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 di
splayed 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.
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