The Romanov Succession

FROM: CJCS, WDC.

TO: ALEXSANDER I. DANILOV, COL. AUS. 0479863.

VIA: CG FT BLISS TNG CMD.

SUBJECT: RELIEF FROM COMMAND, TRANSFER amp; REASSIGNMENT.

1. Subject officer is rlvd cmd of 2nd Tng Bn, 1st Spl Tng Rgt, 2 Div 4 Army, Ft Bliss Tex, Effective Immediately.

2. Subject officer is detached from 2 Div 4 Army.

3. Subject officer is reassigned Independent Duty JCS Command, WDC.

4. Subject officer will report to office of G-2 CJCS, WDC (A-X-32-B-21, Ft McNair) not later than 1000 hrs 23 July 41 for further reassignment.

5. Transportation by Ind TDY.

By order of CJCS,

G. D. Buckner, Colonel AUS

For G. C. Marshall, General USA, CJCS.

Alex folded the order along its original creases and slid it into his pocket.

Spaight said, “They’re sending in a Canadian to relieve you-veteran of Dunkirk. To teach us how to lose gracefully I suppose.”

“They’ll do all right,” Alex said in a distracted voice.

“Alex, they’re taking you out of here. Marshall’s G-2-that’s the cloak and dagger end. Frankly I’m not sure it’s the right place for you. I’m not sure you belong in this army at all under the circumstances. It was all right as long as you were down here-it gave you a chance to heal up, it gave me the best training officer I’ve ever had. But Washington, the Intelligence branch-that’s something else again.”

“They didn’t consult you about this?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I tried a phone call to Washington this morning but all I got was a runaround. But I’d have to be an ass if I didn’t figure you for one of their Russian desks in the Intelligence office.”

“And you want to know if I can be trusted there.”

“Alex, it’s a hell of a thing to have to-”

“If I can’t do the job with absolute loyalty I’ll resign.”

Spaight gave him a long scrutiny and then the smile-tracks creased around his tired eyes. “Good enough.”

He cleaned out his office desk and had the driver ferry him to the BOQ.

The wall phone was buzzing when he went by it and he lifted the earpiece off its bracket. “BOQ. Colonel Danilov.”

“Oh-Colonel. Base Central. Just tried to get you over to your office. They’s a long-distance call for you. You supposed to call Operator Three in A

“All right. Can you make the call for me?”

“Yes sir. One moment please.”

When the co

“Please hold on, Colonel.”

Then a man’s voice, a little quavery with age, in hard Kharkov Russian:

“Is that you, Alexsander Ilyavitch?”

Alex’s face changed. “Yes General.”

4

He laid out his second-best uniform for traveling and showered in tepid hard water. Naked at the sink shaving, he caught his dulled scowl in the mirror. There were two puckered scars in his neck, one three inches beyond the other on the right side where a jacketed bullet had gone through-his talisman of luck: an expanding slug of soft lead would have torn his head off. But the scars were ugly and impossible to disguise.

His hair was walnutty brown peppered with grey at the sides and cropped militarily short against the high square skull; he had sun-broiled skin above the pale vee of shirt collars, a long nose and a very large mouth that formed a rectangular bracket around his teeth if he smiled. His torso was long; the cords lay flat along his bones and he was quite thin, with a ru

For six months he had lived in this hot close room and done very little that he hadn’t been told to do. He had become a pest, ramrodding the battalion twenty-four hours a day, not giving it or himself any respite. Now they were pulling him out of his safe cocoon and that was what frightened him a little. They were throwing him into some War Department crush and he didn’t know if he’d had time to heal yet.

He thrust himself into his clothes, breaking through the starch; he drank one undersized shot of bourbon and left the bottle on the table for his successor. He had been drinking the stuff for months because it was cheap and available but he still hadn’t learned to like it.

He went back to the telephone in the hall. A G-1 major came through, waggled a hand at him and went into his room. Alex waited until the major’s door was shut.

“Base Control. He’p you?”

“This is Colonel Danilov. See if General Spaight’s still in his office, will you?”

“Yes sir. One moment please.”

Fairly quickly Spaight was on the line. “Alex?”

“I’m not sure which one of us owes the other a favor.”

“No need to keep books on it. What do you need?”

“My orders give me four days TDY to report in. I need to get to New York a lot faster than that. By tomorrow night if I can.”

“New York?” Spaight’s voice indicated his curiosity, “Okay. Where are you right now?”

“BOQ.”

“I’ll get back to you in ten minutes.”

He held the hook down long enough to break the co

He answered the phone on the first ring.

“You’re all set. Be at El Paso airport at eleven sharp-twenty-three hundred hours. There’s a half-squadron of brand new bombers ferrying through to Washington. I’ve got you a lift with them. Talk to the lead pilot, a Captain Johnson.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Drop me a postcard now and then.”

“Sure.”

“Good luck, Alex.”

He heard the car draw up, crunching gravel; Carol A

The dazzling brilliance made his eyes swim. He crossed the yellow-brown patch of lawn and tossed his things in the back seat; he slid in beside the girl and threw his arm across the back of the seat while she put the open Chevy roadster in gear.

“Time’s your train?”

“Ten-fifteen,” he said, compounding the lie. He didn’t want anyone to know about the plane ride. Spaight would keep it under his hat.

“I know a place to fill your belly.” Her long brown eyes flicked toward him. “Unless you’ve got anything else in mind you’d rather do?”

Alex shook his head.

Carol A

The setting sun veined the clouds with streaks of marble pink. The hot wind raked his face and Carol A

The Rio Grande was muddy and sluggish on his right. The landmark hills guided them into the dusty outskirts of El Paso-scrubby brush and the occasional billboard for Prince Albert Tobacco and the Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous. The car’s passage flushed a covey of quail.

Detour. Through a dry arroyo where flash floods had undercut the road. On the job a half dozen convicts in stripes worked with shovels and rakes and tar buckets, their dull Indian faces aglisten with oil sweat, and two flaccid killer guards with riot shotguns sat horseback. Their heads all turned to watch the girl behind the wheel.

She pulled into the dusty lot beside a stucco cafe festooned with red-and-white Coca-Cola signs. He held the screen door for her and went inside and let it slap shut on its spring. A deep-fried smell ran along the counter and the radio was twanging, Jimmie Rodgers the Singing Brakeman. They were all men at the counter, Mexicans at the back, all of them in Levi’s and high-heel boots and fla