and he didn’t think a long-range shot would do the job under these conditions; if they really meant to kill him this time they wouldn’t chance it until conditions were optimum. It still was possible they hadn’t meant to hit him at all; it might have been a warning but if so it was meaningless because there’d been no message. That was the crux: in Boston the shooting had had all the earmarks of a deliberate miss but on the face of things that didn’t make any sense since it served no purpose he could discern. There was an answer to it somewhere but he didn’t have enough facts to know where to look for it and therefore the only thing he could do was assume the worst but go on about his business. If the threat had been contrived to slow him down it wasn’t going to succeed.

He stepped into the hangar and took a very deep breath and tramped back toward tht office.

Irina had given him something new to chew on and part of him resented it because he couldn’t spare much of his mind to explore it. She was telling the truth about the scheme: there’d be no point in lying, it was too easy to confirm. But that didn’t mean she’d told the whole truth. She was holding something back.

John Spaight was waiting in the office and Alex said, “Let’s get to work.”

9.

“We haven’t got any time at all,” the Undersecretary growled. “Kiev is in flames. They’ve got Guderian down there now—Third Panzer Division at the spearhead. Von Mannerheim has Leningrad encircled. Von Bock has three armies and three Panzer groups within two hundred miles of Moscow. Stalin’s losing people at the rate of twenty thousand a day—casualties and prisoners. It’s going to be over within a month.”

Colonel Glenn Buckner was so tired he had to keep blinking. It was nearly three in the morning. He stuck to his guns. “It’s far too early to cancel the operation. This time of year a hundred and forty-odd years ago Napoleon was right at the gates of Moscow and we know where that got him.”

“Napoleon didn’t have a Luftwaffe or three Panzer groups.”

Buckner said, “We’ve got people in Fairbanks doing tests on mechanized equipment. When it gets cold enough you can’t run a tank—the oil solidifies.”

“It’s not cold in Moscow, Glenn. It’s raining for God’s sake. That’s the best possible weather for tank warfare—a little mud lubricates the cleats. Right now Rommel would probably rather be on the Russian front where he wouldn’t have sandgrit ruining his panzers right and left.”

Buckner tried a new tack. “You and I both spent enough time in there to know what those people are like when they get stubborn.”

“They’re not stubborn now. Stalin’s had to take ruthless measures to keep them in the lines at all. They’re bugging out the first chance they get.”

“Don’t you see that’s exactly why we’ve got to proceed with Danilov’s operation? It’s the only chance we’ve got to get the Russians back on their feet and back into the war against Hitler.” He couldn’t suppress the yawn any longer but it gratified him that the Undersecretary responded in kind.

The Undersecretary took his hand down from in front of his mouth. “We’re just wasting time and money and matériel. The war in Russia will be decided long before these White Russians get off their butts. All we’re doing is lining their coffers.”

Buckner let his silence argue for him. When the rest of them had been fighting to gear up for war production the Undersecretary had concentrated his attentions on deciding what decorating scheme to use in the overhaul of the State building. But he had the Secretary’s ear—they were old cronies—and because he’d spent two years in the Moscow Embassy he’d been assigned as liaison between Foggy Bottom and the Chairman of JCS: it made him Buckner’s opposite number. He was a clever politician and Buckner had to depend on his sense of self-aggrandizement—his willingness to subordinate prejudice to ambition.

Buckner said, “We’re not gambling much. If it fails it hasn’t hurt us. If it succeeds we’ll both be looking good.”

“If I saw any chance of it succeeding….”

“What have we got to lose? A handful of airplanes. Some fuel, some ammunition, a little money. Hell if we lose the planes we can write them off on the books as training accidents.”

“That’s not the point and you know it. The repercussions if a whisper of this ever gets breathed….”

“If Stalin loses the war we’re not going to have to worry about his good opinion of us.”

“I wasn’t talking about Stalin. I was talking about the American voter.”

“The next election’s not until nineteen forty-four.”

“Nuts. It’s not that easy and you know it. It’s pur money and our supplies that are keeping England alive right now. Put a hint of this operation in the press and what happens to the President’s Congressional support for his war measures? You know how thin the margin is at best. Give the isolationists ammunition like this and that’s the last we’d see of Lend-Lease or any other war-support program. England could go right down the tubes. That’s the real risk of it—that’s what concerns me.”

No, Buckner thought. What really concerned the Undersecretary was that he’d be charged with having had a role in the discredited scheme and his own head would tumble into the basket.

Buckner said, “There’s only one answer to that. We’ve got to make damned sure we keep the lid on it.”

“Easy to say.”

“We’re doing it. After all there’s damned few of us in on it. Six or seven of us including the President.”

“It’s not good enough, Glenn. We’ve got to have a back door.”

“Any suggestions?”

“You’re the expert in nihilistic machinations.”

“I’m just a country boy. Let’s keep it to words of two syllables.”

“There’s got to be a cancellation button.”

“Come again?”

“A button to push. To give us instant cancellation of the program. These people aren’t Americans—we can’t just order them to call it off on our say-so. We’ve got to have leverage.”

“You can relax then,” Buckner said. “That’s been taken care of.”

10.

Pappy Johnson stood under the wing of the airplane exposing his teeth. He pulled his cigarettes out of the bicep pocket of his leather flight jacket and offered one to Calhoun.

“Thanks.” Calhoun took it and poked his face forward to accept a light from Johnson’s cupped match. Calhoun had a small triangular face and the black-nailed hands of a mechanic. He had arrived during the night by train from Glasgow where the flight from the States had dropped him off with his two companions.

“They’re your airplanes as of now,” Johnson told him. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to get them ready for training.”

“Well first off we’ll have to mount those turrets.” On the ferrying flight the dorsal and belly turrets of the B-17S had been removed and stowed inside to reduce air drag.

“Uh-huh. And you’re going to have to modify the C-Forty-sevens. Those cargo doors open outward. That’s no good for parachute drops.”

Calhoun didn’t even blink. “You want ‘em to slide or you want ‘em to open inward?”

“What’s faster?”

“Open inward. It’s still a welding job but we can handle it.”

“All right. Rig lines for the ripcord clips and run some benches down the insides for the men to sit on.”

“Full complement in each plane?”

“Just about. They’ll carry twenty-seven each, isn’t that the drill?”

“You can squeeze in more than that if you need to. Depends how far you’ve got to stretch your fuel,” Calhoun said. “Which reminds me, I can’t work on these engines unless I can run them up. What are we supposed to run them on, spit?”

“Use what you can find. We’ll have it pouring in by Monday.” He hoped it was true. All he knew was what General Danilov told him.

“Okay. Anything kick up on the way over here I should look into?”

“Mine was all right. The ferry pilot on the second Fort said his number three was running a little ragged—high head temps and he couldn’t keep it in synch.”

“I’ll tell Blazer to take a look. Most ground crews have to take an engine apart to find out what Blazer can tell just by listening to it run.”

Pappy Johnson dropped his cigarette and squeezed it under his boot. “They’re your babies. Nice meeting you. I got to get to work.”

He strode to the main hangar and waved vaguely to the two generals in the office—the Russian one and the American one—and went straight on back to the rear of the huge building.

Prince Felix Romanov was on his feet near one of the small windows. He was watching the Boeing arrivals across the field spread canvas over the engine nacelles of the big airplanes. The wiry prince was dressed in tailored coveralls that fitted like a tux; Johnson suppressed a smile.

The rest of them—the fourteen pilots—had cigarettes cupped in their hands and they looked ready to be bored. These were old-line combat pilots and he was going to have to shake them up.

“Good morning gentlemen.”

Some of them nodded; some of them murmured something or other. Prince Felix flashed a grin at him and took a seat at the end of the bench.

There was a blackboard and a little lecture podium. Johnson posted himself behind it. “It’s not an office party, gentlemen. Siddown.”

He waited for them to sort themselves out on the three long benches and then he said, “I’m sure there are at least a thousand men who know more about precision bombardment than I do.” He looked slowly from face to face. “However I don’t see any of them here.”

He had their attention. “Anybody have trouble understanding my English?”

A few of them shook their heads; the others didn’t answer. “I don’t know who’s got rank here other than His Highness but as long as we’re in training here I’m the boss. When I tell you the sow’s fat then she’s broad across the back. Just you remember I’m in charge here and we’ll all get along fine.”

He saw a slow grin spread across Prince Felix’s face. The others took their cue from that and he knew it was going to be all right.

“Now you’re going to make mistakes. You don’t think you will. But you will. I don’t mind mistakes but I don’t want excuses. Fair enough?”

Abruptly he turned to the blackboard and dashed a quick rough sketch that approximated the outlines of a four-engine bomber.

“The B-Seventeen Flying Fortress has something like seventy-five thousand working parts. In the next few weeks we’re going to have a lunatic schedule around here because you misters are going to have to learn about a lot of those parts. In an emergency in the air you’re going to have to be able to act as your own flight engineers. This afternoon we’re all going to climb around inside those aircraft and find out what holds them together. You’ll work your way up from the tail turrets to the cockpits. By the time you get that far you’ll be able to repair a busted elevator cable or free up a jam in the bomb-bay racks. And then we’re going to tackle the instruments. You misters are mostly used to flying peashooters, I understand. You’re going to have to learn a whole new rule book about instruments. You’re going to have to learn how to sort out a hundred different facts you’ve got at your fingertips in that cockpit—information about your course, your altitude, your airspeed, rpm’s, manifold pressures, fuel levels, horizon attitude, engine temperatures, synchronizations, mixtures, radio equipment, a lot of other stuff. You misters are going to have to memorize an encyclopedia full of facts and you’re going to have to be able to recite them back to me on call.”

An hour later he was still having at them.

“Now one thing you ought to remember if you don’t want to get dead. Keep the nose down when you’re taking off with a heavy load on board. Pushing the nose up, trying to climb—that’s no good if you’re at too steep an angle to get speed. You won’t get height that way, you’ll only stall out. These are heavy machines. You must always sacrifice altitude, no matter how little you have, to get speed. Is that clear?

“Now I remind you these airplanes are not peashooters. They are not designed to do aerobatics. You try doing a loop-the-loop and your wings will come right off. Just bear in mind Newton’s Law. In a Fort you come down easy and smooth or you come down like a falling safe. There ain’t no in-between. But you’re going to learn how not to fly on a roller coaster. You’ll learn a constant glide. The first time you try your hands on those controls you won’t believe it can be done but you’ll learn it.

“Bear in mind one other thing. These aircraft are rated to fly at twice the altitude you’ve been used to. At high altitudes lack of oxygen can cause a blackout and quick death. Use your masks.”

By now they were reeling a little; they’d filled notebooks. He said, “One more thing. About your parachutes. If you have to ditch and you’ve pulled the ripcord and the parachute does not open, here’s what you do.”

He stepped aside from the podium and stood unsteadily, the muscles of his left foot making constant corrections in his balance while he twisted his right leg around his left, shoved both arms straight up in the air and wrapped his right arm around his left arm.

Then he said, “It won’t do you a bit of good but it’ll make it a little easier for the rescue party to unscrew you out of the ground. Okay let’s take a five minute break.”

They stood up laughing.

He gathered them with the thunder of his voice. “Knock it off. Recess is over.”

They returned to the benches and Pappy Johnson leaned on the podium.

“The object of training is to get you misters into a condition where you can put a one-hundred-pound bomb on a postage stamp. Near-misses count in a game of horseshoes; they don’t count here. Now we’re going to make it a little bit easier for you because we’re going to limit the training to low-altitude bombardment. That’s because it’ll simplify things for all of us if all we do is train you to fly one specific mission. So I’m not going to fill your heads with the tricks of high-altitude bomb placement or how to evade flak at ten thousand feet. Those things won’t be your concern. Your problem is going to be strictly deck-level attacks.

“You’re thinking the enemy will be able to hit you with rocks. Let me tell you misters that ain’t your problem. At combat speed a B-Seventeen travels nearly two hundred yards in two seconds. You aren’t likely to get shot down by rifles or machine guns from the ground. They won’t even get a chance to start shooting before you’ve gone out of range.

“No. Your problem, gentlemen, when you’re flying treetop in a B-Seventeen, is going to be a lot worse than that.

“You’ll be going in low all the way. Flying in the grass where Uncle Joe Stalin won’t find you. You’re going to fly so low you’ll have mud on your windshields. At that kind of altitude an aircraft can fly into thermal updrafts that act like concrete walls. It’s going to feel as if the air’s full of boulders. You’re going to have to manhandle those Fortresses every inch of the way to the target and if you take your hands off the control yoke for a split second you’re likely to find yourselves digging a tunnel with the nose of your airplane.”

He stood up straight. “I think it’s time we went out and had a look at what a real airplane looks like. If you misters will follow me?”

11.

Baron Yuri Lavrentovitch Ivanov’s house had been built for a titled cousin of Lord Nelson’s. The drawing room was very high, very dark and very English—a soft dark polish of woodwork and padded leather.

Count Anatol took pride in his ability never to let feelings get the better of him but he had to fight the impulse to pace the room: he tried to force his mind into the discipline of reading but his eyes kept returning impatiently to the Seth Thomas clock on the oak mantel.

Finally the Baron came in quickly on his short legs; he still wore his topcoat. “My deepest apologies, Anatol.”

“I am not in the habit of being kept waiting.”

“A cipher came in through the bag. I have just decoded it. There has been a complication.” The Baron shouldered out of his coat and threw it across a chair; he tossed an envelope on a low table and dropped into a leather reading chair beside it. “Did you know that Stalin employs a double?”

Anatol felt his spine tighten. “No.”

“He suffered a severe breakdown shortly after the German attack. He had to be spirited out of Moscow to a retreat in the Kuybyshev. For more than two weeks in June and July the Soviet government was run by Beria and Malenkov. They employed a double to put in public appearances to allay suspicions in Moscow. Obviously this was no last-minute deception—they must have had the understudy well-trained and waiting in the wings for just such an emergency. For those seventeen days the top Soviet echelon was powerful enough to manage things in Stalin’s absence. They kept the machinery functioning during the worst days of the panzer drive into Russia. They are stronger men than we have credited them.”

“It only confirms what both Devenko and Danilov have insisted on—we cannot merely assassinate the top man, we must eliminate the entire palace guard.”

“Quite. But that reasoning doesn’t apply in the calculations of our people in Germany. They have been moving forward on the assumption that they need only kill Stalin. They feel there would be no further resistance to a German victory. The Grand Duke Mikhail is eager to see Hitler win it.”

“I know. That’s why we did not take him into our confidence.”

“His people know something is in the wind. Rumors have ways of wafting across warring borders. They know we are up to something. That is why I had hoped one of them could meet us this week—I wanted to throw them off the scent. If you had told them to their faces that we were not trying to beguile Mikhail I think they might have believed it. Mikhail thinks of you as a friend—he trusts you.”

“He has gone over to the Nazis. He is hoping Hitler will put him in the Kremlin—Mikhail would rather have a puppet throne than none at all. I want to see Russia ruled by Russians, not by an Austrian house painter.”

“It is academic now what we tell Mikhail’s group about our plans. It appears they have a plan of their own.”

“What?”

“Mikhail’s people have concocted a plan to assassinate Stalin.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure. My informant says they plan to kill Stalin and make use of the double who has been so considerately prepared by Beria. The double will issue a few crucially wrong orders to the Red Army. The Germans will march into Moscow and the double will sue Hitler for peace. Only two men know about the existence of the double—Beria and Malenkov—and they are to be removed early on.” The Baron added drily, “You must grant it is an ingenious plan.”

Anatol was stunned; he wasted no effort trying to hide it. “How soon is it to take place?”

“As soon as possible, I should imagine. Why should they wait? Hitler is within three days’ march of Moscow. If the Red Army withdraws from his front there will be nothing to stop him.”

Anatol watched the Baron’s small expressionless face. “We must prevent it.”

“How? There is no time to effect our own coup ahead of them. Clearly Danilov requires several weeks yet before he is in readiness. And there would be no time to substitute Vassily Devenko’s plan.”

“There is one way.”

“Forgive me but I do not see it.”

“It is quite simple,” Anatol said. “We must warn Stalin.”

12.

At five Alex presided over a ground-company meeting of field officers. The four of them stood on the tarmac beyond the shadow of the main hangar.

Across the field Pappy Johnson’s pilots were swarming over the bombers like children. A nimbus layer filtered the highland sun’s direct rays and even now there was a thin smell of winter in the air.

John Spaight and the two Russian majors wore gabardine jump suits with bellows pockets. Major Ivan Postsev and Major Leo Solov had worked in tandem since the inception of the Russian Free Brigade under Vassily Devenko in 1934; in combat they were remarkable. If one needed support the other would appear with his men—ready, knowing what his partner wanted of him; there would be no evident signal but each of them had that trick of soundlessly imposing his will on the other.

Physically they presented a ludicrous contrast. Postsev had the muscular strength of ten but to look at him you wouldn’t have thought he’d have made it through the day: he was a cadaver—pasty and wrinkled. Solov was squat and had a smashed face; his ears were like scraps of beef liver; he moved with a dangle-armed roll. He was cautious by training but not by nature; with Postsev it was the reverse.

“We’re going to be officer-heavy,” Alex told them. “That’s the way I want it because when we go into operation we’ll be in squad-size teams. I want an officer in command of each team. But for training purposes we’re splitting the company down the middle. There’ll be two platoons—one of you will command each of them. You’re going to have to be ahead of the others because General Spaight can’t be everywhere at once—you’ll have to lead a good bit of the training yourselves. Any problems?”

Postsev said, “All our pilots seem to be in bomber training. Who is to fly the parachute training flights?”

“You won’t start jumping from aircraft for more than a month yet. By then we’ll have the air contingent sorted out and six of the pilots will be assigned to the paradrop transports. In the meantime you’ll be learning to jump from a rapelling tower.”

“Which brings us to a thorny one,” Spaight said. “We haven’t got a rapelling tower.”

“Tomorrow morning Colonel MacAndrews is sending us a dockyard construction team with a mobile crane. They’re going to tear one of those small hangars apart and use the girders to build a tower on top of this hangar. It’ll give us a hundred-and-twenty-foot slide drop. It’s a little shorter than usual but it’ll have to do. I’ve got MacAndrews’s word it will be ready to climb by Thursday morning.”

The regiment already had its obstacle course in the woods beyond the far end of the runway—coiled concertina barbed wire, trenches, inclined logs, culverts, climbing trestles, even a stream that came down out of the dark highlands beyond and flowed across the slope and down toward the Inverness flats.

Alex said, “You’ll have to sort out your drivers. Make sure they’re qualified on the vehicles they may have to commandeer. Most of the Soviet staff cars are Packards. The lorries and ambulances are mainly Daimlers and Mercedes.”

The two majors nodded. That equipment would be roughly the same as they’d had to contend with in Finland.

“All right. Now we’ve got a defector. Brigadier Cosgrove’s bringing him along tomorrow morning. You’ll have about ten days with him. He’s a Red Army officer—a lieutenant colonel. He crossed the line into Finland about three weeks ago. I don’t know what incentives the British have offered him to cooperate with us but I’m told he’s coming here voluntarily. I want you to pump him dry. Everything he knows. Make a note of every piece of information no matter how insignificant it may seem. We want everything from their order-of-battle to the gossip in his officers’ mess. When we go in we’ll be posing as officers and men from his battalion. You’ll have to know the names and ranks of every officer in that battalion and as many non-coms and enlisted men as he can give you. And not just names—physical descriptions, peculiarities, backgrounds, gossip—you’ve got to be able to behave as if you really know those people, in case you run into someone who really does know them. Once you’ve got the information you’ll pass it on to your men and be sure they’ve got it straight. Every night I want the men briefed on these things—and I want them awake enough to absorb it. All right?”

Major Solov said in his thick Georgian accent, “It would save time if we could detail subordinates to some of this. To continue the debriefings while we are in training during the day.”

Spaight said, “We can’t pull anyone out of training for that.”

Alex said, “I’ve got someone who can do it for us.”

At the hangar door Sergei appeared, beckoning; Alex excused himself and went that way.

“It’s the telephone. Brigadier Cosgrove, from Edinburgh.”

He closed the office door behind him before he picked up the phone. “Danilov here.”

“Bob Cosgrove. You may recall we discussed your meeting with a certain naval official?”

“I recall it.”

“It’s been laid on for this Friday—nineteenth September. It would be most appreciated if you could make yourself available in London.”

“What time?”

“Sometime in the evening. The arrangements are rather informal—I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes.”

“I should come by rail if I were you—one can’t promise good flying weather in London, can one. Not to mention the Luftwaffe. Do you recall the address I mentioned to you this morning?”

“Yes.” It was a Knightsbridge pub: Cosgrove had said, It’s a contact spot. I chose it at random. If we meet in London we’ll meet there. I’m giving you this now because I shan’t want to specify an address over the telephone.

Cosgrove said, “Five o’clock Friday then. We’ll have dinner and then confer with the Navy. Come alone, of course.”

He didn’t mean that the way it sounded; he meant Be sure you’re not followed.

13.

“Really we need cloaks and beards, darling—we ought to be carrying black bombs with sputtering fuses.”

She sat up straight at the kitchen table and twisted her head to ease the cramped muscles. On the table the Clausewitz was dog-eared and the pad beside it was cluttered with pencil-printing and numerals in alternate lines; the numerals stopped two-thirds of the way down. That was as far as she’d got with it. It had taken nearly three hours to do that much.

“Oleg must have stayed up nights to dream this up. Nothing could be clumsier.”

“It’s secure,” he said. “Unless they know what book to use there’s no way on earth to break the code.”

He stepped behind her chair and kneaded the back of her neck. She tipped her face back and smiled, upside-down in his vision; he bent to kiss her.

Then he had another look at his wristwatch. Where the devil was Cosgrove’s radio man? It was getting on for eleven o’clock; the first contact with Vlasov was scheduled in something less than three hours.

She misinterpreted his gesture. “I deplore your lack of confidence,” she said mischievously. “I’ll finish it in time.”

“All right. But where’s that damned radio?”

A chill highland mist hung about the bungalow; he extinguished the parlor lights before he stepped outside for a breath of air. The night was total; the base was blacked out. He heard the disembodied growl of a vehicle moving across the tarmac not too far away; in the mist he saw nothing. If there was a gunman out there good luck to him.

He turned his head to catch the moving vehicle’s sound on the flats of his eardrums. It was on the runway itself and when it stopped it was by the main hangar. The engine idled for several minutes and then he heard it go into gear and start moving again. Back toward the main gate, changing through a couple of gears, never getting into high. It stopped briefly—getting clearance at the gate—and his ears followed it out to the high road. He heard it come forward in the night. The two slitted lights were ghostly emerging from the mist; he stepped back out of the drive.

The lights went out; the ignition switched off. He heard the door open and he spoke merely to identify his presence: “Hello?”

A brief but absolute stillness; then a heavy breath and a stranger’s voice: “Who’s that—who’s that?”

“General Danilov. Are you looking for me?”

“Cor, you gimme such a fright, sir!” A vague shape swam forward in the fog.

“You’d be Cooper?”

“That’s right, sir. Lance Corporal Arry Cooper. You want this rig inside the ouse?”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

It turned out to be a small van. Lance-Corporal Cooper opened the back doors and they manhandled the shortwave transceiver across the lawn into the house.

“Just set it down on the floor and stand still until I shut the door and get some lights on.”

When he switched the lamp on he saw he’d been fooled completely by the voice. He’d expected a weasel-faced little Cockney. Cooper was as wide and muscular as a Percheron draft horse. He had a handsome square young face with a thatch of yellow hair combed neatly across his forehead.

Cooper stood at attention but his eyes roved about the homey little room. I’m sorry I’m so late, sir. It was the fog and all. I lost me way three times. I’m not a native here.”

“I gathered that much, Cooper. Let’s set it up on this table, shall we?”

The wireless set was a bulky monster; it had to weigh a good hundred pounds. The case lifted off like that of a motion-picture projector. Cooper turned the empty case upside-down and it wasn’t empty after all: a thin wire was coiled neatly against the lid, snapped down with leather straps.

“Ave you a ladder then, sir?”

“There’s a stepladder in the pantry. Will it do?”

“Ave to, won’t it.” Cooper was attaching one end of the coiled wire to the antenna lead at the back of the set. Then he carried it toward the front door, paying it out as he went. He waited by the door, not opening it, until Alex brought the stepladder and switched off the lights. Then they threaded the wire out through the window beside the front door and Alex went outside with him.

“D’you mind steadying the ladder for me, sir?”

Alex jammed its legs hard down into the earth and braced it with one hand while he hooked the other hand into Cooper’s belt and boosted him up toward the low-sloping roof.

Cooper was gone a good five minutes; Alex heard the twanging rustle of the antenna wire as Cooper drew it along after him and pulled it taut before fixing it to the chimney.

They went inside. Irina had finished coding the message. Cooper pulled the telegrapher’s key out of its slot and began twisting wires around knurled connectors. “The weight of it’s in those dry cells, y’see, sir. We can’t trust the electric up here so we carry our own.”

Alex had a look at Irina’s pad: groups of numbers—each five digits separated from the next by an X. It would mean nothing to Cooper but that was how it had to be.

“Ave you got frequencies for me, sir?”

“Set to send and receive on five-point-six-two megacycles. Have you got a wristwatch?”

“No sir, sorry to say.”

“I’ll warn you when it’s time then. We’ve got about an hour.”

