“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 t
he 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.”
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