The Romanov succession

Johnson was startled, then dubious, then polite: “Fine-that’s just fine.” He essayed a smile.

“You don’t mean to tell me I’ve got to fly one of those bloody four-engine battleships?”

“Felix is a first-class pilot-don’t let him fool you.”

Johnson was squinting. “You’re the Prince Felix Romanov that won a couple of air races.”

“In racing planes, Captain-not stinking huge blunderbusses.”

“You rated to fly multiengine?”

“I’ve flown twin. Never four.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Alex said. But Pappy Johnson did not look happy.

A short man-very wide but not fat-emerged from the corner office and strode forward in a British uniform with a colonel’s pips on the shoulderboards.

Felix said diplomatically, “Colonel Tolkachev has been showing me around.”

Tolkachev’s broad ruddy Cossack face was expressionless when he gave his formal salute. “Welcome to Scotland, Colonel.”

It was a studied slight: he knew full well what Alex’s rank was but Alex wasn’t in uniform and it had given Tolkachev the excuse to address him by the rank he’d held when Vassily had been the brigade’s general.

Tolkachev turned to John Spaight and clicked his heels. Spaight shook hands informally with the adjutant. “How are you, Tolkachev? Put on a little weight, I see.”

Tolkachev had been Vassily’s right hand and he was still Vassily’s man and there was no mistaking the enmity, it came off him in waves.

Tolkachev said, “I believe you will find the regiment in order.”

Regiment, Alex thought, picking up on it. No longer brigade. Well they’d been cut up badly in Finland.

“Where’ve you got the men billeted?”

“Across the field. They are smaller hangars than this one.”

“How many men on the roster?”

“Six hundred eighty-two combat personnel. Two hundred eleven support personnel.”

“All from the old outfit, are they?”

“We have had a few recruits. Some of the Poles came over-it looked like more action with us than they had where they were.”

“Is there still a company of Finns?”

“No sir. Helsinki recalled them to defend the border. They are fighting the Bolsheviks again you know.”

“Then we’re all White Russians with a sprinkling of Free Poles, is that it?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job of keeping the unit intact.”

“That was General Devenko’s doing, sir.” Tolkachev wasn’t giving an inch.

“You’ve been here what, nearly a year?”

“That is right.”

“With what duties?” It was like pulling teeth.

“Miscellaneous defense,” Tolkachev replied. “We have fourteen pilots-the British supplied us with those light aircraft you saw at the end of the field. The air detachment has been flying air-sea rescue missions and spotter flights looking for enemy shipping in the North Sea. The rest of us have been manning antiaircraft stations along the coast, guarding rail shipments of war materiel, doing sentry shifts at Scapa Flow. We have done a good deal of combat training and parade-ground drilling-the General said we were going into action.”

“So you started commando training.”

“Yes sir.”

“How far along are they?”

“That would depend on the nature of the combat mission.”

Alex was tired; he’d need a clear morning head to get down to the details. “I’ll want a meeting of all field-grade officers at nine in the morning and a general formation at noon.”

“Very good sir.”

Alex turned to Prince Felix. “Well how are you then?”

Felix spread his hands wide. “Like a duck to water, old man. I’ve been flying those puddle jumpers.”

“I’ve been expecting a message from Baron Oleg.”

“It came this afternoon. It wasn’t much of a message. We’re to expect someone tomorrow evening.”

Then Oleg had kept his word. It would be someone from Spain, hand-carrying the contact drill for reaching Vlasov.

It would be none too soon. Without Stalin’s favorite Red Army general none of this was going to work at all.

3

At six in the morning Sergei knocked and he struggled out of sleep, filled with random pains.

There was no shower and the bath water wasn’t heated because it had not occurred to any of them to light the boiler. He washed with cold water and sponged himself with a cloth; it was bracing if nothing else. When he had shaved he surrendered the bathroom to Spaight and got into his Russian dress-whites because of the regimental formation he’d scheduled for the day; and found his way into the kitchen where Sergei had eggs frying in the bacon grease.

It was a farm cottage that Sergei had rented: the little garden backed up on the airfield’s fence and the hangars were visible and within walking distance. The owner of the house was a Royal Naval Reserve petty officer serving aboard one of His Majesty’s destroyers; the wife and children were living thirty-six miles away with a sister-in-law in the town of Inverness.

It was a comfortable bungalow, very small rooms with everything in its place and chintz headrests on the armchairs.

“It’s a hell of a house to run a war from, Sergei.”

“Yes sir.”