Romanov Succession (32 page)

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.