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Churchill was pleased when he inspected the Czechoslovak troops at Edgehill and found them in the semblance of British uniform. That task had consumed the better part of six months, but since the Czech Brigade had little to do, and nowhere to go, speed did not seem of the first consequence.

For all that time, Hitler sat with his armies in France as if he liked the long view. With his air fleet badly damaged, and his sea-going fleet stillborn, the middle-class Anti-Christ had postponed his Operation Sea Lion indefinitely. For that long was England safe.

Churchill hoped that he would be apprised of any change in the mind of the monster. SIS had made progress in deciphering the product of the Enigma machines that encoded German military communications. When Sea Lion was put off, he knew of the decision within six weeks.

Six days would have been better. Six hours, of course, was the purview of God--and President Benes.

The little man walked at Churchill's side with his hand at his breast under his topcoat. In many ways, Benes seemed to mirror the land that he had been elected to govern--compact, industrious, efficient. When the Allies handed Czechoslovakia to Hitler, they had given a madman the means to conduct an inter-continental war, and prolong it endlessly.

The Hun had it all--the Skoda Works, the arms factories in Brno, the rolling stock that made Prague the turnstile of Europe, the tanks and aircraft of their well-equipped army--everything but the inner workings of the Czech intelligence service, which had been transferred intact to England. Its networks were what made Benes no mere ally, but the oracle of this war to date.

"Impressive." Churchill gestured with his walking stick. "Look at that fellow. He's seven feet from the ground."

Benes began to move closer to the sergeant in the front rank, but stopped when he noticed the photographer ahead. Conscious of his image, the little man would never allow himself to be trapped in the same frame with a giant. It was part of the wartime fiction: that Old Winnie was usually sober; that Roosevelt could walk.

"Almost all these troops saw action in France," said Benes in the soft voice made softer by the silvery mustache at his lip. "To a man, they're anxious for another chance."

"They will have it," said Churchill. "The question is when and where."

"That is no longer the question," said Benes. "It is doubtful that it will be here. And certainly it will not be soon."

His quiet words thumped like horse-apples onto the spring grass as he continued up the line. The little man was being coy. Benes was well aware that his sources were not simply the best available to the Allies, but at times the only ones.

Still, Churchill waited to enquire of the Sibyl until the end of the formation had been reached; until the voices of the squad leaders began to sound up and down the line; until the Humber staff-cars were in sight, and he had lit a cigar.

"I take it, sir, that you have word."

"Yes," said Benes. "From Three Kings."

That was how Benes always referred to the information that came from on high and so far in advance. Although MI6 held the opinion that Three Kings was only one man well-placed in Nazi intelligence, that did not detract from his infallibility.

"And what do the wise men say?"

"That Hitler will invade Russia," said Benes in a whisper. "Operation Barbarossa, so-called, commences in June."

"But are you sure? We've been told this before."

"The plan has been in circulation for a year or more," said Benes. "It was presented as a contingency, but it's the same plan, and it will be enacted soon. I'm told the campaign would have begun already if Hitler had not diverted his resources to Yugoslavia and Greece."

Diverted his resources. That was too coy for the rhetoric that lay in Churchill's breast like a heart. Belgrade had been bombed into rubble. The Yugoslav and Greek armies were destroyed within a month. Four British divisions sent in relief had been overwhelmed and withdrawn in an action no less remarkable than Dunkirk. It seemed impossible that any good could come of catastrophes of that magnitude unless--

"If Hitler attacks Russia in June, he could be caught by the oncoming winter."

Benes shrugged. "The German General Staff is predicting a six week campaign."

"Are they as mad as he?"

"Perhaps," said Benes. "Their aim is to smash the Russian Army. At a minimum, they think they will be able to control enough territory so Russian bombers cannot reach important industrial areas in Germany. They will succeed, I think."

A very correct, very dry assessment. It reminded Churchill, as he consulted his flask, that Benes did not drink either.

"That degenerate will succeed until he fails. He took a backward step when he attacked England and lost so much of his air force. If he commits his armies to Russia, they will be lost in that immensity."

"It seems unlikely that he can conduct a two-front war."

"Yes," said Churchill. "But it's the myth that matters. To this point he's been invulnerable. The Wehrmacht invincible. A crack in the facade is precisely what we need."

