The Romanov succession

“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.”

“The operational unit is restricted to base from today on, Brigadier. I don’t think we need worry on that account.”

The call came through and Cosgrove courteously left the room while Alex took the telephone.

Sir Edward’s voice crackled at him. “Hello there Danilov. Glad to hear from you.”

“I’ve got a Brigadier Cosgrove on my doorstep, General. I thought I’d better ask you about him.”

“Oh he’s quite straight. Lost his arm in Turkey in the first war. He’s a good man-the best when it comes to filling impossible orders. He’s number-two man under General Sir Hugh Craigie-chief of supply for the Military Intelligence branch of the War Office. You’ll find him a first-class hustler. What’s the American expression? A moonlight requisitioner?”

“A chiseler, you mean.” Alex was amused.

“Shall we just say he’ll find what you need and provide it.”

“How many of these people have been informed of the mission?”

“None of them. They know only that it’s got the Prime Minister’s approval.”

“Cosgrove wants to know the scheme.”

“Naturally he’d want to, old boy. It’s up to you to decide what to tell him. I’m sure he’d do a better job for you if he knew the whole truth-but you’ve got to weigh that against security. It’s your decision.”

He could picture the old man-Kitcheneresque, on the surface a relic with his manner of colonial ferocity; beneath it the acute mind that belied his age.