The Berkut (41 page)

Herr Wolf touched the woman's face gently and, cupping her chin with his hand, raised her eyes to his. Then, releasing her, he stepped back quickly and beckoned Brumm to approach him. The colonel was not sure what he would say. The monologue had left him wondering if Beard had been right in his earlier assessment of Herr Wolf's mental state. What bothered him most was that this was the first time si
nce they left Berlin that the Fü
hrer had asserted himself. What did this mean? More important, what had stimulated it? The woman, yes, but it was too sudden and radical a departure in behavior to be only that. Here, suddenly and without warning, was the Hitler of old, the Fuhrer.

"What do you propose to do with her?" Wolf asked, his tone solicitous.

Brumm did not answer. The question did not require a response.

The Fü
hrer knew very well what had to be done.

"Yes, well, Brumm, I would like for her to remain with us as my personal guest. Please see to her comfort." With that he grabbed the woman's hand, pressed it to his lips, wheeled and disappeared down the hall. The woman recoiled, holding her hand as if it had been burned.

Brumm immediately gave chase, cornering Herr Wolf outside his room. "She can't stay. She's a threat to security. She could try something foolish, or escape. Where would that leave us? I don't like this."

The old man smiled benignly. "You are a violent man, Colonel Brumm. That's why I chose you. That's why I leave it to you to make sure that there is no problem with my niece."

"Your
niece?"
Brumm blinked hard.

"Of course," Herr Wolf said. "Don't you recognize her?" Brumm felt a chill. "What are you talking about?"

"Calm yourself, Colonel. That woman is my niece, Geli Rabaul.

They say she died in Munich in 1931, but I've always known that couldn't be true. I endeavored to find her, but she had seemingly disappeared. Now
I understand what happened: she was taken by Jews as a way of striking at me. But she loved me too much to leave me of her own accord. I've looked forward to seeing her again for a long time. Now, if that's all, I have things to think about." He went into his room and closed the door, leaving Brumm in the hall, his mouth agape.

Rejoining the others in the main room, Brumm put them back to work, then pulled Beard aside. "We've got to talk. After dinner we'll take a walk."

"What's up?"

"I'm beginning to think I should have listened to you that first night on the river," Brumm said.

49 – June 18, 1945, 5:00 P.M.

Pogrebenoi met Petrov at a military airfield outside Moscow. She carried a small canvas duffel and equipment she had drawn at his orders from a special supply unit. Together they sat on the tarmac in a soothing warm wind, waiting for final preparations for their takeoff. When the aircraft was finally ready, a mechanic offered to carry her personal gear.

As Petrov reached the hatch the crew chief tapped his shoulder and pointed to a black Packard that had parked about fifty meters away. The automobile was unmarked and there was no escort, but Petrov sensed who was inside. Leaving Pogrebenoi, he walked over to the vehicle. The rear door was open, a uniformed driver standing beside it. Petrov looked inside. The premier was sitting alone. He wore a gray uniform and heavy overcoat with red strips on the collar; an unadorned officer's cap set evenly on his head. Petrov got in and the door shut behind him.

Stalin stared straight ahead; he was wearing black gloves and his hands were folded in his lap. A partition with a closed curtain separated them from the driver's compartment. "Petrov," Stalin said coldly, "I'm a patient man. I have granted you absolute authority,
my
authority, the authority of the Red Badge. I
've been hospitable, shared my P
ertsovka with you. Whatever you've needed, I've given, no questions asked. I've given you my trust."

"I'm most grateful, comrade," Petrov said.

"Shut up. I've run out of patience. I expected results from you, but you've brought me nothing." The premier's voice was hard but even. Petrov stiffened. "Your performance is unsatisfactory, comrade. I have ordered you to bring back the monster to me alive. I've no more time for theories, Petrov. Go back to Berlin and do your job. I want results. Do you understand me? Results. You have seven days to give me something substantial. One week or I chop off the Berkut's wings."

The premier reached forward and rapped on the partition. When the door opened, Petrov scrambled out. Stalin turned his head to look at him. "You or him."

The driver closed the door, smiled at the visitor as he got in, and the Packard raced away, its tires squealing on the pavement.

Petrov's legs were weak.

50 – June 19, 1945, 4:00 A.M.

Ezdovo was waiting in a yellow lorry when the chocks were jammed under the plane's wheels at Tempelhof. He held out his hands to catch Petrov's bag, but dropped it when Pogrebenoi's dark head emerged behind his leader. Without a word she walked confidently across the tarmac, loaded her gear into the back of the vehicle and swung up on the running board.

Petrov offered no explanation for her presence and Ezdovo did not ask. When he could, he sneaked peeks at her as her dark hair flowed in the wind outside the cab. When they reached their headquarters, the woman followed Petrov inside. Ezdovo could see that she was no ordinary female; she was big, powerful, graceful and very good-looking.

Inside, Petrov observed that the once bustling interrogation center was nearly empty. Desks and tables were stacked one on top of another; files were in heavy cartons, neatly labeled. It pleased him that his men had prepared so well for his return. He had not told them that they would be moving on; they had simply recognized that it was time and had acted accordingly. It was the kind of initiative he expected from them.

The other men did not rise when Petrov entered. This was their way: one respected and obeyed one's leader, but one did not kowtow.

The woman followed Petrov into the room, found a wooden swivel chair, dropped her bag and sat down, the chair squeaking under her weight as she looked around openly.

Petrov immediately began to unpack, then looked at the woman and faced his team. "Major Talia Pogrebenoi, late of the victorious Red Army," he said, with a hand gesture toward the woman. "She is one of us now. I have briefed her thoroughly on our mission.