"Let's hope we have it soon," said Benes. "The Russian officer corps is in disarray due to Stalin's purges. And taking the Baltic lands has stretched their lines of defense much too far."

All true. But Churchill was thinking again of myth. It was the most abused and powerful force on earth. Any man who knew history knew that first.

"Adolf Hitler will not conquer Russia," said Churchill, liking the sound of it. "If what Three Kings says is true, what the Hitler gang has done is present us with an ally. A formidable ally."

Benes nodded as if he had found the means to express the things he wanted most. "The nature of this war will change in an instant. The role of the occupied countries, too. With Russia under attack, we would be obliged to mount actions of our own."

"What sort?"

"Clandestine actions."

"These would be--" Churchill paused for the word that best fit the moment, and his inclinations. "Spectacular."

Benes nodded with the single most vigorous action that he had ever shown. "I guarantee it."

"We must have the world's full attention, and its help," said Churchill. "This war will be won by all, or it will not be won at all."

"I promise you the complete dedication of my men," said Benes. "They will require special training, of course."

"They will most certainly have it."

"And the government of Czechoslovakia in exile must be recognized as the unified voice of the land."

"Agreed."

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Mallaig, Scotland
September, 1941

"Sergeant-Major Josef Gabcik, sir."

Franta looked over the battered table in the borrowed office of the Scottish castle where his paras were being trained. The man he saw was of middle height and an extremely compact build. He might be said to be of pleasing compact looks--brown hair parted so far back that it seemed hardly parted at all, bright and quick blue eyes under sleepy lids, a mouth that smiled easily. All these things were good. Excellent.

"Call me Franta," he said. "It's good practice to dispense with rank."

"Yes, Franta."

"Do you know why we do it?"

"I imagine I'll find out," he said, smiling.

Czech NCOs understood how to handle their officers. They ran the army, and they knew it. This one had run considerably more. He held the Czechoslovak War Cross and French Croix de Guerre. By one account, he had been the last man to give up the Battle of the Marne.

"Perhaps it would interest you to know that you're the best man here at Cammus Darrah," he said. "Your English instructors think they've never seen a better soldier pass through commando school."

Gabcik smiled again. "I doubt that's true. What impresses Englishmen is someone who speaks their language. I do it better than most."

"That says a great deal about your intelligence. English is a difficult language."

"Not for me," he said. "I was born in the homeland, but my father lived many years in America. I would have grown up an American if the Depression hadn't forced him to return home."

The rest of his life was as interesting. Several years in the Home Army. After the German occupation, he sabotaged a magazine of poison gas and escaped to Poland. Afterward, he enlisted in the Foreign Legion, which took him to France for the fighting and to England for the long wait. Only one point of his dossier demanded clarification.

"I understand that you were born near Zilina."

"Yes, Franta."

"At the foothills of the mountains," he said. "Are there still bear in those hills?"

"Not many, I think."

"It's quite beautiful. In the mountains. In all Slovakia."

Gabcik did not react quickly to the statement, although he understood what lay behind it: the Germans had split Slovakia into a separate fascist state. Many Slovaks no longer saw themselves as citizens of a united nation. And that mattered.

"I believe in free Czechoslovakia," Gabcik said finally. "That was Tomas Masaryk's dream, and mine, too."

"You've proven that," said Franta. "But some people require assurance of a man who will operate behind enemy lines. There must be no doubt as to any part of your allegiance."

"There is none."

Franta understood why the English thought so highly of this man. Though not quite thirty, he conveyed an impression of calm that was nerveless. Nothing hesitant. Nothing backward. His skill in every aspect of clandestine warfare was awesome.

"What if you were asked--" Franta hesitated for the right word. "What if you were ordered to do something that most people, even most soldiers, would think of as . . . unacceptable?"

"I can't imagine what that would be," said Gabcik quickly. "We're at war with Nazis. It's total war."

"So you will do anything you're told?"

"Without hesitation."

This is the man, thought Franta. This is the one who will do the unthinkable, and do it very well.

London
December 28, 1941

This should be classified, thought Benes, as another descending rhythm. In late spring, the Gestapo arrested the first of the Three Kings in Prague. Less than one month later, a direction-finding van tracked a radio signal that led the Germans to Colonel Masin and Leon.