He took the pad and rolled the top sheets over until he came to a blank page; he glanced back at the list of notes Irina had made and then he jotted something on the clean page and tore it out and carried it to Cooper.

“This is the message you’ll receive first.”

On the sheet of notepaper he’d written: XXX30X21901X 63302X19016X33021X90163X.

Cooper had neat small white teeth. “Same word three times, in’t it, sir?”

It meant he knew his job and that was good. “It’s a recognition signal. If you don’t get that opening you don’t respond to the message.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Now here’s your reply to it.” He gave him the second sheet.

Cooper glanced at it and nodded. To him it didn’t say Condotierri three times; it was merely a string of twenty-seven digits separated by Xs. But it was obvious he understood the procedure.

“When you’ve broadcast that recognition code you’ll continue immediately without waiting for an answer. You’ll broadcast the message on these sheets. At the end of that transmission you’ll switch over to Receive and you should get an acknowledgment that looks like this one.”

KollinXCarnegie.

“There won’t be a message from your opposite number then, sir?”

“That’ll be tomorrow night.”

Cooper nodded. “Right, sir. Got it.” He displayed his fine teeth again. “All quite mysterious-like, in’t it.”

“When it’s all over you’ll find out what it was about, Corporal. You’re part of something very important.”

“Yes sir. That’s what Brigadier Cosgrove told me.”

Irina said, “Would you like coffee, Corporal?”

“I wouldn’t mind a cuppa, madam. If you’d show me to the larder I’ll brew it meself.”

“I’m sure Sergei will be glad to do it.” She left the room.

Cooper pushed his lips forward and lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t say anything; he grinned at the doorway where Irina had disappeared, transferred the grin to Alex and then went back to his key to test the circuits. Tubes began to glow in the ungainly apparatus and Cooper twisted the tuning rheostat; the brass telegrapher’s key began to tap out staccato rhythms, picking up incoming messages on the various bands. Satisfied it was working properly, Cooper shut it down and leaned back in the wooden chair. “Well then sir, I expect we’re ready to go to war, ain’t we.”

14.

Thursday morning he watched MacAndrews’s drafted dockyard crew put the finishing touches on the spidery rapelling tower and then he spent nearly three hours with Irina interviewing Colonel Yevgeny Dieterichs, the Soviet defector. At half-past ten they took a break and he walked outside with Irina.

“He seems genuine enough,” she said.

“Keep putting him through his paces. Milk him—you know how important it is.”

“I wish I were going with you instead. Dinner at the Savoy—an evening at the Haymarket…. I could do with a bit of that. I feel as though I’ve been shipwrecked up here.”

“This was your own idea.”

“Darling, the whole blessed thing was my own idea and I confess I’m unforgivably proud of it.”

“You’ve a right to be.” The Austin was swinging up the verge of the runway toward him. “I hope the rest of us can live up to it.”

“You will,” she said, very soft. Sergei drew up and reached across the seat to push the passenger door open for him.

She stood watching while the Austin took him away toward the main gate.

They drove south and west along the chain of lochs through the dark green highlands. The sky was matted but they had no rain down the craggy length of Loch Ness. There was virtually no traffic. They ran on south at a steady forty and fifty miles per hour through the early hours of the afternoon. Maneuvering Scottish recruits were tenting on the banks of Loch Lomond and on a brighter day it would indeed have been bonnie—swards of rich grass dropping gently toward the cool deep water.

At four they picked up the smoke of Glasgow’s furnaces above the hill summits. Alex navigated from the street map on his lap and Sergei did an expert job of threading the clotted traffic. The city was dreary, black with soot.

The approach to the railway station was jammed with traffic. Alex lifted his case over the back of the seat and pushed the door open. “You may as well drive straight back unless you want to stop for supper. Pick me up here on the Sunday evening express from London—you’ve got the timetable?”

“Yes sir. Godspeed then.”

“Take care driving, old friend.” He hopped out and carried his case inside the thronged station. The scabs twinged now and then but he no longer had to make a conscious effort not to limp.

His priority pass got him a seat in a leather-upholstered compartment and he rode south into grey rain flipping through a newspaper and two news magazines he’d bought to catch up on what had been happening in the world since he’d left Washington ten days ago. In France the Nazis were retaliating against acts of sabotage by executing innocent French hostages. In Tokyo there had been an assassination attempt against Baron Kiichiro Hiranuma, the Vice Premier of Japan.

In Russia the Wehrmacht had now occupied four hundred thousand square miles of Soviet territory and the advance continued. There had been a terrible pitched battle for Smolensk. The Russian remnants had been forced to evacuate the city. Yet correspondents’ dispatches from Moscow indicated that life in the capital went on nearly as usual. Ration cards were now required but the stocks of food and necessities seemed quite sufficient. The German invasion had divided into three prongs aimed at Leningrad, Moscow and the rich industrial basins of the south. Scattered Russian resistance and the length of their own supply lines had slowed the Nazis’ advance; but the blitzkrieg continued—apparently right on schedule. Hitler meant to make his Christmas speech from Moscow.

Well past midnight he left the train at Euston Station and was collected by a War Office lieutenant who had a Daimler staff car waiting. “It’s a good thing you’ve got digs, sir. I didn’t think there’s a room to be had in all of London. I’m putting up in a bed-sitter in Paddington with an RN ensign and two Anzac lieutenants.”

They drove north and east. The blacked-out streets were virtually empty except for the occasional helmeted bobby and fire-watchman. Twice they had to dodge craters in the streets but most of the buildings were intact.

When they made the turn into the Archway Road the driver said conversationally, “There’s still a car behind us, Lieutenant.”

They turned right into Shepherd’s Hill with open ground falling away steeply to the left side of the road.

The Daimler slid to the curb and a car puttered past; Alex had a look at it but it told him nothing; there wasn’t enough light to see the driver’s face.

“Thanks for the lift.”

When the other car had disappeared over the hill he took his valise up the steps and rang. The Daimler stayed at the curb until the door opened and he stepped inside.

Baron Ivanov answered the door himself. “Were you followed?”

“Yes. I expected it.”

The tiny Baron wore an expensive smoking jacket; his bald head gleamed in the lamplight. Black velvet curtains hung heavily against all the windows; the house was rich and warm and elegant in the style of a century ago.

Ivanov showed him to a bedroom—upstairs in the rear. “I hope you will be comfortable.”

“It’s quite luxurious.”

“Anatol has asked me to see to your needs.”

“A good night’s sleep at the moment. Is there a rear way out?”

“It is a terribly steep embankment—it is almost a cliff. There is an old railway line beneath the rear garden.”

“Is there a tube station nearby?”

“At the intersection where you turned.”

“I don’t suppose there are any taxis.”

“Not this far out, but you are welcome to the use of my Bentley at any time. My chauffeur lives on the premises.”

“That’s very kind.”

“It is not kindness I assure you. According to Prince Leon you are our last hope.”

“I’m a soldier, Baron, not a Messiah.”

“Whatever I have is at your disposal. I suppose I should caution you that the last White Russian general who borrowed my Bentley was shot at for his pains. It took quite a bit of string-pulling to have the bulletproof glass replaced.”

It wouldn’t have been politic to ask why the Bentley was armored in the first place; obviously the job had been done long before Vassily Devenko’s ride in the car. The Baron had fingers in many schemes and—his enemies said—hands in many pockets; it was not unlikely his political and military alliances had impressed him with a need for prudence. The house itself was wired with a visible alarm system.

Alex expected the Baron to bid him good night and leave the room but the tiny aristocrat went to the dressing table and perched himself on the upholstered stool before it. “There is something you must do for us.”

Somewhere across London the air-raid sirens began to wail. The distant keening distracted the Baron; he said, “They rarely bomb this far north in London but if you hear the alarms you will find our shelter in the cellar. The ladder is directly under the staircase we just used.”

“Thank you.”

He began to hear the distant banging of pom-poms. The Baron said, “I am told you have a contact inside the Kremlin—someone with Stalin’s ear.”

He looked up quickly but the Baron said, “I do not intend to press you for his identity. But we need to make use of him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Hear me out, General Danilov. As you know the bank with which I am connected has offices in many nations. I am in communication through our Zurich affiliate with the surviving German branches of our international financial structure. In theory the German offices have been nationalized but the organization still maintains its ties with our offices here in London. The financial transactions of the Grand Duke Mikhail and his people in Munich are supervised by White Russian officers of the same banks. It is through me that Count Anatol and Prince Leon and the rest of you receive information concerning the activities of the White Russian loyalists who live inside the borders of the German Reich.

“We have discovered that the German group threatens to jeopardize our own scheme. I have told Anatol Markov and he has taken the information back to Spain. It is possible you will receive instructions from Prince Leon but communications are uncertain and we haven’t much time. I’m taking the liberty of telling you this myself in case Spain does not reach you in time.”

“Go on.”

“They are planning an assassination. The design is to kill Stalin, substitute a double for him and issue orders to the Red Army—through the double—to retreat before Moscow. Russia then will have lost the war and Hitler seems prepared to install the Grand Duke Mikhail on the throne of a Vichy-style occupation government. The double already exists—a creation of Lavrenti Beria’s—a professional actor who has been transformed by plastic surgery into a remarkable likeness of Stalin.”

The breath hung in Alex’s throat. It was as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

The Baron went on in a relentless monotone:

“The Germans have shifted Guderian temporarily to the Ukraine and Georgi Malenkov is being sent there next week to stiffen the resistance in Kiev. In the meantime the administrative headquarters of Beria’s secret police have been moved to the Kuybyshev in case Moscow is occupied. Apparently Beria’s next trip down there is scheduled for a week from today. That will put both Beria and Malenkov out of Moscow—they are the only two men in the top echelon who know of the existence of the Stalin double.

“We have no clue to the identity of the assassins. One assumes there must be several because they have to take control of the double. It is possible they intend to make him docile by means of drugs or drug-induced hypnosis—the Germans have been doing experiments along those lines. Or perhaps it is a matter of bribery combined with coercion. I have no idea. But we do know the timetable. On the twenty-sixth—tomorrow week—both Beria and Malenkov will be absent from the weekly Kremlin command conference. That is when the assassination is scheduled. They intend to reach Stalin on his way into the meeting. The killing may be effected by means of cyanide gas in the ventilating system of his private lavatory in the underground command bunker. I cannot confirm that report. But the general plan and the timetable seem quite certain.”

The pulse thudded in Alex’s throat. The Baron went on:

“Our German cousins have a damnable advantage over us. Ever since the Bolshevik rising in nineteen seventeen they have maintained an active network of spies in the Soviet government. The irony is that it was Count Anatol who set it up for them—he was a partisan of Mikhail’s in the early days. They have been waiting their chance for more than twenty years and now Hitler has given it to them. It is unfortunate that their timetable is ahead of ours.”

“There’s no way to get in ahead of them,” Alex said. “We’re weeks away from operational status.”

“Of course. Their plan has the advantage of relying on a German military victory. Yours has to rely on a Russian one. Much more difficult to achieve in the circumstances. But you have the one thing that may save our cause—you have a man in the Kremlin.”

Now Alex saw it. “To stop them.”

“I think he must do more than that,” the Baron murmured. “I think he must brief Stalin and Beria on the assassination plot. It is not enough to forestall one attempt—they could make another. The network of Mikhail’s spies must be destroyed before we make our own move. Beria is the only man in a position to wipe out the entire network. He must be warned. We shall have to give your man a plausible way to have unearthed the plot. I should not think it would be dangerous for him. After all he will be saving Stalin’s life—they can only construe that as the supreme loyalty. If anything this will cement your man in Stalin’s favor.”

That part wouldn’t be difficult. Vlasov had his own G-2 staff; it would be a simple matter of selecting a wounded German prisoner—an officer would be best—and putting up the pretense of a private “interrogation.” Afterward the prisoner would have to die to prevent Beria from checking back on Vlasov’s story. Vlasov would attract no suspicion unless the plot failed to materialize; and even if it proved a false alarm it would do him no real harm—he could always claim the German officer must have been lying.

The Baron’s small round face tipped up ingenuously. “I should not mention this to any of our allies if I were you. They would want to know where I got my information and of course I am not prepared to reveal that.”

“I’ll be in contact with our man Sunday night,” Alex said. “Are there any other details?”

“None that I possess. Knowing the time and place of the attempt ought to be enough for them.”

“There’s one thing we can’t correct,” Alex said. “This is going to put Stalin on his guard. He’ll be twice as suspicious as he ever was before. He’ll be that much harder for us to reach when our turn comes.”

“That cannot be helped, can it? Good night then, General. Sleep well.”

The morning weather was in his favor—a dewy London fog. He left the house at nine by the rear door and blundered across three adjacent gardens and slipped out into the street past the side of the fourth house. If anyone had a watch on the front of the Baron’s house they wouldn’t see him at this distance. He walked at a good clip to the tube station and started down the stairs.

The Highgate station was incredibly deep and his leg was giving him trouble long before he reached the bottom. He took it slowly, favoring the leg; he looked back up the stairs several times. There were people in sight but he had no way to tell if any of them was following him.

He studied the map on the station wall. No one seemed to be taking an interest in him. He was a tall man in civilian dress with a slight limp—a war casualty, they’d assume. He dropped half-crowns in the Bomb Relief cup and boarded the clattering train.

He had to change at Camden Town and again at Leicester Square. There was quite a walk between platforms and he contrived to stop twice and survey the tunnels behind him without making it obvious what he was doing. A large number of people were following his route—making the same transfer he was making to get into the West End of London—and half a dozen of them were people who had boarded the train with him; but it meant nothing.

When the train arrived he acted as though he wasn’t going to board it. Then just as the doors started to close he dived between them.

He walked up into Knightsbridge looking for the side street to which Cosgrove had directed him; he spotted the man following him when he was only a half block from the pub. There was nothing to do but keep walking. He went right past the pub and stopped outside a Chinese restaurant to decide what to do. Under his coat his hand reached the revolver and gripped it. Next door a three-story building had been partially knocked out, the walls broken right down to the street. Men in hard helmets climbed through the wreckage with picks and spades; the upstairs parlor was quite intact with its furniture nicely arranged like a stage set. A little girl—five, perhaps six-stood bawling at the base of the pile of rubble with her hand engulfed in the grip of a policeman who kept talking quietly to her. Finally an ambulance drew up and the bobby had a short conversation with the attendants. Alex saw the bobby shake his head and the attendants took the little girl into the ambulance and drove off. The bobby whacked his fist into a heap of plaster and stormed away up the road.

Cosgrove appeared on the curb opposite. Alex shook his head very slightly and turned his shoulder toward the brigadier, pretending to read the menu posted outside the restaurant door. But Cosgrove came straight across and touched his arm. “He’s one of ours. I told him to make sure no one else had an interest in you. Rather clever of you to have spotted him—he’s one of our best men. What gave him away?”

They walked along toward the pub. The shadow stood across the road not looking at them. Alex said, “He was too interested in the chinaware. And he’s too young and healthy to be out of uniform.”

“I’ll bear that in mind—pass it on to his office. Here we are.”

“Tell me something. The man who followed me last night in a car….”

“From Euston? That was one of ours as well.”

Then evidently no one else was tracking him. He felt reprieved. Inside the pub he asked, “Where’s the meeting?”

“Not at Downing Street, you can be sure of that. Every government in the world seems to have people watching that to see who goes in and who goes out of Number Ten.” They paused to adjust their eyes to the gloom. Cosgrove said, “The meeting will be quite private, just as you requested.” He sounded miffed about it.

15.

The house was in a mews off Sloane Square: the official residence of the New Zealand minister. Alex waited in a small rear office into which Cosgrove had led him after wryly relieving him of his armament.

He sat alone in the room for nearly two hours until Cosgrove appeared. “The Prime Minister will see you now.”

Alex got up to follow him but Churchill appeared in the doorway, put his pouched belligerent stare against Alex and said, “Thank you, Brigadier.”

“I’ll see that you’re not disturbed, sir.” Cosgrove shut himself out.

“Well then,” the Prime Minister growled. He squinted at Alex and thrust the cigar in his teeth, and offered his hand. His grip was a politician’s handshake—one quick squeeze, then withdrawn. The gruff voice was hoarse and the eyes were bloodshot. “You’re the man in whose hands the world rests, are you?”

“I shouldn’t want to go nearly that far, sir.”

“Nor should I. Some of your people would have it so.” Churchill sat down with a weary grunt and folded his hands across his ample front; the cigar waggled between his graceful fingers and the hint of a smile appeared above his jowls—surprisingly gentle. “What I require of you is a revelation designed to reassure His Majesty’s Government that you are something a bit more than a pack of lunatics.” The cigar moved to the mouth and was dwarfed by the enormous head. The shrewd eyes studied Alex through the curling smoke and the voice was very deep—almost guttural. “I should think, from what Cosgrove has told me, that you have only one route open to you. A high-altitude run across the Baltic to Helsinki. Finland has got to be your jumping off point, hasn’t it? You’re within bomber range of Moscow there, and your people have friends highly placed in President Ryti’s government—certainly you’ve been able to persuade them they owe you quid pro quo for your services there two years ago.” Churchill’s eyes wrinkled, sly and pleased with himself. “Am I at all warm?”

Alex had to smile. “White hot, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Under any other circumstances I should be inclined to caution you against such an arrangement. You’ve already got the Americans and those terribly meddlesome British in it—I shouldn’t advise you to tangle yourselves in the additional flypaper of a Finland involvement, particularly as they’re now in the war against our glorious Soviet allies.” His humor was not without acid. “But under the present conditions your plan must, beyond question, include Helsinki. I know of no alternative refueling base within aeroplane range of your target.”

A puff of smoke timed for punctuation; and the PM went on:

“I’m given to understand you intend to draw the ruling junta out into the open and to attack them from the air with high explosives dropped in pinpoint concentration.’

“Yes.”

“You must then, I presume, be prepared to infiltrate their centers of communication. Clearly it will be vital to have immediate contact with those units of the Red Army which are engaged in the defense of Moscow and the struggle against Chancellor Hitler’s Army Group Center. In order to complete your mission with any sort of success at all, you must instantly be able to command the allegiance of those forces. Please contradict me if I’m incorrect.”

“No contradiction is called for, Prime Minister.”

“Very well then, Danilov, who’s your man in the Kremlin? Zhukov or Vlasov?”

He managed—successfully he hoped—to mask his chagrin. “Neither of them, sir. It’s intended that they both be blown up with Stalin.”

“I see. Then it is one of their immediate subordinates. Zhukov’s chief-of-staff, perhaps—or one of the army commanders.”

“I’d prefer not to divulge that.”

“You’ve got such a man, however?”

“Yes.”

“Prepared to take over the Red Army instantly?”

“Yes-exactly.”

Churchill grunted; once again the hint of a smile. “Then you’ve bloody well got a chance, haven’t you?”

The Prime Minister chewed on the cigar and then removed it from his mouth. “I like the cut of you. You’re decently cool under the sort of pressure I’ve been applying. Now I should like to hear your plan.”

Alex gathered his thoughts. “They’ve got a new battle tank,” he said. “They’re rushing it through production—they hope to have several front-line armored units equipped with it by spring.”

“The modified T-Thirty-six. I’ve seen the drawings and specifications.”

“I thought you might have,” Alex said; and both men smiled.

He went on: “The first field trials of the prototype will be held in eight weeks’ time on a proving-ground about thirty miles east of Moscow. It’s to be a thorough workout to demonstrate firepower and maneuverability. The new machine mounts a seventy-seven millimeter gun. It’s a twenty-ton tank with more than five inches of armor. They plan to have six ready for the field trials—I’m told they plan to run them against unmanned captured panzers. If the trials prove what they hope to prove they’ll make rubble of the Mark Fours.”

“One rather hopes their expectations aren’t in excess of the realities.”

Alex said, “Stalin and his commanders will attend the field trials, together with Beria and Malenkov and a group of Soviet cabinet ministers.”

“That would seem to sew them all neatly into one bag.”

“Transport to the proving ground will be by rail—the Kremlin’s special train. It’s an armored train mocked up to look like a hospital train, particularly from the air—there’s a red cross on the roof of the car Stalin and the Soviet leaders occupy. The cars fore and aft of it are concealed artillery platforms and machine-gun cars with half a battalion of crack troops from the Kremlin guard. They’ve been using the train regularly for transport of high officials to and from Moscow.”

“Go on, General.”

“Our target point is five miles short of the proving ground. The train will be reaching the top of a three-mile grade and its speed should be down to something under thirty miles an hour—probably nearer twenty. It’s carrying a great deal of armor. There are two locomotives, one front and one rear. That’s standard for Russian trains.

“Our first bomb-run will be against the roadbed ahead of the train—just at the crest of the hill. We’ll bomb the track. The train will have to stop or go off the rails. Once it’s stopped we’ll put eight thousand pounds of armor-piercing high explosive into the gun cars fore and aft of the hospital car. We’ve got as many passes at them as we need and enough bombs aboard to do the job ten times over. The attack zone is twenty-eight miles from the nearest Red Air Force interceptor field—it will take them at least six minutes to scramble a mission and another sixteen minutes to reach the target area. By that time our bombers will have done the job and gone.”

“You’re bombing the gun cars but not Stalin’s car.”

“Our assault troops will be waiting in ambush on the ground. We’ll take the hospital car on foot.”

“Surely you don’t propose to take the Soviet leaders alive?”

Alex shook his head. “But we’ve got to have a recognizable corpse—we’ve got to be able to prove Stalin’s dead. If we destroyed his carriage from the air there might not be enough of him left to satisfy suspicious minds.”

“It’s a risk, isn’t it? You say the car is heavily armored.”

“We’ll get into it.”

“Submachine guns?”

“Tear gas first. Then submachine guns. It’s not sporting.”

“No. But this isn’t a fox hunt.” The Prime Minister was squinting at him—a little uneasy, Alex thought. “Can you be sure they’ll be aboard that carriage?”

“If they’re not we’ll be warned of it in advance. We’ll abort the mission and wait for our man to set it up for us again.”

“You could rather easily have bad bombing weather.”

“If it’s too thick for bombing it’ll be too thick for tank trials. They’ll delay the trials for clear visibility. The ceiling isn’t our concern—we’ll be bombing from a few hundred feet at most.”

“But the train has antiaircraft platforms.”

Alex said, “They can’t traverse fast enough to follow an aircraft at that low altitude.”

Churchill levered himself to his feet and turned as if to examine the framed map of New Zealand on the wall. He said deep in his throat, “There’s an unwritten principle of warfare—you don’t destroy your enemy’s leaders because without them there’s no one with whom you can negotiate a peace. Of course this case is different—there would seem to be no unwritten canon against destroying your allies.”

Heavy in the front of Alex’s mind was the Grand Duke Mikhail’s assassination scheme. But it was no good giving that to the Prime Minister.

Churchill went on:

“I’d have preferred to take the pack of them alive. Put them before the public bar of justice on charges of capital crimes against humanity.” His shrewd eyes lifted to Alex’s face. “Still I suppose a good part of our world has tried them in absentia and found them guilty beyond redemption.” He touched the bow tie beneath his heavy chin and turned to the door. “Have it done then, Danilov. Bring us the beggar’s head.” It was a bitter voice, drained of illusions; the door clicked shut behind Churchill—softly, almost reproachfully.

Alex’s hands were trembling. He realized he was sweating.

16.

He watched them twirl down from the rapelling tower like spiders spinning filament webs. In growing darkness he walked out of the compound and unbuttoned the flap of one holster before he reached the gate; he walked across the road and up the twilit driveway with all his instincts alert. Cooper’s van was parked at the step and he examined both sides of it and had a look inside before he let himself into the house: he curled inside without being fired on and Sergei came away from the corner setting the safety on the Mannlicher.

Cooper came to attention and Alex answered his salute. “Is that thing warmed up?”

“Yes sir. I been monitoring the band since noon like you told me.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing but a bit of cypher from that Frog underground transmitter what uses the same frequency.”

Vlasov had said he wouldn’t be able to signal before half past six but if something had gone wrong there might have been an earlier squeal. The silence ought to be encouraging but things were too portentious for that.

He heard the Austin’s tires on the gravel and Irina’s quick step; then she was inside. Her eyes told her what she wanted to know; she said, “We’re all right then.”

“We won’t know that until we have his signal.”

“We’d have heard before now if it had gone wrong. The whole world would have heard it.”

He wished he had her aplomb.

It was six-twenty, six-thirty and then six-thirty-five and nothing triggered the brass key. He began to sweat, imagining all the things that could have happened. What if Vlasov had let something slip and they’d nailed him? Without Vlasov they were blind. It had been the one weakness for which there’d been no compensation from the beginning; he’d tried to devise alternate plans that didn’t depend on Vlasov but there wasn’t any way to do that because it always came down to the same thing: there had to be an insider who could keep them in touch with Stalin’s movements. If you didn’t know where your target was you couldn’t very well hit him.

It was one of the factors in Vassily’s plan that had always eluded him: the only answer was that Vassily had had someone of his own—or planned to get the name of Oleg’s contact. But there was a possibility Vassily had intended to operate through Mikhail’s Kremlin network—and if Vassily had already made contact with any of them before he died then they’d spill it to Beria’s interrogators now and blow the operation wide open.

Six-forty. Irina’s eyes were locked on him and her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. No one spoke. Alex turned his head to stare at the transceiver. What if Mikhail’s people had intercepted Vlasov and silenced him before he could alert Stalin and Beria?

