The Berkut (72 page)

It was done, she thought as she reclined on the bed. Fortunately the beds of the Dante were hard. After years in the field, it was difficult to get accustomed to anything soft, and she was determined not to fall victim to creature comfort now that the army was behind her. To sleep on a hard surface helped keep one fit.

But this night, sleep remained just beyond reach. Her mind drew up memories, some forgotten, others repressed because there had been no time or place for them. The boys came to her mind, and she watched them playing along the river. They were good sons, loving but independent, with qualities of both sensitivity and ferocity. So be it; as Russians, they must grow up understanding that they alone carried the weight of the future on their backs. For Russians there were only other Russians; no others could be trusted.

At some point she drifted into sleep, on her back, arms and legs spread, and snoring lightly. A familiar voice woke her, a hoarse one with a suppressed laugh behind it. "Don't move," it said, and while there was tension in it to induce alertness, it spoke in such a way as to give her confidence. "I've come back with some interesting news," the voice said, "but I can see your time must have been equally fruitful."

"Giacomo?"

"Returned from the high country. You've had some trouble." "It's taken care of."

"Apparently not." Now she could see him, peering from the side of the window that overlooked the street in front of the hotel's entrance. "There are men down there covering the street and lobby, and I believe there's one on this floor as well. I've been watching them for some time. They're waiting for you."

She was thoroughly awake now, sitting on the side of the bed, fastening the silencer on her weapon by touch, as she filled him in on what had happened.

He laughed. "
Bellissimo.
You tampered with the psyche of the delicate Italian male. That he wanted only to see you beaten and humiliated is a measure of both his ardor and his fear of you. Had he been truly vindictive and sure of himself, he would have paid for your murder." Again he chuckled to himself. "His face must have been something to see when that photographer appeared."

"Yes, there was stark terror on it," she said.

"This group is not from your scorned lover," Giacomo said. "These are professionals, not workers trying to earn a few lire to keep their families alive. We'll have to be careful with them. You are ready?" He laid out a plan for her, one in which she was the centerpiece. She changed clothes while he talked. "We have to take one of them alive, to get accustomed to anything soft, and she was determined not to fall victim to creature comfort now that the army was behind her. To sleep on a hard surface helped keep one fit.

But this night, sleep remained just beyond reach. Her mind drew up memories, some forgotten, others repressed because there had been no time or place for them. The boys came to her mind, and she watched them playing along the river. They were good sons, loving but independent, with qualities of both sensitivity and ferocity. So be it; as Russians, they must grow up understanding that they alone carried the weight of the future on their backs. For Russians there were only other Russians; no others could be trusted.

At some point she drifted into sleep, on her back, arms and legs spread, and snoring lightly. A familiar voice woke her, a hoarse one with a suppressed laugh behind it. "Don't move," it said, and while there was tension in it to induce alertness, it spoke in such a way as to give her confidence. "I've come back with some interesting news," the voice said, "but I can see your time must have been equally fruitful."

"Giacomo?"

"Returned from the high country. You've had some trouble." "It's taken care of."

"Apparently not." Now she could see him, peering from the side of the window that overlooked the street in front of the hotel's entrance. "There are men down there covering the street and lobby, and I believe there's one on this floor as well. I've been watching them for some time. They're waiting for you."

She was thoroughly awake now, sitting on the side of the bed, fastening the silencer on her weapon by touch, as she filled him in on what had happened.

He laughed.
"Bellissimo.
You tampered with the psyche of the delicate Italian male. That he wanted only to see you beaten and humiliated is a measure of both his ardor and his fear of you. Had he been truly vindictive and sure of himself, he would have paid for your murder." Again he chuckled to himself. "His face must have been something to see when that photographer appeared."

"Yes, there was stark terror on it," she said.

"This group is not from your scorned lover," Giacomo said. "These are professionals, not workers trying to earn a few lire to keep their families alive. We'll have to be careful with them. You are ready?" He laid out a plan for her, one in which she was the centerpiece. She changed clothes while he talked. "We have to take one of them alive, at least for a few moments. Since he's the closest, we'll take the one on this floor." She was to take the papers and nothing else. If they had trouble, they would split up and meet later. He explained what she should do and how to cover herself during evasion. The principles were remarkably similar to those used by soldiers in the same situation.

Near the lift on Talia's floor was a small lobby with two armchairs. One of them was occupied by a thin man with dark hair pasted into place with oil, reading a newspaper. As she approached she noticed that it was an old paper, obviously something he had picked up in a hurry for a prop. Giacomo had been astute in seeing the trouble; she wondered how he had gotten by the man.

She pushed the button for the lift and waited, placing herself so as to draw the guard's attention away from the hall. "You," she said loudly. "How much will you pay?" A waxen face peered around the corner of the paper. "Yes,
imbecille,
I'm talking to you. How much will you part with? I have some time now and I can see that you're interested. "

The man blinked furiously. His lips moved, but no words came out.

"The shy type," she said with a leer. "I'll give you a special rate. I don't have time to waste. Either you want it or you don't. What will it be? I have business to tend to." She stepped toward him and twirled, making sure that the skirt floated high. "See? Have a peek at the goods. Pretty nice, eh? Never had an unsatisfied customer. Maybe you'll become a regular."

"I'm only visiting," the man said weakly.

