Blood of Victory (29 page)

“Aground?” Zolti said. Serebin saw what he meant—off the starboard bow, a granite wall rose from the water.

“And it wouldn’t stop them,” Erma said.

Not much to say, after that. They chugged on through the night toward the pilot station. Inside Serebin, a mixture of rage and sorrow.
All that work.
And a memory of the river pilot, his red satin smoking jacket and his Marseilles apartment.
Betrayed,
he’d said.
You have to remember where you are.
“I’m sorry,” Serebin said quietly.

Erma said “Ach.” In a way that forgave him and damned the world for what it was and, in case he didn’t understand all that, she dropped a rough hand on his shoulder.

The pilot station at Moldova Veche was set up like the customs post—a canal dug out of the bank beside the river, a dock, and a sagging one-story shack with a shed roof. Tied up at the far end of the canal were three or four small motor launches, clearly meant to ferry officials back and forth on the river. On the land side of the shack, a dirt path climbed a wooded hill, probably to the Szechenyi road.

There was a welcoming committee waiting for them on the dock: two Roumanian gendarmes, rural police, both with sidearms. Erma threw a line to one of them, and he secured the tug to an iron post. The barges drifted up behind the
Empress
and banged into the old tires lashed to the stern—even in the canal, the current on this part of the river was strong. The patrol boat docked behind the last barge, its engine running in neutral, thin smoke, heavy with the smell of gasoline, rising from its exhaust vents.

Inside, the pilot station was bare and functional, lit by two small desk lamps and a wood fire. A desk, a few wooden chairs, charts tacked to the wall, a coal stove. In one corner, staying well out of the way, an official in a simple uniform, probably the station supervisor. Well out of the way, perhaps, in deference to the two civilians in overcoats, one with briefcase, who rose to meet them. Clearly a chief and his assistant, the latter a well-barbered thug, stocky and powerful, a red and black swastika pin prominent on the lapel of his overcoat.

With a wave of the hand, the chief sent Zolti and Erma off to the custody of his assistant and led Serebin to a pair of chairs on the other side of the room. He was tall, with a fringe of gray hair, heavy rimmed glasses, and the face—the snout—of an anteater; long, curved and curious, built to probe. He wore a red, vee-necked sweater under his suit jacket, which served to temper his official demeanor. “Shall we speak German?” he said courteously. He could speak Swahili, if it came to that, or whatever you liked. When Serebin nodded he said, “So then, may I have your passport, please?”

Serebin handed it over, and the man took his time with it, touching his finger to his tongue to turn the pages, saying “Hm,” and again “Hm,” as he read. Followed the Paris representative of Marasz-Gulian on a series of logical business trips—Basel and Brussels, that kind of thing, had a look at the travel and work permits, slid them into the fold of the passport, slapped it against his palm a few times, then, not persuaded one way or the other, gave it back. “Very good,” he said, meaning either
very good fake
or
everything is in order.
“But we don’t concern ourselves with documents, this evening.”

Serebin waited to see what came next. The man had slid his chair to a position where he blocked Serebin’s view of the other side of the room, but Serebin could hear Zolti’s voice. Not precisely angry. Argumentative.

“We have here only some administrative difficulties. Not major, but they must be resolved.”

Across the room, Erma. He couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was indignant.

The chief glanced over his shoulder, then returned to Serebin. “My name is Schreiber, I am the second secretary at the legation in Bucharest, and I’ve come up here this evening to inform you that we must, regretfully, impound your shipment to Giurgiu. We will inform Herr Gulian of this action—we trust he will respect our decision. But, in any case, it’s no longer your responsibility.”

“All right,” Serebin said.

“As for yourself, we will take you back to Bucharest, where all this can be worked out. A technicality—I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And the owners of the tugboat?”

From Schreiber, a dismissive shrug. Who cared?

Across the room, a certain metallic rattle, and an anguished cry from Erma. Schreiber grunted with irritation and looked around to see what all the fuss was about.

Serebin heard a pop and, instinctively, both he and Schreiber ducked their heads. Serebin stood up, could now see the assistant, thrashing and moaning on the floor. Beside him, a pair of handcuffs. Erma took two steps, leaned over the man and, with two more pops, put an end to the thrashing and moaning.

