The Berkut (69 page)

It was dark when he reached Romanshorn. The proprietors rec
ognized him, and while their eyes suggested a certain satisfaction in
his return, nothing in their demeanor would reveal to even the most astute observer that they had ever laid eyes on him before. He was certain that Ermine had already arrived, but he was also sure that although she had given them no indication that she was waiting for a visitor, they would know. Those who came to the Flower came in pairs; nobody came alone with the thought of remaining so.

Standing at the registration desk, Valentine turned the book around and read. She had signed in as Sally Asherford. The name amused him; she'd been among agents for so long that her habits and thoughts were affected by the company she'd kept. He did not sign in; instead, he made a tiny check mark next to her name and turned the book around, passing the fountain pen back to the woman behind the desk. She snapped a polite little bow, the formal acknowledgment of his acceptance, and he went upstairs.

Having locked the door behind him, Ermine stood and looked at him. She wore a sheer peignoir held up by two thin straps that dipped low across her breasts, revealing a deep cleavage. The massive areolas of her breasts were dark shadows peeking through. A long double strand of pearls was draped around her neck and small golden tears dangled from her earlobes, catching the light and twinkling like early stars. She wore white satin slippers with platform heels, their height accenting her well-formed legs. He whistled his admiration. In all the time he had known her, she had never dressed this way before. She always wanted intimacy to be in darkness, and was uncomfortable when he attempted sex play away from the bed. Now she did not let him speak, but stepped forward, pressed her finger to his lips and led him to bed.

Afterward they held each other and did not move. Finally she got up and fetched her makeup case. "I have a friend in the photo section who gave me these." Valentine immediately wondered if her friend was male or female; was he jealous after all this time? The thought was disturbing. The photographs were black-and-white, eight-by-ten glossies, blowups of the originals, and each was labeled on the back with the subject's name, rank and position in the Nazi hierarchy. Valentine sifted through them slowly. Some he recognized; most he didn't. "Reports from Berlin indicate that all these are survivors of Hitler's entourage. They were all in or near the Chancellery at the end. As far as we knew, all these people were dead or in Soviet prisons. Now we think we know which ones are alive. Apparently the Russians have been keeping a lot to themselves and not sharing information with their beloved Allies. Uncle Harry is not very happy with Uncle Joe. Creel and the others are now wondering how many other things the Russians haven't told us."

"All of these people were with Hitler at the end?" he asked.

"So it seems. They all tried to escape on May second. These are the more important ones."

"Amazing," he said softly, spreading the photos on the bed in rows. "So many survivors." The Russians had pounded hell out of Berlin at the end, yet all of these people had lived through it. The significance of this weighed heavily on him. With so many alive, it was not unreasonable to assume that virtually anybody who was there at the end could have survived. The information proved it was possible to get out of Berlin-maybe even with a corpse in tow. "What else?"

"Not much. Creel has established a team to look for war criminals.

Apparently the Nazis organized some sort of escape system before the war ended. Like an underground railroad, with safe houses, the whole ball of wax."

Valentine stared at the ceiling. "Can't blame the bastards; if they stay, they hang."

"The strange part is that this escape route is run by Catholic priests and monks."

Valentine looked at her. "You mean by Germans masquerading as priests?"

She shook her head. "No, by real priests."

If Brumm was on his way out of Europe, perhaps he was relying on the Church. It wasn't much to go on, but it was all he had, and he had a friend who would know more about it.

Ermine rolled onto her side and hooked a leg over his. "Let's forget all this, Beau. Leave it to somebody else. We've had enough of Europe and of war. We can disappear."

Valentine considered the proposition. It occurred to him that he really was seeing her for the first time. As an agent it was his job to use people for whatever mission he was running at the moment, and he had used her as he did all the others he'd met. He'd never really thought about any of them in the framework of a relationship; it had always been more of a business arrangement, a matter of convenience. He'd thought about Ermine from time to time when he was with his partisans, but even then it was more of a physical longing, a re
membrance of the passion and safety they had enjoyed in Switzerland. That part of her was so all-fired powerful that it tended to obscure
thinking about her in any other way. But here they were in the Flower again, and this time it had been
her
idea. She had taken risks for himextreme risks. He glanced again at the photographs. She had guts and principles. He felt a surge of shame for how he had treated her; she deserved a lot better.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said gently.

He ran his hand up her leg. "All right," he said, grinning.

She sat up. "You mean it?"

"Sure," he said. "After a bit."

She fell back and moaned. "After a bit. You mean after we follow one last goose."

"After
I
follow it," he corrected her.

Ermine's face hardened. "If you go, I go. Two damn fools are better than one."

"You want to go to Italy?" he asked.

She had risked herself for him. To hell with Hitler, he thought. He swept the photographs to the floor and pulled her to him.

107 – April 18, 1946, 5:46 A.M.

Never, as a child, as a medical student or as a surgeon, had Gnedin ever imagined that he would be a soldier, much less sitting hidden with a rifle across his lap.

Mother had raved about his long fingers; he would be a concert pianist. She saw to it that he had the lessons and that he practiced, but in the end there was something else inside him. Unlike other medical students who had found their calling early by taking care of brothers and sisters or fetching home injured creatures for salvation, it was the process of diagnosis that first captured his fancy. Given the millions of unseen microbes that inhabited both man and the earth, how could one find the guilty one in order to know what to do? It fascinated him to stare into microscopes and see the world hidden from human eyes, to watch monstrosities mate, grow and die. Later he had discovered the magic and exhilaration of entering a living human body to take pulsating organs in his hands and mend them.