KOLLIN X KOLLIN X…

The key chattered faster than he’d ever heard Vlasov’s fist before and Cooper’s pencil jerked across the note pad in a rush to keep up. The staccato burst was less than two minutes in duration. Cooper tapped out the acknowledgment and Alex ripped the pages off the pad and went back through the house with Irina.

The decoding was a one-person operation because they had only the one copy of the St. Petersburg edition of Clausewitz. He left Irina to it because she was faster and surer at it than he was; but the waiting ragged him until he could hardly stand it.

KOLLIN X KOLLIN X SABOTEURS TRAPPED AS PLANNED X STEEL BEAR UNTOUCHED X INTERROGATIONS UNDERWAY FOUR MEN ONE WOMAN X INTERROGATION MAY LEAD TO OTHER CONSPIRATORS X SUGGESTION AT LEAST ONE CONSPIRATOR STILL AT LARGE X MUNICH CONNECTION NOT YET REVEALED X LOCATION OF STEEL BEAR DOUBLE UNKNOWN X WILL RESUME NORMAL COMMUNICATION SCHEDULE TOMORROW X KOLLIN X CARNEGIE

She said, “It’s half a victory for us, darling. But it leaves a great many things open.”

He wasn’t unnerved by that. He couldn’t help his sense of relief. It had been too close to an end to the whole thing: the planning, the training, the operation, the fate of the two hundred million. Most of the time he tried not to think in those terms because then everything became apocalyptic. It had to be held down to its own scale, not the scale of things it might affect. This was a precision military campaign with exact methods and finite individual goals: a few square meters of railway track, a few armored carriages, an airfield, two communications centers—a transmitter and a trunk switchboard—and a handful of men inside a railway car. Think beyond any of that and there was a risk of too much fear and then paralysis.

He said, “Put on your best dress. My spies tell me they’ve got good Angus beef at one of the pubs in town.”

17.

Felix arrived at the improvised Ready Room at six in the morning. It was barely light: the days were growing shorter and this morning there was rain and thick overcast. The Scotland air had an unpleasant chill. He could barely make out the shapes of the planes at their hardstands; one of the ground crewmen was indistinct in the mist on top of an outboard nacelle on his knees.

The Ready Room had leather armchairs and a few mismatched tables and a home-made bar that was open after duty hours. Felix was the first to arrive; he’d planned that. He went through the room and banged on the inner door and the orderly came through the door with sleep in his eyes and stoked the coal fire.

A week ago their training area in the main hangar had been crowded out by infantry training and Pappy Johnson had moved the podium in here. Now the blackboard stood coated with chalk dust, the ghost of yesterday’s lessons. He supposed today would be another stand-down; in view of the weather they’d have to scrub the practice strike. The rain had come from the northwest on a night wind thirty hours ago and socked in the field and there was no way of knowing how long it would stay.

All the same Felix was dressed to fly.

Pappy Johnson batted into the room and wiped drizzle off his face. He blinked and whooshed. “Always the early bird.”

“A month ago you’d have had to send someone to my quarters to root me out of bed.”

“Why the change then?”

“If they expect me to lead them I’d better be ahead of them, hadn’t I.”

“You’re all right, Your Highness.”

“I suppose we’ll have another stand-down for today?”

“No,” said Pappy Johnson. “We’re going to fly.”

“In this soup?”

“Uncle Joe Stalin may not hand us a sunshine day. I just phoned Fort Augustus. It’s not raining over there. It may not be raining over our drop zone.”

“Good enough.”

“Your turn to have me ride right-seat with you tdoay, Your Highness. Your copilot will take the flight engineer’s post.”

Two of them arrived in ground clothes because they didn’t expect to fly in the weather. Pappy Johnson looked at his wristwatch and said mildly, “You misters have exactly four minutes to get into flying gear,” and the two pilots exploded through the door.

When the door slammed Johnson said to Felix, “Those two are always a little behind everybody else. They’ll be flying right-seat in the transports when we go to war. I suppose they know that—maybe that’s the way they want it. Not everybody wants to be a stupid hero.” He grinned at Felix and slid the cigarette pack out of his shoulder pocket.

The two pilots reappeared out of breath and still shouldering into their leather jackets and Johnson made a circular motion overhead with his cigarette. They all gathered around him.

“We’re going to stations six minutes from now. The mission is the same as it was two days ago. But this time your targets will be moving.”

One of the pilots said, “What about the drivers?”

“No drivers for Christ’s sake. The steering wheels are tied to go in something that’ll approximate a straight line and they’re tying bricks on the accelerator pedals. They’ll be moving about thirty miles an hour across the meadow. The ones you miss will crash into the trees and that’ll be a hell of a waste, won’t it. So don’t miss any.”

“How many in each cluster, sir?”

“That’ll be for you to determine when you get there.” Johnson gave them all his wicked grin. “Maybe one of them, maybe five. It’s your job to stop every one of them before it gets across the meadow.”

The four of them got out of the shuttle van and stood momentarily under the wing in the rain: Felix and Pappy Johnson and Ulyanov, who would fly as engineer this flight, and Chujoy the bombardier. Felix turned his collar up and went around the outside of the airplane: he kicked the tires, he did a visual inspection of the nacelles and control surfaces. Finally Felix nodded and Ulyanov opened the forward hatch and they chinned themselves into the bomber.

It took seven minutes to go through the preflight check—the final line inspection before starting engines. It was a chore many pilots left to their copilots but Felix wanted to know the exact condition of the plane he was going to fly. It was a habit he’d drilled into himself with racing cars: more than once he’d detected a defective tie rod or brake cylinder that way.

He handed the clipboard to Pappy Johnson and his eyes searched the crowded instrument panel once more and then he put the control yoke in his hands and planted his feet on the rudder pedals and…. She’s mine.

Through the windscreen he watched the tower—barely visible in the fine rain—and finally he saw the double red flare go up: Start Engines.

“Mesh one… Mesh two…”

Pappy Johnson’s fingers sped over the toggles and buttons. Out the side screens Felix watched the oil-smoke chug from the exhausts, the props begin to turn. He swiveled his attention to the starboard side. “Mesh three… Mesh four.”

“Jigsaw Flight—go to stations.” That was the tower.

There were no runway lights. He saw Calhoun walking away dragging the chocks in the gloom; he taxied around in a tight circle and went bumping along toward the end of the runway.

He stood on the brakes and ran up each engine in turn-watching the gauges, using his ears. Inside him he felt the thrill he’d never lost in a thousand takeoffs: the Icarian desire to climb high, detached and free.

The green flare went up. He stood hard on both brakes. “Military power.”

Johnson thrust the four throttle handles forward. The rpm’s yelled at him, reaching 2700 and the plane quivered like a hound straining on a leash. Manifold pressure fifty inches… He let go the brakes and she burst forward, fishtailing a little until he steadied her.

He had to lift off within twenty-five seconds after reaching full power. The panel clock gave him eighteen seconds and the airspeed indicator gave him 75 knots; the tail wheel lifted off.

Pappy Johnson reached out and chopped the number-two throttle dead.

With the number-two prop feathered the imbalance of power wanted to slew her around to starboard and he had to stand on the left-hand rudder pedal.

Twenty-four seconds. He pushed the yoke forward. To hold her on the ground. Airspeed 80… 85… Twenty-eight seconds…

Ninety knots. He hauled back on the yoke.

She lifted off the ground and instantly he snapped, “Gear up!”

Johnson hit the gear lever as if it were an enemy’s jaw. There was the fast whine of the gear-retraction motors and he felt the added lift when the drag of the wheels had been removed: 110 knots now and he banked to clear the phone cables.

He had 300 feet and she was climbing smoothly on three engines; he reduced to 2,600 rpm and forty inches of manifold pressure and climbed at 115 knots toward the planned cruising altitude of 4,000 feet. He cut the mixtures back, trimmed the controls, retracted the flaps and heard the flap-actuating motors grind.

After a while Johnson pressed the button on his control wheel to be heard on the intercom. Felix heard his mild voice: “Try eight thousand this time. Maybe we can bust through the soup.”

“May I have my engine back now?”

“No. We’ll fly the mission on three.”

“One experience with a teacher like you would be enough to make most pilots travel by railroad the rest of their lives.”

Johnson pushed the throat mike aside. “If I hadn’t thought you could handle it I wouldn’t have done it. Would I now?”

The plane burst through ten-tenths into brass sunlight. White cloud-tops rolled away to the horizons like a vast sea.

He set his controls to cruise at 165 knots at 8,000 feet. The other two planes caught up and took station behind him and to his right.

“Give us a course.”

Ulyanov already had it for him. Felix fed the information into the autopilot and spent the next half-minute adjusting the trim with the button until he liked the sound and feel of it.

Ulyanov said, “We’ll have to dead-reckon down to the target area.”

He checked the instruments. Head temps 210°. Airspeed okay. Artificial horizon level and steady. Pressures and rpm’s okay: in synch.

He took his hands off the controls and that was when it hit him. The cold sweat burst out all over his body.

“Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight. Acknowledge.”

“Jigsaw Two. I read you clear, Troop Leader.”

“Affirmative.”

“Jigsaw Three. Read you very well. What’s wrong with your engine?”

“Pappy’s amusing himself. Keep your receivers open. Eight minutes to descent. Out.”

The eight minutes went by too quickly and then he had to put the nose down and it took an effort of will. He had always competed in speed sports in which you could see what you were doing. Now he had to descend blind.

He tried to make light of it: “What if someone’s put a mountain in one of those clouds?”

“You’ve been here before.”

“Ulyanov, what’s my course?”

“Dead ahead sir.”

“You’d better be right.”

“Yes sir. I know.”

There was a crag somewhere to starboard that spired to nearly 3,000 feet. At least he hoped it was to starboard. He watched the clock. Ten seconds… five… Nose down.

The heavy plane mushed down through the weather bank and he couldn’t see a thing. Pappy Johnson said, “This stuff may be very close to the ground. You’ll have to come in right on the deck. Just be sure you keep your feet inside.”

The target zone was a meadow on top of a long ridge. At its highest point it had an elevation of 876 feet above mean sea level. The idea was to attack from exactly 1,000 feet altimeter—124 feet above the ground. In theory it made the targets easy to hit but in practice the ground turbulence made it pure hell. Cool air sank into the deeper shadows and warmer air lifted from the pale places. The aircraft bucketed and pitched like a racing car with a flat tire.

Johnson said, “You trying to scramble the eggs I ate this morning? Don’t tense up.”

“I can’t see where I’m going.”

“I know. Keep your nose down—keep on the rails.”

Felix dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

Johnson said gently, “I told the old man you were the best in the outfit. Don’t make me a liar.”

But his aplomb had evaporated and there was no way to regain it. He pressed the Send button and had to clear his throat before he spoke. “Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight. Starting a nine-zero degree right turn. Guide on me if you can.”

He switched the set from liaison to intercom. “Pilot to bombardier. We’re on the briefed heading. Going down through 2,000 feet. You should be able to see your aiming point any time now.”

The plane growled steadily into a sea of matted grey.

Seventeen hundred feet; sixteen hundred. “Prepare to drop practice bombs.”

Chujoy’s voice crackled at him: “Bomb-bay doors open. Preparing to center P.D.I.”

That was the bombsight. At these altitudes a variation of as little as two feet in altitude could make a critical difference in the trajectory of the bombs.

Fourteen hundred. Thirteen-fifty. “I’m going to abort!”

“The hell you are,” Pappy Johnson snapped.

Thirteen hundred. Grey cloud rushed past the windscreen, beading up on the glass. Twelve-eighty: twelve-sixty…

Tendrils; it was breaking up….

Twelve-thirty and they were out under it—too low: the ground was right there….

Then his eyes adjusted to the perspective and he fought back the impulse to drag the yoke into his belly. He leveled off at twelve hundred feet. It wasn’t raining. Visibility was clear enough now; it was the ceiling that was bad—hanging down within two hundred feet of the ridge….

A stand of trees along the near rim; the open meadow and at the far end of it more trees—highland woods running down the slopes. And he could see the square old cars bumpety-bumping out across the meadow: four of them, their courses diverging a little because there was no one driving them. The men had been tenting there for three weeks now, setting targets for them. They’d turned the toys loose on the meadow and now it was up to the airmen to bomb the moving automobiles before they got across the thousand-foot meadow.

“Twelve hundred feet. We’re approaching the I.P,” Initial point of the bombardier’s run.

Pappy Johnson growled, “Do it good, Chujoy, or you go back by bus.”

“Center your P.D.I.”

“P.D.I. centered sir.”

“Ready to take over…. It’s your airplane.” Felix took his hands off the yoke and leaned forward to watch.

There was a stir as the bomb racks opened.

“Bombs away.”

The string of hundred-pounders left the racks and arched away earthward; he couldn’t see them but he knew. The bombardier had mirrors to watch the drop.

They were real bombs with practice warheads designed to create a small explosion—enough to prove where they’d hit even if the bomb bounced away from its point of impact.

“Your aircraft sir.”

Felix hauled back on the yoke. “How did it look?”

Chujoy was very dry. “We just blew hell out of eight patches of grass.”

Into the clouds and a steep starboard turn. “Making a three-sixty.” A full circle to bomb again. “Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight—report.”

“Jigsaw Two. One hit I think. Seven near-misses.”

“Jigsaw Three. No hits sir. Sorry.”

Pappy Johnson switched on his throat mike. “This time you misters will get those bombs on target or I’ll personally throw you out of these airplanes with no parachutes.”

They made five passes. The last three were good enough to make Felix beam at Pappy Johnson: on the third go they stopped three out of four motorcars in their tracks with bombs that penetrated clear through to the ground. On the fourth go they hit two out of three. On the fifth the ground echelon sent five cars onto the field and Felix’s flight hit four of them.

“The last drop looked pretty good,” Johnson admitted into the radio.

“We’re out of bombs,” Felix announced. “Close up those holes and keep it tight—let’s go home for a coffee break.”

He put the nose up into the clouds and they swam into the sunlight. “Now all I’ve got to do is find a place to put this thing down.”

“They’ll bring you in.”

“Jigsaw Tower—this is Jigsaw One. Can you give me a radar fix?”

The answer was a moment coming and he felt his jaw tighten but then the radio spoke cheerfully:

“Roger, Jigsaw One. Turn to zero-four-five and fly for eight minutes. Then turn to one-six-zero. We’ll keep a fix on you.”

Johnson was charging the flare pistol, inserting it in the fuselage tube above his head in case they made a forced landing: a flare would pinpoint them for rescuers.

Down to 1,000 feet now and about six miles to go. Pappy Johnson said drily, “You want the gear down by any chance, Your Highness?”

“What? Oh—yes. Yes.”

“Thought you might.”

He peered into the soup. There were bangs and rattles in the airframe as the wheels locked down.

“Tower to Jigsaw One. Fly one-five-five.”

“Roger. I have the runway in sight.” He glanced at Johnson: “Flaps twenty.”

“Yeah. Just remember this airplane does not have reversible props.”

The ground came up grey and wet. He came in fast—100 knots—and he had to stop the airplane before he ran out of runway so he fishtailed gently and rode his brakes and brought her in fifty yards short of the limit. He pulled off to the side to give the others room to land and when they were down he taxied her over to the hardstands and sliced an index finger across his Adam’s apple—the signal to Johnson to cut his engines.

Calhoun was walking over with the chocks when they dropped out of the hatch. “Give us a dollar’s worth,” Pappy Johnson said, “and a manicure and a good rubdown, Calhoun.”

Then Johnson turned and walked Felix toward the Ready Room. “You’ve got four weeks left to hit the targets every time. Not three out of four, not four out of five. Every time.”

“I hope we can.”

“You can do it,” Johnson said. “You’re a good outfit. Better than you think you are.”

“Are we?”

“You know you are. You just needed to have someone tell you.”

18.

At the dying end of October the three Russian noblemen boarded a trimotor at Barcelona and flew to Lisbon, A hard Atlantic sun burned in the cloudless Portuguese sky but the wind that came off the ocean was cold and whipping; there were whitecaps in the Tagus estuary.

The Peugeot that transported them through Lisbon had hard springs and stank of imbedded fumes of Gauloise tobacco; the driver was a chain-smoking Frenchman badly in need of a shave. The three Russians—Prince Leon Kirov; Count Anatol Markov; Baron Oleg Zimovoi—wore Homburgs and topcoats and their luggage consisted only of overnight cases.

The narrow streets of Lisbon thronged with human flotsam—the refugee overflow of the European war—and here and there a man could be seen walking purposefully, topcoat flying in the sinister wind; these were the ones who had somewhere to go, the black-marketeers and salesmen of information who had descended upon Lisbon in the past year like hungry ants on a dying carcass. Lisbon was the Occident’s Macao: the capital of intrigue, a living museum of every phylum and species of human vice and avarice. The crowded architecture was stone and stucco in bleak grey hues; cobblestones glistening with river spray; crumbling buildings five hundred years old that bespoke suspicion, evil, torture, Inquisition. In the passages dark automobiles crowded horse carts aside and darted homicidally among the pedestrian fugitives.

Their host’s driver slid the Peugeot through the crowds with stolid contempt and presently they were out of Lisbon along the right bank of the estuary; now the speed went up and they were wheeling along the coast road with a rubbery whine, speeding through the fishing villages—Belém, Oeiras, Estoril—finally Cascais.

Count Anatol said, “It is just up to the right now if I recall.”

Oleg was instantly suspicious: “You have been here before?”

“It was not always American Embassy property. At one time it was a villa belonging to the Graf von Schnee. One of the finest private baccarat tables in Europe. Players came from as far away as South America.”

“When men have nothing better to do with money than gamble it away….”

Prince Leon cut across him smoothly: “I think we’re here.”

The villa was on a height in a pastel cluster of genteel residences each of which had its two or three acre garden of semi-tropical vegetation: rubbery greenery, bougainvillaea, palms, grape trees, Bermuda lawns, flowers carefully tended and vividly displayed. A high wall sealed off the property and a man in an olive drab uniform and a white Sam Browne belt came to attention at the gate. The driveway was crushed seashells; it gritted under the tires.

The portico was an arched stucco affair; the villa was high and massive with walls of North African tile, predominantly pink—very bright in the sun. Their heels rang on the mosaic floor.

They had proceeded along half the length of the lofty corridor when the wide doors opened at the far end and their host revealed himself. “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Colonel Buckner.”

“It’s good of you to come on such short notice.” Buckner arranged the seating and saw to their drinks. Then he took a place in the circle of chairs.

It had been the Graf von Schnee’s game room and the silent deep carpet remained but the room had been redesigned by its American tenants as a conference chamber; there was a long table beneath the windows but he hadn’t wanted the formality of that.

He began with casual inquiries; it was the first time he’d met any of them and he didn’t want to reveal the extent of his knowledge about them.

After a decent interval he cleared his throat and leaned forward in his seat with his forearms across his knees. “Very well then. Suppose we start by having me lay out the situation and then we’ll discuss it from there. Are there any questions you’d like to ask me before I start?”

There were none; he hadn’t expected any. They were smart enough to sound him out first.

He said, “I’m here as the informal representative of the President. I stress the word ‘informal.’ Nothing I say can be construed to be a binding commitment by my government. We’re involved in a clandestine operation—if there’s ever a public question about it we’re all bound to deny it. Even if your operation succeeds it’ll be many years before Washington will be able to admit having had any part in it.”

“That’s fully understood,” said Baron Oleg Zimovoi. “There won’t be any embarrassing exposures on our part.”

“I’m just trying to explain to you why we’d have to deny it.”

Baron Oleg produced a pipe and a pouch.

Buckner said, “Here’s where we stand. You’re trying to overthrow the Stalin government. You’ve got tacit approval and a certain amount of secret matériel support from the governments of the United States and Great Britain.

“This thing was pretty chancy from the start. There’ve always been a lot of ifs in it. I don’t know if you realize this but we very nearly lost Russia to the Nazis ten days ago—there was an attempt on Stalin’s life.”

“We were aware of it,” murmured Count Anatol Markov.

Buckner gave him a sharp glance. “Then you know the Kremlin discovered the plot in time to head it off and corral the perpetrators. They’re not fools. They’re bound to be twice as alert now as they were before that attempt—your chances are getting slimmer all the….”

“Colonel Buckner,” Count Anatol said, very cool. “The recent attempt on Stalin’s life failed because Stalin was warned in advance.”

“By whom?” He had to ask it even though he suddenly felt he knew the answer.

“By us,” Anatol told him without hesitation.

Buckner was angry and showed it. “Is it your idea of good faith to keep your allies in the dark on an issue that vital?”

“The issue is no longer vital,” Anatol said.

Baron Oleg said, “That attempt failed because we foiled it, Colonel. Stalin will not be given warning of our own attack. And it is reassuring, don’t you think, that our participation in forestalling the German attempt was not discovered by your own intelligence. It leads one to conclude that our security is very tight.”

“I’d damn well like to know how you got wind of that scheme.”

“We have access to channels of information in Germany that are denied to you, I’m sure,” Anatol said.

The Russian Count seemed made of ice: no emotion at all in his presentation. Buckner said, “It might be helpful to us all if you’d share those channels.”

For the first time Prince Leon spoke. “The time may very well come when it is mutually advantageous for us to do that, Colonel. At the moment however our alliance is fragile as you know. Clearly that makes it important that we retain what few advantages we have. They may prove useful as bargaining points as time goes by—I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“You’re very candid.”

“I try to be when the reverse would serve no purpose.”

“At least you can tell me this much. Who organized that attempt against Stalin?”

He saw them look at one another; Prince Leon nodded his visible assent and Count Anatol said, “They were White Russians—the followers of the Grand Duke Mikhail. The program had Nazi support.”

“Just as yours has Anglo-American support. That’s rather cozy—playing both ends against the middle.”

“It was hardly like that, Colonel,” Baron Oleg said. He pushed his thumb down into the pipe and prepared to strike a match. “If we had been working with them we’d hardly have given away their plan to the Bolsheviks.”

Anatol said, “It was a race between their operation and ours. We have put them out of the race—temporarily at least.”

“What did they expect to achieve?”

“A German victory. Apparently Hitler offered Mikhail the puppet throne of Russia.”

“I see.”

Prince Leon said, “I’m sure you did not summon us here to discuss the thwarted attempt on Stalin’s life last week.”

Oleg sucked at his pipe until he had it going to his satisfaction and then he said. “He asked us here in order to impose a schedule on us.”

They were damnably irritating: forever a jump ahead of him. He’d underestimated them badly. He said cautiously. “I’m not trying to impose anything on anybody. But history has a way of doing those things for us. I think we’ve reached the point where we’ve got no choice but to trust one another—there isn’t time for anything else.”

Prince Leon said, “In what matters are we to trust one another, Colonel?”

“It’s time you let us in on your tactical plan, I think.”

“Of course he thinks that,” Baron Oleg remarked to Anatol. “He has thought that from the beginning.”

Prince Leon said, “The British seem satisfied, Colonel.”

“Then perhaps the British have been approached more frankly than we have.”

He saw them glance at one another again. He said, “Danilov went to London two weeks ago. Who did he talk to? What did he do there?”

“I’m sure we cannot answer that,” Anatol said. “We were not there.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Baron Oleg took the pipe out of his mouth. “We are fighting for Russia, Colonel. Not for the United States of America. Surely you recognize that our first obligation is not to you.”

Buckner willed himself to sit back and cross his legs. “Very well. According to our latest intelligence briefs the Germans have surrounded four entire Red Armies west of Moscow—the Nineteenth, the Twenty-fourth, the Thirtieth and the Thirty-second. Von Bock has them trapped east of Smolensk. Those pockets will be wiped out or captured within five or six days at most. Guderian has the Third and the Thirteenth surrounded. That’s six entire armies, gentlemen—the better part of a million troops and God knows how many tanks and guns. The roads to Moscow will be wide open within a week. Stalin’s throwing everything he’s got left into the Mozhaisk Line and he’s put Zhukov personally in charge of it—but it’s only forty miles from the center of Moscow and the way things look right now Zhukov won’t be able to hold it for long.”

Count Anatol said, “The blizzards of winter will stop them, Colonel. Winter comes in three to four weeks.”

“And if the panzers breach the Mozhaisk Line before that?”

“We do not think they will. The German tanks are wallowing in deep mud now—quite often they have been immobilized completely. They are not likely to break Zhukov’s lines within a week or two. And those four armies on the Smolensk-Moscow road are still holding their positions, surrounded or not. As long as they remain there the Germans can’t advance with their full force.”

Prince Leon had a gentle voice. “Colonel, we began this undertaking with the understanding that it would be done within one hundred days. We expect to be in operation well within that time limit.”

“The limit has been shortened,” Buckner said flatly. “Hitler has moved faster than we had any reason to expect. We credited the Russian army with more fighting ability than it’s demonstrated.”

“No,” Leon said softly. “It was not their ability you depended on—it was their will to fight. The elimination of Stalin—the restoration of their country to its people—will rekindle that spirit.”

“I’m not sure we have time for that any more.”

Leon’s face told him nothing. It was nearly expressionless: remote, courteous, attentive. “I’m not certain I understand your position, Colonel. What is it you wish us to do—abandon the enterprise?”

“No. I’m asking you to accelerate it. To convince Danilov he hasn’t got as much time as he thought he had.”

