The Berkut (79 page)

137 – April 28, 1946, 10:35 P.M.

As the captain called to the steward to freshen Talia's cup the vibrations that rattled the decks suddenly stopped.

The captain, with white hair and a thick nose with protruding veins, immediately shouted angrily into a tube that looked like a funnel. "Is there a problem?" Talia asked innocently.

"Nothing serious, Sister. A small problem in the engine room
,
nothing to be alarmed about. It's an old ship and sometimes she's temperamental. Like a good Greek woman," he said with a forced smile. Sweat was building under his arms, and she could sense that he was shaken.

"Would it be better if I left?"

"Yes. That would be good. You can come back later."

Bidding them farewell, she paused at the entryway and assessed the situation again, then stepped outside and withdrew her revolver. Checking the silencer to be sure it was snug, she pointed the barrel up, slid her left hand under the handle and her grip hand and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Having decided on the order of attack, Pogrebenoi stepped inside the control room and aimed at the steward. Because he was off to one side, she killed him first. Then she swiveled slightly and shot the rest of them from right to left, from no more than a few paces away, holding the weapon in both hands, squeezing off each round with double action, her eyes wide open. All but the first officer fell when they were hit; he tried to pull himself to a side hatch, but she finished him with a second shot, this one in the back of his head, then quickly reloaded. She found the signal blinker, which was covered with a tight fitting tarpaulin, just off the bridge. Passengers looked up at her from the deck below as she stripped off the canvas cover and turned the switch. The light hissed loudly as it came on; she flicked the control lever open and closed several times and waited; aft and to port came the distant answer. Returning to the bridge, she pulled a pin from a smoke grenade, dropped it on the deck, and then ran down the stairs until she met a crewman.

"There's smoke up there," she said. The sailor looked at her, not understanding, so she led him partway up the stairs and pointed. As he bolted past her she raced down to the second deck; she had to get to Brumm's stateroom and wait until Ezdovo arrived with the others. She removed her costume as she ran. Her heart was pounding as she reached the deck and peered down the companionway. People were still sleeping on the floor, and nobody had seemed to notice that the ship was no longer moving.

138 – April 28, 1946, 10:38 P.M.

With Bailov expertly controlling their speed and direction, Petrov kept the low-slung boat in position 45 degrees off the wake of the ship, a kilometer back, all lights out, following the larger vessel like a shark waiting for its next meal.

"Your people may have a difficult time," Father Grigory said as they sat in the cramped cabin drinking tea. He was wearing faded coveralls with wide stripes, a yellow Star of David on the breast. The grip of a small pistol peeked from a leather holster under his right arm.

The sea remained smooth, and because the ship had turned east and accelerated to a cruising speed of eight knots, their ride was easier. Ahead of them lightning flashed in a cloud formation low over the horizon. "Above us," Bailov shouted down through the open hatch, anticipating his leader's concern. "A little squall. No problem."

"If we don't get the signal?" the priest asked.

"We break off and head for Algiers. When they arrive in Santiago, we'll be waiting," Petro v said quietly. He had been over the plan in his mind a thousand times, and he had no doubt that the signal would come.

"Assuming that Greek rust bucket doesn't sink along the way," Grigory said cheerfully, adding a dollop of brandy to his tea.

Gnedin and Rivitsky were working with small mounds of
plastit
,
attaching remote fuses and detonators. The priest looked at them and made a face. "This is as close to eternity as I want to get for a while."

Calling them together, Petrov reviewed the plan once again. They would wait for the signal from the ship. Ezdovo would stop the engines by gassing the engine room, and when the vessel was dead in the water, they would board and take their man. Petrov, Grigory and Rivitsky would board. Gnedin would remain at the helm and stay close, maintaining power. While the boarding was taking place, Bailov, who was dressed in a dark blue wet suit, would set the charges on the hull under the waterline. When they were safely away, they would do what had to be done. Few would survive, and those who did would report that Jews had boarded the ship to remove a passenger.

"Comrade Petrov," Grigory said, interrupting. He was pointing forward. "Isn't that what we're waiting for?" A light was blinking in the darkness ahead of them
.

139 – April 28, 1946, 10:40 P.M.

As soon as he noticed that the deck had stopped vibrating, Brumm tensed and reached immediately for his pistol. Standing up, he pulled the curtain back. It was dark, but people were gathered outside on the deck. Opening the porthole, he asked, "What's going on?"

"The engines seem to have stopped," a voice said in German. "It's to be expected. This is an old derelict run by Greeks."

Brumm closed the porthole and sat down. Herr Wolf stirred in his sleep, made a smacking sound with his lips, and rolled over.

1
40
– April 28, 1946, 1
1
:
0
0 P.M.

Ezdovo had already picked out the fastest route to the boarding platform. The engines were stopped; the engine-room crew was dead, and anyone else entering would die quickly. The gas was German: odorless, colorless and lethal, producing death from respiratory collapse in less than two minutes, Gnedin had said. They had found it in a Nazi death camp in eastern Poland. The Russian troops who captured the camp tested it on some of the SS guards who had been wounded and were unable to escape. Ever practical, the Russians tried various masks on the guards, and found two different filters that protected against the deadly substance. Word of the gas moved through SMERSH to Moscow and back into the field to Petrov, who sent Bailov to fetch a supply for the Special Operations Group's future use.

Ezdovo went quickly to the cargo hold, where he opened the side cargo hatch and swung it open. Standing on the platform, he held tight to an iron rail for balance and watched the dark shape of Petrov's craft riding high as it raced toward him. He shone his flashlight out into the darkness, using the group's established signal to verify his location. The ship was wallowing in the ocean's swell, but he had no trouble dropping the boarding ladder attached to the underside of the platform.

