The Berkut (26 page)

" Austria?"

"That's the place. As soon as the Russians heard that, they got a message off to Berlin, and flew to Austria to see Skorzeny. That's when you walked into the picture."

Valentine was satisfied. Clearly there had been no records in Berlin; otherwise they wouldn't have come to Munich. They had tried to reconstruct Skorzeny's organization, but a key personnel record was missing. They didn't have a name, so they had pulled some long strings to see Skorzeny.

Valentine thanked Molanaro, who took a final beer and departed.

As he sat lacing up his boots he thought about what he knew. If the Russians wanted to interrogate Skorzeny, what was their angle?

Valentine headed his jeep out of Munich, but his mind was too active to concentrate on driving. He pulled off the road and sat with his arms crossed. As the hunch came slowly together in his mind, he fought to think it through. The autogyro: it had to be significant. Skorzeny was close to Hitler and had rescued Mussolini on Hitler's orders. Sometimes it seemed that everywhere the Allies turned they'd found themselves head to head with Skorzeny, or in his shadow. Skorzeny liked gadgets and used them. The autogyro was evidence. And where there were gadgets there had to be technicians-engineers and scientists! His orders had been to find scientists; now he had a lead and it smelled like something the Russians were hot for. Valentine slapped his hands on the steering wheel and laughed out loud. "I'm coming to get you!" he shouted happily, not at all sure whom he meant.

30 - May 21, 1945, 4:00 A.M.

The flight from Munich to Salzburg was a short one. The Russian pilots worked their way across the mountains, keeping only a few hundred meters' altitude above the sharp peaks of the Alps. When the plane banked steeply and touched down on a small field south of Salzburg, the two passengers were relieved. Unlike Petrov, they both liked flying, but Ezdovo was a pilot and loathed riding as a passenger. He had learned to trust his fellow members of the Special Operations Group, but putting his life in the hands of a stranger was a different matter. Rivitsky also liked to fly, but he trusted Ezdovo's instincts and was infected by the Siberian's nervousness.

They were met by a full contingent of American military police, heavily armed and not at all friendly, and driven through rolling hills to a house in a small field surrounded by stunted and closely packed pines that whispered in the night wind.

Inside the wooden house was an American general. He had a blond mustache with a hint of red, a pearl-handled revolver and boots polished to the sheen of a mirror. The lobe of his left ear was missing and he wore jump wings on his chest. He was sitting in a high-backed cane chair, inhaling from a small cigar in an ebony holder and blowing crisp smoke rings with the precision of a machine.

The general did not introduce himself, and informed the Russians coldly that Skorzeny would be brought to them forthwith. Guards were posted around the house and out in the ring of pines, and it was clear to Ezdovo and Rivitsky that they were as much prisoners as Skorzeny. Neither of them cared for the feeling, but they masked their emotions and waited patiently for the prisoner.

Near dawn a vehicle rolled up to the front of the house. A door slammed and suddenly Skorzeny came through the front door, hand-cuffed in heavy irons. The general looked at him contemptuously, and then turned to the Russians: "You have two hours, comrades." He picked up his dented helmet, plopped it on his head and left them.

Skorzeny was huge, nearly six and a half feet tall and heavily muscled. His forearms were as thick as a blacksmith's, and the handcuffs looked exceptionally tight on his wrists. His SS tunic was filthy and unbuttoned; he needed a shave. But despite his unsavory appearance, the commando leader looked at the Russians with a superior air and wrinkled his face, causing the huge scar on the left side of his face to magnify. "Russians," he said with disdain. "I can always smell Russians. And NKVD at that."

"A remarkable feat, considering your own condition," Rivitsky said, sniffing loudly. "We would like to ask you a few questions, General Skorzeny."

"You realize the Americans are listening?"

Rivitsky lifted his palms. "Why not? They are our allies." "Today perhaps," Skorzeny growled, "but they'll learn soon enough." "We're interested in the activities of your band of criminals," Ezdovo said gruffly, speaking for the first time.

Skorzeny stiffened. "Criminals! You bastards have your nerve. My men were soldiers, not Gestapo."

"All SS are criminals," Ezdovo said. "We Russians know the SS well."

"It's probable you will be tried as a war criminal." Rivitsky softly applied pressure, testing Skorzeny's response. "Of course, all the Allies will have to agree on that assessment. It will be a political decision, as I'm sure you realize."

"I've nothing to hide and no shame for what I've done. I'm a soldier and a damned good one, Ivan. Both my record and my conscience are clean."

"You're fortunate the Americans have you," Ezdovo said. "If we did, there'd be no need for a trial."

"With such an attitude you intend to assess
my
criminality?"

"If you have nothing to hide, we'd like to ask you some questions about your unit." Rivitsky smiled like a grandfather addressing a child.

Skorzeny thought for a while. "Why not?" he said. "Give me a cigarette." Ezdovo lit one and placed it in the Austrian's mouth. Skorzeny held up the handcuffs. "Makes it difficult to converse."

Rivitsky glanced at Ezdovo, who immediately took a small piece of wire from his pocket, inserted it in the lock and opened the handcuffs
with no more than a half-dozen tiny twists. Skorzeny dropped the shackles on the floor, gave them a kick and began to tell his story, embellishing his division's missions, always emphasizing
his
role,
his
decisions and
his
actions. The Russians were amazed and intrigued by what they heard; the range of missions undertaken was difficult to believe. While they already knew some of it, they found themselves wanting to know more, but this was not what they had come for. Rivitsky made notes as the Austrian talked, and from time to time one of them asked detailed questions. Eventually they got to what they were after. "Where were you at the end?"