Baron Oleg said, “There are certain things you can’t rush, Colonel. You can’t expect to make nine women pregnant in order to get a baby in one month. Nor can you execute a plan like ours with half-trained and half-equipped troops. There is no point starting the operation unless it has every possible advantage—the odds are poor enough as it is.”

Buckner shook his head. “It’s your choice, gentlemen. Speed it up or cancel it. There’s no third course.”

Count Anatol said, “That is an ultimatum, is it?”

“I’m not dictating it. The facts are.”

“No,” Prince Leon said. “It is not the facts, Colonel, it is your interpretation of them. One has the impression your President has developed—what is your expression—cold feet? The Nazis have not moved very much faster than we anticipated. They are approximately where we expected them to be by autumn—nearer Moscow than they were before but not yet at the gates of the city. We expected Zhukov to blunt their drive and he did so. We expected the rains to slow their tanks and they have done so. We now expect winter to stall the German advance and while no one can promise it there is a good likelihood it will do so. No, Colonel. The facts in Europe have not changed. It is only the facts in Washington that may have changed.”

“What are you implying, Your Highness? That we’re trying to back out of our agreement?” He could feel the blood rise to his cheeks. “My country isn’t in the habit of reneging on its commitments.”

“Oh come now,” Baron Oleg said. “You’re not in a public forum now—we are not impressed by a show of the flag, Colonel. You will renege on this agreement the moment you feel it is in your interests to do so. You have kept the bargain only because you are convinced it can still be profitable to your interests. And you are trying to increase the odds of success by shortening the schedule.”

Anatol said, “And we are trying to convince you that shortening it will do just the opposite—it will reduce the odds of success, don’t you see that?”

Oleg scraped ash out of the bowl of his pipe; when he spoke it was to Anatol. “The nearer we come to the day of reckoning the more nervous they become. It may prove intolerable—it may ruin us in the end.”

“Then we shall have to calm them down, won’t we.” Anatol turned to Buckner. “What will it take to soothe you, Colonel?”

He was beet-red to the hairline and knew it. These shrewd bastards had been weaned on Machiavelli; they were the hard realists of an old school that went back a thousand years and he hadn’t the guns for this and he knew it. But he had his instructions and he had to proceed. “I’ve told you what it will take. Move it up.”

“We can’t do that,” Prince Leon said in a reasonable way. “The timing is determined by Stalin. When Stalin moves we move. It is that simple, Colonel, and nothing you can do or say will change that.”

He watched the Peugeot turn out through the gates and then he turned to the game room and opened the side door to the chamber beyond. A thin man with short hair and a neat grey suit looked up from the wire recorder’s rewinding reels.

“Did you get it all?”

“Yes sir.”

“For all the damn good it’ll do us,” Buckner growled. “Keep it to yourself, will you? I wouldn’t like it bandied about Washington that I let three doddering old playboys make an ass out of me.”

“What now, Colonel?”

“The purpose of this little quiz session was to pry Danilov’s plan out of them. It didn’t work. There’s one more thing to try. Pack us up, Hawkes, we’re going to England.”

PART FIVE:

November 1941

1.

The pale disc of the sun was vague in the grey November sky. In the distance beyond the woods he saw the Dakotas going over, vomiting jumpers toward the fifty-foot target circle. Alex watched the jumps as he ran.

The runway was 4,800 feet long and they were running three laps today. Going into the third lap ahead of Solov’s company of troops he felt the pull of the stiffened muscle of the bullet-pinked leg.

Breathing to run: let it all out, open the mouth wide, pull in as much as the lungs can hold—and hold it there for three strides; then expel it and do it again. It had taken him two weeks of running to get his wind back but now he had the rhythm and hardly noticed the weight of the combat pack on his shoulders.

It was more of a dogtrot than a run—you didn’t sprint for two and a half miles—but they were eating up the ground at a good clip and there weren’t any stragglers. Solov ran along at the rear of the column, keeping them bunched up, running the way he walked—with a pronounced roll, as if each leg almost collapsed before the other took his weight. Now and then he would yell at them; he began yelling in earnest when they got toward the end of the lap and the company put on a burst of effort and came tumbling off the tarmac onto the grass around Alex. A good many of them were hardly out of breath.

Solov gathered them in close-order formation and marched them across the runway to where their rifles were stacked in neat pyramids, muzzles skyward. They shouldered their arms and marched quick-time into the woods to the bayonet field and Alex charged with them, roaring in his chest, heaving the deadly spear into the dummies and yanking it out and rushing on to the next.

After bayonet drill the company sprawled on the grass and Alex went around talking to them individually. “How do you feel, soldier?”

“Very well, sir. Thank you.”

He went on. There was a young man—one of the very few who had joined the regiment since the Finland campaigns-sitting on the ground cleaning his bayonet. Alex stopped by him. “Keep your seat, Zurov. How do you like the training?”

“Sometimes it gets a little boring, sir. But I know we need it.” Zurov’s unformed face did not yet contain the lines that made a whole human being.

“You find the bayonet drill boring?”

“Oh not that, sir. It’s rather fun. Bayoneting straw dummies is only playing a harmless game, after all.”

Alex nodded and moved on to the next: “Everything all right, soldier?”

Solov came across the grass toward him, head and shoulders rolling. “They’re nearly ready, General.”

“Yes, I think they are.” Alex turned his shoulder to the others and went on in a lower voice. “You’ll have to wash Zurov out.”

“Zurov? He’s one of the brightest youngsters we’ve had in years.”

“He thinks of bayonet drill as a harmless game, Solov. Those who recognize that are the ones who have trouble facing the real thing—when the time comes to put his knife in a man he’ll hesitate.”

“Very well sir. I’ll have him assigned to orderly duties.”

“You’ve got eight minutes to move them to the hand-to-hand course. Better get them on their feet now.”

He walked away from the company in a mild gloom of depression. You had to thank God there were still men like Zurov—and when it came to the practice of war you had to give them the back of your hand.

Spaight came batting into the hangar office at half-past four. “Damn good. I only had six jumpers outside the target circle the last go.”

“That’s six too many, John.”

“It’s better than last week—and next week will be better than this one.”

“It’s going to have to be. We’re pulling out in twenty-one days.”

In the evening Alex watched Major Postsev and Prince Felix rehearse the men on Red Army regulations and behavior. One by one the men had to recite their false identities, the “friends” they had in the Seventeenth Red Army Division on the Finland border, the official reasons why they were traveling detached duty. It wasn’t only to get them in; it was a drill designed to get them out as well—if the operation went sour. It was the only way Alex knew to set it up: he wasn’t sending them in unless the back door remained open for them to escape if they had to. There would be tremendous risks for them but at least they had to be given the chance.

At half-past eleven when he left the hangar they were still at it. He walked out through the gate and along to the cottage and let himself in wearily. Corporal Cooper sat in the parlor drinking tea, watching the clock and the warm red tubes of the shortwave transceiver.

Alex went through to the back of the house. Sergei was in the kitchen—standing guard, stiffly zealous of Irina, unwilling to leave her alone in the house with Cooper. It amused Alex a little: she was capable of turning men like Cooper into quivering jelly if it suited her; she was in no danger from that quarter. But it wouldn’t do to belittle Sergei’s loyalty.

She was curled up asleep. In her hand were the coded notepad sheets for the night’s communiqué. He slipped them carefully out of her grip without waking her and retreated to the front of the house and handed the sheets to Cooper.

“Bit of a long message tonight, in’t it sir.”

It was long but there wasn’t much time left for his conversations with Vlasov. Actually the real danger was at Vlasov’s end—it wasn’t much risk for Vlasov to receive long communications but it put him in great danger to have to send long ones because they gave Beria’s direction-finders more time to zero in on the location of the illicit shortwave broadcaster. For the past six weeks Vlasov had taken the precaution of recording his transmissions on wire and attaching the wire-recorder to the transmitter so that if it were discovered he wouldn’t be there at the time. Every third or fourth night—they communicated at those intervals—he had to move the transmitter or set up a new one and his irritability was becoming more and more obvious even through the obstacles of codes and Morse key. Alex had found it necessary to bolster him with encouragements: It will be over soon, that sort of thing.

“Should we get the madame up, sir?”

“No. She’s been working around the clock on this. I’ll decode the answer myself—it won’t be a long one tonight.”

It was in fact a very short one. It was not a response to his own broadcast; that would have to wait three days till after Vlasov had decoded Alex’s message and encoded his own reply. This was an eighty-second transmission which took Alex forty-five minutes to decode because he wasn’t nearly as practiced at it as Irina was. When he had it sorted out on his desk the message had a special importance.

KOLLIN X KOLLIN X FINAL CONSPIRATOR APPREHENDED X INTERROGATIONS HAVE REVEALED MUNICH CONNECTION GERMANS AND RUSSIANS X NETWORK SMASHED X STEEL BEAR DOUBLE STILL MISSING BUT WE ARE IN THE CLEAR X FIELD TRIALS REAFFIRMED FOR FRIDAY FIFTH X HOPE FOR OUR SUCCESS X KOLLIN X CARNEGIE

2.

The smell of her talc was faint in the room. He fell gently onto the bed and into a sleep as swift as that of a marathon hiker who’d slipped his pack. When he came awake there was a vague recollection of a dream in which Vassily Devenko had been charging at him on horseback at the head of a thousand thundering Tatar Cossacks, their karakul hats bobbing in the dust, Krenk rifles spitting, Vassily’s saber flashing in the air.

It was still dark and Irina breathed evenly in sleep. He armed the sweat from his face and lay eyes up in the dark with no idea whether it was one or six in the morning. He saw Vassily at the head of the mess table laughing at something he’d just said to a Polish cavalry major. Vassily was talking about the Polish army and the German army—how Poland would mop up the battlegrounds with German bodies if Hitler were fool enough to attack. It was one of those moments Alex never forgot—a spark that glowed brighter whenever it was touched by the wind of association: the grey rain now beating against the invisible window, a certain taste in the back of his throat that might have been left there by the wine he’d had with supper. Beside him at the officers’ mess table a Polish captain had kept shifting the knife and fork at his place, lining them up along various parallels. Alex remembered the captain’s eyes: drab and uneasy while Vassily drummed on about squashing the Wehrmacht.

He was a bloody fool, he thought. Vassily Devenko the hero of Sebastopol. Well he’d acquitted himself superbly when it called for tenacity and horseback dash: a brave indifference to losses, the cruel Russian battering-ram conception of martial excellence. Vassily the electric, Vassily the magnetic. They’d all have followed him blindly through Hell: the high handsome face, the white mane, the great thundering voice that called them on to fight and win. But these things were only half of leadership. Vassily’s flair and his grand ambitions hadn’t been matched by tactical realism and that had been his flaw. In the end he was a bloody fool.

Then why the intense feeling that he had to have Vassily’s approval?

He still needed that: he needed to have Vassily speak to him in his dreams, he needed to hear Vassily say It’s brilliant—you have my admiration. But instead Vassily came pounding at him on horseback lofting his saber with merciless rage.

He turned on his side; he touched her hip and withdrew his hand, still jealous of Vassily, uncertain in the darkness, afraid.

The day had its little crises—a C-47 came in from the chute drop and blew a tire and ground-looped on the runway but it didn’t crack up; Calhoun groused about the dwindling supply of spare tires. Then one of the Russian-made 9mm tommy-guns malfunctioned and burst on the target line and the corporal had to be taken to the dispensary to have metal splinters dug out of his hand. One of Solov’s men twisted his ankle on the afternoon jump. At four Alex walked down toward the hard-stands to have a look at the high-octane supply; Calhoun groused about that too.

When Alex walked back toward the hangar he saw a dark green car move past on the road beyond the fence. It drew his attention because it moved too slowly. It stopped about eighty yards beyond the gate: the driver got out and lifted the right-hand flap of the engine bonnet to look inside. It was just a bit coincidental having a breakdown right across the road from the fence and the runway. Too far away to get an impression of the driver’s face. The car was a Daimler with a long snout and coupé coachwork. The driver’s back was hunched; he was reaching into the engine compartment and fiddling but it was quite possible he was looking at the base under his arm. Alex turned his line of march toward the gate.

The two sentries came to atttention and Alex said, “One of you hike up there and see if you can help him on his way.” But then the driver buckled the flap down and climbed back into the car and smoke spurted from the pipes when the engine caught. The Daimler moved away—quite slowly.

“If anyone else stops move them along.”

“Yes sir.”

The publican brought their steaks and Irina dimmed the little kerosene lamp on the table. Through the doorway there was a lusty racket from the saloon bar. The velvet blackout curtains made the room stuffy; smoke hung against the low ceiling. It seemed to affect her eyes but she went on puffing at the Du Maurier. No one else was dining in the room. The walls were cluttered with the obligatory gimcracks—copper mugs, shotguns, a pair of flintlock pistols, emblems of highland regiments, photographs of hunting dogs and golfers in plus fours. Logs burned cozily on the hearth opposite their table.

Silence separated them. It was only in public formalities that she was capable of pretending an emotion she didn’t feel. They cut up the Angus beef and ate it. Finally the awkwardness got too much for her. “What’s the matter, darling?” A new Du Maurier; he struck the match for her.

“Getting close to the time, I suppose. Tense—you can’t help it.”

“That’s not all of it. You used to look like this when—”

“When what?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a happy look. You know, darling, it’s not hard to hide something but it can be very hard to hide that you’ve got something to hide.”

“What do you suppose I’m hiding?”

“Whatever it is it’s got to do with me—with us.”

When he didn’t reply to that she said, “I suppose it’s still Vassily.”

“Perhaps it is. I had a dream about him—he was riding me down with a Cossack horde.”

“You feel you’ve betrayed him, don’t you?”

“It’s damned foolish of me. But he might have made this work. His plan. The odds were against it—more than they are with mine—but he might have done it. It was possible.”

“And he might have made me happy, isn’t that it? Part of it?”

He brooded at her hand—smoke curling from the cigarette in her fingers on the table. Irina said, “Odd that we always seem concerned for other people’s happiness. We want to make one another happy but we don’t seek happiness for ourselves—it’s too illusory. It isn’t what you want, is it? To be happy?”

“I don’t suppose it is. I haven’t thought about it.”

Then it was as if she changed the subject: “Vassily wasn’t cold. But he couldn’t love. His heart was too acquisitive—he had too much ambition. It’s a thing of the self, it doesn’t make room to let other people in. He was the same with both of us, you and me—he wanted our loyalty, our good opinion; he wanted to be admired.”

“I think we all do.”

“To the point of obsession?”

“Vassily was clever—he was shrewd, cunning. But he didn’t have good sense.” He wasn’t sure why he said that.

She said abruptly, “It might be a good idea if you tried to stop thinking of him as if he’d been your father. You’ve put yourself in an impossible position. You thought of him paternally but he thought of you as a dangerous rival. If he were alive he’d never grant you his approval, you know that. He was jealous of you—more afraid of you than you were of him.”

“Why?”

“Because he knew you had adaptability and compassion. I think he always knew you’d overtake him. He tried to keep you down with his thumb. When you broke with him and went to America he wasn’t heartbroken; he was afraid.”

She thrust her chair back. “It’s something for you to think about, Alex. If he’d lived he’d have had to end up subordinating himself to you.”

He held her coat for her. “Button up—it’s a cold night.”

“I’m a Russian woman.” She left the fur collar open against her shoulders.

He seated her in the Austin and went around to take the wheel. Pale ribbons of light from the slitted blackout headlamps threw a meager illumination across the dark wet paving. The engine ran a little rough—perhaps the plugs were burnt; perhaps it was only the chill. He adjusted the choke and made the turns up through Inverness.

There was a car in the mirror: it kept a steady distance. There weren’t many legitimate places for a vehicle to be going at this time of night under blacked-out curfew conditions. His muscles tightened, knuckles going pale on the wheel.

Irina turned around to look back. After a while they were on the open high road and she said, “I think it’s a Daimler coupé.”

It began to close the gap as they left the town behind—easing closer at a steady rate. The road ran up through swinging bends to a plateau inland from the sea; then it would be a reasonably flat run through eight miles of coastal plain to the gate of the base. The trouble was he wasn’t sure enough of the road to have a full-out run at it in the dark; in any case the Daimler was a far more powerful car and if they meant to run him off the road he couldn’t prevent their overtaking him.

He said, “Let me have the revolver,” He’d left it under the passenger seat when they’d gone in to dine; it was nervy enough being a Russian officer here, it wouldn’t do to walk into a public house festooned with weaponry.

He held his left hand out palm up and she fitted the hand gun into it; they were nearly at the top of the bends. “Slide down in the seat.”

“Perhaps I should have the gun while you’re driving.”

“Can you use it?”

“Not very well. I could make noise with it.”

“Let’s make sure who they are first.”

“We can’t race them in this little car.”

“I know,” he said. “We’ll do the opposite. Duck down now, Irina.”

He remembered the Daimler coupé that had stopped outside the fence this afternoon. Too much coincidence. He laid his thumb across the revolver’s hammer and slid forward on the seat until he could only just see over the wheel. The Austin chugged over the top onto the flats in third; he kept it in third and kept the speed down to twenty-five. The slitted lights of the Daimler bobbed over the crest and slid forward in the mirror, sinister and disembodied in the night. Alex crowded over against the left-hand edge of the road; the Austin whined along with a slight list because of the road’s crown. Irina had a graceless posture, far down and sitting on the back of her neck. He was sure she was smiling at the ludicrousness of it. He dropped the stick into second and let the Austin coast with the clutch all the way to the floor; the speedometer needle dropped toward fifteen and the Daimler came along quickly, pulling out to the right to go by. “Keep your head down now.”

It gave the Daimler several options but it was no good anticipating which the Daimler would choose; he was as prepared for any of them as he could be. When the nose of the car drew even with his eye he ducked all the way below the sill and touched the brake gently because this would be the time they’d fire and his braking might throw off their aim.

The bullet caromed off something in front of him and slid away with a sobbing sound; the Daimler roared away ahead.

He straightened to see through the windscreen. There was a silver slash across the painted metal two feet beyond the glass. The Daimler was fishtailing with acceleration but it might be trying to gain a little distance before slewing across the road and blocking him: so Alex simply stopped the car.

Irina began to sit up but he said, “Stay down.” He shifted the revolver to his right hand and put it out the window.

But the Daimler sped right on away, its single red taillight reappearing on a farther incline and then being absorbed into the night.

She sat up and adjusted her coat. “Wasn’t that rather pointless?”

“I don’t know.”

“If they meant us real harm they certainly behaved halfheartedly. To say the least.”

“They may be waiting for us. Up the road.”

But it was the road he had to take. After ten minutes he put the Austin in gear.

Now he went fast because if they’d set up an ambush he didn’t want to give them time for a clear shot. He got the Austin up to fifty and held it there in fourth; he couldn’t go much faster because the narrow road had sudden turns between the stone walls of the Scottish farms. Irina held the revolver and he used both hands on the wheel. He went into the turns fast and came out of them slow because they might have chosen a blind spot to wedge the Daimler across the road.

“Did you see their faces at all?”

“No. But it was only one man—the driver.”

“Strange,” she said. “I wasn’t frightened then. Now look at me, I can’t stop shaking.”

The Daimler was gone. He had to stop at the gate and be recognized by sentries and then he drove straight to the hangar and trotted to the phone inside: he got an outside line and rang through to Coastal Patrol. He had a piece of luck: MacAndrews was still in his office.

“It’s a Daimler coupé, dark green, with a closed rumble seat. I couldn’t make out the plate number but it’s heading southeast—it can’t be more than ten miles from here.”

“I’ll ring up the constabularies down that way. Afraid I can’t promise too much you know—it might have turned off anywhere.”

“I’d like to ask that driver a few questions. But tell them to treat him with care—he’s got a gun. Probably a pistol since he used it one-handed from the car.”

“We’ll stop him if we can. Sorry about this, General—rotten hospitality, isn’t it.”

He cradled it and swiveled in the chair to find Irina in the door with one shoulder tipped against the jamb. She looked oddly young: her face was flushed, her slack pose a bit ungainly, like that of a young girl ready to sprawl. “Take me to bed, darling.”

3.

The Bentley dropped Anatol at the curb and went in search of a parking space while Ivanov’s manservant carried Anatbl’s overnight bag into the house.

The diminutive Baron was in a rage because shrapnel from a five-hundred-pounder had chipped a corner off his house. It had razed the house two doors away but that wasn’t what angered him. “You simply can’t get that sort of cornice work done any more for any price. It can never be restored. It’s time to put a stop to this Hitlerian nonsense.”

“Yes well I suppose we are all doing our bit about that.”

But Ivanov went on with his invective until he recognized how silly it was; finally he dragged a palm across the bald peak of his skull and went in search of a cigar. When he returned he had restored his composure. “I know it is petty. But one resents such a thing as if it were a personal affront. War should be a matter for soldiers and battlefields.”

Anatol selected a chair. “What have you to tell me?”

“Nothing good. I have not been able to persuade Zurich to support us.”

Anatol kept his face straight but his words were bitten off. “They are fools.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps they are only apolitical men doing their duty. It is their responsibility to safeguard the Romanov fortunes regardless of what happens, regardless of who wins wars. If they were to back the Devenko plan it would require that the Romanov capital be depleted by vast sums. They have measured the risks and found them too dangerous. They are prudent men.”

“Then we have no alternative but to support Alex Danilov.”

“Yes—because he’s acceptable to the Allies. We have no other source of funds but the Allies now.”

“I detest being beholden to them.”

“If we succeed in Moscow we can repudiate them at our leisure,” Ivanov murmured.

“Perhaps. But what’s to prevent them from withdrawing their support at any moment?”

“One can only be optimistic about that.” Ivanov stared bitterly at a great jagged crack in the plaster ceiling. “The American Colonel has been in London for ten days. He finally obtained an interview with Churchill. Now I understand he is on his way to Scotland to be with General Danilov. Does that sound like the behavior of a man who is about to withdraw support?”

“Buckner is a nervous man. He jumps at shadows.”

“Then all we can do is try to keep him calm.”

“I don’t like it,” Anatol said.

4.

Brigadier Cosgrove showed up in a dreary overcast with Colonel Glenn Buckner in tow. Buckner looked the same and it disconcerted Alex; somehow you expected people to look different in new surroundings but the American looked exactly the same as he’d looked in Washington the first time they’d met: he even wore the same bulky blue flannel suit. Alex was surprised to realize it had been only about eleven weeks since that first meeting.

Buckner was ebullient. “I hear you’ve been working miracles up here.”

Cosgrove had with him an enormous case which must have weighed eighty pounds but he’d refused to allow anyone else to carry it off the plane. Now with his one arm he heaved it up onto Alex’s desk and undid the fasteners one at a time and flipped the lid back. The case was filled with stacks of identical manila envelopes. “Your men’s papers—the forgeries. We had the devil’s own time getting it done this quickly. You’d better have a close look—they seem all right to the chaps in my office but of course they’re not going to have to use them. You’ll know what to look for.”

“We’ll go over them tonight.” Alex peeled one of them open and shuffled through the cards and badges and oddments of paper. “I’m deeply grateful—it was fast work.”

“Nonsense old boy. Had to be done—you did a good job convincing me of that.”

Buckner said, “You’re looking damned fit for a man who got shot at again.”

“Shot at. Not shot up.”

“You were wounded the first time. I feel like I ought to grovel—I was supposed to have tight security on you.”

“No real harm done,” Alex said.

“Any clues this time?”

“No. We found the car they’d used. Abandoned, no useful fingerprints. It had been stolen in Glasgow a day earlier.” Alex went around behind the desk. “I suppose I’d better ask why we’re being honored by this distinguished delegation.”

Buckner looked around the room as if it had fascinating decor. “You’re getting close to jump-off point. My boss asked me to be on the scene.”

“You won’t be going in with us. There won’t be much for you to see.”

Buckner shrugged. “You know how it is.”

Cosgrove hadn’t taken a seat. He scratched the stump of his arm through his shirt—he seemed to have a perpetual itch there. “I’ll push off then. I only wanted to be sure those papers reached you. Didn’t want to trust them to anyone else’s care.”

Buckner stood up. “Thanks for the lift, Brigadier.”

“No trouble at all.”

When the brigadier had gone Buckner went to the door and shut it and went back to his seat. “Now then.”

“What are you really here for, Glenn?”

“To throw a potential monkey wrench in your plans.”

A chill ran through him; he made his voice hard. “Would you like to explain that?”

“That’s what it’s going to take. Explaining. Have you got a few minutes?”

“I’ve got to, haven’t I.”

Buckner shifted—slumped down in the chair. “Have you been watching the dispatches from Russia?”

“I’ve seen the papers.”

“The press tends to put things in the best light. Just the same you must have got the drift. Moscow’s been in a panic. The streets alive with looters—Stalin’s had to impose Draconian regulations to restore order.”

Alex watched the American’s face. The gloomy voice droned on:

“This wasn’t in the press. A few weeks ago Stalin asked Churchill and Roosevelt to send troops.”

Alex knew that—from Vlasov. He said nothing.

Buckner looked up. “Can you imagine what it must have cost him to make that request? Asking us to send our armies to fight on Russian soil? He wants thirty Allied combat divisions.” He stabbed the arm of the wooden chair with his forefinger: “That’s how unreliable he thinks his own army is.”

“He brought it on himself.”

