“Not if you put them on temporary detached duty with the assurance they’ll return to their current posts.”

“How long are you going to need them for?”

“Not more than ninety days.”

“What do you need these two particular guys for?”

Alex shook his head.

Buckner didn’t press it. “I take it you had time to get the details of the plan from Devenko before he died.”

“No. But it isn’t his plan. It’s my own.”

Buckner showed mild surprise. “They’re going along with that? They set a lot of store by Devenko, didn’t they?”

“I didn’t give them much of a choice.”

Buckner thought about that and nodded. “They haven’t exactly got a surplus of qualified commanders to choose from. Which makes your security all the more vital. If you get knocked off who else have they got?”

“I don’t know. Most of my generation hasn’t gone in for anything more serious than steeplechasing.”

“Uh-huh. So what are you going to man your force with-jockeys and playboys?”

“My brother and I had a White Russian outfit in Finland. I expect to recruit out of that pool.”

“Aren’t they scattered to hell and gone by now?”

“No,” Alex said. “I know where to find them.”

“There’s one thing more. The timetable.”

“I’ll have it as soon as I can.”

“I didn’t mean yours. I meant Hitler’s. Inside a month it’s going to start raining in Russia. Another month and that’ll turn to snow. It’s September now-by November it may have been decided. If Hitler takes Moscow you can forget your pipedream.”

“Hitler won’t take Moscow. Not that fast.”

“You have a private line to the Reichschancellery that tells you this in confidence?”

“I spent some time in China,” Alex said. “The Japanese are being absorbed there.”

“What’s that got to do with the price of vodka?”

“Stalin’s got some of his best divisions on the China border waiting for a Japanese strike. The Japanese aren’t going to turn that way. Zhukov has already put in requests for those troops to be transferred to the Moscow front. Stalin will sign the authorizations-maybe a week from now, maybe a month; it depends how close Guderian comes to Moscow.”

“The timetable still applies. Stalin’s ahead of the game once it’s decided for sure. Your object is to knock him over while he’s off balance-while the war’s still undecided. That gives you your deadline.”

“It’s not a deadline,” Alex said. “It’s only a gamble. You know how military ops go. You can’t predict a thing. You go by the odds. I think Stalin’s on a tightrope and I think he’s going to stay on it for quite a while.”

“But the longer he has the better his chances. To fall off or to reach the safe end.”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t let any grass grow under you.”

“I’m already in motion,” Alex said.

2

He found the two of them standing awkwardly beside a grey Plymouth at Andrews Field-John Spaight in a well-cut grey summer suit, Pappy Johnson in baggy seersucker. Alex stepped out of the Ford and the asphalt underfoot gave way softly in the heat. The two Secret Service men stepped out vigilantly.

“I’m quitting,” Spaight said by way of greeting. “The only reason I came was to get out of the heat at Bliss. This is ridiculous.” There were sweat stains on his suit.

“It’s a volunteer thing,” Alex said. “You can both go back right now if you want.”

“Not until you clear up the mystery.”

Alex shook his head. “If I explain it to you then you’re in. I’m sorry but it has to be that way.”

Spaight sighed theatrically and threw up his hands. “Look, we’re here.”

Alex consulted his watch. “We’ve got time before takeoff. Let’s get under some shade.”

In the flying officers’ dayroom a huge ceiling fan revolved slowly and Pappy Johnson settled himself under it hipshot on the corner of the billiard table. Spaight brought three open bottles of Coca-Cola inside with him and handed them around and chose a place on the leather couch.

They had the place to themselves; it was two in the afternoon. Alex said, “How much did Buckner tell you?”

“Enough to whet our appetites,” Spaight said. “A clandestine operation-commando-vital to the war effort, all that kind of crap. He give you the same spiel, Captain?”

“Something like that. He sort of hinted I might end up in command of some uninhabited island in the Arctic Ocean if I didn’t volunteer.”

Alex said, “Disregard that. There won’t be any penalty if you decide to pass it up.”

“What’s my job supposed to be?”

“Training pilots and bombardiers.”

“Where?”

“In Scotland.”

Johnson gave his toothy smile. “That’s a lot closer to the war than I am now.”

Alex turned to Spaight. “I asked for you for my chief of staff-for training and preparations. But it means I’ll rank you.”

“I did tell you they’d promote you, didn’t I?”

“It may go against the grain. Does it?”

“Come off it, Alex. I don’t mind taking orders from a man so long as I respect his brains. I’m a little flattered you picked me.”

“You’re only along for the ride. There won’t be any glory in it-you’ll both be left behind when this thing goes into operation.”

Spaight thumbed the Coca-Cola bottle shut, shook it up and spouted foam into his mouth from eight inches away. “Can we at least watch from the bleachers?”

“I doubt it. Buckner wouldn’t allow it.”

“Buckner’s a colonel,” Spaight said. “I’ll pull rank on the son of a bitch.”

“I doubt that too, John.”

Spaight nodded reluctantly. They both knew what neither had voiced: Buckner spoke with the voice of the White House.

Some of it was going over Pappy Johnson’s head. “Where’s that put me, then? Bottom of the totem pole again-the story of my life?”

“That’s what you get.” Spaight told him archly, “for wanting to fly a damn fool airplane instead of pushing a pencil like the rest of us cunning ambitious bastards.”

It was going to work out, Alex thought. His two key staff officers were hitting it off.

A flight sergeant in fatigues put his head in the door. “Looking for General Danilov, sir…”

“I’m Danilov.”

“Told me to tell you your plane’s ready to go, sir.” The sergeant saluted nervously, muffled his curiosity about the three men in civilian clothes and went.

When they were passing outside through the doorway Spaight said, “I notice how cleverly you’ve avoided telling us anything about what’s really going on.”

“There’ll be time to talk on the plane,” Alex said, tightening his eyes against the hot blast of afternoon haze.

The Secret Service watchdogs emerged from the shadows and crowded into the front seat of the waiting staff car beside the driver, two professionals in dark grey suits and hats. They had become an irritant to him in the past week; it would have been nearly impossible for a tail to keep up with Alex’s movements because he had been on the run the whole time-Washington to Ohio, Michigan, back to Washington, New York, Washington yet again, now Andrews Field. If anyone was going to take a shot at him it would most likely be in Scotland after he came to rest. In the meantime these two had become as ponderous as excess baggage.

The plane was an Army C-39, the military version of the DC-2 passenger liner; inside the fuselage were sixteen seats in single rows on either side of an aisle in which Alex had to stoop when he made his way forward. Pappy Johnson had a word with the two-man flight crew and when the engines began to chatter Johnson came back to his seat and remarked, “That guy trained half the kids in my squadron. It’s him you want for this job, not me.”

“Has he ever dropped a bomb on a mocked-up tank?”

Johnson gave him an interested look. “No…”

“Then you’re the one I want.”

3

The transport landed them at Logan Field at four in the afternoon and Alex came down the stairs ahead of the others and saw the three winged behemoths parked in a row beside a trio of C-47S at the end of the runway. Spaight and Johnson emerged from the passenger door and Pappy Johnson said, “Dear sweet Jesus.”