Romanov Succession Part 30

They waited until the sun went down-a bit after four o'clock-but the moon was up by then and it etched the winter branches in serene light and Alex had to decide whether to move anyway or to wait for moonset. The temperature had dropped steadily during the twilight hours and there would be a risk of frostbite in waiting but that would be preferable to capture; he decided they would stay put until they had full darkness.

He walked along close to the wall, fingertips dragging it lightly, trying to focus his flagging concentration. In the intense cold he felt sleepy and knew the dangers of that. He approached the column of ambulances from their rear. Sergei was close on his heels and the three survivors of the commando were strung out along the wall behind, invisible even to Alex. There were no stars; a scudding overcast had pushed the moon away.

He reached the back of the ambulance and moved along the narrow pa.s.sage between its body and the hospital wall. Reached up for the handle of the pa.s.senger door-pulled it open and spoke to the driver and heard Sergei yank the driver's door open and haul the driver out. There was no sound; Sergei's knife had gone true. There were no interior lights in the ambulance-they would be disconnected as a matter of routine security. Alex moved on to the second ambulance slowly and without sound while Sergei slipped forward along the opposite side of the ambulance line. They repeated the maneuver with the second ambulance: Alex distracted the driver and Sergei dispatched him.

They took the third ambulance and Alex pushed the remaining three soldiers into its rear compartment. Then he joined Sergei in the cab.

The ambulance drove north at high speed on the freshly plowed Leningrad road. The illumination of its slitted blackout lights was minimal but speed was more important than caution because they had to be past the Leningrad line before daylight. Twice they had to pause for armed convoys and once they nearly ran down a marching battalion of soldiers who flung themselves into the banked snow along the verges as the ambulance shot by in the night. Alex had the wheel; driving gave him occupation, it excused him from brooding on the failure, but he could not keep his mind from the bitterness of it. Felix, he thought. Full of spirit and dash: Felix would have been more than they'd expected of him-he'd had the genius of leaders.h.i.+p but it had taken these last weeks to reveal it in him and now it was negated, the absolute waste of early death-Felix and Ilya Rostov and the sixteen men they'd carried aboard their bombers; and Majors Postsev and Solov because Vlasov hadn't been able to warn them-all the commandos must have walked right into the traps by now. Nearly a hundred men had to be counted dead or worse. In military terms it was a small casualty list but they were not victims of combat, they were the casualties of betrayal and his bile came up with the anger that focused on vengeance. If it takes the rest of my life. ...

The body of water called Ladoga was a lake in geographer's terms but it was an oval 300 miles by 200 miles and it might as well have been an ocean. A 50-mile-wide neck of land lay between the western sh.o.r.e of Ladoga and the eastern sh.o.r.e of the Baltic Sea's Gulf of Finland; the isthmus connected Europe with Scandinavia and it was here that the opposing armies were drawn up with their flanks anch.o.r.ed against the two sh.o.r.es. The surface of Ladoga was frozen to a depth of two feet or more and would have supported the weight of route-stepping troops but there was no cover on the open ice and the war stayed in the forested hills.

At dawn an artillery duel began and from thirty miles south of the battleground Alex saw the flashes. Fifteen minutes later they began to feel the concussive rumble, transmitted up from the gravel surface of the road through the tires and springs of the Pobeda ambulance, They had cut wide to the east around the environs of besieged Leningrad and the cleated tires of the ambulance slithered on the unpaved subsidiary track; it had been mashed down by convoys of tanks and heavy lorries moving to and from the Finnish front. The ambulance ran along in second gear bracketed between a field-kitchen supply truck and a half-track troop-carrier; steady streams of traffic moving both ways along the narrow track, skittering on the verges and occasionally colliding.

Sergei had the map open in his lap but it was a chart left over from the 1939 war, something they'd taken off a captured Russian captain in Va.s.sily's interrogation tent; there was no way to know how much had been changed since those days. "Just ahead-the turning to the right."

Alex obeyed the old man's navigational instructions and the ambulance heaved into a narrow rutted track. Tanks had been along here but not in the past twenty-four hours; there was a crust of fresh snow in the ruts. The trees crowded thick against the track and branches kept whipping the ambulance.

The turn had taken them out of the convoy and they were alone in deep woods. The artillery wasn't more than three or four miles north of them-to the left now. The earth shook steadily and the racket was intense. The guns had been talking for nearly half an hour and that was a little bit encouraging because an extended field-gun barrage at daybreak often presaged an a.s.sault and if the Red Army was poised to go into battle then things would be confused along the extended flanks; that sort of confusion might play into their hands.

