“Like jewels on a dark velvet cloth,” he said dubiously. “What do they expect me to contribute at this stage?”
“If you’re going to be the leader of a liberation movement you’ve got to start acting like one.”
Irina was staring at Alex; they were exchanging some sort of private signals with their eyes and the intensity of her expression astonished Felix: he was convinced that was exactly the way she’d look with a man on top of her.
Shaken by it he said lamely, “We’re all making a ridiculous mistake.”
PART THREE:
September 1941
1
It was the same as before: the bustling uniformed messengers, the corridor, the sergeant rattling his typewriter outside the door, the sitting and waiting because Colonel Buckner once again was “at the White House” and late for the appointment.
“Look,” Buckner said when he finally appeared, “I don’t do it on purpose. While you’re waiting for me I’m up there cooling my heels waiting for an audience with him. He always runs two hours later than the appointments secretary figured. You know what it’s like to live in a small town that used to have four thousand people and now it’s got eighteen thousand but there’s still only one doctor in town? That doctor’s waiting room-that’s the White House.”
Buckner slid out of his black raincoat and hung it with his floppy fisherman’s hat on the standing rack just inside his door. Then he went to his desk and waved Alex to a seat.
“Next time I’ll remember to come at eleven for a nine o’clock meeting,” Alex said. He smiled to show he was joshing.
“Okay. Tell me about the red epaulets.”
Alex wore khakis with red tabs on the shoulder straps. He said, “They’ve put rank on me.”
“Three pips. Lieutenant General?”
“Major General,” he said. “The ranks are a little different.”
“Yeah,” Buckner said. “The Russian army still has third lieutenants too.”
It had been done that last morning at the villa: Prince Leon had brought out a velvet-lined box made of inlaid woods. The red epaulets were in it together with a collection of medals and yellow citations brittle at the edges. “They were Vassily’s father’s. We are settling a commission on you.”
“In the White Russian Army?”
“Deniken is still the commander-in-chief. It is by his authority.”
“A Major General? That’s absurd. I’m thirty-four years old.”
“Please do not dispute it, Alex, it is a matter of politics. Governments will deal with a Major General at high level where they would force a mere colonel to use the servants entrance.”
“It’s a rank that implies command of at least a combat division-ten thousand men.”
“On paper you will have one. Never mind, it is all politics.”
“The cable from Barcelona was a little cryptic,” Glenn Buckner said. “How did Devenko die?”
“We put it out that it was natural causes. Heart attack. But he was shot-a paid gun.”
“Did you catch the killer?”
“Yes.”
Buckner leaned forward, intent. “What did you find out from him?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.”
Buckner made a face and sank back in the chair. “Crap.”
“He had nothing in his pockets except a forged invitation to the party.”
“Did you fingerprint him?”
“No. I doubt it would have mattered. We didn’t want it reported to the authorities there-and anyway what could we have found out? We might have learned he was a gunsmith from Milan or a greengrocer from Cardiff but that wouldn’t have got us anywhere. It was a paid job. Maybe if we had an army of detectives and a year to poke around we’d have found out who hired him.”
“Shouldn’t you have tried? Don’t you need to know why?”
“We’ve got more important problems.”
Buckner rubbed his mouth with his knuckles. “It must have had to do with this operation. Otherwise it would be too coincidental.” His hand dropped onto the desk. “Now they’ve given you Devenko’s job.”
“That’s right.”
“Which may make you the next murder victim.” Buckner scowled, picked up a pencil and bounced its point on the blotter. “I’m going to put heavy security on you while you’re in this country. We can’t afford to have you taken out.”
“Just don’t restrict my movements.”
“They’ll be Secret Service-they know their jobs, they don’t get in the way.” The American’s wide face broke into a crooked grin. “It isn’t you I have to care about-it’s the goddamned operation. Christ I don’t like wars much.”
“It’s nobody’s favorite pastime.”
“I get a feeling it was Devenko’s.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I only met him once-in England a little while ago. I got the impression he was a little tilted that way.” Buckner went back to the file drawers and rifled a folder. “Your letter of resignation from the U.S. Army. Need a pen?”
“I’ll use my own.”
Filled with contradictory emotions he bent over the brief document, read it, hesitated momentarily and finally put his signature on it.
“Date it a week ago, while you’re at it. And sign the copy.”
When it was done Buckner took it from him and tossed the two copies carelessly on the corner of the desk. Alex returned to his chair and experienced a momentary cold hollowness: as if he were resigning from reality.
Buckner watched him quietly. “You’re on your own now-if anything goes wrong it’s your own neck. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Understood.”
“Okay, now I’m dealing with you as the official representative of an Allied military operation. You’ve got the same status as the Free French and the Free Poles. Which is to say however much status we choose to grant you. It makes things a little precarious for you. But I guess you can see it’s the only way we can do it. All right-brass tacks now. What are you going to need from us?”
By “us” Buckner meant the government from which Alex had resigned less than two minutes ago; it gave him a very strange feeling-as if suddenly he were in an alien capital.
“Right away I’ll want two men.”
“Americans?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sticky.”
“I want them for training and organization. They won’t go in with us.”
“I’ll see. Who are they?”
“Brigadier General John Spaight for one. He’s in command of-”
“I know who he is. Who’s the other one?”
“An Air Corps squadron commander by the name of Paul Johnson. They call him Pappy. It’s a heavy bomber squadron — the Thirty-fifth I think.”
