Брайан Гарфилд: The Romanov Succession

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 reassurance. Don’t patronize me.”

“It’s myself I’m reassuring. 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 embarrassment 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 documents 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 God. 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.”

That was when she saw the faintest movement in the mists far out along the road.

It was a Finnish ambulance. The breath caught in her sucking throat like a handsaw jamming in wet wood.

The ambulance halted at the gate and there was the tedious ritual of idents and clearances and then the gate swung open and the white van rolled forward. She tried to see through the windshield.

Then it stopped forty feet away and the door opened and Alex stepped out.

He waved and turned to help Sergei down; Sergei had a bulky white bandage about his shoulder. The stretcher bearers carried a third man out of the ambulance on a litter.

Alex said something to Sergei and then came away from him.

Irina walked blindly into his arms. Her fingers raked the back of his coat and the tears burst from her beyond control.