The Romanov succession

by Brian Garfield

  “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 cocehre was below the rank of Duesenberg or Hispano-Suiza.