Romanov Succession Part 5

"Angel Kevin six three three."

"Chauffeur?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then that's two of them. The price is higher."

"The price is the same, after your last fiasco."

He didn't fight the point too hard; only a token face-saving riposte: "I'd have had him last time if you hadn't been so jealous with information."

"Never mind. It's July fourteen. The meeting in Maidstone's set for eight in the evening. You'll have to work back from there to get his ETA at Biggin Hill."

"There's another way. Where does the Bentley live?"

"It belongs to one of the White Russians. He lives in London but he'll be staying at the hotel in Maidstone. The name's Ivanov. He's got a detached house in Highgate. Shepherd's Hill, Number Forty-three. They'll be going down to Maidstone sometime on the fourteenth."

"Bastille Day," the a.s.sa.s.sin remarked, and cradled the phone.

On the fourteenth he'd parked on the verge with the nose of his Morris pointed out toward the main road; got out of the car with a brush and a jar of black watercolor ink. His license plate number was IPF 311; he closed the characters to make it read TBE 814. Then he screwed a new silencer onto the Luger and put on a white jacket, a pair of clear-gla.s.s spectacles and a white trilby hat. Any witnesses would remember only the disguise, and there would be at least one witness: if they weren't going to pay for the chauffeur he wasn't going to give them the chauffeur.

He had to wait more than an hour. Several cars and military vehicles came out of the service road and he kept watch in the driving mirror until the Bentley's big square snout appeared.

He put the first bullet into the front tire because he wanted to prevent the target escaping. Then he had a clear shot at Devenko and no way to miss it because they hadn't spotted the source of the trouble yet. He squeezed the trigger with firm gentle pressure and the Luger recoiled, mildly as it always did; the bullet left a small grey smear on the window, obscuring his view of Devenko's left eye.

"It's your own fault again, blast you. If you'd told me I'd have worked a way around it."

"Around what?"

"It's bulletproof gla.s.s in that Bentley."

So this time he'd do it his own way. He turned into the pa.s.sage behind the villa's dining hall and let himself into a walk-in cleaning cupboard. It took a moment to find the light switch. He screwed a stubby silencer onto the Luger and then checked the loads and worked the jack-leg-action to seat the top cartridge so that he wouldn't need to thrash around c.o.c.king it when the time came. He set the safety and slid the pistol down between his belt and his trouser-band against his left ribs under the formal jacket; un.o.btrusive but instantly available to his right hand. There were flatter automatics than the Luger but the flat ones didn't fit his hand as well: didn't point as naturally. The 7.62 bullets were small, the equivalent of .32 caliber, but he'd loaded them himself with the maximum charge of smokeless powder and at close range he had no qualms about their stopping power: the bullets were perforated into quarters and designed to expand violently on contact.

He had a pocket mirror and he inspected his disguise. The coat and slacks were cut very generously to make him look heavy; the dress Oxfords had five-centimeter lifts in them. They'd remember him as a man of substantial bulk and height when in fact he was five-feet-nine and weighed just over 150 pounds.

The rest of it was more traditionally stagy. He had a partial skullcap spirit-gummed over his forehead to hide the widow's peak of his natural hairline; they'd remember him as half bald. He'd darkened the rest of his red-brown hair with a dye-pomade designed to cover grey; it gave him a Mediterranean cast he had confirmed with a pencil-thin divided mustache gummed to his upper lip. His features were unexceptional: he had always had the benefit of an anonymous appearance and he had learned long ago to eschew striking disguises.

It was all nicely in place in the mirror. He switched off the light, adjusted the hang of his jacket over the Luger in his belt and eased the door open a crack.

The hallway was empty of servants. He went toward the front of the villa, ready to smile, pleasant-faced, nerveless, almost jaunty with businesslike confidence because this time he knew the quarry.

Heads turned when Irina entered the ballroom. She hardly noticed; she was used to it.