He had a look at the gauges. The engine was running slightly hot on poor fuel but it wasn't at the boil-over point; the oil pressure was steady on fifty and the ammeter was centered. There was half a tank of fuel and that would be enough, one way or the other.

The road staggered fitfully. In clearings they pa.s.sed knots of soldiers and the occasional parked vehicle. Each time he tensed up and saw Sergei lift the tommygun into his lap but no one challenged them and they chugged on into the morning. At half past ten the artillery ceased fire-a dozen miles behind his left shoulder. The track made a turning to the north and Sergei said, "Soon now," and folded the map neatly away.

It crested a hundred yards ahead. He parked the ambulance in the road before they reached the top. He got out and took the tommygun; as he approached the skyline he went into the trees and jinked from pine to pine until he was on top. Then he slipped out to the edge of the road and looked down the far slope.

The track ran down toward the sh.o.r.e and made a right turn and disappeared beyond the end of the trees. Winds had swept big patches of the lake free of snow and the ice was grey and translucent. At the foot of the road where it made its sharp turning at the sh.o.r.eline there was a rickety wooden dock and beside it was a ramp used in peacetime by fishermen hauling their boats in and out of the water. The ramp was covered with several inches of powder snow but its outlines were clearly defined. On the dock stood a crude corrugated structure-a sentry post with some sort of wood stove in it; smoke curled from a round metal chimney. There was a loop antenna on the roof of it. Spotters then: posted along the bank of the lake to give warning of any Finnish advance across the open ice. And there were 55mm howitzers stationed along the sh.o.r.e; he only saw two of them-one on either side of the dock-but there'd be a good many more strung out in the trees at the edge of the lake.

Without hurry he studied the landscape, deciphering the clues in the snowy hills and the irregular sh.o.r.e. Finally he faded back into the woods and tramped down to the ambulance.

They were all outside stamping their feet. Sergei dragged a glove across his face and spat in the snow. "It's all right?"

"It'll have to do. They've got fifty-fives at two-hundred-meter intervals along the sh.o.r.e. Probably machine-gun bunkers too."

Corporal Voroshnikov said, "Perhaps we should go farther east."

"We haven't the fuel for that."

Sergei said, "How does the ice look?"

"Thick enough." He tossed the tommygun inside and climbed up. "Let's go."

By now every sh.o.r.e position would have been alerted by Moscow to stop any vehicle or personnel trying to escape to the north. There was no way to bluff a pa.s.sage with false papers. They might have his description.

His commando had to break through the Red line somewhere and this was the most thinly defended piece of it. Ram through onto the lake and get out beyond the range of the guns and cut a semicircular route toward the Finland sh.o.r.e: that was the plan now and it was all they had left. He put the ambulance in gear. The rear wheels slipped a little but then the cleats found purchase and it lurched uphill.

At the crest he still had her in low gear. He s.h.i.+fted before feeding fuel to the carburetor and he picked up speed smoothly on the downslope.

The ambulance bucked and wobbled, slithering from side to side in the ruts. Sergei had his window open and his gun in both hands and the cold wind was awful. Now it was two hundred yards to the boat ramp and the ambulance was still picking up speed but not too much because there'd be a hard b.u.mp at the top of the ramp: try to hold it down to something between fifty and sixty kilometers.

A man stepped out of the spotter shed-probably alerted by the noise. Shouted to someone inside the shack and lifted a rifle to his shoulder. Alex saw the muzzle zero in. Then his ears were battered by the staccato slamming of Sergei's automatic nine-millimeter. The bullets knocked the soldier back against the wall of the shack; when he slid down he left a red smear on it. Then Alex was wrenching the wheel left and smas.h.i.+ng through the drifts at the head of the boat ramp and Sergei was twisted around in the lurching seat, spraying the doorway of the shack to keep their heads down inside. The ambulance went over the lip of the ramp: the front wheels slammed down with an impact that threw him forward against the steering wheel; it was sideslipping and he fought to correct but it kept turning and went down the ramp with the back tires spinning on the ice at a three-quarter angle: for a moment he was sure they were going to capsize. But the ambulance held upright and he fed a little fuel; the tires made a tentative grab and squirted tangentially onto the lake ice. Now they'd find out if it was thick enough to hold the weight.

