“No. But if you’re fixing to take over the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics with three B-Seventeen bombers and sixty-eight ground troops then you have got the balls of a brass gorilla.”

6

The grey Bentley had handsome Coventry coachwork and a high kneaded leather seat in which Count Anatol Markov sat bolt erect. At the count’s elbow was a telephone to speak with the driver but there was no need for that. The car had picked him up at the customs gate and now moved him almost without sound through the streets of north London and across toward Highgate.

Anatol observed dispassionately that bomb damage in this sector didn’t seem severe. Here and there a house had been shattered and twice they had to detour around cratered streets but north London had hardly been turned into rubble; either the newspapers had exaggerated the Luftwaffe’s efficiency or other areas of the city had taken the brunt of Hitler’s air war.

The Bentley made the left turn off the Archway Road at Highgate Wood and slid smoothly to the curb before a high Victorian house faced with genteel stonework and brick. Count Anatol’s index finger pried the watch out of his waistcoat pocket and snapped the gold crested lid open. It was four-fifteen.

“Ivanov” was a name like Smith or Jones or John Doe: a common pseudonym; but it happened that Ivanov was Baron Yuri Lavrentovitch’s real surname and that this was the only common thing about him. His grandfather had been a minister in the government of Alexander III and the genius for finance could be traced back a dozen generations in Ivanov’s lineage.

The Baron was bald except for a grey monk’s fringe that went around the back of his head like a horseshoe. His physiognamy was that of a Mediterranean Scrooge-fleshy at cheek and jowl but querulous at jutting chin. He wore a dark Saville Row suit with mother-of-pearl buttons down the center of the waistcoat; it had been tailored to the millimeter but it wouldn’t have convinced anybody that he was English. He was no bigger than a twelve-year-old schoolboy.

Count Anatol towered over him but it didn’t trouble the Baron. “Sherry perhaps?”

“I had my fill of it in Spain. I would prefer whisky.”

Ivanov spoke to a servant in English that was too quick and slurred for Count Anatol to follow. When the servant left the room Ivanov settled into a Queen Anne divan that dwarfed him ludicrously. He had made no effort to scale the furnishings of his house to his own proportion; it appeared to be a matter of complete indifference to him.

Count Anatol’s preference ran to hard chairs with straight backs. He drew one up from a corner. “You look very well.”

“My dear Anatol, for a man my age I look bloody marvelous. I cannot say the same for you.”

“It was a rather nervous flight from Lisbon. A Messerschmitt gave us a looking over.”

“I suppose it serves to remind the Portuguese who is in charge.”

“Are we expecting anyone else?”

“No. There was to have been someone to speak for the Grand Duke Mikhail but it did not prove practicable for anyone to make his way here from Munich. I keep in contact with them of course-in the diplomatic bags through Zurich.” Baron Ivanov held a key post with an international bank in London and the firm’s German banking operations continued to function under the Reich to provide Speer and Krupp with capital for war production. “When necessary we can arrange more rapid communication but I prefer not to strain that avenue with anything that’s not vital.”

“I am afraid it is an avenue you shall have to open wide. There is not much time left.”

“That’s what we are here to discuss.” The Baron spent his life dealing with the tyrants of finance; it wasn’t a profession for a man with nerves.

The servant brought drinks. Neither of them spoke until the man had left the room. Then Anatol said, “Our General Danilov must have begun his exercises in Scotland by now.”

“He arrived last night with six aircraft. Three heavy bombers, three transports, two American officers-one a brigadier.”

“You are keeping close watch on him,” Anatol said.

“Not as close as I should like. He has shunted my key man there into the cold. But we will work around that.” The sealed brass humidor on the side table was crested with the Imperial Russian Eagle. The Baron selected a Havana. “Has Danilov revealed his plan to any of you?”

“No.”

“He appears to be as difficult to deal with as his brother was.”

“More so. At least we had Vassily Devenko’s sympathies.”

“Not to the point where he felt free to confide in any of us.”

Anatol said, “He’d have done so when the time came. Alex will keep it to himself until the last moment-then he will go first to Leon, not to us.”

“We must circumvent that.”

“That may require extreme measures.”

“My dear Anatol, the entire scheme is extreme. With Danilov we have one advantage over his brother-we need not fear his ambitions. Vassily had it in him to be another Stalin. Alexsander Danilov isn’t that sort.”

“I have seen the changes power can effect in men,” Anatol said.

“Danilov lacks the ruthlessness for it. I have studied his dossier. He is not a killer-not the kind who takes pleasure in it.”

Anatol resisted the impulse to ask the Baron if he had had a hand in Vassily Devenko’s assassination.

The Baron ashed his cigar. “You indicated you had important information.”

Down to the meat of it now. Anatol said, “I have Vassily Devenko’s plan.”

If Ivanov was surprised he made no show of it. “How did that happen?”

“I was the first to think of searching his body after he was killed. I was not observed.”

“He carried the plans on him?”

“A notebook. A shorthand cypher-it has taken me this long to translate it. That is why I did not communicate earlier.”

“Have you got it with you?”

“In my head. The notebook is in my vault but I have had the translations destroyed.” Anatol leaned forward a bit in the high-backed chair. “Devenko’s was the superior plan.”

“Why?”

“There are too many variables in Alex’s alternative.”

“He has not revealed his plan. How can you criticize it?”

“I know this much about it. It entails luring the Kremlin elite into a trap outside Moscow. It involves aerial bombardment and support from the Allied governments which must be maintained right up to the end in order for the scheme to work. If that support is withdrawn at any point then the Danilov plan is aborted. He must have uninterrupted support from at least two governments that we know to be capricious. And he must depend on the weather as well-he can’t hit a target from the air if there’s a storm. There must be a good many other imponderables but those are two we know of.”

“And the Devenko plan?”

“Straightforward. Relatively simple. A regimental infiltration of the Kremlin. It relies on surprise but that is the only variable.”

“Why didn’t Danilov want to use it then?”

“I was not present when he outlined it for Leon. But I suspect his motives. He’d had a quarrel with his brother-they were estranged. They fought for my daughter’s affections among other things. I suspect Alex is refusing to follow Vassily’s scheme simply because it was Vassily’s. He may feel compelled to prove he can do it his own way.”

“You think the man would jeopardize the operation merely to prove a point?”

“It is more than a point. It is an obsession, I think.”

The Baron said, “And you suggest…?”

“Alex should be removed.”

“Removed how? And replaced by whom?” The baron’s tiny hand held the cigar idly before his breastbone. His voice was calm. “You see the difficulty. We lack the votes to have him dismissed by the coalition. He has always been a favorite of Leon’s. I would not be amazed to learn that Leon arranged the assassination.”

“ Leon?”