She smiled and gave her hand to a marquis; she presented her cheek for the tall marchioness's ritual kiss and bussed the air two points to the starboard of her face. Voices rolled around her-hearty shouts in courtly French and Spanish and High German and the best St. Petersburg Russian; beneath them the orchestra played Chopin.

The wheeling dancers cut across her view of the crowd but she had a glimpse of a large man with a bald spot and her curiosity was stimulated: some vague familiarity perhaps.

Alex was approaching and she smiled when a dowager b.u.t.tonholed him. Then a mutter ran through the crowd and the guests were turning in waves to stare toward the wide gallery doors. She heard the murmured name Devenko and felt several sudden glances whip toward her and slide away; then the doors parted and Va.s.sily was there with his high austere eyes and stunning white mane. His handsome head dipped regally in acknowledgment of something someone said to him; he lifted one hard long hand as if in benediction to them all.

He had aged. Not the hair; that had been white since his twenties. But she saw deep vertical lines between his eyebrows and he looked tired.

She felt weight beside her. She didn't have to look that way to know it was Alex. She found his arm and gripped it gently-pointedly.

Va.s.sily's hard grey stare struck her. He blinked, looked away, looked directly and expressionlessly at Alex and then returned his stare to Irina-and she thought she sensed an appeal.

He walked forward through the crowd ignoring all the rest: he still behaved with people he didn't have time for as if they weren't there at all.

He glanced again at Alex. Then he thrust out both arms.

Irina had a moment's terror when Alex didn't stir. But it was so brief an instant that she doubted anyone else detected the hesitation-then the two men were locked in the ritual masculine bear hug of Russia and Va.s.sily's deep voice was rumbling: "My brother-my good brother."

Va.s.sily turned and surprised her with a nicker of a smile. In a lower voice he said, "Surprise becomes you, Irina. It makes your eyes grow."

She reached again for Alex's arm. The Chopin continued in the back; around them some of the couples resumed dancing but she felt the continuing pressure of curious eyes.

Va.s.sily had returned to Alex. "You look very well."

"And you."

"No, do not bother with that. I am old, aren't I?" Va.s.sily was forty-seven. Irina was fourteen years his junior; there had been a time when it hadn't mattered.

"Va.s.sily ..."

"How is it in America?"-to Alex; he had cut her off deliberately. She became aware of the vivid gowns around them; she felt herself close up, become more guarded.

"... learning about twentieth century war," Alex was replying, "but maybe not fast enough."

"Really?" Va.s.sily answered in an indifferent way. "Perhaps they need reprimanding by real soldiers, eh?" And back to Irina: "Has he looked after you properly? It is my duty as his brother to inquire." He said it with dry scorn and she saw he forgave neither of them.

"They're waiting for you both upstairs," she said, very cool.

"Yes. Be kind enough to show us the way, would you?"

It was a little cruel of him but she had known far worse. "Come along then." She led them away, threading the perimeter of the ballroom. Everyone watched and made way. Va.s.sily's commanding austerity kept them all at bay-even princes and the nephews of dukes. Va.s.sily had no t.i.tle whatever: he was a commoner. But there wasn't a White Russian in the villa who didn't owe Va.s.sily his life.

They were watched with awe by eyes unused to awe-down the long gallery, the central corridor, the vast and opulent rooms in which Bourbon monarchs had entertained crowned guests. Va.s.sily walked between them and a half-pace ahead now; out of the marbled turnings into the vast foyer. The sweeping stair made an elegant curve to the railed balcony above; the last of the day's sun beamed down through the stained panels of the lofty domed ceiling.

Va.s.sily laid his hand on the bannister and glanced back the way they'd come. His look was almost furtive. He knows fear after all. She touched Alex's hand. "I'll leave you here. They're in the Grand Duke's drawing room."

Va.s.sily said, "Walk up with us."