“Sure. Okay. A few weeks ago he ordered the marshaling yards cleared at the Kazan Station—it’s the only Moscow depot still in operation. He cleared the yards so he could load dozens of trains with the records and personnel of the Soviet Union’s ministries and agencies. Most of them have been evacuated to the Kuybyshev—most of the commissars and functionaries and government departments. Stalin’s moved his headquarters totally into the command bunkers under the Kremlin. In Moscow right now the only top people left with Stalin are Beria, Malenkov, Zhukov, Molotov, Vlasov, Dekanozov and General Novikov—he’s their air force chief.

“In the meantime all these evacuations out to the east have interrupted the flow of those Siberian divisions into the battle sector. Moscow’s been hanging by its fingernails. A week ago Stalin had a conference underground in the Kremlin to analyze the situation. It’s pretty bleak. The Germans are on the God damned doorstep. They’ve made holes in the Mozhaisk Line—the panzer columns are within twenty-five miles of Moscow and there are spots where they’ve actually got German tanks inside the outskirts of the city.

“Once Moscow falls the ball game’s over, Alex. It’s like London or Paris—the center of everything. Railroads, telephone, telegraph, highways. Take Moscow and you’ve got European Russia.”

Alex took his time responding. “You’re afraid the Germans are going to beat us to it.”

“They may. Then again they may not. That could be just as bad for you.”

“I don’t follow that.”

“Didn’t think you would. It goes like this. It’s snowing in Moscow now. It’s snowing in Leningrad. It’s even snowing down in the Ukraine. That’s the Russian element—winter.”

“It’ll stall the Germans,” Alex said. “We’ve counted on that.”

“Well the Germans have given Stalin a lot of help let me tell you. Hitler’s turned out to be a God damned stupid fool after all.”

“You’re talking about the atrocities now.”

“I sure am. He’s defeating himself where Stalin couldn’t have done it in a hundred years. They’ve been slaughtering civilians. Butchering Jews. Maiming little kids, raping Russian women. They’re teaching the Russians how to hate Nazis. They didn’t hate them before. They threw flowers at the Wehrmacht. But then the second echelon came in—the SS exterminators—and the word’s got out across the country. Hitler’s lost the support he had in Russia. He’s given the Red Army what they never had before. They’ve found the guts to fight.

“That pitiful God damned horse cavalry of Budyenny’s been stopping panther tanks in their tracks. It’s hard to believe but there it is.”

“I’m not getting your point,” Alex said.

“The point is, old son, if Stalin can hold the Germans all by himself then the Allies don’t need you.”

Alex contrived a hard smile. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“Can’t I?”

“You’re saying you can’t use us if Stalin loses and you don’t need us if he wins. The same conditions obtained when we started all this. Nothing’s changed.”

“You’re wrong. The whole—”

“Stalin isn’t whipping them,” Alex said, riding right over him. “He’s only doing a bit better than he was before. He’s had time to get over the surprise—he’s had time to bring in a million troops from Siberia and the SS has given him some help with his morale. Naturally the German advance has slowed down—their supply lines are long and it’s the dead of winter up there. So the Germans will sit in their trenches until spring and then they’ll finish the job—unless Russia’s got the kind of leadership the country will follow.”

Buckner was shaking his head. “You don’t get this yet. The United States is gearing up for war. We’re too late and too slow because we’ve still got too many fools in Congress but we’re going to be in it—maybe six months from now, maybe a year. You’ve got to see it from the President’s point of view. What we need is whatever gives us the best odds that Hitler won’t nail down a quick victory. After the next twelve to eighteen months we’ll be able to handle it.”

“And?”

“We’re bound to support whatever forces offer the best chances of keeping Hitler off balance. Any interest we take in Russian internal politics is purely a secondary matter. The war takes precedence. And if Stalin proves he can hold the Germans to their present lines then we’d be fools to rock the boat by trying to overthrow the people who are containing Hitler for us.

“As of right now we’re still supporting you. It could change. If I get orders from Washington between now and the time you people go in, I’m going to have to scrub your operation.”

Buckner attempted a smile that was evidently intended to be reassuring. “Look, we’re in a position of luxury. We’re not in the war. We can play with it from a distance—we can still take the chance with you. It would be different if we were in the war, say, or if Stalin managed to wipe out Guderian’s army in the next ten days. Or if Hitler took Moscow. It isn’t all that likely to happen, is it, but if it does you’ve got to be ready to stand down. Understand?”

It had taken a great effort of will for the Americans to get off the mark in the first place: it was always easier to deal with the devil you knew; even if Roosevelt didn’t like Stalin at least he though he knew how to treat with him. The Whites were an unknown quantity to Washington and the President was prepared to deal with them only so long as he had time to feel out their intentions. If the lines around Moscow remained static it might not risk too much to have a sudden replacement of the Moscow regime—but if something else should change the picture then Washington no longer would have the latitude to risk upsetting everything.

But Alex had no intention of scrubbing the program. Nobody was going to stop it now—not Roosevelt and not Hitler and certainly not a nervous War Department colonel.

What he said was, “We’ll just have to hope nothing changes the status quo in the next couple of weeks, won’t we.”

“I suppose we do at that.” Buckner could be trusted not to be trusted: it was a form of understanding.

“You filled Churchill in. You owe us the same courtesy.” Buckner let it hang in the air and when it elicited no response he said, “Somebody took a shot at you in Boston. Somebody took another shot at you just a few days ago. Suppose the next one doesn’t miss? What happens to this operation?”

“The operation goes ahead on schedule. With me or without.”

“Then you’ve briefed your subordinates?”

“No.”

“Now I call that double-talk, Alex.”

“It’s like a blackmail scheme,” Alex told him. “The plan’s written down—every detail. In a safe place. If something happens to me it’s delivered into the hands of the White Russian coalition. They can select my successor and proceed with the minimum delay.”

Buckner said, “For Christ’s sake.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Is that any way to run a military operation? Jesus Christ.”

“Come on Glenn. Spit it out.”

“You’ve given us the overall plan. Grudgingly but you’ve told us. Your dispatch a month ago pretty much covered as much as you wanted to let us see. You’re going to draw the Soviet High Command out of the Kremlin and hit them from the air and take over communications and headquarters on the ground. Now I want the God damned details and I’m not stepping out of this room until I’ve got them.”

“Then you’d better make yourself comfortable.”

“Is that a flat refusal?”

“Not at all. But you’ll spend the better part of the next week in this room before you find out anything from me. I’ll spell out the whole design for you when I’m ready to. It’ll be well in advance of our D-day. But it won’t be today and it won’t be tomorrow.”

Buckner blinked. “You know sometimes I think I’d have got more cooperation out of that bastard Vassily Devenko.”

“You might have.”

“I could pull your airplanes out right now, Alex.”

“No. Not while this thing has a chance of working. Don’t make threats you can’t carry out—it doesn’t help either of us.”

Buckner stood up abruptly. “You got a place to billet me where I’ll be out of the way?”

“We’ll find something.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a thing.”

He sent Sergei off with Buckner and went back into the office. Sensations of trouble rubbed against him. Buckner acted the fool but some of it was sham; he was cleverer than he seemed. He was Roosevelt’s running dog and if he received instructions to interfere actively he’d be an antagonist to reckon with—it would be unwise to be disarmed by his blustering buffoonery. He had to be handled with extreme caution. He had to be told the plan; he had to be told soon enough to reassure him and late enough to prevent him doing anything about it.

String him along, he thought—Just keep stringing him along. And hope Buckner didn’t tumble to it too soon.

5.

On the twenty-fourth the political echelon of the Russian Liberation Coalition arrived on the tarmac and Alex was on the field to meet them with his officers—a welcoming party from which Irina detached herself to make her private greetings to her father.

The contingent numbered twenty-eight White Russian dignitaries; most of them were of noble birth. There were two Princes—old Michael from Zurich and the Coalition’s leader, Prince Leon; Felix in his dress-whites made a third prince. There were five counts, Anatol among them, and seven Barons including Oleg Zimovoi and the diminutive Yuri Ivanov who would be the new government’s Minister of Finance. General Savinov was in the party, red-faced and redolent of gin. There was one sixty-seven-year-old Admiral who had once commanded the Black Sea Fleet; and an assortment of well-dressed men most of whose faces he knew—the administrators and specialists who would take over key functions in the Russian bureaucracy.

Alex was alarmed by Prince Leon’s appearance. The old man had lost a great deal of weight. The hands dangled from his sleeves and his skin had gone the hue of veal. His movements were uncertain: he prodded the tarmac with his cane and hesitated before he put his weight on it. His weary eyes were shattered by bloodshot lines but when he came before Alex he straightened up and stabbed a finger forcefully into the air by way of greeting; and he beamed.

He’d sent the unsuspecting Buckner out to observe field training for the day. The hangar was cleared and the visitors arranged themselves on the benches; Felix joined Alex at the podium and after a suitable interval of chatter Alex brought the assemblage to order.

“We’ll be going over your individual duties in detail in the next few days with each of you. In the meantime I’ll outline the general scope of things.

“We leave here in four days’ time in eight aircraft. Our destination is a landing field on the Finnish mainland. Several of you have been in consultation with the Finnish government and I’ve made a few specific arrangements of my own. As you know the diplomatic situation’s confused because Finland is at war with the Soviets again. The Finns are no longer neutral—they’re a belligerent power. The Allies have severed formal relations with Helsinki but they won’t declare war on Finland unless the Finns enter a pact with Hitler, which seems unlikely at the moment—the Finns don’t want any part of Hitler, they only want to get back the ground they lost to Russia two years ago. Part of our arrangement is that when we’ve taken power we’re to cede that territory back to Finland. In return for that pledge the Finns are supporting this operation.

“The Soviet leaders will be on a certain train at a certain time. We know the train’s schedule—we know where to find it at a given time. We intend to stop the train by bombing it from the air. Then our ground troops will administer the coup de grâce. We’ll have Stalin’s corpse to prove we’ve done the job.”

He had to wait for the taut murmur to die away; then he went on:

“The Nazis control the approaches to the Baltic Sea. So we’ve got to carry everything with us by air. Our bombers will fly with full bomb-loads and auxiliary fuel tanks and we’ll have to stuff the transports to their maximum weight limits. For that reason I ask that you leave behind anything that isn’t absolutely vital.

“The operation—code name Steel Bear—is scheduled to take off from the Finland airstrip on a date you’ll know well in advance. The flight plan requires a nonstop flight to a target of approximately one thousand kilometers—six hundred miles—not a tough run for these planes. We’re timing our approach to coincide with the arrival of Stalin’s train at the target point. Of course it may be a bit late—they’ve had to clear the rails of snow every day for the past two weeks—but we’re prepared to circle the target area until the train appears. There’s ample fuel for that. If our bombers are challenged by Red fighters they’ll respond with the proper Red Air Force recognition code for that day.

“Our first-echelon of parachute commandos will have taken off twelve hours previously. The parachute drop will have been made by night into fields as close as possible to the target areas assigned to each team. There are a half dozen teams. One key target is the wireless transmitter towers on the Moscow-Noginsk road—they’ve become the center for outgoing transmissions since the towers on the west of Moscow were bombed by the Luftwaffe and the Nazis cut the western telephone networks. The telephone lines to the east are wired through a subsidiary central switchboard on the Noginsk line; that switchboard is the target of Major Solov’s team of paratroops. Both the switchboard and the wireless transmitter station are piped into the Kremlin. By taking these two points we cut the Kremlin off from contact with units outside Moscow, and we inform those in the Kremlin of the coup d’état.

“As some of you know we’ve been working with the assistance of a man inside the Kremlin. He’s a member of the General Staff, I can reveal that much. He will be ready to join us at the communications center the moment we have captured it and confirmed the death of the Soviet leaders. The general and I will announce that we’ve jointly taken command of the military forces of Russia.

“Major Postsev’s team will secure the Krivoy airfield, the nearest field to Moscow that’s in use at present. Prince Felix will land there after having bombed the train. He will proclaim the liberation. We’ll warn the Red Army commanders in the Kremlin that if they don’t join us we’ll cut off their communications—they’d lose control of their armies and the Germans would be able to take Moscow in a matter of hours; they’ll have little choice.

“Our advance line of combat personnel will move into the Kremlin wearing Red uniforms. According to plan this should take place approximately twelve hours after the bombing of Stalin’s train. Prince Felix will arrive in the Kremlin when it’s secured and the lines of communication then will be restored. By this time your echelon will be airborne en route to Moscow. You’ll be driven from the Krivoy airfield to the Kremlin. In this manner we expect to provide continuity in governmental administration with an interruption too short to allow the Nazis to take advantage of it.

“Most of the Soviet departments have been evacuated to the Kuybyshev but Red Army headquarters remains in Moscow and that’s our key. Once we have control of the armies the other departments must fall into line. Within a few days many of you will travel on to the Kuybyshev to assume control of your agencies. There will be revolutionary resistance and partisans to contend with—it can’t be helped—but the German threat will guarantee our success. We’re presenting them with an ultimatum and they’ll have no time to organize resistance; they’ll have the simple choice—go along or go under.

“That sums up the operational plan. We’re ready for questions now.”

6.

He looked up from the desk and Buckner was there, leaning casually in the doorway with one stiff arm up against the jamb. “Well?”

“Pack your things, Glenn. We’re moving out.”

“Not without filling me in first.”

“Happy to. Take a seat while I finish this.” He went back to the assignment rosters.

When he looked up Buckner was sitting there with his hands folded across his flat belly. The picture of wry patience.

It was nearly noon. In Washington it would be about seven in the morning. Alex said, “You’ve been communicating with Washington nearly every day.”

“Sure.”

“Using the Navy shortwave from Scapa Flow, right?”

“You got it.” Buckner smiled a little. “I thought I had a tail the past few days.”

“You’re lucky I let you off the base at all.”

“Okay so you’ve found out my deep dark secret, Hell if you’d asked me I’d have told you. I’m the President’s boy, Alex—I got to keep in touch with the home office.”

“If I’d had objections to it you’d have heard them long before now.” Alex pushed his seat back. “We’re taking off this afternoon, Glenn. Shortwave only works at night. You won’t have a chance to talk to Washington before we go.”

He saw the impact of it and he went right on before Buckner could work up the anger to respond. “I promised to spell out the plan for you and I’m going to keep the promise right now. It happens the transatlantic cable was cut last week by an American depth-charge attack on a U-boat; otherwise I’d have strung you along until takeoff. But there’s no telephone to Washington now. Next week they’ll have the cable repaired again, won’t they. Fortunes of war, Glenn.”

“You’re a clever bastard.”

“Sure I am. Now there’s a string attached to what I’m about to tell you.”

“What string?”

“You’re going with us as far as our forward base. It’s in Finland.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’m glad you feel like that. You won’t be able to communicate with Washington at all until we’ve accomplished the mission. My radio people have strict orders to keep you away from all wireless gear.”

Buckner took it stoically. “Thanks heaps—pal.”

“Don’t try to make any phone calls, Glenn. I’ve had the outside line disconnected. Nobody communicates off the base without my authorization.”

“Thought of everything, haven’t you.”

“I always had a fair head for security,” he murmured, “Nobody’s sabotaging this operation now. Nobody.”

Buckner did a strange thing. He nodded and smiled. “If I were in your shoes I’d do exactly the same thing. I had my orders, Alex—but in the gut I’m on your side. I want to see you people pull this thing off. I remember Moscow under Joe Stalin—you know how it is. Now let’s hear the plan. Just for the hell of it.”

7.

It was a motley flotilla: three massive B-17S, three American Dakota transports, two Canadian De Havilland transports. The British Spitfires would pick them up at the coastline and escort them to the limit of their fuel ranges. The remainder of the flight—past the Denmark straits and up the Baltic into Finland—they’d be on their own. The guns of the B-17S were turreted and loaded; belts of ammunition lay gleaming dully of Cosmoline beneath the gunners’ swivel seats. The aircrews assembled on the tarmac and Pappy Johnson walked among them wearing his mustard-collared flying jacket; he was flying right-seat in one of the transports this time but he was still the man they listened to.

“These aircraft are overloaded. I’d like you misters to remember that. You’re flying at maximum gross weight and then some. Do me the kindness of remembering to keep your noses down on the turns, all right? Let’s go then.”

General Sir Edward Muir was there with MacAndrews to see them off; Glenn Buckner and Brigadier Cosgrove were squeezed into the tag-end transport.

Alex sat surrounded by Prince Leon and Count Anatol and Baron Oleg—forced to submit to a pounding barrage of hopes, expectations, fears, questions, arguments. Now and then Irina would go by him or lean out of her seat and he would catch her private signals.

In one way there was good in it. Oleg in his blunt way and Anatol with his sarcasms as dry as wind through autumn oak leaves were challenging his plan by disputing parts of it, questioning others—probing tor vulnerabilities, trying to make holes in it; and he knew if he didn’t have ready answers for every question then he was going to have to make very rapid revisions. There was one form of question he was able to turn aside every time—the What if they, Suppose they sort of question. Those you could rule out for the most part because any battle plan had to take foreseeable contingencies into account and ignore the unlikely ones. A plan had to be made on the basis of the predictability of the enemy’s behavior; if the enemy unaccountably broke the pattern then the plan would fail. Every commander knew that and there wasn’t any way to forestall it.

They crossed the North Sea, droning in formation above an almost continuous sea of cloud. Alex knew it when the RAF fighters turned back after dark but he didn’t remark on it to the others.

The flight plan took them across a corner of Sweden where the Luftwaffe would have to violate neutral airspace to inspect them; the Swedes would be within their rights to force them down but there wasn’t much likelihood of that. Once over the Baltic they were reasonably in the clear. German radar was not nearly on a par with British and what equipment Hitler had was concentrated along the Channel coast; the overcast had been a boon but even if it had been clear the odds would have been with them in the thick night.

The flight was just over eleven hundred miles and would stretch the fuel capacities of the transports, even with their extra tanks. It was a shade more than an eight-hour jump with the bombers restricted to the cruising speed of the Dakotas and De Havillands. They made landfall at seven-fifteen.

PART SIX:

November—December 1941

1.

At seven thousand feet Felix watched a thick layer of stratus coming up beneath the wings; then he was inside it and flying blind, concentrating on instruments.

The chart was printed in mauve ink for easy reading under the cockpit lights. Ulyanov said, “We must be in range of their tower radio by now.”

“Whistle them up then.”

Felix was sweating. Suppose the weather was socked in right down to the ground?

“…Tower. We understand you clearly. Conditions for landing are as follows. Cloud ceiling is at two thousand five hundred meters. Ground visibility is five kilometers or better. We are illuminating both sides of the runway with fire tins. We have a heavy snow lie but the runway has been plowed. Nevertheless ground temperature is minus four degrees centigrade and you must be on guard against thin patches of ice on the runway. This is understood?”

Concentrating on his instruments Felix only nodded and Ulyanov said into the radio, “Visitor flight understands, Kuvola Tower.”

Felix dimmed the cockpit lights to a minimum glow and switched on his landing lights. Snowflakes flashed past thickly in horizontal lines like tracer bullets. The high-wattage beams sliced forward through the snow and a grey tunnel formed behind each whirling propellor. He rubbed misty condensation from the glass and asked Ulyanov if he would care to predict how far off course they would be when they came out under the clouds. Ulyanov said, “I would be guessing, Highness.”

“Guess, then.”

They were out of the snow then but still in cloud and still descending on steady rails through three thousand feet, twenty-five hundred, two thousand. “I think we’re right on the mark, Highness.”

“We’d better be. You’ve been doing the navigating.”

“Yes Highness.”

The altimeter was a dial with a long hand and a short hand like the face of a clock: one for thousands, one for hundreds. The long hand was winding steadily around the dial: nine, eight, seven. The cone beams stabbed ahead and down and were absorbed in the murk. Six, five, and still in clouds. “High air pressure,” Felix said. “The altimeter’s off—keep your eyes open. Gear down—flaps twenty.”

“Kuvola Tower to Visitor flight. We can hear you. You should have us in sight momentarily. Over.”

The altimeter read 1,350 when she broke through under the dark cloud bellies. Ahead and a tack to the right he saw the twin rows of fires stretching toward a single point in perspective. He threw the bomber into a bank and sideslid across the sky to lose altitude. “Flaps forty.”

“Forty?”

“You heard me.” He wanted to hit low and slow; he wanted to touch down right at the near edge of the strip because if there was patch-ice on the tarmac he’d need every foot of space. “Flaps fifty.”

Five hundred feet and the lights were less than a mile ahead. He pushed the nose down and cut power back. “Maximum flaps now, Ulyanov.”

“Yes sir.”

“Tower to Visitor One. You’re coming in low.”

“Visitor to Tower. Any ground obstacles in my way?”

“Tower to Visitor. You are flying over a forest. Tallest trees fifteen to eighteen meters to within forty meters of runway.”

He leveled off when the altimeter read 250; he had to assume it gave him at least a hundred feet of ground clearance. The trees were quite clear under the landing lights now and he could distinguish the individual lights on the landing field—five-gallon drums full of sand soaked with gasoline and afire.

Ninety-five knots. She barely had airway. Pull the nose up even a fraction now and she’d stall dead. But he didn’t want to have to use his brakes any more than he had to. The last tree flashed underneath and he shoved the nose down and held it there for an agonizing eternity and cut the power and hauled the yoke back into his lap and she stalled out just where she was supposed to: came down very hard on her wheels and bounced ten feet in the air and settled down on three points. Felix put his concentration into steering her down the tarmac. She was still making eighty knots and he touched the brakes experimentally: felt them take purchase and stood lightly on them, slowing smoothly.

When she was down to taxi-maneuver speed he still had a quarter of the runway ahead of him and it pleased him. He turned toward the verge and followed the escort van toward the hardstands. Ulyanov said, “My congratulations, Highness.”

“Thank you.”

“You did that exactly as if she were a light craft.”

Ulyanov switched off and they untangled themselves from their equipment and climbed down through the belly hatch.

Bomber Two was making its run at the strip and they stood under the wing watching it come in. There was no wind but the air was sharp and fiercely cold. Felix waved the escort van away; it could pick them up later.

Young Ilya Rostov was flying Bomber Two. He brought her in a little too fast but there was room enough; he hit a little patch-ice and slewed around midway down the field and Felix thought he might ground-loop but Rostov brought the Fort under control and stopped her at the far corner of the strip. The van led Rostov into his parking space behind Felix’s craft and then turned and waited for Bomber Three.

That was Vinsky’s and Vinsky was a cautious pilot: he came in low and slow on full flaps and followed Felix’s example—deliberately stalling out over the end of the runway and dropping hard on his main gear. Bomber Three wasn’t making ninety knots when she landed but the force of the drop burst the great balloon tire on her starboard oleo. The wing tipped down and the portside tires slid on a millimeter of ice and that was the end of Bomber Three: she crashed through the fire-pots and slammed into the bordering trees at seventy miles an hour and burst into a pyre of flames.

2.

“It changes nothing,” Alex said.

“The odds are longer now,” Baron Oleg said, and looked to Prince Leon for confirmation.

Count Anatol Markov said, “For once I agree with Oleg. We should have had more planes.”

“I asked the Americans for six. They said it was out of the question. We were lucky to get three. Actually I was prepared to accept two—the third bomber was always a backup plane. The operational plan calls for two aircraft—one to interdict the railway tracks and halt the train, the second to hit the troop carriages and gun cars before anyone can get out of them.”

“Then we had better not lose either of the remaining bombers, had we,” Anatol said drily.

Their accommodations in the Finnish encampment were primitive: the troops were billeted in field tents with portable coal stoves; there was a mess kitchen but the men had to eat outdoors or carry their meals back to their tents, by which time the food had gone cold. The command echelon was billeted barrack-style in what were ordinarily the pilots’ quarters of a Finnish air squadron. For a full week the temperature did not rise more than two degrees above freezing and most of the time it was well below. Alex and his men were used to it but some of the politicals had become too accustomed to their Mediterranean habitats; Anatol and General Savinov were forever complaining of the cold.

On the crisp nights they could hear the guns from the front thirty miles away. Alex and Corporal Cooper used the air-tower radio equipment to maintain contact with Vlasov in Moscow. There were brief nightly exchanges that could not settle Alex’s unease. He was ready for it—they all were—and the waiting ate away at him like acid even though they kept up a punishing training regimen. His nerves twanged with vibration and he was snappish with Irina, brusque with the politicals, authoritarian with the members of his command, noncommunicative with Cosgrove and Buckner. John Spaight chewed him out for it but he barked right back at his American friend and Spaight went away fuming: they were all on edge—all except ground-crew chief Calhoun who fussed maternally over his remaining airplanes and kept working on them when it seemed clear there was no work left to do. Then on Wednesday Calhoun came to Alex and said, “You’ve got a bad propeller on one of those C-47S, General.”

“What do you mean a bad propeller?”

“Metal fatigue. There’s a hairline crack in one of the blades. It could bust off any time.”

“Can you do anything about it?” Sudden alarm: they’d already lost one aircraft; they couldn’t do without one of the precious transports.

“Sure,” Calhoun drawled. “That’s essentially the same Wright Cyclone engine they’ve got on the B-17S. I already told my boys to take a prop off that one that wrecked in the trees. We’ll have it bolted on by this afternoon. But I thought I’d better tell you about it.”

“Next time see if you can give me the news without inducing cardiac arrest, will you Calhoun?”

On December fourth a daring Russian counterattack broke through the German lines to Shimki and halted the Wehrmacht’s advance on Moscow.

