“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.”