Come into my Parlour (6 page)

“That's for you to say; but I'd like a few more days with Erika, and I imagine it will take you that to make arrangements for my trip?”

“All right. Today's Thursday. Get back in time to dine with me here on Monday night and I'll have everything ready.”

“How do I go? Do I have to risk my neck again by dropping with a parachute, or do you want me to sneak over the frontier disguised as an organ-grinder?”

“Gad, no! You go straight in by the front door under your own name with a perfectly good British passport. No need for any heroics this time. The Russians are now our allies.”

“Yes. That had occurred to me. Also the fact that sending someone to ferret out the military secrets of an Allied Power is, to say the least of it, a bit unorthodox.”

“What's that!” Sir Pellinore drew up his long legs with a jerk. “When I need any lessons in ethics I'll ask for them, you insolent young cub.”

“I should think the Foreign Office would throw a fit,” smiled Gregory, quite unperturbed.

“Oh, the Foreign Office knows when to mind its own business. Don't you worry about that. But you're right, of course, that they wouldn't dare to monkey with a thing like this. That's why we can't ask you-know-who to handle the job. If one of his people were caught at it there'd be no end of a rumpus.”

“Quite apart from what may happen to me, if I'm pinched by the
Ogpu
there may be quite a spot of bother this end, as I'm to go in on a British passport.”

“I realise that, but the Bolshie counter-espionage system is far too good to chance sending you in any other way. If you are caught, at least they can't check back on you and link you up with our own organisation. I had in mind that you should go as a journalist with a notional job under our Press Attaché. No good journalist can resist poking his nose in where he's not wanted, so if you do get in a mess we ought to be able to laugh you off on that score.”

“That sounds all right. What exactly do you want me to find out?”

“Three things. What proportion of their man-power the Russians can actually put into the field. How much territory they can afford to give away before they would be compelled to throw up the sponge. And the real state of Stalin's health.”

Gregory made a grimace and the scar above his left eyebrow suddenly showed white. “That's a pretty tall order.”

“I know, but only by having that information can we form a sound assessment of how long they can stick it.”

“What's the matter with our Military Intelligence? They are paid to do this sort of thing in peacetime, and they've had years to collect the data on which to form a proper appreciation. Can't they give you what you want?”

Sir Pellinore's blue eyes went a little blank, and he shook his head. “I don't think it would be very profitable to go into that. All I can tell you is what some of our senior Generals have told me. Camberley and the War House have always taken a pretty poor view of the
Russians. That may be based on sound information or it may be prejudice. Anyhow, when Russia came in most of these wallahs said she'd be finished in a month. Well, the month is up, and the Bolshies seem to have quite a lot of kick left in them yet. Now, when I lunch with the ‘brutal and licentious' at the Senior or the Rag, the pessimists say the Russian goose will be cooked by the end of August, while the optimists give her three months at the outside.”

“Have you ever read a book called
Red Eagle?
”

“No. What about it?”

“It was a biography of Marshal Voroshilov, published several years before the war, and I remember being particularly interested in what the author had to say about Russia's future strategy, as gleaned from Voroshilov's military writings.”

“What line did this scribbler feller suggest that he'd take?”

“He reported Voroshilov as saying that, owing to the tremendous development of air fleets in the Western European countries, frontiers and definitions of front and rear in the countries engaged would no longer have their former significance; and that the Marshal was counting on a great belt of Russian territory, including the cities of Leningrad, Smolensk, Minsk and Kiev, being rendered untenable. In fact, that he was reorganising the whole of Russia's war potential to enable her to give up great areas of territory and yet put up an unbreakable defence. That he was already moving his arsenals and war factories right back behind the Urals where they would be too distant to be bombed; and that this would enable him to fight on in a position from which it would be practically impossible for any European power to dislodge him.”

“Interesting, that.”

“Yes. I thought so, because it was such an entirely different picture to anything that our military pundits ever seem to have visualised; and, after all, if they had only taken the trouble they could easily have checked up those statements by consulting Voroshilov's writings for themselves.”

