The Romanov succession

The day had its little crises-a C-47 came in from the chute drop and blew a tire and ground-looped on the runway but it didn’t crack up; Calhoun groused about the dwindling supply of spare tires. Then one of the Russian-made 9mm tommy-guns malfunctioned and burst on the target line and the corporal had to be taken to the dispensary to have metal splinters dug out of his hand. One of Solov’s men twisted his ankle on the afternoon jump. At four Alex walked down toward the hard-stands to have a look at the high-octane supply; Calhoun groused about that too.

When Alex walked back toward the hangar he saw a dark green car move past on the road beyond the fence. It drew his attention because it moved too slowly. It stopped about eighty yards beyond the gate: the driver got out and lifted the right-hand flap of the engine bonnet to look inside. It was just a bit coincidental having a breakdown right across the road from the fence and the runway. Too far away to get an impression of the driver’s face. The car was a Daimler with a long snout and coupe coachwork. The driver’s back was hunched; he was reaching into the engine compartment and fiddling but it was quite possible he was looking at the base under his arm. Alex turned his line of march toward the gate.

The two sentries came to atttention and Alex said, “One of you hike up there and see if you can help him on his way.” But then the driver buckled the flap down and climbed back into the car and smoke spurted from the pipes when the engine caught. The Daimler moved away-quite slowly.

“If anyone else stops move them along.”

“Yes sir.”

The publican brought their steaks and Irina dimmed the little kerosene lamp on the table. Through the doorway there was a lusty racket from the saloon bar. The velvet blackout curtains made the room stuffy; smoke hung against the low ceiling. It seemed to affect her eyes but she went on puffing at the Du Maurier. No one else was dining in the room. The walls were cluttered with the obligatory gimcracks-copper mugs, shotguns, a pair of flintlock pistols, emblems of highland regiments, photographs of hunting dogs and golfers in plus fours. Logs burned cozily on the hearth opposite their table.

Silence separated them. It was only in public formalities that she was capable of pretending an emotion she didn’t feel. They cut up the Angus beef and ate it. Finally the awkwardness got too much for her. “What’s the matter, darling?” A new Du Maurier; he struck the match for her.

“Getting close to the time, I suppose. Tense-you can’t help it.”

“That’s not all of it. You used to look like this when-”

“When what?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a happy look. You know, darling, it’s not hard to hide something but it can be very hard to hide that you’ve got something to hide.”

“What do you suppose I’m hiding?”

“Whatever it is it’s got to do with me-with us.”

When he didn’t reply to that she said, “I suppose it’s still Vassily.”

“Perhaps it is. I had a dream about him-he was riding me down with a Cossack horde.”

“You feel you’ve betrayed him, don’t you?”

“It’s damned foolish of me. But he might have made this work. His plan. The odds were against it-more than they are with mine-but he might have done it. It was possible.”

“And he might have made me happy, isn’t that it? Part of it?”

He brooded at her hand-smoke curling from the cigarette in her fingers on the table. Irina said, “Odd that we always seem concerned for other people’s happiness. We want to make one another happy but we don’t seek happiness for ourselves-it’s too illusory. It isn’t what you want, is it? To be happy?”

“I don’t suppose it is. I haven’t thought about it.”

Then it was as if she changed the subject: “Vassily wasn’t cold. But he couldn’t love. His heart was too acquisitive-he had too much ambition. It’s a thing of the self, it doesn’t make room to let other people in. He was the same with both of us, you and me-he wanted our loyalty, our good opinion; he wanted to be admired.”

“I think we all do.”

“To the point of obsession?”

“Vassily was clever-he was shrewd, cunning. But he didn’t have good sense.” He wasn’t sure why he said that.

She said abruptly, “It might be a good idea if you tried to stop thinking of him as if he’d been your father. You’ve put yourself in an impossible position. You thought of him paternally but he thought of you as a dangerous rival. If he were alive he’d never grant you his approval, you know that. He was jealous of you-more afraid of you than you were of him.”

“Why?”

“Because he knew you had adaptability and compassion. I think he always knew you’d overtake him. He tried to keep you down with his thumb. When you broke with him and went to America he wasn’t heartbroken; he was afraid.”

She thrust her chair back. “It’s something for you to think about, Alex. If he’d lived he’d have had to end up subordinating himself to you.”

He held her coat for her. “Button up-it’s a cold night.”

“I’m a Russian woman.” She left the fur collar open against her shoulders.