That night it snowed more heavily than before. The Germans were still falling back under attack by fresh Siberian regiments. Radio news broadcasts from Moscow were hearty with gusto: the announcers could not keep the excitement from their voices and there was no doubt this victory was more than mere propaganda.

But the signal that came from Vlasov at half-past eleven that night—when Alex’s transports were filling with troops—was to say that the tank trials had been put off.

A major storm was tracking northeast across Europe at twenty-five knots. It was expected to blow for the next three days in the Moscow area.

The tank trials had been postponed to Monday morning.

3.

Vlasov’s last signal came late Saturday night.

KOLLIN X WEATHER CLEARING X PROJECTION FOR EIGHTH IS CLEAR X SCHEDULE AFFIRMED FOR EIGHTH X WILL NOT SEND AGAIN UNLESS CHANGE IN SCHEDULE X GOOD HUNTING X KOLLIN X CARNEGIE

It was strange to see them in these surroundings. They belonged against the luxurious backgrounds of villas, gaming rooms, lofty tapestried chambers, works of art of millennia. In the stark Suomi flying-officers’ dayroom they were uncomfortable strangers. They had endured twenty years’ exile and months of recent tension but now the time that you measured in minutes was attacking their composure. General Savinov had drunk himself to the point of glazed paralysis. Anatol and Oleg occupied opposite corners of the room and at intervals their white-hot glances locked across it. Old Prince Michael had gone very vague and loquacious: most of what he said made no sense to Alex in the snatches he overheard. Baron Yuri Ivanov sat bolt upright on a wooden chair with his straight-armed hands perched on his knees, staring at nothing. Leon sat with his cane hooked over the arm of his chair and a glass of vodka which by now had gone warm with neglect; he was talking in earnest low tones to Prince Felix who kept shoving a lock of hair back from his forehead. And Irina said in a voice calculated to reach no farther than Alex’s ears, “Do you think any of them will make it through the next twenty-four hours?” Then she made an impatient gesture. “I mustn’t laugh at them—it’s so unkind.”

“They wouldn’t notice.”

“Are you rattled too?”

“I suppose I am. I keep craving a thick American steak with all the trimmings.” But abruptly and unaccountably he had an image of Carol Ann’s melancholy frown in a flyspecked El Paso café; and he said, “Or maybe a big plate of chili and beans.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. When this was over he would write to her. Just a polite note: how are things?—the sort of thing that couldn’t do her harm if her husband happened to see it. It was something he owed her: acknowledgment that she hadn’t been forgotten. She’d seen him through the worst of it, the months he’d thought he wasn’t going to see Irina again. Suddenly he brought her into the semicircle of his arm and gripped her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she said, very gentle. “Do you want to come to bed?”

“In a little while.”

In the beginning the challenge had stirred him and made his juices run; he had formulated the plan in quick broad strokes with brilliant speed and then he had filled in the fine touches with careful foresight; he’d been confident he’d got the composition right, drawn every line and every dot where it had to be. Wherever there had been a conflict between methods or means he’d chosen the alternative that had the best odds of success. It was a plan worthy of the masters but now he began to believe in all the things that could go wrong and he knew he had to shake that off. It was the delay that did it. They’d keyed themselves up for a specific hour; it had been put back seventy-two hours and that was more than enough time to ruin the edge.

Buckner and Cosgrove entered the room: an odd pair—the gaunt one-armed brigadier, professionally reserved; the blunt cheerful American with his foolish facade of amiable buffoonery. They’d hit it off without any of the competitive rivalry he’d half expected to see.

Irina said, “Our two referees seem to be fast friends. Last night I caught them talking with feverish excitement about murder mysteries. Can you believe that? They’re both fanatical admirers of Dashiell Hammett. It’s incredible. They’re like two small boys who’ve just met and discovered they’ve got the same passion for backgammon and toy airplanes.”

Felix came toward them arching an eyebrow. “You two look disgustingly cozy and domestic together. Under the circumstances it’s hardly sporting.”

Alex smiled a little. “You’re nervous.”

“It’s probably a good thing. When I didn’t begin to get nervous the day before a race I knew I wasn’t going to win.”

“Keep it under control,” Alex said. “You’ve got nearly thirty-six hours before you take off.”

“You’ve got only twenty-four. How do you feel?”

Alex shook his head. “That’s a military secret.”

“You’re scared half to death like the rest of us.”

“Of course he is,” Irina murmured.

Alex dropped his voice. “I don’t like losing that third bomber. It doesn’t leave you much margin for error.”

“We’ll manage,” Felix said. “We’d manage with one if we had to.” His teeth flashed. “It’s only one train, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be cocky,” Irina said.

“Still trying to change my character, aren’t you.”

“Felix, I adore your character.”

Felix drifted away and Irina said in her soft way, “Did you know he was up half the night composing letters to the families of the men who died in that bomber crash—Vinsky and the others?”

“No—”

“Compassion is a quality Russia’s not used to in her leaders. Felix will be something new to all of them. I wonder how they’ll take to him.”

“I wonder how he’ll take to them,” Alex answered. “I hope he doesn’t get bored with it.”

“He’ll find ways to make it interesting. Trust him.”

“I do,” he said. “In the beginning I wasn’t sure they’d made the right decision. There was no way to see what he was like under the bravado. He might have been a smaller man you know—he might have let it go to his head. It’s the small ones who turn greedy and arrogant when you put power in their hands.”

“Like Vassily.”

“Yes…”

“Do you still dream about him?”

“No. Not since that night we talked about it.”

“Sometimes the answer’s that simple—talking it out. It gets the poison out of your system so that it can’t stay and fester.”

The room was a sea in which animate islands floated, each of them absorbed in its own storms and troubles. He turned and a trick of acoustics carried to his ears a soft exchange between Anatol and Baron Ivanov; Anatol was saying, “… unprecedented to say the very least. We are not a society that is accustomed to having its opposing views aired in public forums.”

“It will be an interesting experiment,” the little Baron answered, “to find out whether men of our persuasion can live and work in the same halls with men like Oleg. I am rather eager to see what comes of it.”

Anatol grumbled a reply. Irina was laughing very softly in her throat. “I’ve made a fine discovery,” she whispered. “My awesome brilliant father is in fact an old grouch.”

He was able to laugh and the ability pleased him more than the amusement itself. He began to steer her toward the door but they’d only crossed half the room when Oleg intercepted them. “A word with you?” Oleg gave Irina his brusque nod of apology. “Only for a moment.”

Oleg took him away into the corner and spoke as conspiratorially as a pimp in a third-class hotel. “The moment of truth is upon us.”

Alex had to fight down the impulse to laugh.

Oleg kneaded the pipe in his fingers; the veins stood out along the backs of his blunt square hands. “It has been torture for me these past weeks—not knowing whether I had done the right thing. You have kept faith with Vlasov. I owe you my apologies and my deepest thanks. His safety was my responsibility—it would have been my fault, my guilt if he had been exposed.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” He was harsh because he didn’t want Oleg misplacing his loyalty.

“I realize that, Alex. Quite fully. Nevertheless I must apologize again for my lack of faith in your discretion and your talent. Indeed I might say your genius. I’m quite prepared now to believe that neither Vassily Devenko nor any other man alive could have brought us this far, let alone made success possible. The debt we all owe you is incalculable.”

“We’d better wait and see how it turns out before we start parceling out the glory, Oleg.”

“I have no more doubts of our success. None at all.”

He wondered what it was that had brought the always skeptical Oleg around to such an extreme position of faith. Perhaps it was the panic of these last hours: needing an anchor Oleg had pounced on Belief and was clinging to it with the grip of hysteria.

Alex said, “In any case we’ll know soon enough, won’t we,” and managed to break away.

He reached Irina at the door; Felix was there, sparkling. “Just one thing before I let you both go.” He hesitated and his glance whipped from Alex’s face to Irina’s and back. Then with a sudden shy tip of his head: “Alex, I’d very much like to be your best man.”

Over the top of Felix’s head his eyes met Irina’s; they had gone very wide and he thought she wasn’t breathing. She gave him no helpful signals. In the end he gripped Felix’s shoulder.

“Done.”

The bedroom was tiny, spartan, stark: a flying officer’s cell, the place where a knight hung his armor and broadsword between jousts. Bare wooden walls and a single shelf nailed along one wall; a steel-frame cot with a green wool blanket; a row of wooden pegs for hanging clothes; a single lamp suspended from the ceiling with a conical metal shade.

“It’s a little narrow,” she said, “but we’ll ignore the crowd. Alex darling—if we’re really to go into the tiresome business of marriage there’s one thing you must promise me.”

“I’ll promise you the stars and the moon. With parsley.”

“Promise me that we’ll always share the same bedroom and sleep in the same bed.” She was watching him with genuine anxiety: poise had deserted her.

He faced her across the length of the little cubicle; very gravely he said to her, “I promise that.”

Only then did she stir. She took a slow step forward and then another and then she came into his arms, ravenously greedy.

When they slept finally they were pressed together on the narrow mattress like two spoons. But at some hour of the morning he came awake and was startled by the vividness of the image: every line and hair of Vassily Devenko’s high contemptuous face.

4.

Apart from the others she stood on the runway hugging her breasts; her long hair blew across her face. The soldiers were drawn up in formations beside their transports, bulky in their Red Army winter uniforms, heavily laden with combat field packs and parachutes. There were no lights; the guns snapped fitfully on the distant border. The sky had cleared during the day but it was still bitter cold. The moonlight was enough to see by; from inside the airplanes came the faint glow of the red lights inside their cabin spaces.

Prince Felix and his air crews stood off to one side at attention, in formation; and Leon’s group had a semblance of military order to it when Alex came across the tarmac to say his good-byes. She was too far away to hear the words they spoke. The soldiers began to climb into the airplanes. She saw Oleg reach out and grasp Alex in a bear hug—a ritual the Baron hardly ever practiced—and then her father shook Alex’s hand. General Savinov gravely drew himself to attention with a faint click of his heels; he lifted his thick right arm in a salute which Alex answered in kind. Then Alex returned to Prince Leon and the old man’s hand, a withered claw, sketched the Orthodox cross against Alex’s forehead and coat. Then Leon drew Alex to him and kissed him on both cheeks. The old Prince was visibly weeping when Alex turned away.

Alex said his good-byes to Cosgrove and the Americans and then walked to the pilots’ formation and spoke briefly to Prince Felix. She saw the flash of Felix’s grin once. The two men exchanged salutes and bear hugs and then Alex was coming toward her.

She was numb. He touched her under the chin with his forefinger, lifting her face. She heard the cough and wheeze of the aircraft engines starting up; beyond Alex’s shoulder she saw old Sergei waiting by the open airplane door in his combat uniform, beaming with incandescent eagerness.

Alex lifted his hands to her shoulders. He said, “I love you,” very quietly so that she hardly heard him against the racket of the airplane engines and then he was striding away from her and she wasn’t sure whether he had kissed her or not. She realized her arms were still folded. She watched the planes swing out onto the field and roll down to the far end of it. A single light came on at the opposite end of the runway to mark their way. She stood without moving anything except her head and eyes while the airplanes gathered speed down the runway and launched themselves upward into the night.

They were running without lights and she lost them very quickly in the sky. Then the drumming of the engines faded and she turned away.

Felix took her arm and guided her inside.

5.

Sunrise: a dreary winter gloom and beneath them the birch and fir forests that lay between Leningrad and Moscow, the snow-buried marshes along the Volkhov. They flew at two thousand feet, not hurrying, the aircraft painted with Red Army markings—indistinguishable from dozens of American aircraft supplied to Moscow by Lend-Lease.

Alex moved through the crowded fuselage talking to his men. Most of them sat with their gloved hands wrapped around cups of coffee. They were nervous and trying to hide it but they were uplifted by eagerness.

Off to starboard he could see a great deal of smoke hanging low. Moscow; whether from combat or furnaces he couldn’t tell. The forests ran underneath at a steady clip, here and there a dacha with snow on its roof and an unplowed driveway. There wasn’t much movement on the roads except for the occasional battalion of soldiers on the march. Most of the main roads had been plowed.

The amber light came on and Alex stood up near the rear cargo door. “Hook up.”

They reached up and snapped the ripcord hooks to the twin taut wires that ran the length of the fuselage on either side at shoulder height. “Jump order,” Alex said and the twenty-four men stood up in two columns, turning to face the doorway. Alex nodded to Sergei and the old sergeant spun the wheel valve of the welded cargo door. There was a hiss and then a rush of air; it took both of them to get it open and then the wind was a howling racket in the plane. Alex braced at the door watching the signal light over his shoulder; he caught the brilliance of Sergei’s stare and he nodded gently.

The amber light went out; the green flashed. Solov tapped Alex’s shoulder and he jumped.

He was falling at 125 miles an hour and the wind buffeted his ears with a tremendous noise. The pilot chute popped open above him and he braced for the big jerk when the main chute came out. The harness slammed him around for a bit and then he was floating down toward the drop zone, hanging from the chute, thinking about those live high-tension wires forty yards beyond the drop zone: land in those and you could fry. But there wasn’t much wind; the chute was easy to steer by hauling down on this shroud line or that and he hit the DZ dead center, pitching over on his shoulder in the compacted snow. The rest of them were pouring down in a steady stream as if they’d been spilled carefully out of a pitcher; the precision of it was a pleasure to watch.

He had the chute gathered into a bundle before the last man touched down. They gathered without talk—it was a forest clearing eighty yards in diameter with an unoccupied summer dacha somewhere out of sight in the woods to the north. The routine had been drilled into them and they didn’t need spoken orders. When the silk had been folded they carried their parachutes into the woods and left them there weighted down with broken branches and stones; they inspected their combat equipment and moved out along the dacha’s, driveway, marching out to the main road in neat military formation—a Red Army infantry platoon moving under orders.

The cold was characteristically and uniquely Russian: it cut through any kind of clothing and attacked bone-deep.

They came out to the road and executed a column-right maneuver. It was a fourteen-mile march from here to the track; they’d had to drop that far away to avoid being seen in the air by any of the sentry positions in the area. The road had been cleared within the past twenty-four hours and there were only thin patches of snow that had drifted across the gravel surface; it made for easy walking and they would be ahead of time at the objective but that was fine. They had six hours to get there; they would make it in half that.

Two miles along the road Solov took his eight men down a fork to the left and Alex gave the remainder of the company a five-minute breather until Solov’s unit was out of sight. Then he led Sergei and his fifteen-man commando due west along the high road.

After an hour they halted for another ten-minute breather. There was no hurry now and he didn’t want the men half exhausted; they’d had to go without most of a night’s sleep in any case. They sat down at the side of the road and in the silence that ensued they could hear the plop of snow falling off the trees in the deep forest that lined both sides of the road; and when Alex listened with more care he heard the very distant pound of artillery—a big-gun duel talking place somewhere many miles to the southwest, perhaps on the far side of Moscow. It brought back all the old campaigns at once and the knowledge he’d learned in the field—how to listen to the guns, how to tell which were outgoing and which incoming, how to anticipate how close a seventy-five would come.

Then there was another sound: much nearer, and Alex lifted his men to their feet with a quick upswipe of his arm.

The squadron of Cossack cavalry came swinging along the snowy road, riders bundled in fur, rifles across their saddlebows; the horses steamed and the hoofs thudded with a quick rhythm. Alex’s men formed up along the verge with the dry-cold snow squeaking under their boots.

Ice particles clung in the squat Cossack leader’s beard. He lifted his right hand and halted his squadron. His men looked on, wearing the intransigent grim faces of blooded veterans. The leader’s eyes puckered up with weariness or with suspicion—it was hard to tell which. “Seventh Army,” he growled, “which way?”

Alex shook his head; he didn’t know. “But that way’s the front.”

“I can hear the guns—I know where the front is.” The Cossack grunted and turned a dubious face toward the west. “What are you people doing here? You look fit for battle.”

The Cossack was a very stupid man with nothing but his military pride: the way to handle him was to stare him down and bark at him.

“Obey your orders, Cossack, and I’ll obey mine. Move your men along.”

The Cossack brooded upon him and then swept his arm up and forward and led his bloodthirsty troop away. Clots of snow kicked into the air struck the earth explosively.

Alex spoke to Sergei and the commando moved on.

The line was double-tracked; it ran up toward the crest along a steady gradient in a hundred-meter-wide cut between the trees. This was all forest country and they hadn’t mowed the right-of-way since before the beginning of the war: saplings had begun to dot the cut, sprouting twigs through the snow; and there were mounded lumps of snow that had to be weedy bushes.

He had memorized the contour map in long weeks of study but the habit of thoroughness made him unfold it and confirm his bearings. There was no one within earshot or sight—most likely there was no one within miles of this place—but their discipline was ingrained and he gave all his orders with hand signals. No one spoke. Sergei made a tour of their positions—at the edge of the trees on both sides of the cut—but there were only four men on the opposite side and they were not to act unless anyone tried to escape the train on that side.

When Sergei returned across the tracks he came slowly and swept his footprints with a clustered branch; he settled down beside Alex, his face very ruddy and his eyes agleam.

Alex peeled back a fur-lined cuff to check the time; he looked both ways along the silent empty rails and then there was nothing to do but wait for Stalin’s train.

6.

Felix’s casualness had been deliberate and studied at takeoff. He knew an emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a taste like brass on his tongue, a dry feeling of heat on the surface of his cheeks that had nothing to do with the coldness of the air in the cockpit. He had to blink away dryness from his eyes. All his life he had gone through the same ritual each time he rolled down the flight line, gathering air pressure under the cambered wings; at the moment of takeoff, no matter how many thousands of times he had completed this lift from the ground, he knew fear.

The late-morning sunrise caught him already in the air. Drops of blood seemed to form on the frosty canopy-glass in that strange light. Above them coasted the high wraiths of cirrus clouds. The false horizon moved with the plane. He glanced at the ASI—155 knots—and the outside temperature gauge: its thin needle stood at 14 degrees Fahrenheit. Altitude 800 feet—low enough to let the Reds count the rivets in the airborne leviathan’s belly. The unique throaty song of the B-17’s thrashing Wright engines was heavy in his bones and he was acutely conscious of the tons of sudden death that squatted like a brood embryo in the airplane’s abdomen.

Rostov’s bomber floated free a few yards beyond his port wingtip and fifty feet behind him. When they got closer to the target Rostov would pull ahead: they had rehearsed it and timed it until it was engraved into habit. Felix would hang back at cruising speed while Ilya Rostov boosted to combat power and put a distance of exactly three and one-half miles between the two B-17s. Rostov would attack, putting his first stick of bombs on the track a quarter of a mile ahead of the train. He would then fly straight over the train and make his turn behind it. The train would have its brakes on by then, trying to stop short of the destroyed roadbed. The debris of the first explosions had ample time to settle down—a little better than seventy seconds—before Felix’s bomber would pass over that point and attack the cars on either end of the one with a hospital cross painted on its roof. Felix’s one-hundred-pound armor-piercing bombs were filled with incendiary and high explosive charges; they would be dropped in sticks of twenty—a full ton at a shot. They were fused for a time delay of six seconds—sufficient to allow the bomber to pass beyond the danger zone; otherwise at deck level the B-17 would be hit by its own bomb blast. There were eight tons of bombs aboard: enough for four passes at the train.

Over the water of Lake Ladoga he pressed the intercommike button. “Test-fire your guns.”

In the machine-gun positions—spine, dorsal and belly turrets; nose and tail—the gunners exerted hand and foot pressures to swing their turrets around. The motors set up a grind ing like electric hand drills. The guns cleared their throats with short bursts and tracers arced toward the water.

“Report.”

“Nose gunner—all in order, Highness.”

“Waist one. All in order….”

Beneath the thrumming plane the broad cleats of tank treads had crushed the snow. They droned over a lambchop-shaped lake. Ulyanov had the chart in his lap. “On course, on time. Eight minutes to I.P.”

Felix waggled his wings in signal to Ilya Rostov and throttled back while Rostov’s bomber moved ahead, shooting away at full power. The earth was white and endless, the forests covered with snow. The sun struck Felix’s left shoulder. “We’re going to do it.” He turned and stared at Ulyanov. “Do you know that?”

“Yes sir,” Ulyanov said quietly. “We are.”

“Pilot to bombardier. Seven minutes to I.P.”

“Acknowledge, Highness. Ready to open bomb-bay doors.”

“Good bombing weather,” Ulyanov observed. He looked out at the sky. Felix glanced to his left through the perspex—and froze in every muscle.

Then he stabbed the intercom button. “Bandits. Coming out of the sun. Gunners….”

The sky was full of them. Against the sun it was hard to count them but there seemed to be dozens—possibly as many as a hundred of them—peeling off in streams and diving: specks that grew rapidly into the distinctive stubby shapes of Red Air Force I-16 fighters.

“Maybe they’re not after us.” Ulyanov said.

Felix had the microphone open; he did not take his eyes off the diving squadrons. “Bomber Six-Four to pursuit leader—Bomber Six-Four to pursuit leader…. My recognition code is Red-Green-Blue, do you copy? Recognition code Red-Green-Blue. Over.”

But there was no reply and now out ahead of him the first wave of them was diving against Ilya Rostov. Ahead of Rostov he could see the snow-cleared rails amid the trees. Rostov’s guns opened up abruptly: tracers arced upward from eight of his fifty-calibers and the plane began to dodge.

Then they were coming in at Felix with guns chugging. “Pilot to blister guns—open fire. Prepare for evasive action.”

He flung the yoke hard over and sideslid to the left; the only option was to lose the rest of his altitude and sit on the deck so that they couldn’t dive straight at him without crashing.

Not more than twenty feet above the trees he zigzagged the heavy bomber in little jerks across the snowscape and the seat shuddered from the pounding recoil of the bomber’s own guns; the cockpit filled with the stink of burnt cordite and he had a kaleidoscopic impression of the Red fighters wheeling about the bomber. He yanked the big plane to starboard, almost snagging a wingtip in the treetops.

The fighters were shooting from maximum range because they had to pull out of their power dives before the ground came up at them. He said, “Navigate us, in God’s name!”

But Ulyanov was staring straight ahead and his face went white. “They’ve got Ilya.”

It was as if Rostov had flown into a wall. The tail of the huge airplane whipped into the air and there was a burst of blinding flame when it hit the trees and he saw dark bits wheeling through the air.

Felix broke left; rammed all throttles to climb power but kept his elevator surfaces level: he closed his cowl flaps and the bomber went into its screaming acceleration. The burst of speed took the pursuit by surprise and left the fighters behind—their tracers fell into the forest—and then he was flying into the black ball of smoke from Rostov’s crash and the heat bounced Felix’s craft as if it were a toy kite. His stomach hit his throat and he almost lost his vision and when he came out of it he was in a roiling confusion of crisscrossing Red fighters and juddering impacts—impressions too rapid to be registered. The airframe staggered and pulled to the right and he had to use muscle to correct the drag; a pair of Red planes collided in midair almost dead ahead of him with no flame, no explosion, merely an odd entanglement of metal that dropped out of the sky like a safe. Ulyanov said with utter dispassion, “We’ve lost a chunk of the wing. Leading edge.”

“There’s the train,” Felix said. “I see the train.”

It was coming up the grade at the end of the plateau of forests—from here it seemed motionless but the mane of smoke from the locomotive’s stack bent straight back over the cars. “Bombardier—one minute to I.P. We’re going to finish it. It’s moving directly toward us at twenty-five.”

He saw them coming at him from the port side—three of them in a vee—and he jerked the plane toward them and it threw them off; they swept overhead but there was another one coming dead-level at him across the treetops and he heard the guns chattering behind him—the dorsal gunner’s voice: “Look at that! I got him—I got him!” And the I-16 plunged into the trees in a black burst of smoke.

He had the altitude of the jump from Rostov’s explosion; he used it to take violent action—a feint to the right, a sudden dive to the left with the four Cyclone engines shrieking at full power. He had gone rock-steady. “There will be no evasive action once we turn onto the bomb run. Brace yourselves—and God bless you all….”

“Bombardier to pilot. PBI centered.”

“Bombardier—eight seconds.”

“Ready Highness-”

“They’re not going to stop us. Not now….” He jammed the mike button. “Two seconds—one—it’s your airplane….”

And then there was nothing he could do but sit in the juddering pool of his terror. Fifty feet above the roadbed the B-17 roared straight down the railway and for a moment he had the utter fright of knowing that the smokestack of the engine was going to smash right into the nose of the plane. Then they were over it, past it, running down the back of the train with the jerk and slam that meant the bay doors were open. It was as if he could drop down through the greenhouse and land safely on his feet on the catwalk of the train.

All around him the I-16s were snarling and wheeling: jabbing at him with their guns; dodging like mosquitoes. Something stitched a line of half-inch holes through the ceiling of the cockpit and the bullets lanced forward at an angle, breaking the windscreens outward: slivers of glass spun about the cockpit and one of them cut the back of his right hand. He was cool enough to make a rough count of the planes he could see in the air and he had to estimate their number at more than thirty; it was a miracle he was still in the air and it was a miracle that was needed: he needed it and history needed it…. The lurch of the airframe pasted him down into the seat and he saw the nose writhe wildly into the sky and for a moment he thought they’d been shot to pieces but then he realized what it was: two tons of bombs had left the airplane and the sudden loss of weight had thrown them upward fifty feet in the air.

“Bombs away!”

