Guichy nodded. “Around Gdansk.” The dark circles and heavy bags under the man’s eyes testified to the long hours he spent in the Defense Ministry’s situation room and in traveling back and forth between Paris and the armed forces’ war headquarters on the German border. “Only lightly armed airborne units and Marine Commandos so far, but their heavier units cannot be very far behind. Days at best.”
Desaix scowled. Far from frightening the so-called Combined Forces away, Admiral Gibierge’s ill-conceived nuclear gamble seemed only to have spurred them on. He shifted minutely in his chair to face his other companion. “And the Poles?”
“They’re transferring their forces west at a rapid pace.” Morin was atypically blunt. Usually the intelligence director preferred to hedge his assessments. “When we attacked, four of the eight Polish divisions were in the east — watching the Russians. One of those same divisions mauled our 5th Armored two days ago. The Germans say another is already moving toward the battle area, and I see no reason to doubt them.”
Desaix received the news in silence. Though not formally trained as a military strategist, he knew how to “count rifles.” Once those new soldiers arrived, the allies would have eight and a half divisions on the line — six Polish, two American, and one British brigade. Even committing their invasion army’s reserve, the V Corps, would leave France and Germany with just eleven divisions to match against their enemies.
He supposed they could scrape together additional forces from France, Germany, and the Czech-Hungarian front, but not without grave risk. With casualties mounting, French and German civilians, already restive under prolonged martial law, were growing increasingly disillusioned. The latest troop call-ups had proved disappointing. Large numbers of reservists urgently needed to guard lines of communication and key installations had failed to report to their units.
To cover his growing dismay, Desaix took a sip of wine and rolled it around his mouth, automatically savoring the complex flavors before swallowing. Then, almost as though the wine itself had unlocked his mind, he saw the answer, a way to completely transform the bleak strategic situation they faced. He set his glass down and smiled.
“Do you see something amusing in all of this, Nicolas?” Guichy asked irritably.
“Not at all, my friend.” Desaix looked from one man to the other. “But I do see that we’ve been guilty of tunnel vision. These Polish troop moves are not a disaster for us. Far from it! If we move quickly enough, they offer us the chance to secure a decisive victory!”
Both Morin and Guichy stared at him, still uncomprehending.
Desaix explained what he had in mind, rapidly sketching out the broad outlines of his proposal.
Guichy’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “But what about the Boche? They’ll be furious! They’ll never approve such a move!”
“True, Michel.” Desaix nodded. He lowered his voice. “And that is why the Germans must not know what we’re about — not until it is too late.”
Vnukovo Airport, one of the four major landing fields surrounding Moscow, lay twenty-nine kilometers southwest from the city center, just off the Kiev Highway. Ordinarily only domestic flights and planes from the other former Soviet Republics used the field. International carriers were supposed to fly into either Sheremetyevo One or Two to the north.
So the unscheduled arrival of a four-engine Airbus A340 with Air France markings should have generated excited speculation among Vnukovo’s traffic controllers, ground crews, and mechanics. But not with hundreds of FIS agents and uniformed soldiers prowling every corridor, workshop, and office. Under Marshal Kaminov’s autocratic rule, the airport workers knew very well that the old admonition “Careless talk costs lives” meant their own lives — not those of others. They kept their mouths carefully shut.
Guided by instructions from the tower, the Airbus turned off Vnukovo’s main runway and stopped beside a waiting army honor guard, military band, and a line of long black limousines. Ground crewmen hurriedly maneuvered a mobile staircase into place at the forward cabin door.
Drums rolled, a hundred gloved hands slapped rifle butts, and gleaming bayonets flashed in the summer sun as the honor guard presented arms. Two flags — one Russian, the other French — dipped slowly in a salute.
Men emerged from the Airbus and walked slowly down the staircase toward a small party of Russian Army officers waiting on the tarmac. Some of the Frenchmen wore dark, elegant, perfectly tailored suits. Several more wore military uniforms representing the three different services.
With a crash of cymbals and a blare of trumpets, the band broke into “La Marseillaise.” After a long, roundabout journey through Confederation and neutral airspace, Nicolas Desaix’s handpicked ambassador and negotiating team were safely on Russian soil.
Major Paul Duroc stood at attention several paces behind Ambassador Sauret and his personal entourage, inconspicuous in civilian clothes among the other junior aides. With his hand resting over his heart for the anthem, he could feel the shoulder holster and automatic pistol hidden beneath his suit jacket. It was somehow reassuring — something solid to hang on to during his rapid fall from grace. The step down from independent special operations commander to this current posting as a glorified security chief was a long and humiliating one.
Fairly or unfairly, he’d been blamed for the Budapest fiasco. Even his capture of the chief Hungarian leader, Kusin, hadn’t been enough to stem his superiors’ wrath. Caught unprepared as their policies unraveled, the DGSE’s top brass had needed a convenient scapegoat. Someone high enough up the chain of command to be believable, but not powerful enough to turn the blame aside. They’d picked him.
So here he was, plucked out of disgrace for an assignment that required the appointment of a senior intelligence officer as a figurehead. Paris had shunted him off to Moscow with explicit orders to keep his mouth shut, his eyes open, and above all, to do nothing that might upset his Russian hosts. His instructions gave him permission to “liaise” with the Russian security services during the negotiations and nothing more. In short, the major knew he was supposed to be the perfect unobtrusive and inoffensive watchman.
Duroc locked his jaw against a sudden wave of anger. Very well, he would be a watchman. He would follow his orders to the letter. For now. And if he saw a chance to retrieve his reputation by breaking those rules? He shrugged inwardly. Then Paris and all its prissy bureaucrats could go hang.
Erin McKenna paused in the door to apply her name tag, eyeing the crowded reception hall ahead of her. It was a sea of tuxedos, dress uniforms, and evening gowns. Half of Moscow’s movers and shakers were inside, clustered around tables piled high with food, wine, and hard liquor. Music stands and chairs in one corner marked out the territory set aside for the big band the U.S. ambassador had engaged for tonight’s event. With the war heating up, America’s diplomats were spending more time trying to win the goodwill of the Russian political and military leadership — especially those who took their orders directly from Marshal Yuri Kaminov.
Hence this official “Gathering to Promote Peaceful Understanding Between the Great Peoples of the United States and the Russian Republic.” Yeah, right, she thought cynically. From what she’d seen since arriving in Moscow, Kaminov’s preferred method of achieving “peaceful understanding” was usually a bullet in the back of the skull.
Erin had been hoping that Alex Banich would come with her tonight, but he’d taken just one look at the guest list before shaking his head. “Too many of those guys already know me as Nikolai Ushenko.” He’d smiled wryly. “Why confuse them?”