“You trust your politicians?”
“This one I do.”
The morning of the departure of the British delegation, Harriman suggested one last walk in the garden. Once they were some hundred feet from the door, he said, “Churchill’s man is Captain David Laughlin. He’ll meet our car upon arrival, and while the prime minister and I are giving our little speeches, he’ll escort you to the airplane.”
“Anything special we have to do?” Mia asked.
“Yes.” He turned his attention to Alexia. “You must change out of that uniform and into some of Miss Kramer’s clothes again. A Red Army soldier will never get past the guard. You must pass as one of the British delegation. A secretary, perhaps.”
“Anything else?” Mia asked.
“Keep in mind that since Molotov has not provided an exit visa or official military discharge, what we’re undertaking will be a grave offense to the Soviets. It is critical that the prime minister, or my office for that matter, not be compromised at this critical time, so if anything goes wrong, if you’re stopped or recognized, we must disavow you.”
It was an ominous warning, but the alternatives had run out. “I understand.”
The driver brought the embassy car to a stop in front of the main terminal, and a young officer with a rather bland English face stepped toward them to open the rear door. As Mia struggled out, he offered his hand.
“Captain Laughlin?” she asked, shaking it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, repeating the gesture with Alexia. “I’ll escort you to the prime minister’s plane while he’s addressing the public.”
“Who are we going to say we are?” Mia still hadn’t gotten the whole picture.
“You’ll be yourself. But this young lady will be Catherine Dunn, one of the prime minister’s secretaries.” He handed over an envelope of papers.
“Cassrin Don.” Unaccustomed to the “th,” Alexia repeated the name awkwardly.
“However. If she’s identified and blocked from entry, we will say the forgeries are Russian and that we do not know her. The prime minister is willing to appear taken advantage of but not complicit.”
“Ah, yes. Deniability. I recognize that. Fine.”
Ambassador Harriman checked his watch and instructed the captain. “It doesn’t look like Churchill and entourage have arrived yet, but the Soviets are already on the field. It’s best you get into position at the far end of the terminal. Stay within the crowd. When the prime minister’s plane tests his propellers, you can escort the women out onto the field. The flight crew should be expecting them. In the meantime, I’ll be seeing to protocol.”
The ambassador turned his head at the sound of the military band. “That’s the honor guard starting the ceremonies. I’ve got to go now. Mia, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. Miss Mazarova, good luck to you.”
“Thank you so much, Ambassador,” Mia said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you could arrange this. I hope I haven’t caused too many problems.”
“That’s quite all right. Sometimes one has to improvise. But please tell Harry he owes me one.”
Alexia was succinct. “Thank you for everything,” she said in Russian.
He shook hands with both of them and then was gone.
Captain Laughlin stepped into the lead, and they followed him silently. When they reached the end of the terminal, the crowd blocked their view of the field, but the distant sound of the British national anthem told them that Churchill had arrived.
“The Star-Spangled Banner” followed, and then the Soviet anthem, and Alexia looked pained. It was obviously not a good moment to hear patriotic music.
They edged forward and finally caught sight of the ceremonies. Mia could discern the main players: the tall, slender Anthony Eden; Molotov, looking nondescript; and the handsome, dark-haired Harriman standing next to white-haired Churchill.
Molotov stepped up to the microphone but was mercifully brief. Then Churchill addressed the crowd, and through the public speakers, she could hear his words. “The last two years have been ones of unbroken victory, the Russian Army has broken the spirit of the Wehrmacht, the final triumph will bring a better world for the majority of mankind.” A better world? God, she hoped so.
The British delegation’s B-24 bomber waiting out on the airfield tested its propellers, then taxied closer to the terminal to receive its passengers.
“Time to board,” Captain Laughlin announced, and marched ahead of them onto the field.
They were within a dozen yards of the plane when two guards approached them. “No one is allowed on board yet,” one of them said in Russian. Laughlin looked slightly perplexed. Alexia, who understood but dared not react, stared at the ground.
“We are authorized, and all of us have identification,” Mia said in Russian.
All three presented their papers, and Mia hoped the trembling in her hand was not obvious. But after several tense moments, they were allowed to pass. When they reached the plane, the captain opened the hatch toward the rear of the fuselage. Hands reached out and helped lift her inside.
The interior of the refitted B-24 Liberator heavy bomber was cavernous, no doubt the result of the removal of all the weaponry. The bomb bay doors were closed, and a temporary floor had been laid over the metal walkway, a portion of which was still visible at the far end.
Some ten rows of passenger seats had been installed, and she chose the last two seats at the rear of the plane, hoping to draw as little attention as possible.
The other passengers were largely military personnel, heavily decorated officers with their adjutants. Mia made no effort to talk to them.
After some twenty nerve-racking minutes, the hatchway opened again, and the rest of the delegation boarded: first Captain Laughlin, then more military, and finally Churchill and Eden. The prime minister appeared grumpy as he took his seat at the front and buckled himself in.
The plane began to taxi, and, in spite of the movement of the plane, one of the younger officers marched up the aisle to hand the prime minister a short glass of whiskey. He accepted it with a sullen nod.
The lack of windows made it impossible to tell how far they were from the terminal, but for Mia every moment they taxied brought them farther away from danger. In another five minutes, they’d be in the sky and on their way to freedom.
But the plane suddenly stopped. Churchill peered over his shoulder and grumbled, “What the devil…?”
Obviously someone from the control tower had contacted the pilot, because one of the flight crew left his post, came back to the hatch, and opened it.
Two Soviet officers stepped in, and their royal-blue caps revealed them as NKVD. Beside her, Alexia stiffened.
The prime minister had gotten out of his seat, as well as Captain Laughlin, and both stood in the aisle near the entrance way. Marching past them, the NKVD men stopped in front of Alexia. “Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova. You will come with us.”
Mia leapt up to confront them, but one of the men pushed her back down onto her seat. “No. You are required to leave.” The senior officer laid his hand on his holster.
“I say, what’s going on here?” Churchill gestured vaguely toward Mia with his whiskey glass.
The senior officer replied in English. “This one is Soviet citizen and deserter.” With that, the junior officer lifted Alexia from her seat with one hand and urged her toward the hatch. She offered no resistance.
Mia glanced desperately toward the prime minister. “Sir…”
He took a step toward the senior NKVD officer. “Oh, dear. I had no idea we had a stowaway. So sorry, Major. Please extend my heartfelt apologies to your government for this unfortunate incident. I shall certainly have words with my flight crew about that.” He stepped back and allowed the two men to escort Alexia through the hatchway and onto the tarmac.