As a student he had relished his time with blackened and shriveled cadavers that stank of formaldehyde. He disassembled bodies like a master mechanic, exploring the flesh, bones, muscles, cartilage and tendons like an engineer. Gnedin loved autopsies. Bodies came to him whole and unmarked or in boxes and gunnysacks filled with broken and charred bits and pieces. It was a challenge to solve the mystery of death, though he knew that the
real
mystery was that of life. His job was to discover how a man died, not why; reasons were for detectives and philosophers. Above all, he valued the aloof objectivity of the pathologist, the attitude of seeing all, missing nothing.
In
the end, however, he ruled out forensics as his lifework. He liked live patients and the satisfaction of empty beds instead of full drawers in the morgue. He was a skilled surgeon, an innovator and risk taker, who rose at a very young age to the Soviet Academy, and his life ahead seemed promising and filled with challenge. Then Petrov had entered his life.

Gnedin had been in the morgue working on the body of a nine
year-old girl who had died during an appendectomy. She had been his patient, a beautiful child with fair skin, a ready smile and spindly legs, and her death had hit him hard. There had been no evidence of a heart problem during the workup or operation-not until it was there, and then it was too late. The inexplicable death was a surgeon's nightmare. Now he had her chest cavity open and was examining the heart prior to removing it. Her arteries were clear and healthy; there was no apparent reason for her to die, and he was determined to solve the mystery.

He never knew how long Petrov had watched him. Only when he spoke did Gnedin realize he was not alone. The strange little man's voice was soft but crisp, and filled with quiet authority. He was slightly bent-an obvious spinal defect, possibly correctable-with long black hair and dark eyes. A large beaver hat made his head look miniature, and his woven coat reached almost to the floor. "Perplexing," he said in a strangely appealing voice. "The child dies; you cannot accept it."

Gnedin stared at him. "A doctor learns to accept death."

The stranger held up a long bony finger. "Only when you reassure yourself that it was not you who beckoned the reaper." He was smiling.

"Death is a biological phenomenon. There is always a reason if one looks close enough and has been trained to see." Who was this creature?

The man's finger danced like a tiny wand, carving the air with tiny curls. "You confuse philosophy with biology, my young doctor. One finds the biological signs of death and life, but one never knows the reason for either
. In
that child's chest is a shattered heart. That is biology. Perhaps you will discover a defect in it, but have you answered the question of what killed her? The real question you avoid. Why should
this
child have the defect? Why at
this moment
and on
your
surgical table? These things you will never know, even if you spend the remainder of your life searching for the answers."

The truth of the stranger's words penetrated. Gnedin's legs felt weak; he had to sit down.

The man stepped closer to him. "Don't despair, Doctor. To not know the reason is not important. We can't know; therefore it's of no significance. What you do has value; someone must manage our biology . We all do our best to ruin this innately weak flesh. The question that thinking men must ask is, Of what magnitude shall my impact be? Most men have limited visions for themselves and for everything else. Life is harsh and cruel; it encourages short sight. How far can you see, Dr. Gnedin?"

The surgeon studied the strange man, who held out a small piece of paper to him. "Opportunities are few, young man. You can go back into the chest of that child, but it's a dark, narrow world." He turned to leave, then hesitated at the door. "You can reach me at that number tomorrow.
Only tomorrow."
Then he was gone.

Gnedin worked the remainder of the night.
In
the end the result was always the same. There had been a bad valve in her heart. It had stuck and she had died, just like that. He knew how her heart had failed, and when. Professionally the bits of information added up to
why,
but Gnedin knew they didn't. The stranger's words haunted him. Probably he was a mental case; hospitals seemed to attract such types. He drank hot coffee and stared at the piece of paper; after a while he dialed the number.

Thus the young surgeon had come to join the Special Operations Group. Since then he had seen a lot of life and death, and in the process had realized the meaning of the larger impact promised by Petro v that night in the morgue. He did not regret his decision.

At dawn a flock of small birds scrambled loudly from their rocky nests below him and performed aerial acrobatics nearby. He rubbed his eyes to remove the sleep and stared out, trying to focus on the shadows where the birds had been. Animals, he had learned from Ezdovo, did not move like this without reason
.

At first there was only one of them: a large man, dressed simply. But he moved too gracefully to be a farmer or a mere wanderer. He materialized out of the shadows, stood dead still and turned slowly, carefully examining the rocks above and below him.

Instinctively, Gnedin crouched, checked his watch and reached for his field glasses, but stopped himself. A lens against the rising or setting sun was dangerous; it could pinpoint his location. He'd have to rely on his eyes.

Another figure emerged from the same shadowy location as the first. This man was different; he walked with a slight hitch and without the caution of the first.

The third man was more like the first, tall and sure of himself, powerfully built.

Gnedin felt a surge of adrenaline. The three men moved along the trail and over a hummock, temporarily out of view. When they reemerged he could see that the lead man and the trailer were armed. "My God!" he whispered, the word sounding strange on his lips.

108 – April 18, 1946, 5:50 A.M.