He hauled everything to climb power and angled his flaps and sent the big plane into a narrow skidding turn that might easily wrench the wings off but it was worth the risk, anything was. “I’m making a three-sixty.”

“What?”

“I said a three-sixty. We’re making the bomb run again—we’ve got to be sure.”

He was far enough into the turn to be able to see out when the delay-fused bombs went off and he was close enough to it to be rocked by the explosion, deafened by the earsplitting thunders of it.

He saw it crystal clear when the roofs lifted right off both cars. He saw the red-painted cross on the roof between them before they disintegrated into hurtling missiles of shattered armor-plate. He saw the two carriages go up with a force of violence that lifted half the train off the rails by its couplings and sent the forward locomotive spinning across the snow as if it were on skates. In the midst of the boiling smoke there was nothing left of the troop cars—nothing bigger than a matchstick; nothing at all; and he yanked the controls far over to the right and bellowed at the top of his voice:

“Cancel that last order. We’ve done it! Russia—you are free!”

The B-17 staggered; it threw him forward against his harness straps and an incredible roar burst into the cockpit—a cry of wind that fluttered the cuffs against his ankles and ripped the chart from Ulyanov’s lap. The Plexiglas nose section had been blown through by I-16 cannon and the plane was a stovepipe and he had time to yank the control yoke back between his knees but no time for anything else. Cannon and machine-gun tracer tore the aircraft apart in a fury of concentrated violence and he was reaching to press the Bail-Out bell when the plane pivoted on its tail and there was only time for a white-hot instant of wheeling triumph before the blackness of forever engulfed him.

7.

When the flock of Soviet pursuit craft jumped the leading bomber Alex knew it was finished and he heard Sergei’s anguished cry: “We are betrayed!” but there was nothing for it but to carry it out to the finish because the train was approaching on schedule and there was still a chance at it. But the hope had drained out of him even before Felix’s B-17 made its spectacular bull’s-eye hits on the two armored troop carriages and blew the hospital car completely off the rails intact—askew like a toy that had been the object of a petulant child’s temper. The forward locomotive skidded around on ice and tipped over very slowly with steam exploding from it everywhere. The gallant Flying Fortress wheeled away toward the west and the Soviet fighters swarmed angrily after. Alex was on his feet then: there was still a chance to get to the hospital car before the fighters came back strafing. He yelled and waved them forward and slammed his hand down on the mortarman’s shoulder and when he began his run he heard the tinny rattle of the charge sliding down the pipe and then the whump like the very loud echo of a hard-hit tennis ball. Running in the deep snow with Sergei and the rest strung out in a splashing line he heard the shell flutter overhead and saw it explode beyond the target—a geyser of snow and clotted earth. The mortar dropped its aim and the next one dug a crater just ahead of the hospital car and now the aim was bracketed and the third one—he was still forty yards out, running as fast as he could but the snow nearly sucked the boots off his feet—the third one splashed against the side of the carriage and then the fourth mortar shell exploded right between two windows. It didn’t breach the armored wall but it blew both bulletproof panes out of their housings and buckled the metal. Then the mortar went silent because it had done its job.

In the sudden quiet there was nothing but the ringing in his ears from the explosions and the thrashing crunch of their legs in the clinging snow. He had the nine-millimeter tommy gun braced against the crook of his bicep ready to fire when they appeared in the windows but they kept their heads down inside the car; at intervals one or another of his own men sprayed the face of the car with automatic small-arms fire. The edge of the big drum-clip cannister rubbed against his left wrist and he listened for the rattle of gunfire beyond the train, expecting it because some of them might try to escape the carriage on that side. But no one emerged from the isolated carriage on either side. They must have been battered when the car had been blown off the tracks; perhaps a good many of them inside were dead.

His muscles were in agony and he rushed forward with the nightmare sensation that he couldn’t breathe and wasn’t making any headway: the snow was like quicksand. The breath fogged in front of him in great cloudy gasps and it seemed an inordinate time before he reached the corner of the car and touched his glove to its metal; Sergei ran along beside him slinging his submachine gun and unsnappinga pair of riot grenades from his webbed combat belt. Alex trained the tommy gun on the burst windows to give Sergei cover while Sergei armed the grenades and pitched them inside. Alex heard the muffled whump-whump when the grenades burst and flooded the car with tear gas.

He pulled his mask on over his head before he reached up for the door. The lower step had imbedded itself in the snow; he didn’t have to step up. The door came open: they never locked armored doors because it was armed attack they feared, not burglary.

He wheeled across the vestibule platform and smashed the inner door open with the butt of his tommy gun and curled into the long carriage spraying ammunition with abandon. The tommy gun climbed against his arm and he fought it down, hosing the billowing smoke-gas until the gun went hot through his gloves.

The gas stirred and in the sudden silence he heard someone exclaim behind him—the muffled echo of a voice contained behind a gas mask. It was Sergei. The others crowded past him and he heard the far door snap open.

“Hold your fire.”

Nothing moved, there was only the swirl of tear gas. Not a soul. The car was empty.

8.

He got outside and wrenched off the gas mask. “Radio.” Voroshnikov trotted up and knelt with his back to Alex and Sergei pulled the thin telescoping antenna up, extending it from the pack. Sergei had the switches on. He handed the handset to Alex.

The rest of them clustered around him in slow silence. Their faces were masks of inarticulate fury. When the set was warmed up he spoke into it. “Alexsander to Saracens. Report.”

“Saracen One. Reading you.”

“Saracen Two. Read you clearly.”

“Saracen Four. Reading you.”

He touched the Send button. “Alexsander to Saracen Three. Report.”

Nothing. “Alexsander to Saracen Five. Report.”

Nothing. He didn’t give it another try. “Alexsander to Saracens. Rendezvous. Repeat—rendezvous. Acknowledge.”

Seconds elapsed and in the static he could feel the impact on them as they tried to absorb it. “Saracen One. Acknowledge.”

“Saracen Two”—he heard it when Solov’s voice broke—“Acknowledge rendezvous. Out.”

“Saracen Four. What happened?”

“Alexsander to Saracen Four. Acknowledge my order.”

“… Saracen Four. Acknowledge your message…. Out.’

“Alexsander to Saracen One.”

“Saracen One reading you, Alexsander.” Postsev’s voice was harsh.

“Keep trying to raise Saracens Three and Five. See that they receive rendezvous orders. Acknowledge.”

“Saracen One. Acknowledge.”

“Alexsander out.”

He slapped the handset into Sergei’s palm and then the reaction hit him, the stunning disbelief and a rage beyond anything he had ever experienced: he stood agape in the snow and his muscles vibrated and he was overcome by an actual paralysis.

But the organism continued to accrete the impressions detected by the physical sensors and he was acutely aware of the stolid hissing of the rear locomotive—still there on the tracks behind its derailed tender—and of the wraiths of gas escaping from the two blown windows of the empty hospital car; the shattered debris of the troop carriages that had been bombed to twisted fragments, the explosion and crash his ears had absorbed earlier without conscious recognition then: Felix’s plane going down. And it struck him now that in all this furore he could account for only twenty casualties: the pilots and crews of the two bombers accounted for eighteen dead and he had seen two men catapulted from the skidding front locomotive when it fell over; they had flown from it like rag dolls and must be dead.

Now he heard Sergei talking to someone behind him: “There must be a driver and fireman there. Get them.” He was talking about the rear locomotive, the intact one.

Four men. The train had carried a total of four men: two locomotive engineers and two firemen.

He imagined he heard Vassily’s laughter A short burst of rapid fire. He didn’t turn to look. In a little while Sergei came back to him, walking with an unhealthy lurch along the roadbed as if a deck heaved under him. Sergei hoicked and spat. “Both of them ran for it. They were armed. We had to shoot them down.”

Sergei’s soles gritted on the snow. Alex saw the gloved palm flashing but he didn’t stir to avoid it. The hard slap rocked his head to one side.

He blinked and lifted his free hand to his cheek. Sergei pointed—the crest at the head of the railway grade.

He turned his dazed face that way. Nothing in sight but now he picked up the sound.

“Tanks.”

It shook him loose: galvanized him. He raised the tommy gun overhead. “The locomotive.” And began running toward it because if there were tanks ahead of them there would be tanks behind and perhaps coming in through the forest on either side as well and they wouldn’t send tanks alone without infantry to cover the gaps. It was a complete trap and the Soviets had waited until they were certain everybody was caught in it and now they were moving in for the kill.

But they had counted on the train being disabled and part of it wasn’t and that might provide an edge.

His troops ran forward in little knots, clustering on the tracks and leaping over the debris, homing on the chuffing steam engine. At the crest four T-34S loomed in line abreast and he saw the muzzles of their turret guns swivel and depress.

“Mortar. Shoot to blind them.”

It wouldn’t stop a tank but it could throw up spouts of snow to render the tanks’ spotters temporarily blind. The mortarman lodged the base of his pipe against a steel brace on the side of the locomotive and Alex waved his men forward, counting heads. He hadn’t lost any people. No casualties: no battle. The battle started now.

“Get aboard—find a handhold, get aboard.” He was leaping up into the cab then and Sergei was tossing his gun aside and reaching for the shovel but the tender was gone and there was no coal except a few handfuls in the scuttle and when Sergei had poured those into the firebox and slammed it shut he said, “It won’t take us far.”

“As far as it can.” He rammed the lever right over as far as it would go and released the brake.

The mortar went off softly, almost reproachfully. Then before its round landed one of the tanks opened fire.

The wheels spun on the cold rails and the engine moved with gasps and lurches; he ran the lever back down to slow speed in the hope it would get better traction. The T-34’s seventy-millimeter shell erupted somewhere in the snow beyond the boiler; he heard the great roar of it but didn’t see it. The muzzles were traversing now, the tanks grinding forward and starting to shoot in earnest: range about a thousand yards. With long guns they’d have blown the locomotive apart with the first half dozen tries but the T-34 carried a stubby antitank gun and it wasn’t much for accuracy. All these calculations ran unemotionally through his mind in a split instant of time. The wheels had purchase now and he ran the lever through three notches to half speed. The locomotive was moving—very slow but it was a downgrade and there was no load, no train to drag; she picked up speed inexorably. Fifteen White Russian soldiers clung to her—crowded into the cab, hanging on the ladders, perched on footholds. His perception of scene and events was fragmented and a significant part of his mind was in shock but he was taking the right actions, doing things out of instinct and as long as he could function under this intuitive motor power he’d be all right. He had no doubts: he’d got them into this and he’d get them out.

Sergei spoke sharply. He flicked a glance to his left out the square steel opening beside him. He saw them in the trees beyond the cut: vague shapes, fitful movements in the forest. Infantry. He counted three tanks among them, grinding forward, smashing small trees down.

It was the same to the right but he wasn’t concerned about those and he was barely aware of the earsplitting whup and slam of 70mm incomings and the mortar throwing back its pitiful replies. The locomotive had momentum now and it was accruing fast. They had a jump on the infantrymen and they were rolling faster than a man could run in the snow. The Red infantrymen were opening up with small-arms but the range was four hundred yards or more and they were shooting at a moving target through trees; he heard one or two jacketed slugs whine off the steel but most of it was going wide or being deflected by branches.

He had her in reverse and he put full speed on. On the downgrade she’d be capable of doing ninety miles an hour with a fully hot boiler but the last of the coal was burning now and she wasn’t getting up anything like top speed. She was going backward and there was nothing in front of his face but wind and the slow curve of the sloping roadbed and what he was afraid of was what might appear there below them on their line of travel.

Sergei reached for the tommygun slung on Alex’s shoulder. Alex felt it when Sergei rammed a loaded magazine into the weapon. Then Sergei tapped his shoulder and got down in a crouch with the rear half-wall of steel for a parapet. It made a wall of thin armor three feet high across the back of the reversing engine: enough to deflect rifle fire but no proof against a tank’s gun.

Then Alex snapped out of it. The dreamlike state went. He saw everything clearly and with reasoned comprehension. The locomotive ran backward down the rails, bulleting toward a gradual curve beyond which anything might be approaching—very possibly another train or a pack of tanks. Behind him four T-34S were pursuing the locomotive in a losing race, their cannonfire falling behind, lifting great booming divots of snow and soil. On either side of the tracks the tanks and infantry were closing the trap but they were too late, the locomotive had got outside their circle and they were closing an empty fist.

In that period of uncertain semiconsciousness he had got them out of it. They’d escaped even if it was only until the next bend of the track. It wasn’t much but it was a small triumph and he said, “All right, Sergei. I’m all right now.”

Fifty miles an hour or better and they roared into the down hill bend.

It was blocked of course. Tanks—three of them climbing the grade, their treads skittering on the snow.

One of them was coming straight at him. Straddling the rails.

Collision course.

The mortarman’s head rocked back. Fear disfigured his face. His stare pleaded.

Alex roared at him:

“Shoot!”

It was a game of raw courage—the challenge of the ultimate bluff: who would give in first? But Alex had the advantage. It was eight hundred yards—half a mile—and when he didn’t cut power and jam on the brakes instantly it meant there wouldn’t be time to stop anyway and if the tank didn’t get off the tracks that was that.

It took the tank driver a long time to make up his mind and in the meantime the guns of all three T-34S were firing. Alex’s mortar kept splashing snow in their eyes and the two outboard tanks were slithering in deep loose snow and every time their guns fired they were knocked askew by the recoil and the mortar explosions made it hard for them to line up again. It was the tank on the rails that was the threat because it was no good mortaring in front of it: that could rip up a track and derail the locomotive.

Ludicrously it put him in mind of something Carol Ann had said: “Sometimes there’s not a damn thing you can do but act like a jackrabbit in a hailstorm: hunker down and take it.”

The locomotive made a minimal target head-on at six hundred yards; half a degree’s error and the tank gun’s shells exploded harmlessly in the snow. It looked an easy shot but it wasn’t. At fifty miles an hour—possibly more—the solitary 2-6-2 locomotive was cutting the range faster than the tanks’ gunners could crank their elevation gear and there was just enough curve in the long bend of the track to force the guns to keep correcting their traverse aim.

It was absurd to hide behind the thin plate of the engine’s rear armor but they did it out of instinct, five of them crowded into that little space and several more crouching on the plow blade behind the engine. Alex kept his eyes up far enough to see but there was nothing he could do but wait. And if the fire went out under the boiler right now it would be all over.

You could see the shell come out of the muzzle or at least the exploding smoke that propelled it. You could hear them come in: overhead with a roar or to one side with a deafening crash. All three tanks were shooting as fast as they could load but the outboard ones weren’t coming anywhere close. Then a shell that must have been HE blew up a hundred feet in front of him and his breath caught in his throat because it looked as though it had blown the roadbed apart but it must have been off to the side just enough: it had dumped gravel and ice on the rails and the locomotive lurched and rattled under him but it didn’t lose its grip on the steel and they were still speeding down the track with the blown-up snow cascading over their shoulders.

When they came out of it the tank was still astraddle the rails, still shooting. Five hundred yards—at fifty miles an hour that gave them about twenty seconds and then collision.

A shout of alarm: a soldier clinging to the step. He was pointing back along the engine—up toward the crest behind them. Alex wheeled to risk a half-second’s glance.

There was a train—coming down the track in pursuit. Its open flatcars bristled with artillery. A mile or more behind. He had time to see that much and then the locomotive bucked and pitched and he heard a tremendous ringing clang that all but ruptured his eardrums. The impact threw him flat against the armor plate.

He thought for an instant they’d collided with the tank but reasoned second thought quickly discarded that: hit the tank and they’d all have been dead.

They were still rolling.

He had a painful bruise along his left shoulder where he’d slammed into the plating. Above him the armored roof of the driver’s cabin had been buckled by a tremendous blow.

Not a direct hit. A 70mm would have torn right through it and ruptured the boiler.

He leaned quickly outboard. Then he saw it. A shell had taken the smokestack right off. Shrapnel had dented the roof. He saw the sprawled bodies of six of his men back along the railway where the concussion had knocked them off the plow blade. The pursuing gun train was still there—gaining.

And when he wheeled forward there was a point-blank four-hundred-yard stretch between him and that Soviet tank and the cleats were flashing. The tank was making its turn: giving in.

Ponderously the tank clattered across the rails and it didn’t look like there’d be time for it to get clear and he watched bleakly because he couldn’t do anything else. The tankers opened up with their machine guns now because the range was down to that. On the locomotive the mortar kept chugging and its missiles made spouts and sprays in the snow. An armor-piercing round from a tank gun drilled into the ground just ahead and when it blew it shot a fountain of whistling rocks and snow across the tracks; he ducked and heard Sergei’s dry grunt amid the racket of junk raining on the twisted steel roof.

They came out of that into daylight within a hundred yards of the tank and it was still crawling, trying to get off the rails, skidding on the snow. One tread was still on the ties. There was an unrelenting cacaphony of artillery and small arms and the machine-gun bullets clanged along the steel surfaces of the locomotive. One voice cried out and the cry was cut off definitely in its middle. Alex distinguished the separate sound of tommyguns being fired by his own men on the sides of the locomotive—useless angry fusillades at the impassive tanks—and one by one those guns went silent: out of ammunition or shot off the train by the tanks’ wickedly traversing machine guns. About two seconds left now and he braced himself, wedged between Sergei’s big shoulder and a corner of the armored backplate; they would hit the tank or they would not hit it—now.

It was a glancing collision but it tumbled Sergei against him and knocked the air out of him and it tipped the locomotive up on one side with all the wheels of its left side clear off the rail. It came back down onto the tracks with a fifty-ton blow that seemed to shake his teeth loose: he was sure the roadbed couldn’t withstand that punishment but somehow the locomotive was still rolling—speed down to forty now with the boiler cooling—and he crawled to the side of the platform and saw that the tremendous inertial blow had slammed the T-34 right over on its side like a helpless turtle. While he watched the tank skidded and spun across the snow and smashed into its companion tank.

There was one of them left on the far side of the track and its turret was swiveling but the track took him on around the bend before the turret gun had time to home its aim; then there was forest and the tanks were out of sight. One lobbed a shell over the trees but it burst harmlessly in the forest beyond him.

He crawled to his feet on the lurching steel deck and spoke harshly to Sergei:

“Head count.”

The collision had knocked the mortar away and the mortarman with it. There had been seventeen of them in the commando; there were five now. Sergei reported it bitterly.

The locomotive was losing speed and there was a train pursuing and he still had a responsibility to these four as great as it had been to the sixteen: that and a responsibility to survive because they’d been betrayed and vengeance for that must be exacted.

He looked at them: Sergei and the three Russian soldiers: Tukschev, Blucherov, Voroshnikov with blood on the left side of his face because something had taken off his earlobe and left a raw streak down his cheek.

Ahead of them the rails ran straight down a steady incline two miles or more through the forest. The bend was behind them and pursuit out of sight. “Go on,” he said. “Jump.”

He watched them tumble and then he went off last: thirty miles an hour perhaps; if you could put down in a parachute without breaking a leg you could jump off a train at that speed. They carried their tommy guns into the forest and began to run for it.

9.

A heavy brownish sky hung over the horizon. Alex stood up slowly and heavily like a bear breaking water to wade up on shore. He moved his face from left to right.

Beneath the tall snow-heavy trees was a compound of buildings: the dacha and its outbuildings. Alex made a survey with his eyes and ears. Nothing stirred. He made a brief hand signal and sculled forward on his elbows. Right at the last row of trees he halted them.

He didn’t see any sign of Solov or Postsev or any of the others. Then he heard something: the distant measured rumor of an engine growling in low gear.

Sergei thrust his lower jaw forward to bite at his upper lip; he unslung his machine pistol. Alex shook his head mutely. They bellied down in the forest and the sun obscured itself behind festering clouds. He went numb with cold. The grinding racket approached steadily. When he looked at Sergei the old man’s lips were cracked and ready to bleed and so were his eyes.

The machine was in the driveway beyond the farther grove. He waved them all down in the shadows; he merged himself with the bole of a pine.

The truck rolled into sight, crunching snow—a cleated halftrack with a general’s star on the fender, canvas hooped over the bed. Alex heard the quick whistling intake of Sergei’s breath through teeth. He crouched frozen against the tree with the tommygun in both hands but his fists didn’t seem to have much grip in them. He stared bleakly as the half-track drew up by the dascha and soldiers dismounted from the truck—a full-strength line squad of Red Army soldiers armed with 7.62-millimeter rifles and grenade belts and automatic weapons.

A very tall officer emerged from the truck and spoke to the men; they marched into the compound while the tall officer turned a full circle on his heels. Bundled in a heavy coat, muffler wrapped around his face, he was a figure of immense size. Recognition grenaded into Alex’s belly until sour liquid flowed up into his mouth.

The giant tramped forward into the trees—moving idly as if seeking a private spot to urinate. While he walked his head turned incessantly—watching everything. He clasped his hands behind his back and stopped once to turn around and look up at the sun; creases made rings in the back of his neck and then he came on ahead into the trees and stopped not ten feet from where Alex stood with a gun trained on his heart. The giant was looking elsewhere but he spoke distinctly in a low baritone:

“Condottieri—I am Kollin. Don’t show yourself but speak if you can hear me.”

“Right here, General.” And his finger curled around the trigger.

Vlasov came around ponderously and his eyes went bright behind the lenses of his heavy eyeglasses—like an animal at night pinned by the beam of headlights.

“We have lost,” he said, very soft.

“I know.”

“You must get out as best you can. Do not wait for the rest of your men—they will not make this rendezvous. Yours was not the only team that went into a trap.”

“But we’re the only team that got out of it. Are you telling me that?”

“Yes.” Vlasov’s face was all rough crags and shadows. “It was not I who betrayed you, General Danilov.”

“Who then?”

“Beria had a signal. I do not know from whom. We all were betrayed. Someone gave Beria the plan—not four hours ago. They only had time to remove the High Command from the train. Sending the empty train on as a decoy to draw you into the trap—that was Beria’s idea.”

A bitter wave of defeat flooded Alex’s chest. He stared ruefully at the huge general.

Vlasov said, “Your bomber crews were superb, I am told.” He swayed toward a tree as if he required its support, then with a violent tremor he sat down with his back to it, hands pinched between his squeezed-together knees. Behind the glasses his eyes went lifeless and turned inward as if in search of a strength that had disintegrated. “So near—so near. But the steel bear is safe in the Kremlin—there is nothing we can salvage. Nothing.”

Momentarily Vlasov’s easy acceptance of defeat outraged him but he made his voice kind: “You had better come out with us.”

“No. Beria’s informant did not know my identity. They know there is a traitor among the generals but Stalin trusts me more than any of them except Zhukov.”

“Can you stay after this?”

“I must. One must continue the illusion that there is always one more chance.” Vlasov struggled to his feet like an old man. “The traitor may have given Beria your intended escape route. You will have to improvise a different escape.” And then he was walking away as calmly as he had arrived, hands clasped in the small of his back, boots squeaking on the snow.

10.

The low sun charged the light with gold. He halted the little column in the woods across the road from the hospital and spoke softly:

“We’ll wait for full darkness.”

The hospital was a massive bleak structure towering over the barracks behind it. In ambulances by the side of the building military drivers dozed at the wheel. Alex studied the lay of it while he still had light; he moved back and forth along the road, staying within the trees, making an end-to-end reconnaissance of the compound. It was the Seventh Red Army Hospital—headquarters for the medical department of the Moscow Military Area—and there was a good deal of activity: ambulances, army trucks, buses, staff cars with medical flags on them to indicate they carried doctors of high rank. Personnel flitted in and out of the compound on bicycles and those on foot queued for the civilian buses which arrived at twelve-minute intervals, turned around, stopped to discharge and collect passengers and went back the way they’d come—on the Moscow road.

It was a monolithic building of Byzantine brick, four stories high and the size of two city blocks in area; it had been built in the days of Peter the Great as a state building for the administration of provincial districts and it had the turreted gingerbread finish of its period. The only thing loftier in sight was the crenellated onion dome of a church a quarter of a mile up the road.

They waited until the sun went down—a bit after four o’clock—but the moon was up by then and it etched the winter branches in serene light and Alex had to decide whether to move anyway or to wait for moonset. The temperature had dropped steadily during the twilight hours and there would be a risk of frostbite in waiting but that would be preferable to capture; he decided they would stay put until they had full darkness.

He walked along close to the wall, fingertips dragging it lightly, trying to focus his flagging concentration. In the intense cold he felt sleepy and knew the dangers of that. He approached the column of ambulances from their rear. Sergei was close on his heels and the three survivors of the commando were strung out along the wall behind, invisible even to Alex. There were no stars; a scudding overcast had pushed the moon away.

He reached the back of the ambulance and moved along the narrow passage between its body and the hospital wall. Reached up for the handle of the passenger door—pulled it open and spoke to the driver and heard Sergei yank the driver’s door open and haul the driver out. There was no sound; Sergei’s knife had gone true. There were no interior lights in the ambulance—they would be disconnected as a matter of routine security. Alex moved on to the second ambulance slowly and without sound while Sergei slipped forward along the opposite side of the ambulance line. They repeated the maneuver with the second ambulance: Alex distracted the driver and Sergei dispatched him.

They took the third ambulance and Alex pushed the remaining three soldiers into its rear compartment. Then he joined Sergei in the cab.