He heard gla.s.s shatter musically and the confined roaring of a gun in the back of the ambulance-Voroshnikov or one of the others firing at the spotter shack through the rear windows of the ambulance. It was still spinning slowly on the ice; he had to turn the front wheels that way with the skid. The spin took them right back along the sh.o.r.e on the left but when the wheels vectored into the bank they gained enough traction to send the ambulance spurting forward and he turned the wheel with an easy slow motion so that it curved gently away from the sh.o.r.eline and began to run out onto the frozen open surface. He kept it to a very slow curve because anything more would break them loose again, send them spinning. But it was an angle that held them too close insh.o.r.e for too long and the trees erupted in machine-gun fire. He saw them chop white smears and dashes in the ice and heard the whine as they ricocheted away and then one or two of the guns had the range and there was lead chugging into the back. If one of them blew the fuel tank or ruptured the tires that was that.

He s.h.i.+fted up into top and put his foot on the floor. Some one in the litter bed cried out, hit. Sergei had his big shoulders all the way out the open window, shooting the tommygun empty; then he sagged back inside and slumped down in the seat. Alex flashed a glance at him to see if he'd been hit. He hadn't; he was just using as much cover as he could find. Wind whipped around Alex's face, freezing his ears and cheeks. She was up to seventy-five kph on the ice now and he completed the steady turn and straightened the steering: due north onto the lake with five hundred meters of it behind them. The sh.o.r.e machine guns gave it up. Ninety kph, a hundred-sixty miles an hour on surface ice and it was shaking the ambulance to pieces; the surface wasn't all that smooth. Everything rattled: the noise was so intense he didn't hear it when the sh.o.r.e batteries opened up. The first he knew of it was when a fifty-five punched a tremendous hole in the ice. Another sh.e.l.l impacted behind him and that one was close enough to rain slivers of ice on the ambulance-like hailstones on a corrugated metal roof; the noise was as terrible as the machine-gun hits had been.

A fifty-five burst well ahead of him and quite a distance to the right. He steered a course toward it because they'd be correcting their aim and moving left with the next ones. He heard Sergei's grunt when one fluttered overhead. It blew up a quarter acre of ice to the left and now he had to guide the speeding ambulance between the two holes before the ramifying cracks broke up the surface between them. He could see the fissures spreading: they moved that fast.

When the ambulance skittered across the frozen isthmus the ice was breaking up underneath and it wobbled badly, one rear wheel sinking into stuff that had gone soft as pablum. But the momentum carried it over the slush. Two fifty-five-millimeter salvos smashed up the lake behind them and he crabbed the ambulance to the left as quickly as he could without losing traction.

, They had two field guns in play as far as he could tell; both had an open field of fire as long as he remained within range. They didn't have to hit him. All they had to do was punch a hole in the ice ahead of him-close enough so he couldn't evade without skidding. The only answer to it was to keep doglegging-chasing salvos, trying to outwit the spotters.

Speed was his advantage and his hazard at the same time. On the ice every notch of speed meant that much less maneuverability. He was putting nearly a mile behind them with every full minute that elapsed but those guns could reach out six or seven miles and they still had plenty of time to stop him. Four minutes was an eternity in a race like this.

Ice lies thinnest along the bank. Out over deep water it was thickest and could absorb great impacts without shattering. The guns were firing a random mixture of armor-piercings and high explosives but now the armor-piercings simply drilled straight through, leaving holes no bigger than the fist-sized diameter of the sh.e.l.ls that punched them; and the HEs dug powdery craters in the surface but no longer broke them through to the water beneath. When a sh.e.l.l exploded dead ahead of him Alex knew he didn't have time to turn and he trusted to chance and the strength of the ice: he accelerated right into the blinding rain of crystals. The ambulance slammed violently through the crater and bounded up over the far lip of it; came cras.h.i.+ng down on all four wheels and kept right on going with slush oiling down the windscreen. Sergei reached up and cranked the wipers back and forth to clear it. Alex caught the old man's defiant grin.

Too many of those and she could break an axle but they had a chance now. The guns were elevating steadily: the next one hit well out ahead of him and slightly to the right. He bent his course to veer around the far-right-hand side of the crater while the next salvo of HEs blew geysers in the ice considerably to the left. He steered straight this time because they'd expect him to chase back to the left and they'd be waiting for that. The next two drilled holes to his left again but still he didn't change course. He waited until the next salvo-a neat bracket, one on either side and a bit behind him-and then he jinked to the left: a random move on impulse. It threw them off again and now the sh.e.l.ls were falling behind. going wide; six miles and the spotters couldn't see him very well. The ambulance was a small white object moving very fast against a blinding white background: at best they only had him in sight intermittently.

