“Deniken is still the commander-in-chief. It is by his authority.”
“A Major General? That’s absurd. I’m thirty-four years old.”
“Please do not dispute it, Alex, it is a matter of politics. Governments will deal with a Major General at high level where they would force a mere colonel to use the servants entrance.”
“It’s a rank that implies command of at least a combat division—ten thousand men.”
“On paper you will have one. Never mind, it is all politics.”
“The cable from Barcelona was a little cryptic,” Glenn Buckner said. “How did Devenko die?”
“We put it out that it was natural causes. Heart attack. But he was shot—a paid gun.”
“Did you catch the killer?”
“Yes.”
Buckner leaned forward, intent. “What did you find out from him?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.”
Buckner made a face and sank back in the chair. “Crap.”
“He had nothing in his pockets except a forged invitation to the party.”
“Did you fingerprint him?”
“No. I doubt it would have mattered. We didn’t want it reported to the authorities there—and anyway what could we have found out? We might have learned he was a gunsmith from Milan or a greengrocer from Cardiff but that wouldn’t have got us anywhere. It was a paid job. Maybe if we had an army of detectives and a year to poke around we’d have found out who hired him.”
“Shouldn’t you have tried? Don’t you need to know why?”
“We’ve got more important problems.”
Buckner rubbed his mouth with his knuckles. “It must have had to do with this operation. Otherwise it would be too coincidental.” His hand dropped onto the desk. “Now they’ve given you Devenko’s job.”
“That’s right.”
“Which may make you the next murder victim.” Buckner scowled, picked up a pencil and bounced its point on the blotter. “I’m going to put heavy security on you while you’re in this country. We can’t afford to have you taken out.”
“Just don’t restrict my movements.”
“They’ll be Secret Service—they know their jobs, they don’t get in the way.” The American’s wide face broke into a crooked grin. “It isn’t you I have to care about—it’s the goddamned operation. Christ I don’t like wars much.”
“It’s nobody’s favorite pastime.”
“I get a feeling it was Devenko’s.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I only met him once—in England a little while ago. I got the impression he was a little tilted that way.” Buckner went back to the file drawers and rifled a folder. “Your letter of resignation from the U.S. Army. Need a pen?”
“I’ll use my own.”
Filled with contradictory emotions he bent over the brief document, read it, hesitated momentarily and finally put his signature on it.
“Date it a week ago, while you’re at it. And sign the copy.”
When it was done Buckner took it from him and tossed the two copies carelessly on the corner of the desk. Alex returned to his chair and experienced a momentary cold hollowness: as if he were resigning from reality.
Buckner watched him quietly. “You’re on your own now—if anything goes wrong it’s your own neck. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Understood.”
“Okay, now I’m dealing with you as the official representative of an Allied military operation. You’ve got the same status as the Free French and the Free Poles. Which is to say however much status we choose to grant you. It makes things a little precarious for you. But I guess you can see it’s the only way we can do it. All right—brass tacks now. What are you going to need from us?”
By “us” Buckner meant the government from which Alex had resigned less than two minutes ago; it gave him a very strange feeling—as if suddenly he were in an alien capital.
“Right away I’ll want two men.”
“Americans?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sticky.”
“I want them for training and organization. They won’t go in with us.”
“I’ll see. Who are they?”
“Brigadier General John Spaight for one. He’s in command of-”
“I know who he is. Who’s the other one?”
“An Air Corps squadron commander by the name of Paul Johnson. They call him Pappy. It’s a heavy bomber squadron -the Thirty-fifth I think.”
Buckner was writing the names down. “Major? Colonel?”
“Actually I think he’s only a captain.”
“The Air Corps works in mysterious ways,” Buckner muttered as he scribbled. He looked up. “I’ll try. They may not want any part of it—it could cost them their commands.”
“Not if you put them on temporary detached duty with the assurance they’ll return to their current posts.”
“How long are you going to need them for?”
“Not more than ninety days.”
“What do you need these two particular guys for?”
Alex shook his head.
Buckner didn’t press it. “I take it you had time to get the details of the plan from Devenko before he died.”
“No. But it isn’t his plan. It’s my own.”
Buckner showed mild surprise. “They’re going along with that? They set a lot of store by Devenko, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t give them much of a choice.”
Buckner thought about that and nodded. “They haven’t exactly got a surplus of qualified commanders to choose from. Which makes your security all the more vital. If you get knocked off who else have they got?”
“I don’t know. Most of my generation hasn’t gone in for anything more serious than steeplechasing.”
“Uh-huh. So what are you going to man your force with—jockeys and playboys?”
“My brother and I had a White Russian outfit in Finland. I expect to recruit out of that pool.”
“Aren’t they scattered to hell and gone by now?”
“No,” Alex said. “I know where to find them.”
“There’s one thing more. The timetable.”
“I’ll have it as soon as I can.”
“I didn’t mean yours. I meant Hitler’s. Inside a month it’s going to start raining in Russia. Another month and that’ll turn to snow. It’s September now—by November it may have been decided. If Hitler takes Moscow you can forget your pipedream.”
“Hitler won’t take Moscow. Not that fast.”
“You have a private line to the Reichschancellery that tells you this in confidence?”
“I spent some time in China,” Alex said. “The Japanese are being absorbed there.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of vodka?”
“Stalin’s got some of his best divisions on the China border waiting for a Japanese strike. The Japanese aren’t going to turn that way. Zhukov has already put in requests for those troops to be transferred to the Moscow front. Stalin will sign the authorizations—maybe a week from now, maybe a month; it depends how close Guderian comes to Moscow.”
“The timetable still applies. Stalin’s ahead of the game once it’s decided for sure. Your object is to knock him over while he’s off balance—while the war’s still undecided. That gives you your deadline.”
“It’s not a deadline,” Alex said. “It’s only a gamble. You know how military ops go. You can’t predict a thing. You go by the odds. I think Stalin’s on a tightrope and I think he’s going to stay on it for quite a while.”
“But the longer he has the better his chances. To fall off or to reach the safe end.”
“Of course.”
“Then don’t let any grass grow under you.”
“I’m already in motion,” Alex said.
2.