“What is the alternative then?”
“Trick Stalin and his coterie into an entrapment. Draw them to a place where we can reach them.” He drew a breath. “Then blow them sky high.”
“How do you propose to get them in the open?”
“I’ll need the help of Oleg’s man inside the Kremlin. I can’t explain it better than that before I’ve talked with Oleg.”
“Then do so.” Leon turned to stare him in the eye. “Consider it settled, Alex. I will deal with the others. You will want to move very quickly.”
“I’ll have to start in the States then.”
“That is where the purse strings are. You have met this Colonel Buckner?”
“Yes.”
“You have rapport with him?”
“I think so. As long as our objective is the same.”
“Yes. Do not count on the Americans too much—they want us to do their fighting for them. They want to defeat Germany with their money and our blood. They are willing to fight to the last Russian, as Anatol puts it.” He changed the subject abruptly: “There is something else I must ask you to do. Last night I spoke of installing young Prince Felix on the figurehead throne. But the truth is that I am not sure he will accept.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“He has never had much love for pomp and ceremony.” Leon scraped ashes from the cigar against the stone. “Will you intercede for me with Felix? He has always respected you—he told me once he wished he could care about things the way you do.”
“Leon, it’s you who’s respected. By Felix and everyone else.”
“No—I am taken for granted. You are much closer to his own age. He can’t pretend to regard yours as grandfatherly demands.”
“I’m not a glib talker, you know that.”
“You measure your words. That makes them more valuable. He respects you for that—he will listen to you. Will you do it?”
“If you’re sure it’s best.”
“Thank you. Felix will be racing in Madrid tomorrow. You can be there by car in time to catch him at the end of the race. Then you can fly on from Madrid the following day—it should not delay your schedule.”
17.
He shaved with the great care of dulled concentration. The scars at his throat seemed livid; his face looked weary and very old in the mirror and he was startled by the image. Vassily looked like that.
He put on fawn slacks and a white shirt and prowled the corridors tieless and throbbing as if with hangover. When he knocked at Baron Oleg Zimovoi’s door the echoes of his rapping seemed to carom throughout the villa.
He heard a groggy mutter and finally the door opened just a crack and a suspicious eye glared at him.
“I’m sorry to wake you. It’s important.” He had chosen the hour deliberately because Oleg’s defenses would be down.
“Well come in then.” Oleg stepped back ungraciously, walking away from him in a satin dressing gown that flapped around his calves—a curiously elegant garment for a workingman’s politician.
It was one of the smaller bedchambers in the south wing of the villa but it was nonetheless a spacious room, richly furnished and carpeted. A valise lay carelessly open on the floor and last night’s suit was strewn in rumpled disorder across a chair; Oleg had no valet. The room stank of strong pipe tobacco; moths crashed around the lamp.
Oleg sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his face, grinding knuckles into his eye sockets. “Time is it?”
“Half-past five.”
“In God’s name, what is it you want at this hour?” Then he looked up, bloodshot but suddenly alert. “You have been fool enough to accept the job.”
“Yes. There’s something I need to know. This contact of yours in the Kremlin. How much can we count on him for? How highly placed is he?”
“Highly enough. The man is General Vlasov.”
It took Alex completely by surprise and he made no effort to conceal it.
“Vlasov has been one of us since Stalin began the purges eight years ago. Actually his sympathies were always with us. By ‘us’ of course I mean the exiled democratic Socialist wing. Vlasov is far too liberal to suit most of my colleagues in this venture. That is one reason I did not expose his name in the meeting. Anatol—to him the difference between Socialists and Bolsheviks is not a centime’s”
Alex knew of Vlasov; the Soviet general had been recently in the news. A wirephoto came to mind: a great slab of a man—very big ears and thick eyeglasses, heavy nose and jaw. He’d had a Red Army in the Kiev sector when the Soviets were trapped there by German armor and Vlasov was the only commander to fight his way out of the trap: he’d used a clever tactic, a planned retreat in the center to draw the panzers in and then a flanking movement, snapping both wings shut behind the Germans to trap them inside the circle. Vlasov had kept his army intact while Budyenny had given up and now, a month ago, Stalin had appointed him Commandant of the Moscow Army. Vlasov had been described as Stalin’s favorite general; he shared responsibility for the defense of Moscow and he was regarded as Zhukov’s most likely successor.
Alex said, “How do you maintain contact with him?”
“The usual thing. A series of drops. Couriers—blind exchanges. There is no way for anyone to trace the chain.”
“That’s too clumsy—too slow. I’ll need direct contact.”
“My dear Alex, I am your only means of communication with him and the only one you are going to have.”
“That’s no good. Suppose you’re arrested by the Spanish police? It could happen at any time.”
“I am prepared to take that risk.”
“I’m not.”
“You have little choice.”
“Vlasov’s security is expendable.” Alex spoke harshly for effect. “If the operation succeeds his cover won’t matter; if it doesn’t he’ll probably be found out anyway. I’ve got to have direct contact with him. Not through you—not through anyone.”
“Impossible. I am the only one he trusts.”
“Then tell him he’s got to trust me as well. Or doesn’t he trust you enough to believe that?”
“Well riposted, Alex, but I have given him my word.”
“Ask him to release you from it.”
Oleg tried to argue wordlessly but it was the easiest thing in the world to meet and hold a man’s stare until he got tired of the game. Finally Oleg went to the dresser where the contents of his pockets were strewn; opened a pouch and spooned his pipe into it, tamping with his thumb. “Does it matter that much—or are you only trying to prove who is in command now?”
“I’ve got to work directly with Vlasov.”
“If you prefer not to work through me then perhaps you had better work out a scheme that excludes Vlasov.”
It had always been exasperating to deal with Oleg; he fought out of stubbornness more than conviction.
Oleg said, “The reason Vassily is dead is that too many people learned about it. I cannot put Vlasov in that jeopardy.”
“He’s already in jeopardy. I can’t do the job without him,” Alex said. “Your loyalty to the idea—the coalition—is it a sham?” He maintained an impassive facade and watched the determined resistance in Oleg’s eyes change to sardonic self-deprecation when he saw he was going to have to surrender his control.
Finally with grudging logic Oleg said, “I suppose your intransigence is more reasonable than my own. Very well. But you must let me do it my way. I shall advise you when you may approach him. Do not attempt it until you have my clearance.”
“It’s got to be done quickly.”