One at a time the two field guns gave it up. Sergei sat up and mischievously poked a finger through a hole torn in his coat sleeve by a Bolshevik bullet. "Magnificently done, my general."

Maybe thirty miles in an arc across the ice now: they'd be at the Finland sh.o.r.e. He began to let himself relax. Another mile to be sure they were out of range and he'd stop and check the back for casualties.

It came without warning. He hadn't thought to check the sky. He didn't know the plane was there until the strafing tracers rattled a st.i.tched line across the ice, walking the bullets right up to the speeding ambulance. He tried to take evasive action but it was much too late. He heard the diving whine of the aircraft. He felt it when the fifty-calibers shredded a rear tire; the ambulance dropped down on the rim and began to circle blindly like a half-crushed beetle. The jacketed bulletstore into the body of the ambulance and they were screaming in the back compartment and then the other tire blew and something broke apart and she was skidding to a stop, mangled and dead on the ice.

Sergei had taken a bullet and there was blood all over his coat-it looked like an arm wound; he showed his teeth. Alex heard the plane whining and when he looked up through the windscreen it was at the top of its turn, coming back for another pa.s.s: diving for the kill.

She stood on the tarmac watching the main gate. The wind was cruel-dry and frigid; puffs of powder snow blew across the runway. The only sounds were the footfalls of the Finnish sentries as they moved back and forth to keep warm and the growl of the diesel generator behind the control tower.

Prince Leon came to her from the building behind her. He leaned heavily on his cane; his face was deeply trenched by exhaustion and the emptiness of defeat. "We shall have to go soon."

"Go where?"

"I do not know, Irina. Back to Spain I suppose, where else can we go? You will catch a chill out here, you must come inside."

She could see out past the main gate, past the sentries and their rifles-a long way down the ribbon of road that ran straight between the trees. No one was on the road. She put her back to it reluctantly and put her hand on the old prince's arm and helped him back into the building; he had trouble with the step.

The rest of them sat in the pilots' Ready Room, their faces as grey as the sky outside. Her father looked up when she entered the room but his mask of authority had sagged away to nothing and his eyes were lacquered as if with fever. Baron Oleg tried to put life in his face but it was tremble-lipped, white, ghastly. But for one traitor they'd have been in Moscow by now. Colonel Buckner leaned in the far doorway, forehead against the wood, putting some of his weight on his hand which gripped the doork.n.o.b-he looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Brigadier Cosgrove raised his one hand a few inches to acknowledge Irina's presence but then he withdrew into himself to brood. Absurdly, General Savinov and the venerable Prince Michael sat facing each other pus.h.i.+ng checkers across a board.

It had been twenty-four hours since they'd heard the news.

Cramps of hunger prevented her from sleeping and finally sometime in the small morning hours she went down in search of food; she hadn't eaten anything all day. She found General Spaight there; he gave a quick startled smile. "You've caught me. Raiding the larder."

She found cheese and bread and made a meal of that. "What time is it, do you know?"

"After seven I think."

"I didn't realize it was that late."

"The sun won't be up for two hours yet."

She sat down to eat; Spaight said, "The water's boiling for coffee. Would you like a cup?"

"Avidly."

"He'll get out, you know. I've soldiered with Alex a long time," he said. "He's not the sort of man who gets captured."

"Or killed?"

"If they'd killed him we'd have heard about it." He was spooning coffee into the pot. "They were pretty explicit in the broadcast about the ones they'd killed or caught and identified. Alex wasn't among them and neither was Sergei."

"But they're nearly twenty-four hours overdue."

He brought his plate to the table and sat down facing her. "He'll get out, Irina."

"I don't need false rea.s.surance. Don't patronize me."

"It's myself I'm rea.s.suring. He's too good a man-too good a friend to lose."

They ate in silence, watching the coffeepot. When it was ready Spaight poured and brought the cups to the table. "You're a remarkable woman, Irina. He's a lucky man."

"I'd rather not think that far ahead."

"I'm sorry."

"No-never apologize."

He said, "It was someone in this camp who betrayed us."

"What?"