"Better yet!" she exclaimed. "Your wife will never know, and you'll always carry a memory of your time with Monica. I know my business-and yours too, if you get my meaning."

As she poked at him with one of her sandals, he pulled his legs to the side, trying to avoid her touch. "I'm not married," he said brusquely.

"Perfect. A randy bachelor with horns. That makes me the lucky one. Come," she said, extending her hand to him. "Let's go have a ride together. I have a nice soft bed just down the hall." She grabbed at him and caught his arm. He resisted, but she managed to get him off the seat and partially on his feet before Giacomo sprang suddenly from behind to catch him by the neck. The man gagged and resisted, but Talia could see that the hold was tight. Giacomo danced him down the hall quickly and bounced him into her room. She closed the door behind them, then returned to take the man's seat near the lift. Holding her pistol in her small handbag, she positioned it in her lap so that the gun was pointed directly at the elevator doors.

Giacomo returned in a few minutes. "I had to be a bit more direct than I'd hoped for, but we have what we need. We have to leave here now together. This is more serious than I thought. Once we go, do what I say. If I fall, don't let yourself be taken alive. Can you do that?"

Their roles had reversed. Now he was giving the orders and she was listening. His voice told her that she had no choice, though she wondered what could be so threatening. "I understand," she told him.

Instead of descending, they climbed up the stairs to the roof of the hotel and made their way to the nearest building with a short jump across the gap. They moved at a brisk pace over the rooftops for a long time, so far that it seemed they might never come down, but eventually, after looking over the side, he grunted and led her down a long series of stairwells through darkened halls. At the entry they paused while he went out to sit on the stoop, looking up and down the street like an old man with too much wine in his belly. He spoke to her without turning around. "Walk quickly across the street, then up to the corner. Walk fast. Women are always frightened of being alone. When you get there, go left and duck into the second entrance you come to. Remove the silencer. If you have trouble, I want to know where you are."

Talia brushed by him and crossed the street at a trot without looking back, the heels of her shoes clipping the pavement like shots from a small-caliber pistol. Reaching the other side, she hurried to the corner, turned left and ducked into an entry, then looked back in the direction she had come from.

Several minutes went by before she heard anything. When she did, it was a cheery voice singing a low melody, the words slurred to indicate that the owner of the voice was tipsy. The drunk came slowly, weaving across the expanse of sidewalk, stopping now and then to survey the path ahead. At one point he stopped and stood teetering on the curb as he urinated into the street. As he got closer he said, "Move out ahead of me. Go fast. Wait at the end of the block." She did as she was told, and moments later Giacomo joined her. When he was sure that they had eluded pursuit, he led her north to another part of Genoa.

By noon the priest had installed them in a small house in the northern fringe of the city. The place was owned by an old woman who seemed genuinely pleased to see him and gave
only a perfunctory glance at T
alia. While the old woman worked on a breakfast in the kitchen, the two drank espresso and chewed on pickled green peppers.

"They wanted you," Giacomo said. "They had instructions to eliminate you quietly and to recover certain information."

"Only Bettini knew about the information."

"In Italy no secret is known by only one person. If the information was important to you, it is important to someone else. There's always a balance, an equilibrium, in these matters. From what you told me, your friend Bettini is not the kind to trade in information. He told them, but his motive was personal vengeance; theirs is state security."

"State security?"

" 'Thou art Peter, and upon this rock .. .' "

It was hard to consider the Vatican a state, but it was that in fact and practice. "They sent assassins?"

"Surprised? They are not strangers to violence. Propagation of the faith requires pragmatic men. Those who conduct the affairs of their state may speak a dead language and look different from their secular counterparts, but the power brokers in all states are cut from the same cloth. They do what they must, and pray for forgiveness on the grounds that it's for the greatest good of the greatest number."

"There is a ship coming to Genoa to pick up refugees-missionaries, they're called. The ship is owned by the Vatican, but it sails under a Greek pennant," Talia said.

"A relationship of long standing. What do you want to do next?" Quickly she tried to calculate the date and her instructions. "We wait."

Giacomo leaned toward her. "Petrov is coming soon, I trust?"

T
alia could not hide her surprise. At no time had she mentioned her leader's name. "Who are you?" she blurted out.

"Espresso?" he asked, the pot poised above her cup
.

114 – April 19, 1946, 4:00 P.M.

Following Petrov's orders, Ezdovo and Bailov made their way to Bleckheim on a forced march. They were tired, but were determined to reach their destination and find Gnedin.

When they reached the village, Bailov did the talking for them, buttonholing an old man in the square. Almost immediately other Bleckheimers gathered around. They were veterans of a medical unit, the Russian said, and were seeking a comrade, a surgeon. The villagers were immediately suspicious. There was a doctor, but how had the two of them known to look for him in Bleckheim? Bailov asked the old man if he had served in the war. No? Well, then, the methods used by soldiers to keep track of one another would be outside his ability to comprehend. Military men knew how to find one another; it had always been so. The villagers thought about it. The stranger seemed short-tempered and had a mean look about him. Besides, veterans, for whatever reason, did seem to stick together. What did their doctor friend look like?

Bailov described Gnedin and the old man nodded. It sounded like their doctor. He had moved to a farmhouse higher in the mountains; they could wait here for him if they liked. Bailov asked for directions; they'd rather go to him.

Outside the village, the two Russians checked their weapons and started the long climb at double time.