The Berkut (66 page)

"Ahoy," one of the boatmen called out. "What's the trouble?" "My father's fallen into the water and is unconscious. Please help me," Brumm shouted back.

Instantly the vessel veered directly toward the bank. The blunt bow struck with a jolt, and a man with a ragged black coat jumped off with a line, holding the bow in place while another crewman came ashore with a medical bag. No words were exchanged as the second man reached Herr Wolf and bent down to examine him.

Beard shot the man holding the line and picked it up. Brumm fired a bullet through the head of the one bending over Herr Wolf, then swung up on the deck before the dead man had stopped twitching. He ran directly aft; the helmsman was picking up a dented oilcan with a long handle when Brumm killed him with a single round to the throat. Quickly he checked the boat for other inhabitants. There was a cramped cabin aft with no head room, four short wooden bunks and a small galley that stank of rancid grease. The engine was un
derneath, its hatch covers open. Aforeships, there was another cabin below
decks filled with more lumber.

Brumm dragged the helmsman's body forward and dropped it on the bank near the other two. "Bury them?" Beard asked.

"No time. Just get them out of sight. We've got to get out of here before we attract attention."

Herr Wolf stood staring at the bodies as Beard stripped them and threw their clothes onto the deck. He stuffed the bodies under a web of exposed tree roots near a small inlet and broke off a large bough to add additional cover. Then he helped Herr Wolf to board and guided him aft along the narrow walkway. Brumm stood on the bank, tossed the line onto the bow and pushed the nose of the boat off the shore, jumping aboard as it came free.

Beard peeked down into the hatch to look at the engine. It was a simple device, more reliable than powerful, so they would not be racing upnver.

Brumm took the helm and steered a course into the middle of the current. As they wallowed forward, he slipped into the coat of one of the dead men, then put his feet on a keg of nails and studied the other boats on the river to see if anyone was showing any interest in them.

Beard came out of the cabin with two mugs of hot coffee and sat beside his colonel. "How is he?" Brumm inquired.

"Curled up under a quilt on a bunk. He'll soon be snoring. I don't think he could have lasted much longer. Neither could I," he added.

Neither man spoke for a long while.

"I used to dream of being a captain on this river," Beard finally said wistfully.

"You're not a Rhinelander."

"No, but it's only fifty kilometers. I'd hike over to below Freiburg and camp on its banks. Those were the days," he said nostalgically. "At night the excursion boats would come along, all lit up in the darkness. I could hear their music and the voices of their passengers singing. I imagined myself a captain in a tight blue uniform with golden braid, beautiful women around me, my crew jumping to my orders."

Fifty kilometers? There were still some options, Brumm realized. "Where was your home?"

"Bleckheim, a village near Schluchsee. Mountain country." Brumm gave the helm to his sergeant and spread his charts on the deck. With luck and a little gamble, they might even get back on schedule and on course. Let them try to follow us now, he thought.

95 – April 6, 1946, 4:00 P.M.

Ezdovo spewed a long stream of Yakut curses when he discovered that the Germans had not stopped for the night. "Ten hours!" he bellowed at Bailov. The care with which the trail had been concealed was gone. The signs were obvious; the Germans were in full flight and headed due west. Ezdovo glared at his map and clenched his teeth. "The river," he muttered as he began to trot forward.

They reached the river late in the afternoon when the sun was low, casting a golden glow on the water. In minutes they found the three bodies and read the signs. "They've got a boat," Ezdovo told his comrade. He struck himself in the chest angrily and rocked on his heels as he stared out over the water. How could he have not sensed that they were going to bolt? Brumm's thinking was sound. They must be tired, and on the river they could keep moving and rest at the same time. Now the question was, where were they headed? The river kept no tracks. The two of them had no option; they had to get a boat too. But the idea of killing innocents didn't sit well. Not all Germans were animals or enemies. The war was over, and there was no reason to spill blood needlessly if it could be avoided.

"We have to get a boat," Bailov said. He was kneeling on the edge of the river, watching the late-afternoon traffic flow by. "They must have lured one in, then killed the crew."

"We're not going to do what they did," Ezdovo said. "Besides, there's too much traffic now, too many witnesses. We'll keep moving upriver and see what develops." He was sure their quarry had gone upriver; they hadn't come cross-country so far to switch directions now.

After dark the two Russians found themselves looking down on a village built on the lip of a steep hill above the wide river. A long wooden stairwell wound downward to a cluster of boats tethered to buoys in a small sheltered bay. They watched from hiding until activity around the boats ceased, then slipped downhill, selected a sturdy craft with a small cabin and cut all the other vessels adrift. Bailov poled them away from shore, letting the current catch them and carry them downriver. When the lights from the village had faded, Ezdovo started the motor, crossed to the far side of the Rhine and reversed course to head upstream against a small ripple and a quartering head wind. By morning the boats from the village would be scattered downriver. It would be a long time before it was discovered that one was gone permanently.

The Siberian let Bailov steer; he had to think. It was at least two hundred kilometers upriver to the Swiss border. Surely the Germans wouldn't try to cross into Switzerland; they'd have to leave the river before then. Was this their original plan, or had they been spooked into a desperate move? The bodies on the shore suggested panic.

After coming so far, Ezdovo found the thought of failure fright
ening to contemplate. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to and uncomfortable with. To continue upriver hoping to reestablish contact was tempting, because the only realistic alternative was to contact Petrov. In the end he concluded that it must be done; Petrov had to know. It was a matter of honor, and to continue with no more than hope would be irresponsible. More important, he knew, he needed help; the Germans were slipping away. The decision made, he felt his composure returning, and he began to consider what he was going to tell his leader in Berlin.

It was nearly midnight by the time Ezdovo got through to Berlin. Rivitsky answered, and soon Petrov was on the line.

