“Oh come now,” Baron Oleg said. “You’re not in a public forum now-we are not impressed by a show of the flag, Colonel. You will renege on this agreement the moment you feel it is in your interests to do so. You have kept the bargain only because you are convinced it can still be profitable to your interests. And you are trying to increase the odds of success by shortening the schedule.”

Anatol said, “And we are trying to convince you that shortening it will do just the opposite-it will reduce the odds of success, don’t you see that?”

Oleg scraped ash out of the bowl of his pipe; when he spoke it was to Anatol. “The nearer we come to the day of reckoning the more nervous they become. It may prove intolerable-it may ruin us in the end.”

“Then we shall have to calm them down, won’t we.” Anatol turned to Buckner. “What will it take to soothe you, Colonel?”

He was beet-red to the hairline and knew it. These shrewd bastards had been weaned on Machiavelli; they were the hard realists of an old school that went back a thousand years and he hadn’t the guns for this and he knew it. But he had his instructions and he had to proceed. “I’ve told you what it will take. Move it up.”

“We can’t do that,” Prince Leon said in a reasonable way. “The timing is determined by Stalin. When Stalin moves we move. It is that simple, Colonel, and nothing you can do or say will change that.”

He watched the Peugeot turn out through the gates and then he turned to the game room and opened the side door to the chamber beyond. A thin man with short hair and a neat grey suit looked up from the wire recorder’s rewinding reels.

“Did you get it all?”

“Yes sir.”

“For all the damn good it’ll do us,” Buckner growled. “Keep it to yourself, will you? I wouldn’t like it bandied about Washington that I let three doddering old playboys make an ass out of me.”

“What now, Colonel?”

“The purpose of this little quiz session was to pry Danilov’s plan out of them. It didn’t work. There’s one more thing to try. Pack us up, Hawkes, we’re going to England.”

PART FIVE:

November 1941

1

The pale disc of the sun was vague in the grey November sky. In the distance beyond the woods he saw the Dakotas going over, vomiting jumpers toward the fifty-foot target circle. Alex watched the jumps as he ran.

The runway was 4,800 feet long and they were running three laps today. Going into the third lap ahead of Solov’s company of troops he felt the pull of the stiffened muscle of the bullet-pinked leg.

Breathing to run: let it all out, open the mouth wide, pull in as much as the lungs can hold-and hold it there for three strides; then expel it and do it again. It had taken him two weeks of running to get his wind back but now he had the rhythm and hardly noticed the weight of the combat pack on his shoulders.

It was more of a dogtrot than a run-you didn’t sprint for two and a half miles-but they were eating up the ground at a good clip and there weren’t any stragglers. Solov ran along at the rear of the column, keeping them bunched up, running the way he walked-with a pronounced roll, as if each leg almost collapsed before the other took his weight. Now and then he would yell at them; he began yelling in earnest when they got toward the end of the lap and the company put on a burst of effort and came tumbling off the tarmac onto the grass around Alex. A good many of them were hardly out of breath.

Solov gathered them in close-order formation and marched them across the runway to where their rifles were stacked in neat pyramids, muzzles skyward. They shouldered their arms and marched quick-time into the woods to the bayonet field and Alex charged with them, roaring in his chest, heaving the deadly spear into the dummies and yanking it out and rushing on to the next.

After bayonet drill the company sprawled on the grass and Alex went around talking to them individually. “How do you feel, soldier?”

“Very well, sir. Thank you.”

He went on. There was a young man-one of the very few who had joined the regiment since the Finland campaigns-sitting on the ground cleaning his bayonet. Alex stopped by him. “Keep your seat, Zurov. How do you like the training?”

“Sometimes it gets a little boring, sir. But I know we need it.” Zurov’s unformed face did not yet contain the lines that made a whole human being.

“You find the bayonet drill boring?”

“Oh not that, sir. It’s rather fun. Bayoneting straw dummies is only playing a harmless game, after all.”

Alex nodded and moved on to the next: “Everything all right, soldier?”

Solov came across the grass toward him, head and shoulders rolling. “They’re nearly ready, General.”

“Yes, I think they are.” Alex turned his shoulder to the others and went on in a lower voice. “You’ll have to wash Zurov out.”

“Zurov? He’s one of the brightest youngsters we’ve had in years.”

“He thinks of bayonet drill as a harmless game, Solov. Those who recognize that are the ones who have trouble facing the real thing-when the time comes to put his knife in a man he’ll hesitate.”

“Very well sir. I’ll have him assigned to orderly duties.”

“You’ve got eight minutes to move them to the hand-to-hand course. Better get them on their feet now.”

He walked away from the company in a mild gloom of depression. You had to thank God there were still men like Zurov-and when it came to the practice of war you had to give them the back of your hand.

Spaight came batting into the hangar office at half-past four. “Damn good. I only had six jumpers outside the target circle the last go.”

“That’s six too many, John.”

“It’s better than last week-and next week will be better than this one.”

“It’s going to have to be. We’re pulling out in twenty-one days.”

In the evening Alex watched Major Postsev and Prince Felix rehearse the men on Red Army regulations and behavior. One by one the men had to recite their false identities, the “friends” they had in the Seventeenth Red Army Division on the Finland border, the official reasons why they were traveling detached duty. It wasn’t only to get them in; it was a drill designed to get them out as well-if the operation went sour. It was the only way Alex knew to set it up: he wasn’t sending them in unless the back door remained open for them to escape if they had to. There would be tremendous risks for them but at least they had to be given the chance.

At half-past eleven when he left the hangar they were still at it. He walked out through the gate and along to the cottage and let himself in wearily. Corporal Cooper sat in the parlor drinking tea, watching the clock and the warm red tubes of the shortwave transceiver.

Alex went through to the back of the house. Sergei was in the kitchen-standing guard, stiffly zealous of Irina, unwilling to leave her alone in the house with Cooper. It amused Alex a little: she was capable of turning men like Cooper into quivering jelly if it suited her; she was in no danger from that quarter. But it wouldn’t do to belittle Sergei’s loyalty.

She was curled up asleep. In her hand were the coded notepad sheets for the night’s communique. He slipped them carefully out of her grip without waking her and retreated to the front of the house and handed the sheets to Cooper.

“Bit of a long message tonight, in’t it sir.”

It was long but there wasn’t much time left for his conversations with Vlasov. Actually the real danger was at Vlasov’s end-it wasn’t much risk for Vlasov to receive long communications but it put him in great danger to have to send long ones because they gave Beria’s direction-finders more time to zero in on the location of the illicit shortwave broadcaster. For the past six weeks Vlasov had taken the precaution of recording his transmissions on wire and attaching the wire-recorder to the transmitter so that if it were discovered he wouldn’t be there at the time. Every third or fourth night-they communicated at those intervals-he had to move the transmitter or set up a new one and his irritability was becoming more and more obvious even through the obstacles of codes and Morse key. Alex had found it necessary to bolster him with encouragements: It will be over soon, that sort of thing.