The Berkut (23 page)

Petrov filled his plate and poured a cup of dark tea. The two men sat together on a long bench with thick cushions, balancing their plates on their laps.

"Eat," Stalin said enthusiastically. "Try the caviar, taste the fish." Meals with Stalin were deceiving. Always he seemed the gracious host, urging his guests to sample everything, but Petrov knew it was not hospitality that motivated him. His leader feared poisoning by his enemies, and every meal for him was an exercise in terror and caution. Petrov knew that all of Stalin's food was grown on a special farm tended by political police agents, his own men. The food was shipped directly from t
he farm to a special laboratory
, where it was analyzed in bulk and each item tagged with chemical assay results. The tag also bore the name of the technician who had performed the test. The tea Stalin favored was a special blend, the supply controlled by a woman who traveled in his entourage wherever he went. At meals he would not eat a particular dish until it had been tried by a guest and an adequate amount of time had passed for a possible reaction to show itself. Those who dined regularly with him learned his habits and got fat.

Petrov picked up the smoked salmon and tore off a long sliver with his teeth. He followed it with a chunk of bread dipped in the soft butter, a pickled egg sprinkled with peppercorns and a sip of the hot tea, to which he had added a small portion of honey.

After a time Stalin clapped his hands and began eating. "Try the sturgeon," he urged, his cheeks bulging with salmon. Stalin loved sturgeon. Petrov peeled loose a slice from the bone and tasted it, chewing slowly. When enough time had passed, Stalin tore into the fish, eating what Petrov estimated to be almost a kilo. For a small man who feared poisoning, the premier ate prodigious quantities.

"So," Stalin said, during a series of belches. "What does the Berkut bring me?"

"I believe there is a strong possibility that he is still alive."

Stalin laughed and nearly dropped his plate. "I knew it! That fucking simpleton Zhukov, our avenger in Berlin! He plays to the Western press. He wants power, that one. Hitler is dead, says the great Zhukov. I have his body, bellows Zhukov. Bullshit!"

"It is possible that he does have the body," Petrov said without emotion.

Stalin frowned. "You bastard, Petrov," he hissed. "Don't start with your fucking intellectual equivocations. Don't try to keep all your doors open. The number one war criminal of the Soviets is either dead or alive. I'm not one of your brainy team, you slippery son of a bitch; I know there are only two possibilities-dead or alive. Your job is to tell me which."

Petrov cautioned himself to proceed with care. Stalin was badgering him in a friendly way, but one mistake could send him into a rage, and once he was out of control anything was possible. "Let me explain," Petrov said. He related his story and the facts as the Special Operations Group knew them.

Stalin listened intently, not interrupting. "You base your opinion on the girl's lies, on the stomach with no lettuce and on the fact of the single testicle, is that it?" he said finally.

"And the meeting with the guard on the thirtieth."

"The corpse in Zhukov's hands is a double-that's what you're thinking?"

"Yes."

"You're sure the corpse was both shot and poisoned?"

"That's what our analysis of the forensic evidence demonstrates." Stalin stared at him, stood up, lit a brown Russian cigarette and looked across the room. "No, you're wrong," he said solemnly.

Petrov tensed.

"The key evidence is the shooting, Comrade Petrov. I've said all along that the coward wouldn't shoot himself. If Zhukov's corpse has a bullet hole, it's not Hitler. That's all I need to know to support your thesis."

"The bullet could have been inflicted after he poisoned himself," Petrov offered.

"Never! None of his cronies would have the balls to shoot him, not even his corpse."

Petrov nodded. One did not argue with such opinions; besides, the conversation was turning in a favorable direction.

"You've interrogated all the Nazi swine. What does it give you? A conspiracy?"

"Undoubtedly, but his confederate had to be someone from outside the inner circle. I'm quite certain that all of those who were in the bunker believe without exception that he committed suicide."

"Where's Skorzeny?" Stalin snapped. "I don't understand."

"Otto Skorzeny, Hitler's thug."

Recovering from the unexpected introduction of the German commando into the conversation, Petrov said, "We are familiar with the man."

Stalin ignored him and went on. "Skorzeny rescued Mussolini. Skorzeny captured Horthy
.
Skorzeny assassinated several of our key
military people. Whenever Hitler is in trouble, Skorzeny is the man he turns to. Find Skorzeny."

"At this point there's no evidence of Skorzeny's involvement," Petrov said firmly. "There's no mention of him by the prisoners, and he wasn't in the bunker with Hitler after December."

Stalin sat down next to Petrov and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Listen to me, Petrov. 1 haven't gotten to this"-he waved his hand at the room in a sweeping gesture- "without damn good instincts. My guts say Skorzeny. Go back to Germany and find that bastard." He thumped his forefinger roughly on Petrov's chest. "Colonel Otto Skorzeny of the SS. Find him; find Hitler. They stick together like a fart and its stink."

The premier walked across the room, pivoted and returned. His voice grew softer. "You have your orders, my little Berkut. More important, you have my direct
authority.
Do what you need to do." Suddenly he groped in the oversize breast pockets of his jacket and extracted several leather portfolios the size of wallets. "Take these," he said, dropping them into Petrov's lap. They were heavy. "Five in your group, correct?"

"Yes."

Stalin laughed. "One for each of you." He stared hard and his voice dropped lower. "I know you will be successful, comrade. Bring the criminal to me, and you can help me punish him in a way that only he will be able to appreciate." Suddenly his mood changed. Brightening, he grabbed Petrov by the arms. "We'll give the dog th
e
business
,"
he said, using the slang from one of his favorite American gangster films.