“Well, I only hope to God my Generals are wrong and your feller's right; but that's what we've got to find out. The hell of a lot hangs on this, Gregory, and I'll tell you why; but you must keep it under your hat.”

Sir Pellinore stood up and thrusting his great hands into the pockets of his pinstripe trousers, began to walk up and down. “We know that the Russian first line units are pretty well equipped, but the show seems to be developing in the way this pen-pusher of yours forecast. Huge battles are raging now at many points between the Baltic and the Black Sea, but there is no longer a continuous line of battle, and
half the people fighting know only from day to day which is their front and which is their rear. In that sort of warfare whole formations, even up to divisions and Army corps, are apt to find themselves encircled and cut off. That doesn't matter if you're on the winning side, because a few days later your pals come up and break the ring that the enemy has made round you; but if your High Command is giving ground you find yourself left behind and you're in the bag for good, with everything you've got.”

“You mean that the Russians are not only losing men but a lot of their best equipment too?” Gregory interjected.

“That's it! Remember what we used to hear about the Ruskies in the last war? People who were out there said that they were damn good fighters but so short of weapons that they had only one rifle to every three men; and that when the feller who had it became a casualty the next chap picked it up. Well, if they could do that now with their tanks and guns they might be all right for a long time to come. But owing to this hotch-potch that has resulted from mechanised warfare it can't be done. Stalin says that his war-plant is adequate for normal replacements, but that his losses to date have been abnormal, and that if he's to stick the pace he must have every tank, gun, lorry and radio set that we can send him. See? He's calling on us to do a Lease-Lend to Russia.”

Gregory raised an eyebrow. “So that's the idea. Well, it seems a very sound proposition.”

“Oh, it fits in with your theory about encouraging the Russians to keep the main German Army occupied on the ground while we hammer hell out of Germany from the air. But if we rob all our new divisions of the weapons they should be receiving to send the stuff to the Bolshies, and they do collapse by the autumn, we'll look a pretty lot of fools, won't we?”

“You certainly would,” Gregory laughed. “What a problem! I certainly don't envy the people whose responsibility it is to pass judgement on that one.”

“You're right, my boy. To send or not to send this stuff to Russia is probably the most important decision we'll be called on to make during the whole war. No good taking half measures. That's a sure road to ruin, whatever happens. We've got to back the Bolshies for all we're worth and take a chance on being left naked ourselves next spring, or play for safety now with the prospect of having to fight the Germans on our own again in a few months' time. Now you see why the people who have to make that decision are so desperately anxious to know what the real chances are of the Russians being able to fight on through the winter if we hand over our weapons to them.”

“It's taking on the hell of a lot, but I'll do my best for you. There's one serious snag, though, I can only speak about ten words of Russian.”

“I thought of that. I want you to take that tame Bolshevik of yours with you to act as your interpreter, General Kupopoff, or something. Never could get the hang of these foreign names.”

“You mean Stefan Kuporovitch?”

“That's it. How's he hitting it off with that French gel he married? Pretty little baggage. Have they been enjoying themselves at Gwaine Meads?”

“Who could help enjoying themselves at your lovely home? They've been having a marvellous honeymoon, and fortunately Madeleine and Erika like each other, so all four of us have been living on top of the world. Still, I don't think Stefan could go back to Russia.”

“Why? Has that French piece of nonsense tied him to her apron strings?”

“No, it's not that. They've had a longer honeymoon than most people get who marry in the middle of a war, so I don't think she'd stand in his way. And, as a matter of fact, ever since the Germans began to get the best of it he's been itching to get back to fight for his country.”

“Well, here's his opportunity—anyhow, to do some useful work for the cause of the Allies.”

“That's all very well, but if he went back to Russia it's a million to a sack of potatoes that Stalin's boys would shoot him.”

“I thought he was a pal of Voroshilov's?”

“So he was. He started life as a Czarist officer; but like all the more intelligent ones he was a Liberal, and more by force of circumstances than anything else he found himself on the side of the Reds. He served under Voroshilov at Tzaritsin and formed a great attachment to him, so, pretty naturally, from that point he continued his military career. But by the time I met him at Kandalaksha he was fed up to the back teeth with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and all its works. That's why he decided to clear out with me. So you see he's really a deserter from the Russian Army.”