Masin had fought the SS troops, wounding several before he was captured. Leon escaped into the underground. He was still at large, still in Prague, but hard-pressed to maintain contact with his primary source in German Army intelligence.

The information that had come like crown jewels now arrived seldom if at all. Benes had lost influence with Churchill and the Russians, who demanded every scrap of intelligence throughout the long autumn of Barbarossa. They had already accused him of withholding information in their hour of need.

The only answer Benes had were his paras. Six months training had put them at a peak of readiness. Tonight, a three-man team--Silver A--would drop into Bohemia with a transmitter. Their mission was to re-establish the link between the Last King and London. Silver B, a two-man team dropped at the same time, would provide back-up.

One more team was to jump with the group--Anthropoid. Benes had chosen the name from his store of the macabre. It meant to describe a creature that resembled what it was supposed to be, but lacked just the thing that made it so.

Benes remembered the two sergeants chosen for the mission. One Czech. One Slovak. Good balance--and hardly cynical. Impressive biographies and skills. Both would have been officers if the army had not been so top-heavy. Both spoke English, but the Slovak did it better than Benes.

"Tell me, Franta, will the radio teams maintain contact with Anthropoid?"

"No, sir. If Anthropoid is successful, we'll know instantly."

"But what if they encounter difficulties? Shouldn't they have some way of communicating with the others?"

"It would be dangerous for anyone to have knowledge of them, sir. The Anthropoid team must remain in isolation."

"Won't that make the job more complex?"

"In these matters, the easiest way is never a consideration," said Franta. "Every person who knows of their presence increases the danger of discovery by a factor of five. That's especially true in the beginning, when capture is most likely."

"Do you think our paras would talk?"

"The Gestapo are unsubtle, sir. A man who falls into their hands is asked one question. 'Who are your collaborators'? The torture continues until the names are given--or the victim dies."

"And this is always so?"

"Always," said Franta kindly.

Benes accepted the word of his closest advisor. Franta had long ago proven himself far-sighted. When it became clear that the West would award their country to Hitler to satisfy his claims of race, Franta evacuated Prague, taking his files and staff to a waiting plane for England. Was he ever wrong?

"What are the chances for this mission? Realistically."

Franta's face swayed to and fro in the shadows of the lamp. His dark eyes moved toward the light and became strangely polar. "If they survive the drop, and the first forty-eight hours, I'd say reasonably good."

"Good?"

"Fifty-fifty."

The odds suddenly seemed high. Those two NCOs appeared in Benes mind as if they would never die.

"Perhaps I should have asked the chances for failure," he said. "There's no way to calculate the after effects of this. That makes it very risky."

"The aircraft's not yet over the drop-zone," said Franta quickly but with little conviction. "I'll phone Tangmere Field. They'll radio ahead. The mission could be aborted."

A tempting offer. What could Anthropoid really do except light a torch?

But it would certainly do that. The flames would be seen all the way to America. The attack on Pearl Harbor three weeks ago had brought them into the war. What they needed--what all the allies needed--was a symbol of resistance to terror.

"This is a chance we must take. If our men are successful, the whole world will know Anthropoid. And they'll know us for what we are."

Zdenek and Ota are soon dropped from their aircraft over their supposed target, Pilzn.

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Sustr and an RAF corporal opened the hole. The sudden draft was chilling, though the aircraft had cut its speed to a hundred miles per hour. That was approximately what they were used to and had practiced. Everything was approximately familiar to this point.

Sustr released the static lines from their back-chutes and hooked the catches onto the steel wire that ran above their heads. Ota stepped down into the well and sat like a boy on a high wall, his legs dangling free. When the bulb flashed green, Sustr gave the go-ahead, and Ota squeezed through the hole with his pack.

Zdenek watched the thick tensile wire snag, grow taut, then jerk and sag back. Gone. Ota was gone.

Zdenek stepped up to the hole, braced himself against the cold and crouched like an animal. It was blue down there, dark but glowing with a core, like some strange mineral generated in a cave. The cold sucked at his body; it pulled at his ankles.

He pushed off, felt the blast of frigid air all over him, and followed his friend down.

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