"I found a radio transceiver in the parts room at the back of the repair hangar-shortly after Felix took off. It was still warm. Someone had just got done using it. I turned on the receiver to find out what band he'd set it to. It was the Russian Secret Service frequency. I didn't understand any of it of course, they broadcast in code. But I know their call signs."

"You didn't tell anyone?"

"No. I've spent nearly every hour since then watching the hangar-I thought maybe he'd go back for it. But I gradually came to the conclusion he never would. He's done with it now, isn't he-it's served its purpose."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're the only one I trust on this base right now. You wouldn't have betrayed Alex."

"I'm grateful for your trust. It means a great deal just now."

"Maybe you can explain something to me then. Why would the traitor wait until after the mission was beyond recall? Why not sabotage the mission before? It doesn't make any sense."

She shook her head numbly. She tasted the coffee; it was strong and bitter-like the anger rising in her. "I've no idea at all. You're right-it's senseless."

The sun was hardly a diameter above the horizon and the clouds writhed with a red conflagration. The window was open a crack to feed the coal fire and her hair was blowing gently in the draft from it; she had kept vigil at the window since the first moment of dawn.

At the hangar she saw Pappy Johnson and Calhoun talking about something with expressive gestures; there had been some trouble with one of the De Havillands yesterday.

Baron Oleg arrived in the Ready Room, nodded to Spaight and crossed the room to peer out over Irina's shoulder. The gate was still closed, the sentries walked their posts, the road beyond was empty.

Oleg said, "The Finnish government is not prepared to have us camp here for the duration of the war. If Alex is safe he will find his way to us. We cannot wait here forever for him. We are an acute embarra.s.sment to the Finns now."

She put her back to him and resumed her watch on the road. "I'm not leaving, Oleg."

"You will have to."

"He expects us to wait for him. He may be wounded. He can't come here exhausted and perhaps badly hurt and find this place deserted-no one could be expected to take that much."

Her father came downstairs; she heard his tread and recognized it. Oleg said to him, "She refuses to come with us. You must talk to her."

She turned, ready to defy her father; but he only shook his head. "If Irina has made up her mind it is no good my arguing with her."

"Thank you," she said.

"I only wish the rest of us had as much room for hope as you seem to have, my daughter."

But it was only the hem of hope to which she clung; reason quarreled with instinct and it was only by force of will that she enabled instinct to prevail. She saw the men carrying the luggage out to the aircraft-the suitcases that contained their preciously preserved Imperial uniforms, the doc.u.ments of a Liberation that was not to be, the mocking relics of their failure. Still she did not stir from her post by the window.

A eleven o'clock her father came downstairs again, treading heavily; she saw he carried her own valises.

"I packed for you. In case you should change your mind. It is not meant as an inducement."

He looked strange. It struck her it was the first time in her life she'd ever seen him carrying suitcases. There had always been servants.

He put them down near the door and rammed his hands in his pockets; he looked uncertain. She said, "What now, father?"

"For me? Nothing. Our lives are over. We have had our chance and lost it. We shall go back to our neutral villas and play at our meaningless pastimes. There is nothing else."

At eleven-fifteen there was a report somewhere in the building-a crash or perhaps a gunshot-and Spaight ran from the room in alarm to seek its source. He returned shortly thereafter.

"It's Baron Zimovoi. He's shot himself."

Prince Leon shot upright in his chair. "My G.o.d. Is there a doctor?"

"There's no need for a doctor," Spaight said quietly. His puzzled eyes rode around to Irina and she read the question in them: Was it because he was the traitor? Did he kill himself out of guilt?

The takeoff was delayed-fifteen minutes, then a half hour, then more-while they disputed the disposition of Oleg's body. Finally it was Spaight who decided it: "We'll take him with us in the cargo compartment of one of the planes. We'll have to. The ground is frozen here-he can't be buried." Lame inanities and gruesome horrors were the subjects their tongues touched but these were in keeping with the day; Oleg's suicide seemed fitting.

She watched them trail dispiritedly toward the waiting De Havillands. Her father took his leave of her. Prince Michael hobbled out ahead and some of the others waited to help him into the airplane. Cosgrove went blindly along behind-he seemed even more benumbed than the others by the sudden collapse of the enterprise.

The two Americans were last out of the building. They stopped, flanking her, and Buckner looked out toward the empty road while Spaight put his kind eyes on her face and reached out to squeeze her hand.

Buckner said, "It was a fine dream while it lasted."

"It was more than a dream for a while," Spaight said.

"Maybe. But that's all it'll be from now on-a badly remembered one."