Schreiber leaped to his feet, arms flung wide, shouted, “Oh for God’s sake...,” on his way to asking what somebody possibly thought they were
doing,
but he never got there. A small hole, the size of a coin, appeared in the back of his overcoat, where a shred of fabric now hung by a thread. He sank to his knees and coughed, hand politely over his mouth, then fell on his face, with a soft thud as his forehead hit the brick floor.

The room was dead still. Both gendarmes and the station supervisor were backed against the wall, hands high above their heads, eyes wide with terror. In the middle of it all stood Erma, small pistol in hand, trying to figure out what came next.

Serebin knew. He ran for the door, hit the dock in full stride. On the bow of the patrol boat, outlined in the glare of the searchlight, a Roumanian sailor was shouting at him. Had they heard the shots? Above the noise of their engines? Not possible. But, one of the people who’d been taken off the tugboat was now running back toward it. That couldn’t be right. The sailor went for the holster at his belt and shouted an order, but he didn’t quite have it right, because Serebin wasn’t going back to the tugboat.

He dove over the low gunwale of the first barge he came to—the second from the end,
barge four,
the one with the Colossus of Esztergom, as luck would have it—and slithered on his stomach toward the hatch on the river side of the barge. The sailor—an officer, Serebin thought—fired at him twice, one round sliced the air above his head, the other hit the turbine and rang it like a bell. Serebin came around the corner, grabbed the rope handles of the hatch cover, and, with the recommended
slow, steady pull,
removed it.

The next thing he saw was the night sky. He’d been up in the air, he knew, but not for long. Because the
next
thing he saw was the Colossus, well, half of it anyhow, that had risen about ten feet off the barge and was now on its way back down, on end, still wearing its tarpaulin. It landed on its other half with a magnificent
clang,
then tilted over into the canal with a splash that sent a wave of water across the dock. Toward the pilot station. Which had lost a corner of itself and modestly lowered half its roof in case somebody tried to look inside.

Serb bastard—did you know?
Not a land mine, an
antitank mine.

He’d been lucky, he realized. By rights he should be somewhere up on the hill, but he was in business now and he didn’t mean to leave it unfinished. He rolled over the edge of the next barge, barge three, and, using its cargo for cover, crawled to the hatch at the end nearest the tugboat. He took hold of the ropes, pulled, pulled harder, and the hatch cover came free in his hands. He swore, and peered into the depths of the barge’s interior, saw the remnant of wire shining silver in the water, and came fairly close to going down there after it. Actually, very close.

On his way to barge two, he heard the patrol boat coming, engine wide open, searchlight beam moving down the canal. By now the crew had got its machine guns going, and began by raking the cabin of the
Empress,
splintering wood and shattering glass, the boat swinging on its tie line with the force of the heavy rounds. Serebin smelled burning and looked over his shoulder. The pilot station was on fire—had the blast wave blown the fireplace into the room? By the light of the dancing flames he saw a shadowy figure, running up the hillside through the trees. Zolti? Erma? He didn’t know, but clearly this river was not, at the moment, the best place to be.

He was extremely careful with the hatch cover on barge two, visualizing the wire loop at the base of the mine’s trigger, watching the wire as it depressed the lever, and, in the moment before the explosion, taking back what he’d called Captain Draza. Because the mine had been centered on the barge, the wire run far enough back so that the force of the blast was taken by the underside of the turbine.

And the hull. Because all that remained of the Colossus and its barge were bubbles. And the neighboring barges had been pulled halfway below the water by their towing links when the middle barge sank. He saw no more. Pressed his body between deck and gunwale as the mine went off, then covered his head with his arms as wood and metal rained down from above. He felt the barge begin to sink beneath him. Moved on to the first barge in line.

Somebody saw him.

He heard hunters’ cries from the patrol boat, a long machine gun burst chewed up the deck a foot away, and he ran, then dove for shelter on the dock side of the turbine. Now he couldn’t reach the hatch cover—on the river side of the barge, the large-calibre bullets tore the gunwale apart, and the patrol boat crept forward to try to get a firing angle for its gunner. They were excited, now that they knew where he was and what he was doing. As Serebin, on hands and knees, fled further into the defilade of the turbine, the light probed wildly and the gunner began to fire at the turbine itself, which pinged and rattled and echoed as it was hit, the occasional tracer ricochet sailing off into the night. And some of the rounds, hammered off with great enthusiasm but not all that much precision, ripped through the deck and, he hoped, down through the bottom.

