“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 If that support is withdrawn at any point then the Danilov plan is aborted.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 displayed 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.”