Romanov Succession

by Brian Garfield

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.”

  “Ho
w 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.”