"I don't think I'd care to." She turned away gracefully. There was the slight pressure of Alex's rea.s.suring fingers, then she was moving across the foyer, her face a study in composure. She did not hurry; nor did she look back to watch them climb the great stair. She didn't need to. Their ascent was mirrored in the upturned faces of the people watching, like members of an audience awaiting a denouement.

The bald man appeared in the doorway, slipping past the edge of the crowd. It disturbed her: she couldn't place him but there was something in the back of her mind, a sense that made her glide to one side in order to interpose herself between the bald man and the stairs. He tried to sidestep but a fat woman was in the way. She couldn't explain it to herself. But she was sure the bald man's eyes flashed bitterly-so briefly it might never have happened at all.

Very likely her imagination was betraying her. She went on along the gallery, greeting a few people-the ones who didn't bore her. In the ballroom she accepted an old Kiev duke's invitation to dance because he was her father's cousin and had a good laugh which he hadn't forgotten how to use. She whirled onto the floor holding the skirt of her long red gown.

Heavy drapes were looped back from the long gallery of windows. The inner wall of the upstairs corridor was hung museumlike with pictures darkened by age from which several generations of Romanovs brooded upon the scene. Va.s.sily Devenko strode past them without a glance.

Alex kept pace with him, recognizing the dark formal portraits: Alexander II, Alexander III, Vladimir, Alexis, Serge, Paul, Cyril, Boris, Andrei, Dimitri; then the late Grand Dukes George and Michael and finally Nicholas II and Alexandra Fedorovna.... The physical strength and magnetism of the family was evident in them all.

No one was in sight in the long wide hall. Va.s.sily stopped abruptly. "A word with you."

Through the bank of high windows the setting sun fanned the cloud bellies with marbled streaks of crimson and pink. A warm hint of cologne and tobacco smoke drifted under the tall arch-b.u.t.tressed ceiling. Alex said, "Go on," reserving a great deal.

Va.s.sily shook his head. It emphasized the weary cast of his deep-lined features. "Doesn't it strike you the way they all go on as if nothing's changed? Living on the international scale, perpetuating this idiotic love affair with deluxe pleasures and genteel pastimes. And half the world's blowing up just over the horizon."

"You can't change them."

"I am not condemning them for it. If they gave it all up and put on sackcloth and ashes it would not make a bit of difference to the world. But the unreality of the way they can just go on and on like this-how hard it will be to persuade them to set aside their illusions."

In jodhpurs and belted grey jacket Va.s.sily had the look of a Prussian martinet; it struck Alex that all it would take to complete the image would be a riding crop slapping into his open palm.

Va.s.sily said, "I asked them to bring you into this." He put the emphasis on the first person p.r.o.noun and it startled Alex as it had been meant to. "I did it for several reasons. First because you are patently the best for the job-best qualified and best situated. Second because you once forced me to make a very careful reexamination of my own impetuosity-and it may be useful to have you in a position where you can do that again if the events call for it."

Va.s.sily was offering an olive branch but it didn't have a pure color of truth.

Alex didn't answer. Va.s.sily nodded as if Alex's silence confirmed a suspicion. "It is important we find some way to reconcile our quarrel."

"I don't carry grudges."

"No. But you are certain I cannot be trusted. I must find a way to earn your trust back. If you cannot have confidence in my judgment none of this is going to work."

Alex put it bluntly. "I don't see how you're going to do that."

The weariness seemed ground into Va.s.sily like grit. He glanced out the windows, his squint far-eyed with his visions; his face picked up the reddish reflection of the sunset and seemed very bitter. "They have tried twice to kill me. They will go on trying until they succeed. At first I thought it was an old enemy but it is not likely-too coincidental. Someone has learned of the scheme. They think by killing me they can prevent it happening. They cannot-they are fools. It is a historical turning, one of those events whose time has come. A thousand a.s.sa.s.sinations would not stop it."