When Stalin had departed, Petrov continued his meal. The plane would wait. He spread the leather portfolios on the pillow beside him and opened one, unfastening its small black strap. So awesome was the sight before him that he stopped chewing and began to choke. Each portfolio contained a bright red enamel shield. On each was mounted the seal of Stalin's office and the engraved words "Complete Authority." He had heard of such chits before, but he had never seen one. These would open any door for his team; in his hands he held five licenses bestowing absolute power. Such was the phenomenon called the Red Badge. Petrov smiled, closed the leather case and resumed eating.

27 – May 17, 1945, 7:00 P.M.

Petrov slept fitfully during the return flight from Odessa. It was evening when the aircraft bumped onto Tempelhof's pitted runway. By the time he entered the terminal the leader of the Special Operations Group had found a new surge of energy.

The group was waiting for him in their headquarters. Gnedin's feet were up on a table, a thick sheaf of papers in his lap. Bailov was asleep, snoring quietly on a cot, his head buried under a bulky jacket. Rivitsky was writing. Ezdovo had the parts of an automatic pistol spread on a towel in front of him.

Petrov went directly to the table and placed the five leather containers in a row. Ezdovo jogged Bailov with his foot, the latter snorting as he woke up. The four men gathered around their leader.

"Take one," Petrov said. They picked up the containers without speaking and opened them. Petrov watched their reactions.

Gnedin whistled. "The Red Badge. I've heard about it, but I never believed the stories."

"Their weight says they're real enough," Petrov sai
d. Ezdovo stared at his leather
case impassively.

"The ultimate license," Rivitsky said, running his hand over the polished metal. "You've seen the Boss."

"In Odessa."

"A long flight," Rivitsky said with a smile. They all knew how much Petrov hated aircraft.

"Long and uncomfortable," Petrov said sourly. "You understand the meaning of these? Comrade Stalin has been informed of our findings."

"And he agrees with our conclusions," Rivitsky said, brandishing his badge.

"Stalin reminded me of Hitler's penchant for using the services of Skorzeny for special missions," Petrov recounted. "He believes Skorzeny must be involved in this."

"I disagree," Rivitsky said. "Too obvious."

"I've given it some thought," Petrov said. "I share your feeling.

Not Skorzeny, but perhaps someone else in that special unit. The premier is correct in assuming that Skorzeny's people would be the most likely accomplices in this kind of conspiracy. I doubt, however, that Hider would turn to Skorzeny again. He was too well known. However, one of his men ... that's a possibility we have to examine."

"Skorzeny's name has not come up during the interrogations," Bailov pointed out.

"Understood," Petrov said. "Even so, we need to know where he was and what his mission was at the end. Where was his unit? Who are his people, the key personnel? There are too many unknowns to draw any conclusions now."

"Where do we begin?" Rivitsky asked. "We can be sure there are records; these Germans can't help doing it."

"They record every bowel movement," Ezdovo added with a grunt. "Might such records have been sent south in April, as part of the move to Berchtesgaden?" Rivitsky asked.

"All of this must be answered in an orderly manner," Petrov said. His men had no doubt that it would be.

The Fü
hrerbunker was as they had last seen it. The generator was silent and it was dark. Ezdovo filled the generator's tank with diesel fuel and started it. There was litde Soviet security in place. A lone private, a flat-faced Mongolian, sat on the floor of the bunker entrance and looked up at them while he ate dried fish with dirty hands. His rifle leaned against a wall, well beyond his reach. Apparendy the higher echelons of the Red Army felt no need to isolate the facility, Petrov thought. They had Hider's pody and the place was no longer important; its status had been reduced to no more than that of a curio, an attraction for those wanting to see where Hider had killed himself.

Rivitsky and Ezdovo tried to converse with the Oriental, but could find no common tongue. The man grimaced, waved them in and returned to his meal.

In the bunker below, water was standing on the floors. It looked as if the place had seen a large number of visitors in the last three days; furniture was smashed and papers were strewn everywhere. As in all other German buildings, the toilets had been removed.

"We're looking for records, files, official documents. We'll photograph what we find and leave the originals here," Petrov told them.

"Why bother?" Bailov wanted to know. "We can take what we want. Nobody will miss anything in this chaos."

"No," Petrov answered. "Eventually the army will come to its senses, realize what's going on here and claim it for historical purposes. We'll leave what we find."

The team members shrugged. After their leader gave them instructions, they went off individually to begin their search. Petrov waited in the corridor outside Hitler's suite, sitting on a large table that the Fuhrer had used for military conferences.

Ezdovo was the first to report back, carrying several waterlogged volumes on the architecture of opera houses. Petrov's expression told him that the effort was unappreciated. The Siberian dropped the books on the table and retreated quickly to a nearby cubicle.

After three hours of combing the two bunker levels, they were still empty-handed, so Petrov decided to move the search to the Chancellery. They assembled in the same large basement room where they had first found Dr. Haase. Petrov calculated that if any records remained, they would be below ground, away from the artillery.

It was Ezdovo who found them, rows of wooden boxes filled with folders. They were stacked in a hallway in the western part of the building the Nazis called the New Chancellery. There were more than a hundred crates, two-meter cubes stacked four deep. Each crate was neatly stenciled with a listing of its contents; twenty crates were labeled PERSONNEL.

Inside the boxes folders were organized alphabetically. It was all too neat and too easy to be true, and they smiled as they went through the contents. When they found the Skorzeny folder, Petrov decided to keep it. "This is different from the papers in the bunker," he told them. "Anything we find here is undoubtedly duplicated at another site. Redundancy is the key to records' security."