The men all stood up and looked at her.

Petrov began the introductions. "Comrade Dr. Gnedin," he said. The surgeon bowed stiffly from the waist.

"Comrade Rivitksy." The man came forward and shook her hand firmly, noting the strength in her grip.

"Comrade Bailov." Bailov smiled awkwardly. "How is it in Moscow?"

"It's becoming summer," she said. Her voice was sweet and soft and somehow didn't fit the rest of her.

Their leader signaled them to sit. They'd been through the routine before and knew his cues.

It was Pogrebenoi's turn to speak. Though women were equal under the law and the tenets of Communism, one could not destroy centuries of cultural prejudice with edicts on paper. She knew they would be skeptical; men always were. She'd been through this sort of rite of passage many times before. "Comrade Petrov has said that I am part of you. I wish to contribute. I hope you will accept me for those things in which we are alike, not because of any-differences." She smiled at them. Her speech done, she was silent. When no one replied, she heaved a silent sigh of relief.

During the awkward pause Ezdovo arrived, carting a wooden crate marked PERISHABLES. "It's heavy," he complained good-naturedly to Petrov. "What's in it?" Petrov's wide smile put them on the alert. "Have a look," he said. Ezdovo used a thick-bladed knife to pry loose the top of the crate and whistled loudly when he looked inside. Slowly he raised one of the precious bottles, cupping it in his huge hands as if it were spun glass.

Gnedin jumped forward from his seat. "Pertsovka!" The others crowded around Ezdovo, who chirped at them to be careful; they ignored him and fished their own samples from the straw packing.

Bailov counted the bottles and announced, "Twenty-four."

They all looked at Petrov for an explanation. "Compliments of the Boss," he said. "Please open a bottle," he instructed Ezdovo, who used his knife to pry loose the cork with a simple twist of his wrist. Shots were poured into their mess cups. Petrov noted that the new kit issued to Pogrebenoi had been replaced by another that looked barely serviceable. The soldier in her showed itself; veterans found it hard to discard familiar equipment for new.

No toasts were offered. They sipped the powerful brown liquid, losing themselves in their own thoughts and the inner glow it created.

When enough time had passed for them to savor their drinks, Petrov stood. "Let's hear what you've learned." He looked first to Gnedin.

"Bormann and Stumpfegger killed themselves with cyanide, apparently during the escape attempt. As near as we can tell from the order of battle and where the bodies were located, they thought they were trapped between two of our units."

"Was there artillery at the time?" Pogrebenoi asked.

"Constant. And fires
everywhere."

"Trauma-induced panic. They lost their composure and took the first solution they could find."

Gnedin smiled hugely, his reserve gone. "You've had medical training?"

"No. Better than that: infantry. I've seen it happen often."

"Autopsies?" Petrov interrupted, pleased with Pogrebenoi's assertiveness.

Gnedin handed him a folder. "Chenko helped me. There's no doubt about the identities or the cyanide. Stumpfegger's height made it easy."

"Disposition of the corpses?"

"Back in the ground, where we found them."

Petrov grunted acknowledgment and turned to Bailov. "I suspect your duty must have been exceptionally unpleasant." The other men laughed; Pogrebenoi's face showed no emotion.

Bailov blushed. "It wasn't what you think," he said defensively. "It was hard work."

"That's not what they're saying on the Friedrichstrasse," Ezdovo interrupted, b
efore emptying the last of his P
ertsovka with a loud gulp and smacking his lips.

"You should have seen him," Rivitsky said seriously. "He worked day and night. Terrible duty; it wore him down to nothing."

"Should have sent a veteran," Ezdovo added cheerfully.
"Where did you find her?" Petrov asked.

Bailov looked with annoyance at the others. "She sought me out. She wanted Swiss identity papers and transportation to Argentina. She thinks big."

Petrov's jaw tightened with interest. "Fear. She was afraid."

"Fegelein told her he knew a secret about Hitler. He said that if Hitler found out, he would have him killed."

"Prophetic," Petrov observed. "The question is, are the two premises related?"

"Her fear was real," Bailov said.

"But she is an actress," Petrov countered. "It's her profession to be able to convince an audience."

"She begged for papers. She wants to get out of Germany. We Russians know desperation well enough to recognize it in others. It was no act."

"Did the general share the details of his secret with her?" Petrov probed.

Bailov shook his head. "I don't think she was lying. Fegelein had power, both through Himmler and his marriage. If he was afraid, that was enough to make the woman quake. When the Reich Security Police came and took him away, he telephoned Eva Braun, but she refused to intercede on his behalf."

"If Fegelein knew something, then we must suppose Himmler also knew," Petrov pointed out.

"Dead issue," Rivitsky cut in. "Himmler was captured by the English on May twenty-first. Shaved his mustache, put on an eye patch and wore a private's uniform."

When Petrov paused, Rivitsky continued the Himmler story. "He had perfect papers, absolutely pristine. The English reasoned that a poor slob of an army private would be lucky to have
any
papers, much less a perfect set, and took him into custody. Two days later the bastard killed himself with a Nazi sleeping potion."

"Ah," Petrov sighed, slumping in his seat. "If Herr Himmler knew the secret, he's beyond talking to us. Also
,
Muller, who was next in line. No help there either," he said regretfully. "As it happens, I have preempted any further use of Muller." He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and explain. "It was necessary. Our colleagues in the NKVD were in the process of bringing Muller over. From our perspective he knew too much about Skorzeny. Our mission requires that we leave no trace along our trail. It's unfortunate. We'll talk no more of it; Herr Muller is dead. It's tempting to dwell on what might have been, but it's what
is
that returns a profit."