“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.
“That pitiful God damned horse cavalry of Budyenny’s been stopping panther tanks in their tracks. It’s hard to believe but there it is.”
“I’m not getting your point,” Alex said.
“The point is, old son, if Stalin can hold the Germans all by himself then the Allies don’t need you.”
Alex contrived a hard smile. “You can’t have it both ways.”
“Can’t I?”
“You’re saying you can’t use us if Stalin loses and you don’t need us if he wins. The same conditions obtained when we started all this. Nothing’s changed.”
“You’re wrong. The whole—”
“Stalin isn’t whipping them,” Alex said, riding right over him. “He’s only doing a bit better than he was before. He’s had time to get over the surprise—he’s had time to bring in a million troops from Siberia and the SS has given him some help with his morale. Naturally the German advance has slowed down—their supply lines are long and it’s the dead of winter up there. So the Germans will sit in their trenches until spring and then they’ll finish the job—unless Russia’s got the kind of leadership the country will follow.”
Buckner was shaking his head. “You don’t get this yet. The United States is gearing up for war. We’re too late and too slow because we’ve still got too many fools in Congress but we’re going to be in it—maybe six months from now, maybe a year. You’ve got to see it from the President’s point of view. What we need is whatever gives us the best odds that Hitler won’t nail down a quick victory. After the next twelve to eighteen months we’ll be able to handle it.”
“And?”
“We’re bound to support whatever forces offer the best chances of keeping Hitler off balance. Any interest we take in Russian internal politics is purely a secondary matter. The war takes precedence. And if Stalin proves he can hold the Germans to their present lines then we’d be fools to rock the boat by trying to overthrow the people who are containing Hitler for us.
“As of right now we’re still supporting you. It could change. If I get orders from Washington between now and the time you people go in, I’m going to have to scrub your operation.”
Buckner attempted a smile that was evidently intended to be reassuring. “Look, we’re in a position of luxury. We’re not in the war. We can play with it from a distance—we can still take the chance with you. It would be different if we were in the war, say, or if Stalin managed to wipe out Guderian’s army in the next ten days. Or if Hitler took Moscow. It isn’t all that likely to happen, is it, but if it does you’ve got to be ready to stand down. Understand?”
It had taken a great effort of will for the Americans to get off the mark in the first place: it was always easier to deal with the devil you knew; even if Roosevelt didn’t like Stalin at least he though he knew how to treat with him. The Whites were an unknown quantity to Washington and the President was prepared to deal with them only so long as he had time to feel out their intentions. If the lines around Moscow remained static it might not risk too much to have a sudden replacement of the Moscow regime—but if something else should change the picture then Washington no longer would have the latitude to risk upsetting everything.
But Alex had no intention of scrubbing the program. Nobody was going to stop it now—not Roosevelt and not Hitler and certainly not a nervous War Department colonel.
What he said was, “We’ll just have to hope nothing changes the status quo in the next couple of weeks, won’t we.”
“I suppose we do at that.” Buckner could be trusted not to be trusted: it was a form of understanding.
“You filled Churchill in. You owe us the same courtesy.” Buckner let it hang in the air and when it elicited no response he said, “Somebody took a shot at you in Boston. Somebody took another shot at you just a few days ago. Suppose the next one doesn’t miss? What happens to this operation?”
“The operation goes ahead on schedule. With me or without.”
“Then you’ve briefed your subordinates?”
“No.”
“Now I call that double-talk, Alex.”
“It’s like a blackmail scheme,” Alex told him. “The plan’s written down—every detail. In a safe place. If something happens to me it’s delivered into the hands of the White Russian coalition. They can select my successor and proceed with the minimum delay.”