As if to shake off his premonitions he drew himself up to a parade-ground posture, hands behind him. "When they reach me there must be someone to pick up the baton."

His face came around swiftly. "It is not a favor to you. It may make you their next target. But you are the best choice to succeed me."

"Why?"

"Because I trust you."

"How can you know that when I haven't even heard the plan yet? I may think it's drivel."

"You will not."

"Once before you thought I'd go along with your plans."

"It was different. You must believe me."

It was the closest he'd ever seen Va.s.sily to begging.

Va.s.sily said, "Do not fight me in there, Alexsander. It is too big a thing for personal quarrels. And the decisions may be yours soon enough-you would be a fool to shoot it down before you've had a chance at it yourself."

"You're talking as if they've already killed you."

"I won't make it easy for them."

"Kill them first."

"I would have done. If I knew who they were."

"You have no hints at all?"

"Only suspicions and too many of those; they cancel one another out. We are getting off the subject. I want your backing in there. Have I got it?"

"I can't promise it. If I can't support the plan I won't support you."

Va.s.sily brooded at him and the humanity evaporated from his hard face. "Then we shall have to persuade you of the Tightness of the scheme, won't we? Come on then." He swung with an abrupt snap of his big shoulders and strode across the gallery to a huge door. With his back braced as if against an awaited bullet he rapped his knuckles on the oak and almost immediately the door pivoted on oiled hinges and Irina's father was there: Count Anatol Markov with his impeccable clothes and his urbane countenance.

Count Anatol gave them both a quick unemotional scrutiny and then averted his eyes as if he regarded them both as applicants for a servant's job who had arrived for an interview at a time when the Count had more important things on his mind. It meant nothing at all, it was only his habitual manner: aloof, contained, distracted, ascetic. It was always off-putting at first and you had to get back into an almost forgotten gear to deal with these people: their lives were overwhelmingly opulent and until you acclimated yourself you didn't see how anyone who lived in such surroundings and with such mannerisms could have any substance. The fact was that Anatol Markov had one of the cleverest minds Alex had ever encountered.

"We have been waiting for you. Please come in."

The drawing-room furniture was elegant with intricate fragile curves. The heavy velvet draperies reached from ceiling to floor and they were drawn shut to keep out the waning daylight; electric lamps made the big room richer and warmer. It could have been a calculated effect, shutting out the Spanish vista so that they could have been anywhere: the old villa in France or even the drawing room of the Imperial dascha put-side St. Petersburg from which the Grand Duke Feodor had brought most of these furnis.h.i.+ngs in 1918.

The chairs were drawn up in a conversational circle and Prince Leon Kirov sat at its focal point beside a table on which was heaped a litter of doc.u.ments in open folders.

There were eight chairs in the circle; three of them were empty. The five men sat back with their legs crossed, smoking cigars and pipes, watching Va.s.sily and Alex. They nodded and lifted cigars in greeting but they didn't erupt in customary Russian expansiveness. The seriousness of the occasion was an evident weight.

Count Anatol shut the door behind them and nodded toward the farther doors. Alex paced Va.s.sily across the room; put his hand on the latch and went through.

In his high four-posted bed the Grand Duke raised eyes cloudy with dim sight. A woman in white moved courteously away from the bedside and the visitors approached the bed. The old man's fingers plucked at his lap robe.

"Your Royal Highness."

"Who is that? Are you Deniken?"

"Va.s.sily Devenko and Alexsander Danilov, Your Royal Highness."

Va.s.sily bowed briefly; it went unseen. The Grand Duke seemed indifferent. "It is kind of you to come and see me."

Alex said, "We wish you better health."

"Yes ..." Da, and the quavering voice trailed off. But then abruptly he groped for Va.s.sily's hand. "You have come."

"Yes, Highness."

"Are we to be restored then?"

"I cannot say, Highness."

"But the Bolsheviks ..."

"The Bolsheviks are finished," Va.s.sily Devenko said.