Romanov Succession (20 page)

It relieved the Scotsman. “That I can do. We've got a number of overage pilots not unlike myself—most of them dying for the chance to fly spotter patrols. We'll collect the aircraft immediately.”

“I've got to impose on you for something else,” Alex said. “I need the use of land.”

“Land?”

“A field or a meadow. Something at least a mile long and reasonably flat.”

“For landing aircraft is it?”

“No. Something else.”

When MacAndrews saw it was all he was going to get he smiled with amusement. “And I take it you'd prefer it wasn't a common right in the middle of a curious town full of people. Then it's got to be something in the highlands, hasn't it. How far afield may I go?”

“I'd like it as near here as possible.”

“Yet you want privacy. That's a wee order, General. But there might be a spot or two. Give me forty-eight hours then—I'll come up with something.” His eyes twinkled: “I don't for a single minute suppose that's all you'll be wanting.”

“There's only one other thing I can think of at the moment. We'll want about thirty old cars. The next thing to junk will do—as long as they're capable of chugging along at a few miles an hour. Don't expect to get them back. We'll pay for them of course.”

“Any particular make and model, then?” But there was no bite to MacAndrews' sarcasm; he was too agreeable for that. “I can only assume you mean to entertain your men with bumper-car races on the meadow.”

“You wouldn't be too far off,” Alex said.

Five minutes after MacAndrews' Beaver took off a twin-engined British cargo plane made a rough landing and taxied awkwardly around to the main hangar behind the
FOLLOW ME
van. The first man out of the plane was not a member of its crew; his rank was too high for that.

“I'm Cosgrove, Bob Gosgrove. War Office.” The English brigadier had an empty sleeve pinned up and the face of a man weary of war. “They told you I was on my way?”

“I'm afraid not, Sir.”

“Bloody crowd of imbeciles in Communications. Well they've sent me up to fetch and carry for you. What do you need from us?”

“That'll take explaining,” Alex said. “Come inside. Coffee?”

“Got it running out my ears,” said Cosgrove. He had an engaging smile; he was a gaunt grey man with a thick mane of hair and a faint resemblance to Vassily Devenko—very tall, the long angular face, the heavy hair almost white.

When Alex was alone with the English brigadier the hearty mask sagged. “All right then. What is this show about?”

“I'd have to know your authority for asking that.”

“You'd better put in a call to London then.”

If it was a bluff it had to be called. Alex rang Tolkachev on the base line and told him to get through to General Sir Edward Muir. Then while he waited he drew Cosgrove into conversation, plumbing him.

He found the brigadier forthright and direct. “Bloody hush-hush. The PM's known far and wide for his cloak-and-dagger indulgences but I rather think most of them have come a cropper, haven't they? Gallipoli's a case in point. I was there, I know.”

Later he said: “The Home Office have agreed to give you use of these facilities but I hope you understand it's a risk for them. I'm told the Assistant Secretary was a bit pained—they don't like the idea, it may be in violation of international law.”

“I'm not a lawyer. That's someone else's department.”

“Up to a point,” Cosgrove said. “It means your people are going to have to be on their best behavior every moment. The slightest incident could dash the whole show. These Scots are bloody sensitive with foreigners.”

“The operational unit is restricted to base from today on, Brigadier. I don't think we need worry on that account.”

The call came through and Cosgrove courteously left the room while Alex took the telephone.

Sir Edward's voice crackled at him. “Hello there Danilov. Glad to hear from you.”

“I've got a Brigadier Cosgrove on my doorstep, General. I thought I'd better ask you about him.”

“Oh he's quite straight. Lost his arm in Turkey in the first war. He's a good man—the best when it comes to filling impossible orders. He's number-two man under General Sir Hugh Craigie—chief of supply for the Military Intelligence branch of the War Office. You'll find him a first-class hustler. What's the American expression? A moonlight requisitioner?”

“A chiseler, you mean.” Alex was amused.