Sir Pellinore stroked his fine white moustache thoughtfully for a moment, then he said: “I've got over worse fences than that in my time. We'll make him a naturalised Englishman and give him a British passport. Thousands of Russians have fled the country in the last twenty years and taken other nationalities. Scores of 'em have gone back too, and been none the worse for it.”

“That certainly is an idea,” Gregory agreed. “And now that
Britain and Russia are allies it's hardly likely that they'd deliberately pick a quarrel with us over an interpreter attached to our Mission.”

“No. At worst they might say that he's
persona ingrata
, and ask our Ambassador to send him home; but if he keeps himself well in the background he may not even be recognised.”

“How is Sir Stafford doing in Moscow?”

“As well as can be expected. Cripps is a clever fellow—very able man. So was Karl Marx, but I can't see him as the hit of the season at the court of Queen Victoria.”

“Oh, come,” Gregory smiled. “That's no fair comparison. Surely it was paying the Russians a pleasant compliment to send them our leading Communist, as they are Communists themselves.”

“Are they?” Sir Pellinore ceased his pacing and fixed Gregory with his bright blue eyes. “Maybe they were in Trotsky's time, but in all but name they've been National Socialists for years. Anyhow, Cripps may be as patriotic as Winston, but the fact remains that in Russian eyes he does not represent British thought or feeling. The way to have won their confidence would have been to send 'em the Duke of Gloucester. They'd have been so flattered they would have eaten out of our hands, and you wouldn't have been able to see Moscow for Union Jacks. I put that up to one or two people, but they wouldn't listen. And after all, why should they? Everyone knows I've got no brains—no brains at all!”

Gregory's mocking laugh was cut short by the appearance of the elderly butler to announce lunch.

“Well, that's enough of your smoking-room stories, my boy,” Sir Pellinore gave a broad wink. “Got to get down to business while we eat. This plaguy rationing is a darn sight more of a nuisance than the bombs, but at least that house-painter feller can't stop us getting lobsters off our shores, and some of those nectarines you brought up won't go down too badly with a bottle of Yquem.”

Having partaken of Sir Pellinore's Lucullan hospitality, Gregory made a few purchases in the West End, spent an hour at his club and caught the six-ten back to Shrewsbury, where a car met him and carried him to Gwaine Meads in time for a late supper.

The major part of Sir Pellinore's stately home was now an R.A.F. hospital. Before the war was twenty-four hours old he had said to one of his friends in the Air Ministry: “Have the place fitted up for as many convalescents as it will hold and send the bill to me. No commandeering, mind. Everyone who stays, patients, nurses, doctors, gillies, cooks—are all my guests, and each one is to be told so individually. It's not that I want any thanks, but if they know that they'll have the decency to refrain from burning the Jacobean staircase and making
bawdy additions to my Angelica Kaufmann frescoes. Send me a monthly account of what it costs to run and I'll pay the whole shooting match, but the west wing is to remain untouched and at my disposal. I may want to send friends there to recuperate if they've been through a rough time. Understand?”

The Air Marshal, being a man of sense, had “understood” and, at the price of considerable inroads into even his enormous fortune, the elderly Baronet still enjoyed the amenities of a dozen rooms in his beautiful country home, although he was much too occupied with the war ever to go there himself.

Since Erika had been evacuated from Dunkirk he had insisted on her making her home there, so Gregory also spent nearly all his time at Gwaine Meads whenever he was in England. At the moment, Sir Pellinore's other private guests consisted of Stefan Kuporovitch and Madeleine; an elderly scientist who was recovering from a breakdown due to overwork and a young Guards officer who had recently been cashiered. The others did not know it, but he had acquiesced in fake charges being laid against him for highly secret reasons. None of Sir Pellinore's guests ever enquired into one another's business. It was quite sufficient for them that they had all been sponsored by him, and they got on excellently.