The ambulance drove north at high speed on the freshly plowed Leningrad road. The illumination of its slitted blackout lights was minimal but speed was more important than caution because they had to be past the Leningrad line before daylight. Twice they had to pause for armed convoys and once they nearly ran down a marching battalion of soldiers who flung themselves into the banked snow along the verges as the ambulance shot by in the night. Alex had the wheel; driving gave him occupation, it excused him from brooding on the failure, but he could not keep his mind from the bitterness of it. Felix, he thought. Full of spirit and dash: Felix would have been more than they’d expected of him—he’d had the genius of leadership but it had taken these last weeks to reveal it in him and now it was negated, the absolute waste of early death—Felix and Ilya Rostov and the sixteen men they’d carried aboard their bombers; and Majors Postsev and Solov because Vlasov hadn’t been able to warn them—all the commandos must have walked right into the traps by now. Nearly a hundred men had to be counted dead or worse. In military terms it was a small casualty list but they were not victims of combat, they were the casualties of betrayal and his bile came up with the anger that focused on vengeance. If it takes the rest of my life….

11.

The body of water called Ladoga was a lake in geographer’s terms but it was an oval 300 miles by 200 miles and it might as well have been an ocean. A 50-mile-wide neck of land lay between the western shore of Ladoga and the eastern shore of the Baltic Sea’s Gulf of Finland; the isthmus connected Europe with Scandinavia and it was here that the opposing armies were drawn up with their flanks anchored against the two shores. The surface of Ladoga was frozen to a depth of two feet or more and would have supported the weight of route-stepping troops but there was no cover on the open ice and the war stayed in the forested hills.

At dawn an artillery duel began and from thirty miles south of the battleground Alex saw the flashes. Fifteen minutes later they began to feel the concussive rumble, transmitted up from the gravel surface of the road through the tires and springs of the Pobeda ambulance,

They had cut wide to the east around the environs of besieged Leningrad and the cleated tires of the ambulance slithered on the unpaved subsidiary track; it had been mashed down by convoys of tanks and heavy lorries moving to and from the Finnish front. The ambulance ran along in second gear bracketed between a field-kitchen supply truck and a half-track troop-carrier; steady streams of traffic moving both ways along the narrow track, skittering on the verges and occasionally colliding.

Sergei had the map open in his lap but it was a chart left over from the 1939 war, something they’d taken off a captured Russian captain in Vassily’s interrogation tent; there was no way to know how much had been changed since those days. “Just ahead—the turning to the right.”

Alex obeyed the old man’s navigational instructions and the ambulance heaved into a narrow rutted track. Tanks had been along here but not in the past twenty-four hours; there was a crust of fresh snow in the ruts. The trees crowded thick against the track and branches kept whipping the ambulance.

The turn had taken them out of the convoy and they were alone in deep woods. The artillery wasn’t more than three or four miles north of them—to the left now. The earth shook steadily and the racket was intense. The guns had been talking for nearly half an hour and that was a little bit encouraging because an extended field-gun barrage at daybreak often presaged an assault and if the Red Army was poised to go into battle then things would be confused along the extended flanks; that sort of confusion might play into their hands.

He had a look at the gauges. The engine was running slightly hot on poor fuel but it wasn’t at the boil-over point; the oil pressure was steady on fifty and the ammeter was centered. There was half a tank of fuel and that would be enough, one way or the other.

The road staggered fitfully. In clearings they passed knots of soldiers and the occasional parked vehicle. Each time he tensed up and saw Sergei lift the tommygun into his lap but no one challenged them and they chugged on into the morning. At half past ten the artillery ceased fire—a dozen miles behind his left shoulder. The track made a turning to the north and Sergei said, “Soon now,” and folded the map neatly away.

It crested a hundred yards ahead. He parked the ambulance in the road before they reached the top. He got out and took the tommygun; as he approached the skyline he went into the trees and jinked from pine to pine until he was on top. Then he slipped out to the edge of the road and looked down the far slope.

The track ran down toward the shore and made a right turn and disappeared beyond the end of the trees. Winds had swept big patches of the lake free of snow and the ice was grey and translucent. At the foot of the road where it made its sharp turning at the shoreline there was a rickety wooden dock and beside it was a ramp used in peacetime by fishermen hauling their boats in and out of the water. The ramp was covered with several inches of powder snow but its outlines were clearly defined. On the dock stood a crude corrugated structure—a sentry post with some sort of wood stove in it; smoke curled from a round metal chimney. There was a loop antenna on the roof of it. Spotters then: posted along the bank of the lake to give warning of any Finnish advance across the open ice. And there were 55mm howitzers stationed along the shore; he only saw two of them—one on either side of the dock—but there’d be a good many more strung out in the trees at the edge of the lake.

Without hurry he studied the landscape, deciphering the clues in the snowy hills and the irregular shore. Finally he faded back into the woods and tramped down to the ambulance.

They were all outside stamping their feet. Sergei dragged a glove across his face and spat in the snow. “It’s all right?”

“It’ll have to do. They’ve got fifty-fives at two-hundred-meter intervals along the shore. Probably machine-gun bunkers too.”

Corporal Voroshnikov said, “Perhaps we should go farther east.”

“We haven’t the fuel for that.”

Sergei said, “How does the ice look?”

“Thick enough.” He tossed the tommygun inside and climbed up. “Let’s go.”

By now every shore position would have been alerted by Moscow to stop any vehicle or personnel trying to escape to the north. There was no way to bluff a passage with false papers. They might have his description.

His commando had to break through the Red line somewhere and this was the most thinly defended piece of it. Ram through onto the lake and get out beyond the range of the guns and cut a semicircular route toward the Finland shore: that was the plan now and it was all they had left. He put the ambulance in gear. The rear wheels slipped a little but then the cleats found purchase and it lurched uphill.

At the crest he still had her in low gear. He shifted before feeding fuel to the carburetor and he picked up speed smoothly on the downslope.

The ambulance bucked and wobbled, slithering from side to side in the ruts. Sergei had his window open and his gun in both hands and the cold wind was awful. Now it was two hundred yards to the boat ramp and the ambulance was still picking up speed but not too much because there’d be a hard bump at the top of the ramp: try to hold it down to something between fifty and sixty kilometers.

A man stepped out of the spotter shed—probably alerted by the noise. Shouted to someone inside the shack and lifted a rifle to his shoulder. Alex saw the muzzle zero in. Then his ears were battered by the staccato slamming of Sergei’s automatic nine-millimeter. The bullets knocked the soldier back against the wall of the shack; when he slid down he left a red smear on it. Then Alex was wrenching the wheel left and smashing through the drifts at the head of the boat ramp and Sergei was twisted around in the lurching seat, spraying the doorway of the shack to keep their heads down inside. The ambulance went over the lip of the ramp: the front wheels slammed down with an impact that threw him forward against the steering wheel; it was sideslipping and he fought to correct but it kept turning and went down the ramp with the back tires spinning on the ice at a three-quarter angle: for a moment he was sure they were going to capsize. But the ambulance held upright and he fed a little fuel; the tires made a tentative grab and squirted tangentially onto the lake ice. Now they’d find out if it was thick enough to hold the weight.

He heard glass shatter musically and the confined roaring of a gun in the back of the ambulance—Voroshnikov or one of the others firing at the spotter shack through the rear windows of the ambulance. It was still spinning slowly on the ice; he had to turn the front wheels that way with the skid. The spin took them right back along the shore on the left but when the wheels vectored into the bank they gained enough traction to send the ambulance spurting forward and he turned the wheel with an easy slow motion so that it curved gently away from the shoreline and began to run out onto the frozen open surface. He kept it to a very slow curve because anything more would break them loose again, send them spinning. But it was an angle that held them too close inshore for too long and the trees erupted in machine-gun fire. He saw them chop white smears and dashes in the ice and heard the whine as they ricocheted away and then one or two of the guns had the range and there was lead chugging into the back. If one of them blew the fuel tank or ruptured the tires that was that.

He shifted up into top and put his foot on the floor. Some one in the litter bed cried out, hit. Sergei had his big shoulders all the way out the open window, shooting the tommygun empty; then he sagged back inside and slumped down in the seat. Alex flashed a glance at him to see if he’d been hit. He hadn’t; he was just using as much cover as he could find. Wind whipped around Alex’s face, freezing his ears and cheeks. She was up to seventy-five kph on the ice now and he completed the steady turn and straightened the steering: due north onto the lake with five hundred meters of it behind them. The shore machine guns gave it up. Ninety kph, a hundred—sixty miles an hour on surface ice and it was shaking the ambulance to pieces; the surface wasn’t all that smooth. Everything rattled: the noise was so intense he didn’t hear it when the shore batteries opened up. The first he knew of it was when a fifty-five punched a tremendous hole in the ice. Another shell impacted behind him and that one was close enough to rain slivers of ice on the ambulance—like hailstones on a corrugated metal roof; the noise was as terrible as the machine-gun hits had been.

A fifty-five burst well ahead of him and quite a distance to the right. He steered a course toward it because they’d be correcting their aim and moving left with the next ones. He heard Sergei’s grunt when one fluttered overhead. It blew up a quarter acre of ice to the left and now he had to guide the speeding ambulance between the two holes before the ramifying cracks broke up the surface between them. He could see the fissures spreading: they moved that fast.

When the ambulance skittered across the frozen isthmus the ice was breaking up underneath and it wobbled badly, one rear wheel sinking into stuff that had gone soft as pablum. But the momentum carried it over the slush. Two fifty-five-millimeter salvos smashed up the lake behind them and he crabbed the ambulance to the left as quickly as he could without losing traction.

, They had two field guns in play as far as he could tell; both had an open field of fire as long as he remained within range. They didn’t have to hit him. All they had to do was punch a hole in the ice ahead of him—close enough so he couldn’t evade without skidding. The only answer to it was to keep doglegging—chasing salvos, trying to outwit the spotters.

Speed was his advantage and his hazard at the same time. On the ice every notch of speed meant that much less maneuverability. He was putting nearly a mile behind them with every full minute that elapsed but those guns could reach out six or seven miles and they still had plenty of time to stop him. Four minutes was an eternity in a race like this.

Ice lies thinnest along the bank. Out over deep water it was thickest and could absorb great impacts without shattering. The guns were firing a random mixture of armor-piercings and high explosives but now the armor-piercings simply drilled straight through, leaving holes no bigger than the fist-sized diameter of the shells that punched them; and the HEs dug powdery craters in the surface but no longer broke them through to the water beneath. When a shell exploded dead ahead of him Alex knew he didn’t have time to turn and he trusted to chance and the strength of the ice: he accelerated right into the blinding rain of crystals. The ambulance slammed violently through the crater and bounded up over the far lip of it; came crashing down on all four wheels and kept right on going with slush oiling down the windscreen. Sergei reached up and cranked the wipers back and forth to clear it. Alex caught the old man’s defiant grin.

Too many of those and she could break an axle but they had a chance now. The guns were elevating steadily: the next one hit well out ahead of him and slightly to the right. He bent his course to veer around the far-right-hand side of the crater while the next salvo of HEs blew geysers in the ice considerably to the left. He steered straight this time because they’d expect him to chase back to the left and they’d be waiting for that. The next two drilled holes to his left again but still he didn’t change course. He waited until the next salvo—a neat bracket, one on either side and a bit behind him—and then he jinked to the left: a random move on impulse. It threw them off again and now the shells were falling behind. going wide; six miles and the spotters couldn’t see him very well. The ambulance was a small white object moving very fast against a blinding white background: at best they only had him in sight intermittently.

One at a time the two field guns gave it up. Sergei sat up and mischievously poked a finger through a hole torn in his coat sleeve by a Bolshevik bullet. “Magnificently done, my general.”

Maybe thirty miles in an arc across the ice now: they’d be at the Finland shore. He began to let himself relax. Another mile to be sure they were out of range and he’d stop and check the back for casualties.

It came without warning. He hadn’t thought to check the sky. He didn’t know the plane was there until the strafing tracers rattled a stitched line across the ice, walking the bullets right up to the speeding ambulance. He tried to take evasive action but it was much too late. He heard the diving whine of the aircraft. He felt it when the fifty-calibers shredded a rear tire; the ambulance dropped down on the rim and began to circle blindly like a half-crushed beetle. The jacketed bulletstore into the body of the ambulance and they were screaming in the back compartment and then the other tire blew and something broke apart and she was skidding to a stop, mangled and dead on the ice.

Sergei had taken a bullet and there was blood all over his coat—it looked like an arm wound; he showed his teeth. Alex heard the plane whining and when he looked up through the windscreen it was at the top of its turn, coming back for another pass: diving for the kill.

12.

She stood on the tarmac watching the main gate. The wind was cruel—dry and frigid; puffs of powder snow blew across the runway. The only sounds were the footfalls of the Finnish sentries as they moved back and forth to keep warm and the growl of the diesel generator behind the control tower.

Prince Leon came to her from the building behind her. He leaned heavily on his cane; his face was deeply trenched by exhaustion and the emptiness of defeat. “We shall have to go soon.”

“Go where?”

“I do not know, Irina. Back to Spain I suppose, where else can we go? You will catch a chill out here, you must come inside.”

She could see out past the main gate, past the sentries and their rifles—a long way down the ribbon of road that ran straight between the trees. No one was on the road. She put her back to it reluctantly and put her hand on the old prince’s arm and helped him back into the building; he had trouble with the step.

The rest of them sat in the pilots’ Ready Room, their faces as grey as the sky outside. Her father looked up when she entered the room but his mask of authority had sagged away to nothing and his eyes were lacquered as if with fever. Baron Oleg tried to put life in his face but it was tremble-lipped, white, ghastly. But for one traitor they’d have been in Moscow by now. Colonel Buckner leaned in the far doorway, forehead against the wood, putting some of his weight on his hand which gripped the doorknob—he looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Brigadier Cosgrove raised his one hand a few inches to acknowledge Irina’s presence but then he withdrew into himself to brood. Absurdly, General Savinov and the venerable Prince Michael sat facing each other pushing checkers across a board.

It had been twenty-four hours since they’d heard the news.

Cramps of hunger prevented her from sleeping and finally sometime in the small morning hours she went down in search of food; she hadn’t eaten anything all day. She found General Spaight there; he gave a quick startled smile. “You’ve caught me. Raiding the larder.”

She found cheese and bread and made a meal of that. “What time is it, do you know?”

“After seven I think.”

“I didn’t realize it was that late.”

“The sun won’t be up for two hours yet.”

She sat down to eat; Spaight said, “The water’s boiling for coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“Avidly.”

“He’ll get out, you know. I’ve soldiered with Alex a long time,” he said. “He’s not the sort of man who gets captured.”

“Or killed?”

“If they’d killed him we’d have heard about it.” He was spooning coffee into the pot. “They were pretty explicit in the broadcast about the ones they’d killed or caught and identified. Alex wasn’t among them and neither was Sergei.”

“But they’re nearly twenty-four hours overdue.”

He brought his plate to the table and sat down facing her. “He’ll get out, Irina.”

“I don’t need false reassurance. Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s myself I’m reassuring. He’s too good a man—too good a friend to lose.”

They ate in silence, watching the coffeepot. When it was ready Spaight poured and brought the cups to the table. “You’re a remarkable woman, Irina. He’s a lucky man.”

“I’d rather not think that far ahead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No—never apologize.”

He said, “It was someone in this camp who betrayed us.”

“What?”

“I found a radio transceiver in the parts room at the back of the repair hangar—shortly after Felix took off. It was still warm. Someone had just got done using it. I turned on the receiver to find out what band he’d set it to. It was the Russian Secret Service frequency. I didn’t understand any of it of course, they broadcast in code. But I know their call signs.”

“You didn’t tell anyone?”

“No. I’ve spent nearly every hour since then watching the hangar—I thought maybe he’d go back for it. But I gradually came to the conclusion he never would. He’s done with it now, isn’t he—it’s served its purpose.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re the only one I trust on this base right now. You wouldn’t have betrayed Alex.”

“I’m grateful for your trust. It means a great deal just now.”

“Maybe you can explain something to me then. Why would the traitor wait until after the mission was beyond recall? Why not sabotage the mission before? It doesn’t make any sense.”

She shook her head numbly. She tasted the coffee; it was strong and bitter—like the anger rising in her. “I’ve no idea at all. You’re right—it’s senseless.”

The sun was hardly a diameter above the horizon and the clouds writhed with a red conflagration. The window was open a crack to feed the coal fire and her hair was blowing gently in the draft from it; she had kept vigil at the window since the first moment of dawn.

At the hangar she saw Pappy Johnson and Calhoun talking about something with expressive gestures; there had been some trouble with one of the De Havillands yesterday.

Baron Oleg arrived in the Ready Room, nodded to Spaight and crossed the room to peer out over Irina’s shoulder. The gate was still closed, the sentries walked their posts, the road beyond was empty.

Oleg said, “The Finnish government is not prepared to have us camp here for the duration of the war. If Alex is safe he will find his way to us. We cannot wait here forever for him. We are an acute embarrassment to the Finns now.”

She put her back to him and resumed her watch on the road. “I’m not leaving, Oleg.”

“You will have to.”

“He expects us to wait for him. He may be wounded. He can’t come here exhausted and perhaps badly hurt and find this place deserted—no one could be expected to take that much.”

Her father came downstairs; she heard his tread and recognized it. Oleg said to him, “She refuses to come with us. You must talk to her.”

She turned, ready to defy her father; but he only shook his head. “If Irina has made up her mind it is no good my arguing with her.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I only wish the rest of us had as much room for hope as you seem to have, my daughter.”

But it was only the hem of hope to which she clung; reason quarreled with instinct and it was only by force of will that she enabled instinct to prevail. She saw the men carrying the luggage out to the aircraft—the suitcases that contained their preciously preserved Imperial uniforms, the documents of a Liberation that was not to be, the mocking relics of their failure. Still she did not stir from her post by the window.

A eleven o’clock her father came downstairs again, treading heavily; she saw he carried her own valises.

“I packed for you. In case you should change your mind. It is not meant as an inducement.”

He looked strange. It struck her it was the first time in her life she’d ever seen him carrying suitcases. There had always been servants.

He put them down near the door and rammed his hands in his pockets; he looked uncertain. She said, “What now, father?”

“For me? Nothing. Our lives are over. We have had our chance and lost it. We shall go back to our neutral villas and play at our meaningless pastimes. There is nothing else.”

At eleven-fifteen there was a report somewhere in the building—a crash or perhaps a gunshot—and Spaight ran from the room in alarm to seek its source. He returned shortly thereafter.

“It’s Baron Zimovoi. He’s shot himself.”

Prince Leon shot upright in his chair. “My God. Is there a doctor?”

“There’s no need for a doctor,” Spaight said quietly. His puzzled eyes rode around to Irina and she read the question in them: Was it because he was the traitor? Did he kill himself out of guilt?

The takeoff was delayed—fifteen minutes, then a half hour, then more—while they disputed the disposition of Oleg’s body. Finally it was Spaight who decided it:

“We’ll take him with us in the cargo compartment of one of the planes. We’ll have to. The ground is frozen here—he can’t be buried.” Lame inanities and gruesome horrors were the subjects their tongues touched but these were in keeping with the day; Oleg’s suicide seemed fitting.

13.

She watched them trail dispiritedly toward the waiting De Havillands. Her father took his leave of her. Prince Michael hobbled out ahead and some of the others waited to help him into the airplane. Cosgrove went blindly along behind—he seemed even more benumbed than the others by the sudden collapse of the enterprise.

The two Americans were last out of the building. They stopped, flanking her, and Buckner looked out toward the empty road while Spaight put his kind eyes on her face and reached out to squeeze her hand.

Buckner said, “It was a fine dream while it lasted.”

“It was more than a dream for a while,” Spaight said.

“Maybe. But that’s all it’ll be from now on—a badly remembered one.”

That was when she saw the faintest movement in the mists far out along the road.

It was a Finnish ambulance. The breath caught in her sucking throat like a handsaw jamming in wet wood.

The ambulance halted at the gate and there was the tedious ritual of idents and clearances and then the gate swung open and the white van rolled forward. She tried to see through the windshield.

Then it stopped forty feet away and the door opened and Alex stepped out.

He waved and turned to help Sergei down; Sergei had a bulky white bandage about his shoulder. The stretcher bearers carried a third man out of the ambulance on a litter.

Alex said something to Sergei and then came away from him.

Irina walked blindly into his arms. Her fingers raked the back of his coat and the tears burst from her beyond control.

14.

“Are you hurt….”

“I’m all right.” There wasn’t much life in his voice but he hadn’t been injured.

Spaight and Buckner crowded around. “What happened?” Faintly she was aware of Prince Leon hurrying forward, hobbling.

“We had to fight our way out. Most of us didn’t make it. We were strafed on the lake—we had to lie low under the dashboard until the pilot was convinced we were all dead. If he’d blown the fuel tank we’d all have gone up. We couldn’t move until after dark.”

Spaight said, “Someone’s got a lot to answer for.”

Prince Leon reached them; pressed past her and pulled Spaight out of the way and embraced Alex. Tears were frozen on Leon’s face.

But Alex’s face was changing. Muscles stood ridged at his jaw hinges and the bones at brow and cheek became harder, more prominent. With gentle pressure he thrust Leon aside.

“We heard it on the radio in the Finnish border camp,” he said. “The news from Pearl Harbor. The Japanese attack on Hawaii. The broadcast must have come just when Felix was taking off.”

John Spaight’s head rocked back. “What?”

Glenn Buckner’s face had closed up abruptly—like a blind pulled down over a window. “Is that right? The Japs attacked Pearl?”

Prince Leon said, “I don’t—”

Buckner was still talking very fast. “It means you’ll have a job to go back to, Alex. With your combat experience they’ll need you bad. You’ve got a hell of a future with….”

“You bloodless bastard,” Alex whispered.

Buckner showed his alarm: wild white rings showed around his eyes. “Look—I’m in the war now…. My country is…. I had to make the decision, don’t you see that? Maybe if the Reds hadn’t counterattacked last week it would have been different…. But Stalin’s going to hold them now, anybody can see that—he’ll be able to buy us the time we need. We couldn’t risk rocking the boat. You can see that. For God’s sake I had my orders, Alex….”

Alex’s arm shot forward, palm up. He hooked his fingers deep into the American’s flared nostrils and pulled him forward. He didn’t hit at Buckner’s face. He hit through and beyond it and it crushed the nose flat against the bones and all but snapped Buckner’s head off his neck and then Alex was hammering Buckner’s mouth bloody with his fists until Buckner fell down and rolled away and came up with a revolver in his fist; but the blood was in Buckner’s eyes, he couldn’t see his opponent and Alex jumped him. The two men wrestled for the gun and she heard it when Alex broke the American’s finger in the trigger guard. Then the revolver came spinning away because Alex had no use for it—a gun was the wrong thing now; it had to be flesh on flesh for this. There was no damming the flood of it. When Buckner tried to get up Alex grasped the back of his head and hammered it down into the tarmac. Then he locked his fists together and she heard his inhuman roar when he struck the American at the base of the neck.

Alex stood up and waited for him to rise. Buckner came out of his wreckage crawling mindlessly, dragging himself in a blind circle, breathing in broken gasps, spitting teeth.

A throbbing vein stood out in Alex’s forehead. He braced himself to kick Buckner’s face.

John Spaight grasped him from behind—pinned his arms, locked a grip around Alex’s chest. “Stop it, Alex. It’s enough.”

The bullet slammed into Buckner with an awful deliberate precision of aim: dead center between the eyes.

She turned and saw Prince Leon drop the gun back to the frozen ground from which he’d picked it up.

15.

She heard Spaight talking softly—it was Pappy Johnson he was talking to. Pappy was out of breath from his run. “Wrap him up,” Spaight said, “and put him with the Baron.”

She felt herself sag and suddenly Alex was there, holding her. She half-heard Spaight:

“He had to keep it secret from the rest of us—his own twisted reasons but they make a horrible kind of sense. If you people had known it was the Americans who’d blown you, you’d have told the world.”

Alex turned; he almost lost his balance. “Were you in on this, John?”

“No. For God’s sake—what do you think of me?”

“He’s telling the truth,” she said.

Alex dipped his head groggily. “Buckner must have had Vassily killed. I guess he wanted to work with an Americanized Russian—someone he thought he could control. Me. Then he had somebody shoot at me in Boston—shoot to miss. That was to throw suspicion off but the next one wasn’t. The one in Scotland. That was to scare me, make me think my life was in danger—he thought I’d tell him the plan then.” He looked at Spaight then. “There’s something worse than any of that. We don’t know if it was his own initiative—or if he had orders to do it the way he did it.”

Spaight’s face went wide and then crumpled when the impact reached him. “Sweet sweet Jesus.”

Under the thin noon sun she watched the airplanes lift off into the cold sky. The guns murmured on the Russian front. She felt the pressure of Alex’s hands on her shoulders. They stood utterly alone on the runway. She leaned back against him and let him take her weight.

“What are we going to do?”

He said, “I don’t know.”

A HISTORICAL NOTE

During the battle for Moscow very early in 1942, Major General Andrei A. Vlasov, charged with the defense of the city, was captured by the Wehrmacht—perhaps by his own design—and became a prisoner of war.

While in the camps Vlasov was approached by officers of German Intelligence to raise a Russian liberation army from among Russian prisoners-of-war to fight alongside the Wehrmacht against the Red Army. They were trained at a special camp, set up late in 1942, at Dabendorf near Berlin.

Vlasov fell into American hands at the end of the war in 1945. He was turned over to the Soviets and was executed.

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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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copyright © 1974 by Brian Garfield

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