“Shall we just say he'll find what you need and provide it.”

“How many of these people have been informed of the mission?”

“None of them. They know only that it's got the Prime Minister's approval.”

“Cosgrove wants to know the scheme.”

“Naturally he'd want to, old boy. It's up to you to decide what to tell him. I'm sure he'd do a better job for you if he knew the whole truth—but you've got to weigh that against security. It's your decision.”

He could picture the old man—Kitcheneresque, on the surface a relic with his manner of colonial ferocity; beneath it the acute mind that belied his age.

“What's your schedule then? How soon may we expect action?”

“I've just arrived—I haven't got a target date yet.”

“Get one. The Prime Minister will insist.” A pause on the line; then Sir Edward said, “My aide has just handed me a note. It appears you'll have to disregard what I've just told you. Brigadier Cosgrove seems to be the bearer of an inquiry directly from 10 Downing Street. This is one of the Prime Minister's confidential memos—for my eyes only, destroy after reading, all that nonsense. He seems to have decided to take advantage of Cosgrove's trip up there.”

“It'll be a demand for information,” Alex said.

“Yes of course.”

“Thank you General.”

“Right. Ring me if you need anything from here. Good-bye then.”

When he called Cosgrove into the Officers' Mess the brigadier sat down with the confident air of a man who knew his credentials had just been confirmed. “I hope you had a pleasant chat with London.”

Alex walked to the window and back to exercise his leg. “The plan's my own and it can't be shared. It isn't vanity-it's a question of secrecy.”

Cosgrove nodded—unperturbed. “Yes of course. First things first, then. What will you require from us?”

“Practice bombs for one thing. Hundred-pounders. With armor-piercing points. Two tons of them.”

Cosgrove drew out a notepad and scribbled on it. “And?”

“Aviation gasoline. Petrol.”

“In what quantities?”

“Just keep it flowing—I'll tell you when to stop.”

“Do you know how difficult it is for us to get petrol into this country?”

Alex grunted. He ticked off the next item: “Uniforms for one hundred officers and men.”

“What sort?”

“Red Army. Russian.”

Cosgrove grinned brashly at him. “Now we're getting somewhere, aren't we.”

“You'll have to draw your own conclusions.”

“Very well. We'll take your people's measurements. I'll have them cut and dyed right here in Scotland. The insignia shouldn't be a problem. The difficulty may be the boots but I'll do a bit of digging here and there. Now what about arms?”

“The Americans are providing some. Mainly I'll need Soviet weapons.”

“You mean small arms—the sort of things they stamp out in those Ukrainian works.”

“The Finns captured a good lot of them two years ago. That would be the place to start looking.”

“I'll do what I can. What's next?”

“I want a forger who knows the current Soviet forms.”

Cosgrove reacted with a slow sly smile. “What the devil sort of build-up did London give me?”

“And a communications man who knows Russian wavelengths. We'll have to alter the wireless equipment aboard our aircraft.”

“A little slower, old boy. I'm still choking on your Soviet forger.”

“That's right at the top of the list.”

“I can't promise miracles. I'll do what I can.”

Cosgrove's cavalier air troubled him. It all was too much of a game, too much of an entertaining exercise. The Cosgroves and Buckners weren't laying anything of their own on the line; the weakness of this operation was its dependency on the Allies. To Roosevelt and Churchill at this point the operation must seem a minor and rather childish adventure: you had the feeling the President had sat in his Oval Office one afternoon with Buckner and some others, screwing a cigarette into his long holder and giving the program a patronizing benediction with his jut-jawed conspiratorial grin:
All right we'll give them a hand and let them take a crack at it but let's not shut the back door.

You couldn't blame them—but it made for uncertain footing.

“I've got to have that forger.”

“My dear fellow, you people have your own man in Moscow—why not get the real thing? Have him smuggle the papers out.”

Alex said quietly, “All right. Who gave it to you?”

