Officers’ call was at nine. He was in the hangar by seven-forty, ready to go over the mound of papers that abstracted the regiment’s status: its personnel, its supplies, its readiness.
Tolkachev came strutting out of the office. He didn’t offer a greeting; just stood at attention waiting.
“Let’s go back to your office.” The leg twinged angrily when he strode past the Cossack.
He waited for Tolkachev to follow him into the cubicle. “Shut the door please.” There were enlisted men elsewhere in the hangar; it wasn’t for their ears.
Tolkachev shut them in. Alex stayed on his feet. He felt brittle. “We haven’t got room here for personal antagonisms. Are you prepared to work under my command?”
“I will not resign voluntarily from the regiment.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
Finally Tolkachev said, “I have been adjutant here for nearly two years, sir.”
“You’ve been used to having it your own way here. You’ve been the operations man-General Devenko wasn’t to be bothered with the details of running a unit. And in the last few weeks you’ve got accustomed to being in command-there was no one here but you. That’s got to change. Can you accept that?”
“I would be willing to take orders…”
“But not from me, is that it?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“I commend your candor, Tolkachev.”
“I must resign then?”
“No. You’re a first-rate combat soldier. I’ve got a job for you.”
“I see.”
Tolkachev didn’t see-not yet. Alex said, “I’ll want the company rosters now.”
Tolkachev got them from the files. Alex spread the papers on the desk and stood leaning over them on his hands. He studied names: put faces to them from memory and summoned recollections of their talents and excellences. Here and there he checked off a name with the blunt point of a pencil.
When he’d done he had checked fifty-eight names and he withdrew from the desk. “I need forty more than I’ve marked.”
“For what purpose?”
“Combat skills and good minds. Russians only-no Poles.”
Tolkachev bent over the rosters. Alex left him alone until he’d finished and then went over it, the names he knew and the names he didn’t know, and he erased four or five of Tolkachev’s marks. When Tolkachev stiffened he said, “I’ve got to use my own judgment.” He glanced up and surprised a look of white-hot hatred on Tolkachev’s flat face. “Give me half a dozen more. I want the very best of them.”
Tolkachev did the job again and when Alex was satisfied he put the rosters aside. “All right. Now you’re going to have to reorganize the regiment. You’ll have to shuffle the assignments. These men whose names are checked off-I want them assigned to a special training company. They’re to have a barracks to themselves. Their officers will live in that barracks with them and there’s to be absolute security maintained at all times on that building.”
“Yes sir.”
“You don’t understand what it’s all about-that’s the way it’s going to stay, Tolkachev. These hundred men are mine-them and the pilots. The rest of the regiment will remain yours to run. You’ll continue performing the Allied defense duties you’ve been performing. You’ll have to spread yourselves thinner to make up for the men I’ve drafted. Once the new company is formed up there’s to be no contact between its men and the rest of the troops in the regiment. We’ll have our own mess hall, our own recreation areas segregated from the others. You’ll have to rotate assignments in the regiment to keep a twenty-four-hour guard patrol on the training area, including the company barracks-I can’t waste these men’s time having them pull sentry duty. I’ll want two men on each entrance. No one will be allowed in or out of the trainees’ area without a pass signed by me or by General Spaight. No one-including yourself. Is this clear?”
“Yes sir. Absolute security. I understand.”
“The sentries will be armed with live ammunition. Anyone who tries to disobey their challenges is to be shot. Not to kill but shot where it’ll hurt. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then pick good marksmen.”
Tolkachev said drily, “You have the best ones in the training company, sir.”
“Then teach the rest of them to shoot better,” Alex said gently. “All right-you’ve got a great deal to do. You’d better do it. Incidentally you’ll have to move your office-we’ll be needing the use of this hangar.”
“Yes sir. Just one thing.”
“Go ahead.”
“The British have suffered us here because we’ve performed useful services. We have freed British units to go to the fronts-we have been doing the work that their own people would have had to do otherwise.”
“I understand that. You’ll go right on doing those things.”