"The end of what?"

"Please, General. No games."

"It's still colonel. My unit was on the Oder in Bach-Zalewski's sector."

"And you were with your unit?"

"No, I was in Vienna," Skorzeny said with a twinkle in his
eye. The two Russians stared at
each other. "When?"

"At the end, as you put it. I left the front in early April to join Generalfeldmarschall Schomer. We expected the major Soviet assault to go against Prague. Schomer's headquarters was one hundred and forty kilometers north of the city. On April ninth, when we were informed that Vienna was under siege, I went there by automobile."

"I'm confused," Rivitsky said. "You expected the major assault on Prague, yet you went to Vienna? Can you explain your reasoning?"

"Priorities change as circumstances change. I still had two commando units in Vienna. Also my family."

"What did you find in Vienna?" Rivitsky continued.

"Chaos. The sniveling Communists had led the Ivans into the city and caught the defense off guard."

"What action did you take?"

"At first I tried to rally the defense. In the past, and in other circumstances, I've had some success with this. But it was no use. They were inexperienced young troops, mere boys, who bolted at the sound of someone passing wind. I wired Hitler that the city was lost."

"Hitler?"

"Of course," Skorzeny said incredulously. "Hitler. Who do you think sent me from the Oder to Prague in the first place?"

"Hitler," Rivitsky repeated. "You got this order directly from Hitler?"

Skorzeny laughed. "Ivan, I took
all
my orders from Adolf Hitler.
Directly and only from the Fü
hrer. I was Hider's special weapon, I creation. "

"How did he respond to your message?" "I didn't wait for a reply."

Rivitsky knew he was close
. Skorzeny was relaxed and talked
freely now.

"What happened to your units in Vienna?"

"I sent them into the mountains to wait for the war to end." "And your family?"

"Safe."

"You wouldn't care to tell us where?" Skorzeny smiled again. "No, Ivan."

"I'd like to go back in time a lit
tl
e," Rivitsky said. "Some of yo
ur
units were in Vienna, some were o
n the Oder, and I presume you had
some with you."

"Only a handful of men."

"Those with you and those in Vienna made it to the mountai
ns
safely. What about those on the Oder?"

Skorzeny's lips tightened and his shoulders drooped. "Most them are dead, I suspect. You didn't take many prisoners on the Oder "Who was in command on the Oder? Your executive officer?" Skorzeny looked at Rivitsky oddly. "No, Radl was with me
in
Vienna. The Americans have him. Number Three stayed on the Oder "Number Three?"

"Brumm. Gü
nter Brumm."

"And you had a sergeant named Rau?"

Skorzeny's eyes flashed with i
nterest. "You have the Beard? He’s
alive?"

"The Beard?" Rivitsky echoed.

"Sturmscharfü
hrer Rau, the best damned noncommissioned offic
er
in the SS. If you had him, you
'd understand." Suddenly Skorzeny
seemed suspicious.

"Brumm. He would be the Berliner?"

"No, the mountain man. What's going on here?"

Rivitsky checked his watch. "Our two hours are up." He
stood
and bowed to Skorzeny. "Thank you, General. You've been qui
te
helpful."

Skorzeny leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply from d stump of another cigarette. "Fuck you, Ivan," he said, exhaling slowl
y
Back in the plane, the two Rus
sians had to shout to make them
selves heard over the motors.

"What do we have?" Rivitsky asked, playing Petrov's customary role.

"A unit that answers directly to Hitler-was, in fact, his personal creation," Ezdovo yelled. "The records of every officer in Skorzeny's operation except one. A sergeant major for whom no record exists and who signs papers for the officer who does not exist on paper. It can't be a coincidence that
only
their records have been deleted. I think Brumm's our man. Brumm, the mountain man. A Bavarian, no doubt."

"Petrov will be pleased," Rivitsky said.

31 – May 28, 1945, 9:00 A.M.

In the Office of Strategic Services it was said by none other than Wild Bill Donovan himself that Beauregard Asherford Valentine was a singular specimen in a collection of singular specimens. Born to fourth-generation wealth in a bayou parish near New Orleans, Barry Valentine breezed through Tulane in two years, winning in the process all the academic awards available. By the time he had finished Stanford law school in 1935, "Barry" had become "Beau." A year later he earned an advanced degree in German history at the University of Chicago and took off for Europe to travel and study-to "mess with tongues," as he described it. The trip lasted three years. In 1939 he took a job with the State Department in Washington, D.C., where he labored in obscurity until 1941, when he was recruited by Donovan, who had been reporting directly to President Roosevelt as head of the Office of Coordinator of Informati
on. In June 1942,
this unit was split into two new organizations: the Office of Strategic Services and the Office of War Information. Donovan was named to head the OSS, and soon thereafter, Valentine became part of the new group.

Beau Valentine was not cut from typical agent cloth, if only because everyone remembered his appearance. Just as Providence had blessed him with a prodigious intellect, it also consigned him to a life trapped in what he once described as a "corpus colosseus."

Valentine's recruitment into the OSS had been considered odd. Theoretically, said the organization's desk jockeys, he was the worst possible choice as an agent. But the supervising chief for field services
argued that it was precisely his appearance that made Valentine a firstrate choice-in effect, because he was such a memorable figure, who would expect him to be an agent? It was the kind of inverse logic beloved in the covert services.