“We're obliged to protect our sources, aren't we. I'm sure you understood from the beginning there were strings attached. My government aren't giving you their backing out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“If someone gave it to you, he could just as easily turn around and give it to the Kremlin too. I'd like to know your source, Brigadier.” He emphasized the rank in contrast to the stars on his own epaulets.

It had no discernible effect. “I don't think there's too much chance of that.”

Then the connection became clear in Alex's mind and he didn't press it further because he felt he had the answer. It had to have been someone in Deniken's camp; they were the only ones that close to the Allied governments. And if it came from Deniken then it had got to Deniken from Baron Oleg Zimovoi—an attempt to cement Oleg's position, an avowal of indispensability.

He remembered with displeasure Oleg's insistent concern for Vlasov's security: now it appeared Oleg had reversed himself when he saw an advantage to it and jeopardized Vlasov far more dangerously than Alex could have done. It would be Oleg's manner of demonstrating to the White Russian coalition his importance to the scheme:
I'm the only one with an inside man in the Kremlin—the thing can't be done without me.

It was altogether worthy of Oleg. He wanted to be sure that after it was over the other contingents would be forced to remember the key role he'd played. They would have to reward him with a high seat in the new government. This was what he'd lived his whole life for: power. Now that it might be at hand he would use any means to secure it.

But Oleg could be dealt with. Having worked out the truth Alex was able to dismiss it.

“Can you give me dates?” Cosgrove said.

“Rough ones. Five days to organize training. A minimum of nine weeks' training. We're in September now—I'd say we'll shoot for operational status in middle or late November. I'd like to cut it shorter than that but I don't think we can.”

“You're dealing with a great many bureaucracies. Things never happen as fast as they're promised.”

“It's your job to cut through that, Brigadier.”

“Quite.” Cosgrove smiled again. “By November Hitler may be making speeches from the Kremlin.”

“Evidently you're well briefed on the scheme. Why did you bother to ask me?”

“They didn't send me here blind. But no one knows your tactical intentions. Naturally I've asked questions. Certain things are implicit in your answers to them—in your requisitions. I gather, for example, that you won't be requiring transport by sea.”

“No. I'll want the use of two long-range aircraft.”

“Transports? You've got three of your own, haven't you?”

“There's a political echelon to follow us in. They'll need aircraft.”

“I must say it looks bonkers to me. On the map all you can see is Jerries between here and there. You can't go up through the Prime Minister's fabled soft underbelly because there isn't an aircraft in the world with the range for it. I suppose you could go in through Alaska and Siberia but it would take bloody forever. If the Nazis weren't in Riga and pushing for Leningrad that would be your route—it's only five hundred miles Riga to Moscow—but what's the point of it, you can't refuel behind Jerry's lines.”

“Your guesses are your own, Brigadier.”

“You're not being very cooperative.”

“I haven't told anyone the plan—not even my own people.”

“Of course. But the PM's getting restless about this thing. He likes to keep his hand in. You can't keep him at arm's length without finding him at sword's point. You're thinking of one kind of risk—think of the other.”

Some people were born with blue eyes and some were born to play games and both Churchill and FDR were game-players with all the dedicated enthusiasm of nine-year-old boys looming over a board cluttered with toy soldiers. Blindfold them, obscure their view of the pieces and they would become hot-tempered very quickly.

That was one level. At another level the Allies had a case for
quid pro quo.
They had invested trust in the scheme; they had a right to be trusted in return. It was remarkable that London and Washington had got behind the operation at all. Aristocrats in exile were commonly thought to be forever hatching fanciful schemes to regain lost thrones. For important governments to support such wild-eyed schemes was unthinkable in the normal course of things; but the course of things was not normal just now. In wartime it became excusable to interfere with the internal affairs of one's allies because such matters could affect the global balance of power. But still you didn't simply disperse blank checks to every exiled king and ex-president who came begging for support. You expected certain things in return. They had every right to be stung by Alex's rebuff.