“No sir-not quite. The reason they gave us the use of this airfield is that we have been able to fly offshore patrols and rescue flights for them. If we stop, they will probably want their airfield back.”
“You’ll have to let me worry about that, Tolkachev.” But he could see the way the Cossack’s mind was working: Suppose he throws a spanner in it and we lose our base on account of him}
Alex said, “You’re just going to have to take your chances. I’m giving you more than you’d have given me. More than you probably deserve. If a soldier’s not prepared to take orders from his superior then he’s not much of a soldier.”
“Was that how it was with you and General Devenko then, sir?” Tolkachev hadn’t hesitated: it had been there in him, bottled up, waiting for the chance to come out.
“When your commander’s orders are clearly wrong you have the right to challenge them, Tolkachev. Not otherwise. Now get out of here and get to work.”
Tolkachev’s face had gone impassive again. He drew himself up. “When do you wish it finished, sir?”
“ When?”
Tolkachev gathered his dignity about him and wheeled out of the office.
The blackout curtains were open. Through the window he saw squads running the verges of the runway at double-time with heavy packs strapped to their shoulders. Sergeants barked the rhythm of the run and he recognized a captain and two lieutenants who ran along with them. Limping from the window back to the desk he wondered if the muscles of his thigh would knit in time for him to run like that before the mission took off.
Officers’ call; then regimental assembly: hard eyes full of challenge; uncertain eyes averted.
Then at two in the afternoon a De Havilland Beaver bounced lightly down the runway and decanted a passenger.
The group captain wore RAF wings and a DFC; he was short and wiry with freckled sharp features and a shock of heavy red hair. The light of merriment danced in the Scot’s eyes. His name was Walter MacAndrews.
Felix said, “We’re here by the good group captain’s sufferance.”
MacAndrews had a good firm handshake. “Heard a great deal about you from His Highness. I must say you look every inch of it.” He had to throw his head well back to look into Alex’s face.
On the way across the tarmac to the main hangar he explained, “We’ve got the responsibility for northern Scotland-air and coast watches. All the bloody patrol bases, includin’ this one. You might not believe it but I was a self-respecting Spitfire pilot once.”
Felix said. “He lost too many planes so they grounded him.” It was spoken with wicked mischief and from the way MacAndrews grinned it was evident they’d done a good bit of pub-crawling together.
MacAndrews said, “Well that’s a bit true, isn’t it, but I cost the Jerries three times as many aircraft as I cost His Majesty’s government and I thought we were square. Now I understand you’ve come to reorganize things here?”
“In a way.” Alex piloted them into the hangar office. “The regiment will be able to continue doing sentry chores and coast-watch flak tours. Railway guards, all the rest of it. But I’m going to have to pull our pilots out of it.”
MacAndrews showed a little distress. “We haven’t got that many planes to spare up here, General. We’re a bit of a shoestring army.”
“We won’t be needing the planes. If you’ve got other pilots to man them you’re welcome to take them back.”
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.
Cosgrove said, “You’ll have to give ground. If you don’t you may lose the whole package.”
“I’ll lay it out before it goes into operation.”
“Not good enough, old boy.”
“I can’t be more specific at this time.”
“Quite a politician, aren’t you.” Cosgrove scratched his shoulder; it made the empty sleeve move. “I’d hoped not to have to use this. But I’ve been instructed to render no aid and support unless we’ve reached a satisfactory understanding beforehand. I’m to report back to my superiors this afternoon. Naturally if they disapprove of my report you’ll find yourself without a mission. For example the six aircraft you prize so highly will undoubtedly be seized for use by the War Office. Must I go on?”
Alex suppressed his anger. “Very well. If you’ll set up a meeting with the Prime Minister I’ll spell out the plan-with Winston Churchill, in private. Agreed?”
Cosgrove’s relief was transparent. He rubbed his long jaw. “The PM will want his advisors around the table.”
“Negative.”
“For the Lord’s sake why?”
“I haven’t got time for a debate and I don’t want anything written down. I’ll give it to the Prime Minister in however much detail he wants. After that they can discuss it among themselves-but I won’t wait for them. I haven’t got time.”