The machine gun stopped abruptly—those long, indulgent bursts were soon enough, he knew, punished with a hiss of compressed air and a mad scramble by the server to feed in a new belt. Serebin looked at his watch, it had stopped at 11:08. Marrano was waiting for him downriver at Berzasca, but he couldn’t move. One step away from the cover of the turbine, and that would be that. The pilot station was burning brighter now, he could hear the crackle of old wood, smoke drifted over the river, and the flames illuminated the dock with orange light. So, no darkness for him.

The officer on the patrol boat now came to his senses. Certainly he’d been on the radio, certainly other boats had been dispatched, and it had certainly occurred to him that he’d better win this little war before they showed up. So, all he needed to do was appoint a few volunteers to board the barge, use the turbine for cover, and attack from both ends. Serebin knew it would come to that and, soon enough, the sound of the patrol boat engine came toward him, as it maneuvered to position itself next to the barge. Now he had to do the one thing he most didn’t want to do.

He turned, saw that the barge had been roped to a cleat, but, when he pushed against the edge of the dock, there was perhaps a foot of clearance. He lay prone on the gunwale, hesitated, finally slid one leg into the water. Bit his lip, then lowered himself the rest of the way. It was like being packed in ice, the cold gripped him so hard he could barely breathe. And then, the patrol boat’s motion in the canal sent a gentle current toward the barge, which pressed against him, and began to squeeze his chest between the hull and the rough slab of timber that framed the dock. He fought it with both hands but it didn’t give, so he had seconds to pull himself up on the gunwale. And into the light, into the view of the patrol boat. Still, better to die that way than to be crushed to death. As he started to climb, the barge moved. Only an inch, but enough. Using his hands, he slid himself along the timber to the edge of the hull, took a breath, went under.

Not more than a few feet to the tug, but cold and black as death. Finally a groping hand found the side of the boat and he hauled himself over the low freeboard and onto the deck. He was exhausted, finished. He lay still for a time, then began to work his hands, which had gone numb and stiff in the freezing water.

When he opened his eyes he saw that the patrol boat had maneuvered itself next to the barge, and, for a bare instant, there was a flicker of motion in the shadow of the turbine. Somebody on the boat began calling out to him—
you can surrender, we won’t hurt you, there’s custard for dessert.
It was all in Roumanian and he understood not a word of it but he got the general idea. In fact, it was whatever might keep him from hearing the armed sailors as they crawled around on the barge.

Not long until they figured out he wasn’t there, so he slid forward as quickly as he could until he reached the foot of the steps that led up to the pilot cabin. Then he heard pistol shots, and he froze. Next came a shouted conversation between barge and patrol boat, and suddenly the searchlight swept over the water, the other barges, and finally the tugboat. Serebin lay completely still, pinned in the white beam, and waited for the machine gun.

It didn’t come. The searchlight played on the cabin, then moved, slowly now, across the hill above the burning pilot station. Serebin scuttled up the steps and knelt at the foot of the helm. He made a fist and, imitating what Erma had done, hit the board skirting below the wheel. Nothing happened. He tried reaching behind the panel, but it was blocked by a board across the bottom. Again, he pounded. Nothing.
Christ, there’s a trick to it.
Then he stood, turned his arm parallel to the skirting, and hit it with the side of his fist. And, by means of some fiendish carpenter’s alchemy he could not imagine, it popped open.

The Mannlicher was nice and heavy, he knelt back down and curled around it, shivering, and, with thick, frozen fingers, managed to release the magazine.
Loaded.
He pushed it back in place with the heel of his hand, heard it lock in place with an emphatic click—the Austrians made good weapons—and worked the slide. The same fool’s demon that had tried to trick him into blowing himself up now suggested it would be a perfectly fine idea to fire from the cabin. But, once again, he stopped just in time. Crawled back to the stern, got as low as he could, lined the barrel sight up with the center of the searchlight, and squeezed the trigger.