Well past midnight he left the train at Euston Station and was collected by a War Office lieutenant who had a Daimler staff car waiting. “It’s a good thing you’ve got digs, sir. I didn’t think there’s a room to be had in all of London. I’m putting up in a bed-sitter in Paddington with an RN ensign and two Anzac lieutenants.”

They drove north and east. The blacked-out streets were virtually empty except for the occasional helmeted bobby and fire-watchman. Twice they had to dodge craters in the streets but most of the buildings were intact.

When they made the turn into the Archway Road the driver said conversationally, “There’s still a car behind us, Lieutenant.”

They turned right into Shepherd’s Hill with open ground falling away steeply to the left side of the road.

The Daimler slid to the curb and a car puttered past; Alex had a look at it but it told him nothing; there wasn’t enough light to see the driver’s face.

“Thanks for the lift.”

When the other car had disappeared over the hill he took his valise up the steps and rang. The Daimler stayed at the curb until the door opened and he stepped inside.

Baron Ivanov answered the door himself. “Were you followed?”

“Yes. I expected it.”

The tiny Baron wore an expensive smoking jacket; his bald head gleamed in the lamplight. Black velvet curtains hung heavily against all the windows; the house was rich and warm and elegant in the style of a century ago.

Ivanov showed him to a bedroom-upstairs in the rear. “I hope you will be comfortable.”

“It’s quite luxurious.”

“Anatol has asked me to see to your needs.”

“A good night’s sleep at the moment. Is there a rear way out?”

“It is a terribly steep embankment-it is almost a cliff. There is an old railway line beneath the rear garden.”

“Is there a tube station nearby?”

“At the intersection where you turned.”

“I don’t suppose there are any taxis.”

“Not this far out, but you are welcome to the use of my Bentley at any time. My chauffeur lives on the premises.”

“That’s very kind.”

“It is not kindness I assure you. According to Prince Leon you are our last hope.”

“I’m a soldier, Baron, not a Messiah.”

“Whatever I have is at your disposal. I suppose I should caution you that the last White Russian general who borrowed my Bentley was shot at for his pains. It took quite a bit of string-pulling to have the bulletproof glass replaced.”

It wouldn’t have been politic to ask why the Bentley was armored in the first place; obviously the job had been done long before Vassily Devenko’s ride in the car. The Baron had fingers in many schemes and-his enemies said-hands in many pockets; it was not unlikely his political and military alliances had impressed him with a need for prudence. The house itself was wired with a visible alarm system.

Alex expected the Baron to bid him good night and leave the room but the tiny aristocrat went to the dressing table and perched himself on the upholstered stool before it. “There is something you must do for us.”

Somewhere across London the air-raid sirens began to wail. The distant keening distracted the Baron; he said, “They rarely bomb this far north in London but if you hear the alarms you will find our shelter in the cellar. The ladder is directly under the staircase we just used.”

“Thank you.”

He began to hear the distant banging of pom-poms. The Baron said, “I am told you have a contact inside the Kremlin-someone with Stalin’s ear.”

He looked up quickly but the Baron said, “I do not intend to press you for his identity. But we need to make use of him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t-”

“Hear me out, General Danilov. As you know the bank with which I am connected has offices in many nations. I am in communication through our Zurich affiliate with the surviving German branches of our international financial structure. In theory the German offices have been nationalized but the organization still maintains its ties with our offices here in London. The financial transactions of the Grand Duke Mikhail and his people in Munich are supervised by White Russian officers of the same banks. It is through me that Count Anatol and Prince Leon and the rest of you receive information concerning the activities of the White Russian loyalists who live inside the borders of the German Reich.

“We have discovered that the German group threatens to jeopardize our own scheme. I have told Anatol Markov and he has taken the information back to Spain. It is possible you will receive instructions from Prince Leon but communications are uncertain and we haven’t much time. I’m taking the liberty of telling you this myself in case Spain does not reach you in time.”

“Go on.”

“They are planning an assassination. The design is to kill Stalin, substitute a double for him and issue orders to the Red Army-through the double-to retreat before Moscow. Russia then will have lost the war and Hitler seems prepared to install the Grand Duke Mikhail on the throne of a Vichy-style occupation government. The double already exists-a creation of Lavrenti Beria’s-a professional actor who has been transformed by plastic surgery into a remarkable likeness of Stalin.”

The breath hung in Alex’s throat. It was as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

The Baron went on in a relentless monotone:

“The Germans have shifted Guderian temporarily to the Ukraine and Georgi Malenkov is being sent there next week to stiffen the resistance in Kiev. In the meantime the administrative headquarters of Beria’s secret police have been moved to the Kuybyshev in case Moscow is occupied. Apparently Beria’s next trip down there is scheduled for a week from today. That will put both Beria and Malenkov out of Moscow-they are the only two men in the top echelon who know of the existence of the Stalin double.

“We have no clue to the identity of the assassins. One assumes there must be several because they have to take control of the double. It is possible they intend to make him docile by means of drugs or drug-induced hypnosis-the Germans have been doing experiments along those lines. Or perhaps it is a matter of bribery combined with coercion. I have no idea. But we do know the timetable. On the twenty-sixth-tomorrow week-both Beria and Malenkov will be absent from the weekly Kremlin command conference. That is when the assassination is scheduled. They intend to reach Stalin on his way into the meeting. The killing may be effected by means of cyanide gas in the ventilating system of his private lavatory in the underground command bunker. I cannot confirm that report. But the general plan and the timetable seem quite certain.”

The pulse thudded in Alex’s throat. The Baron went on:

“Our German cousins have a damnable advantage over us. Ever since the Bolshevik rising in nineteen seventeen they have maintained an active network of spies in the Soviet government. The irony is that it was Count Anatol who set it up for them-he was a partisan of Mikhail’s in the early days. They have been waiting their chance for more than twenty years and now Hitler has given it to them. It is unfortunate that their timetable is ahead of ours.”

“There’s no way to get in ahead of them,” Alex said. “We’re weeks away from operational status.”

“Of course. Their plan has the advantage of relying on a German military victory. Yours has to rely on a Russian one. Much more difficult to achieve in the circumstances. But you have the one thing that may save our cause-you have a man in the Kremlin.”

Now Alex saw it. “To stop them.”

“I think he must do more than that,” the Baron murmured. “I think he must brief Stalin and Beria on the assassination plot. It is not enough to forestall one attempt-they could make another. The network of Mikhail’s spies must be destroyed before we make our own move. Beria is the only man in a position to wipe out the entire network. He must be warned. We shall have to give your man a plausible way to have unearthed the plot. I should not think it would be dangerous for him. After all he will be saving Stalin’s life-they can only construe that as the supreme loyalty. If anything this will cement your man in Stalin’s favor.”