The cutter, low in the water, spewed a gray rooster tail of foam behind it as it veered sharply toward the ship and slid in smoothly with its engines grinding into reverse. Petrov was first up the ladder, an automatic rifle at the ready. He was wearing faded clothes of vertical gray and purple stripes, the uniform of prisoners of Nazi concentration camps. Ezdovo had seen them before, but never on anyone who was alive.

When Grigory and Rivitsky joined Petrov on the platform, the four of them moved through the cargo hold, climbing a series of ladders up to the decks. Petrov had decided on a direct frontal assault, using surprise as the critical element. As they ran past dazed, half-sleeping passengers, there were some shouts. Their weapons were in plain view, but they moved so fast that those they stepped over reacted almost as if they had seen apparitions.

Pogrebenoi was at the end of the corridor on the second deck, and as soon as she saw Petrov, she drew her pistol. "Third door on the right," she said.

For a moment Petrov paused. Father Grigory took a position against one bulkhead and watched along the companionway for possible interference. Rivitsky, puffing from the sudden exertion, stood with Pogrebenoi, both of them behind Ezdovo and slightly to each side of him, with Petrov behind all of them. They waited for their leader's order. "Alive," he reminded them.

Ezdovo fired a single shot into the door lock, then smashed it open with his shoulder, and the three burst into the room with their weapons extended at waist level. Brumm got off a single shot, which hit Rivitsky in the thigh and sent him sprawling.

Ezdovo and Pogrebenoi fired simultaneously, their bullets striking Brumm in each shoulder and knocking him down.

"Enough," Petrov said firmly.

Petrov recognized Hitler immediately. He was apart from Brumm, trying to keep his eyes down and his face hidden, but there could be no mistake. The mustache was gone, the hair was lighter and combed differently, but it was he.

Brumm was on the floor, his arms useless at his sides; using his legs to turn onto his back, he looked up at the intruders. The leader of the Special Operations Group stared down at the SS colonel. "I congratulate you, Colonel. You are an elusive man. I commend your resourcefulness." Gunter Brumm exhaled slowly and grimaced.

Petrov turned to the other man, his eyes burning. "Adolf Hitler, I arrest you in the name of the Russian people, on the authority of Joseph Stalin, supreme leader of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. You will come with me." He might have been a village constable arresting a petty thief. There was no emotion in his voice, no exhilaration; there was only duty.

Herr Wolf looked at Brumm. "This is a mistake," he cried. He pulled back his sleeve to show the tattoo on his forearm. "See, I'm a Jew," he said, waving the arm at Petrov. "You can't do this to me. I've suffered as much as any of you. You must help me."

"Take him," Petrov ordered crisply to Ezdovo, who grabbed the man roughly by the arm and yanked him toward the stateroom door. As they moved, Herr Wolf balked suddenly, letting his legs go limp and dropping to the deck.

"Colonel Brumm!" he screamed. "Don't let them do this! Stop them. I order you!"

Reaching into his pocket, Petrov handed a syringe to Pogrebenoi. She unwrapped it, spurted a small stream of fluid into the air and told Ezdovo to hold the prisoner still. Before she could inject him, Herr Wolf gave a long, high-pitched shriek of terror and voided himself. The odor immediately filled the closed room as Ezdovo held him against the deck until the drug took effect.

Gü
nter Brumm watched without emotion; he felt no pain. The foulness of his leader assaulted his ears and nose. He remembered Beard hanging over the edge, accepting with equanimit
y his oath to the SS and his Fü
hrer. He remembered the warmth of Gretchen in his arms; in age she had been barely a woman, but she had loved him, even as he held her under the waters of the hot pool in the cave and watched the last bubbles of air rise from her lungs to the surface. Fidelity, he thought, the cement of Teutonic culture, its first virtue. No more! He had done his duty. It was ended forever. The thousand
year Reich was finished, adrift in a Greek ship on the sea that had given rise to civilization. It was fitting that it end here, he thought. He felt at peace with himself. At Herr Wolf's pathetic appeal he could only smile.

In the passageway people were awake when the group emerged. "Jews," a voice hissed from the crowd. But they shrank from Petrov's presence, the Star of David on his breast pushing them back like a crucifix before the Devil, and made no attempt to interfere. Whatever they might be as a group, these Germans had cast off their political affiliations and common ties; now they were alone, each committed only to his own survival. "One among you ran the camps that took my people," Petrov said in his rehearsed speech. "For Jews everywhere we have come to claim our vengeance. Remember this forever. From this day forward, the Jews of the world will be united. And we will be armed. For now, we take only one of you, but soon we will come for you, too. Run while you
can –
if
you can," he added menacingly.

As Father Grigory helped Pogrebenoi lift Hitler, Beau Valentine rounded the corner and saw a man with a gun. It was Rivitsky. "What's the commotion here?" he called out.

"None of your business," the armed man said angrily, brandishing a pistol at him. Valentine retreated immediately, but stopped around the corner and peeked. Another armed man and a woman were dragging a limp body down the companionway. A smaller man followed. The man he'd seen first limped along last, dragging his leg and leaving a trail of blood as he went. As the procession passed, Beau tried to see whom the man and woman were dragging, but the prisoner's head was down and he couldn't see the face. "Finish up," the small man called back to another, who was standing in the stateroom doorway.

Brumm and Ezdovo were left alone. "We have great admiration for you, Colonel Brumm," Ezdovo said. "It was I who followed you. Comrade Petrov believes you to be a professional and a man of principle. I am to inform you that we have set explosive charges below the waterline, and that when we are safely away we will detonate them. Comrade Petrov gives you your life as a professional courtesy. You have only a few minutes. We suggest you move quickly if you wish to save yourself."