Romanov Succession by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online Page B

turning pages over; he paused at one. “This is your letter of resignation. You’ll decide whether you want to sign it—it’ll be waiting here when you get back from Europe.”
    â€œYou’re pretty confident. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had it typed up.”
    â€œYou’ll take the job,” Buckner said. “You’d be crazy not to.”
    But Buckner didn’t know Vassily Devenko.

PART TWO:
    August 1941

1.
    The assassin stood in shadow just within the fringe of the oaks. He could not be seen out of the sunlight—he was merely another dark vertical shape in the forest shadows with the heavier mass of the mountains looming above and behind him.
    It was his last chance. He’d tried it and miffed it twice before. Blow it again and his employers would have his head in a basket. But he didn’t feel nervous on that account. If you had nerves you didn’t go into this game in the first place.
    He held the 8x Zeiss glasses casually by their strap. At intervals he fitted the reticles to his eye sockets and studied the long motorcars arriving by ones and twos.
    The villa a thousand meters below him was a restored seventeenth century ducal summer palace, erected recklessly in the foothills of the Pyrenees by an insensitive Bourbon during a time of Spanish decline and retrenchment. Its builder’s wealth obviously had exceeded his grasp of architectural unities: from the assassin’s angle of view it resembled a village of semidetached buildings haphazardly assembled at different times.
    He had never been inside it but he had seen photographs of the interior and had committed a draftsman’s schematic plans to memory. Its rooms were constructed on an awesomely grand scale—made possible by the mild Spanish climate which minimized the need to contain heat. The ceilings were very high, most of them arched or vaulted; there were floors of marble and walls of Alhambra tile; floors of inlaid wood and walls of common plaster covered with murals and extensive bas-relief. There were enough stately bedchambers to accommodate a score of royal hunting guests and courtesans; and plain quarters sufficient to contain fifty-two servants. Many of these were unoccupied now.
    The assassin knew that the king’s chamber—the four balconied windows directly above the porte cochere —was occupied by the villa’s present owner-of-record, the Grand Duke Feodor Vladimirovitch—one of the three Romanov Pretenders to the throne of St. Petersburg and a leading member of the last ruling family of Imperial Russia.
    But the Grand Duke was an old man and infirm. It was his first cousin, Prince Leon Kirov, who managed the Grand Duke’s villa—as well as his widespread business affairs, his social and familial obligations and his life.
    Feodor’s estate was maintained by twelve house servants, five gardeners, two grooms and four chauffeurs. On the grounds they kept a string of jumpers and thoroughbred pleasure horses, seven automobiles and a flock of ducks and geese on the man-made pond. The Romanovs and Kirovs took their exercise on bridle paths or playing tennis on the lawn or practicing archery against targets stuffed with straw. There were garden parties all summer long and none of the motorcars parked below the porte cocèhre was below the rank of Duesenberg or Hispano-Suiza.
    The thick green lawn stretched away from the house two hundred yards down a wide swath bordered by formal woods. The main gate at the foot of the lawn, just visible to the assassin, was made of heavy wrought iron and it was guarded by two liveried sentries who wore sidearms. Beyond the gate waited a ravenous pack of tattletale journalists from international gossip rags; now and then when a stately car drew up a photographer would rush forward and crouch to get a picture but that was all right so long as they remained outside the gate.
    The assassin watched a silver-grey Rolls approach the