"Trouble," Ezdovo said. He outlined their predicament and how it had happened. The critical point was that Brumm had disappeared, and the Siberian had no idea where he had gone.

"You're certain you forced this action?" Petrov asked.

"Without question," Ezdovo confessed. "I was too aggressive, and they're more skittish than I anticipated."

"There are no leads?"

"None," Ezdovo said. "They're gone."

Petrov touched the back of his hand to his cheek and reached for a pencil. This was a disaster in the making. "How can I reach you?"

"Not possible," Ezdovo said. "Communications are bad. I'll have to call you."

"Very well. Every day. Call at eight, noon and six without fail." "Do you have any ideas?" Ezdovo asked. It was a question he dreaded asking because it was their last hope.

"No," Petrov said quietly. Then he hung up and sat heavily in his chair, staring at the telephone. Stalin would have to be told.

96 – April 10, 1946, 12:15 A.M.

Petrov called Stalin and found him at the Kremlin. There was a delay while one of the premier's aides fetched him, and when he finally picked up the phone it was immediately apparent that the premier was irritable. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"Petrov. "

"I know
who I'm talking to! Do you have him?" "No."

There was a moment of silence. "When will you have him?"

Petrov's stomach was churning. "We've lost him."

There was another pause, and when Stalin spoke again, his voice had changed pitch and was low and growling. "Comrade Petrov," the voice on the phone said, "you were selected for this mission because you have always been a man who produced results. But in Berlin you lost that bastard's trail, and I explained then the price of failure. Did I not?" Stalin did not wait for an answer. "Petrov, neither I nor the party will tolerate failure. Your past successes do not entitle you to fail now. I do not want to know the details, Petrov. Your job remains the same: Find him and bring him to me. If you deny me my revenge, then you will take his place." Suddenly he screamed: "I
want
him, Petrov! Now! Here! Stop fucking around out there and do what you were sent to do!"

Petrov was shaking. "Comrade-"

"Shut up!" Stalin snapped. "I want results, not one of your pro
fessorial analyses. If you can't do the job, I will send someone who can, and when I do, I will have him fetch the Berkut as well. But only one of you will make the return trip alive. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Petrov said softly.

"Then there is no further need for conversation. Do what you were sent to do. You have one purpose in life, Petrov, and therefore only one reason for living. If I have not heard within five days that you have found the monster's trail again ... " He did not finish, but hung up gently.

97 – April 11, 1946, 9:40 A.M.

The priest said his name was Giacomo, but Pogrebenoi knew it was a lie. He was no Italian; beneath his easygoing exterior there was steel. He kept up an incessant chatter, talking in such a way that he might be taken for a fool. After their departure from Rome, they had driven to Genoa, arriving on April 8 and installing themselves in separate rooms in a small hotel near the waterfront. With the war ended, the Italian port was packed with freighters carrying supplies from the West for much of southern Europe.

Now they sat in a small cafe and talked over glasses of tea. Petrov had given her four precise instructions. First, examine the shipping, particularly outgoing vessels, cargo and passenger. Second, get a feel for the traffic of German refugees and DPs. Were they moving out of Italian ports? If so, where, in what numbers, and what was the na
tionality of the carriers? Third, is there any evidence that the Church is shielding Germans? If so, what is their route of travel and what is the level of traffic? All this she shared with her companion, who shed his simple manner for the moment and listened carefully.

The fourth area of inquiry Pogrebenoi kept to herself. Petrov wanted her to find out how many of the ships in port had Vatican connections. The information would be difficult to discover, for besides direct own
ership the connection might be no more than a contract for cargo or a certain number of passengers. "Refugees are the key," Petrov told her. He had mentioned his own far-reaching inquiries and told her that when she found what they were looking for, she would know it.

She would begin her search tomorrow.

98 – April 12, 1946, 5:00 A.M.

For two days Petrov buried himself in his notes and stacks of captured German records. Somewhere, he knew, there had to be a clue, but whereas in normal circumstances he would have been confident of finding the answer through careful investigation and deliberation, he was now filled with doubt, and found his powers of concentration faltering. Initially he had considered going back to Milller's records, but realized that it was a waste of time; while the folder for Brumm had given his birthplace and scholastic record, evidently enlisted men were considered too unimportant for any background information, and Rau's file had only his birthday, medical records and citations. Petrov found himself unable to organize his thoughts, and because of this he began to skip haphazardly through everything, concentrating on nothing. Finally, he understood what he was doing: he was simply shuffling papers from one stack to the next, accomplishing nothing. He had not slept since Stalin's threat, and when Ezdovo had checked in the night before, he had left it to Rivitsky to tell the Siberian there had been no breakthrough. His eyes were sore and his shoulders ached. He needed a shave and a bath, fresh clothes, hot tea. Somehow he had to trick his body into giving him another surge of energy. De
scending from the library, where he had assembled his records, he went into the kitchen and found Rivitsky asleep at a small table, his head on crossed arms, loose notes scattered around him.

Petrov left him alone. After bathing and shaving, he dressed himself in fresh clothes and went back to the kitchen to boil water for his tea. With a small teapot in hand, he returned to the library again, but instead of attacking the problem, he sat in a soft-cushioned chair, crossed his legs, poured a cup of tea and sipped it slowly, enjoying both the aroma and the flavor. While bathing he'd carefully considered his predicament and decided that intensifying his efforts would not produce a commensurate return. There was still time; having ham
mered away at the problem for two days, now he should back away and allow his subconscious to take over. All the information they had
was already internalized; he could recite entire documents from mem
ory. Now it was up to his brain to do the rest-or else luck; he didn't care which. Time was of the essence; there were three days left until Stalin's deadline, but even more important was that with each passing day Brumm was gaining time and distance.