The Berkut (33 page)

"He's here. He's offered his network to us; we're waiting to receive directions from Moscow."

"Get him," Petrov said.

Muller was brought to the office within a few minutes, and Shik
bava immediately cleared out. The stout Bavarian had a head shaped like a block. His cheekbones were high, his eyes dark brown, his flesh waxy in appearance; he looked like a well-fed ghost.

"You offer us a network, Muller, but it is unproven. I want to test it. There is a man, Otto Skorzeny."

"Captured in Austria by the Americans," Muller said confidently. "I knew the bastard. Hitler's toy soldier."

"You speak too quickly, Herr M
uller. Who was Skorzeny's plan
ning officer?"

"You mean Brumm?" Muller asked arrogantly. "I knew them all." "His first name?"

"
Gü
nter. A cold fish. He was some kind of a hero in Russia. He was the brains behind Skorzeny's hot air."

"He was last seen on the Oder with a division. We want to use your people to scour the camps for survivors of that unit. We need information about him quickly."

Muller was interested. "Why go to so much trouble?" Petrov stared back.

"The Gestapo has complete records. I can take you to them." He added, "For a price."

"Make your offer."

"A position. Assets. Freedom to operate. My people in your service, but I control."

"Granted," Petrov said. He called Shikbava back into the room and said quietly, "Release him to me."

Muller observed the chemistry between the two Russians. Shikbava had shown a lot of bravado and made promises, but obviously this new man was the one with the power. Shikbava signed the release papers and collapsed in relief when the two left his office. He poured a large brandy and gulped it down. Only as he sat staring at the empty glass did he understand he'd been poisoned. A knot was forming in his stomach. He felt his lungs begin to constrict; his breathing became labored. The harder he inhaled, the more breath he seemed to lose. Trying to stand, he fell to the floor, felt a tremendous weight on his chest and stared up at the ceiling waiting for the end.

The sergeant major was asleep in the lorry. The three squeezed into the cab and Muller gave directions, which Petrov translated for the driver. The way led into the country, down roads still jammed with refugees. Tents and hastily constructed shelters filled the muddy fields and shattered forests.

Their destination was a small outbuilding behind a modest farm. The records were in a steel-lined vault in a cellar. Muller brought up the files, and Petrov recovered those he wanted. He then instructed Muller and the sergeant to move the rest of the contents of the cellar to the lorry.

When the truck was loaded, the sergeant major climbed behind the wheel, started the motor and waited. Muller and Petrov faced each other in the entryway to the cellar. "You've got what you want," the German said. "Now let's discuss my operation."

Petrov suddenly had a revolver in his small hand. He pointed it at Muller's head and cocked the hammer. Muller laughed quietly, un
afraid. "Ivan's justice," he said venomously just before Petrov shot him through the forehead, killing him with a single shot. Then Petrov broke a kerosene lamp on the floor and ignited it with a match. It lit with a loud
whoomp,
and he lingered only long enough to assure himself that the fire would destroy everything.

"What was that shot?" the sergeant major asked nervously.

"I heard nothing." As the sergeant moved to put the lorry into gear, Petrov shot him through the side of the head. He pulled the body into the flaming cellar, climbed behind the wheel of the lorry and drove away, not bothering to look back at the heavy black plumes of smoke.

On the drive back to Berlin, Petrov decide
d it was time to see Stalin agai
n.

38 – June 8, 1945, Midnight

They were in Stalin's study. Petrov reported his findings and conclu
sions with the precision and detachment of an accountant while the premier doodled on sheets of coarse gray paper.

"You're certain of your evidence?"

"Yes. There is no longer any doubt. It's all a circumstantial case, but the conclusion is inescapable."

"You've always been a cautious and meticulous man, Comrade Petrov. I would hate to think that you might make your only mistake at this precise moment in history," Stalin said coldly.

"There's no mistake. My men have been careful and thorough. Adolf Hitler is alive. Or rather, he did not die in the bunker, and General Zhukov, with all due respect, does not have his body."

Stalin smiled, and the dark stains on his teeth caught the dim light.

"Zhukov, Liberator of Berlin. He engages in intrigue. Perhaps his eyes face to the east."

Petrov shook his head. "I believe Zhukov to be a competent man. He's a professional soldier with no political ambition. If there is in
trigue, he's a victim of overzealous subordinates who wish to please and honor him. Superficially all the evidence points to his assessment being correct; he truly believes that the corpse is Hitler's."

"His subordinates seek to create a cult around the man."

"Yes, that's true. He's a hard man, but his men revere him. He's brought them through the war alive. From a soldier's perspective this is the ultimate gift a commander can bestow."

"Nevertheless, I fear that our general must be taught a lesson-at the appropriate time, of course. I've already recalled him. Did you know that?"

"No."

"Soon we will have a grand parade in Red Square. The Great Victory Parade-a good name, yes?"

"An accurate characterization."

"There will be troops from every unit and front. Zhukov will lead our patriotic fighters from a great white stallion. It will be his finest hour, a tribute. After that I will see to his reeducation. The bastard will learn his lesson or else he'll drill a squad in hell without a pause." Stalin added, "What's your next step?"

"I will spend several days in Moscow. There are some leads to be followed from here. The difficult part now is to find the trail, the right one. Once you know it's there, locating it is only a matter of time. Getting out of Berlin was one thing-and no mean feat-but finding a permanent safe haven will be more demanding. The potential avenues of departure from the Continent are few."

"Spain," Stalin said. "He's with Franco, that greasy little Fascist pig."

"I doubt it."

"Franco was supported by the Germans. He owes them." "Franco walks alone. He maintain
ed neutrality and did not offi
cially send Spaniards to fight with the Wehrmacht."

"South America, then."

"Possibly, but to reach it requires complex logistics."

"Africa?"

"Unlikely, but conceivable."

"The Near East?"

"Perhaps, but less likely than South America."

"Japan."

Petrov shook his head. "Too far. The Japanese don't like the Ger
mans and they don't tolerate losers. Hitler wouldn't seek protection with what he thought was an inferior race."

"I thrust; you parry. Always you play it close to the vest, comrade." "Words spoken without forethought are but steps toward the grave."

"A peasant's philosophy."

"A
live
peasant," Petrov said with the hint of a smile.

Stalin roared with laughter and struck his hands against his thighs. "Go then, my Berkut, but see me again before you depart for Berlin."

Petrov walked the halls of the Kremlin, confident that while the leader of the Third Reich was fleeing, he was drawing closer to him. Their paths were converging. Eventually they would collide; the only questions were where and when.

39 – June 9, 1945, 9:00 A.M.

With Petrov in Moscow for unexplained reasons, the team settled into its own routine. There was plenty to do; they applied themselves to administrative details and the pursuit of minor bits and pieces of information.

By now the unit's walls were covered with lists and photographs as they continued sifting through prisoner records and captured reports in order to find still-missing Chancellery people. For Gnedin the prime target was Martin Bormann, chief administrator and secretary of the National Socialist Party. Interrogations of captured Reich Chancellery Group personnel produced conflicting reports. One young officer reported seeing Bormann on the northwestern outskirts of the city on the night of May 2. But Gnedin did not trust the man; he was a rabbit, frightened and desperate to gain leverage in dealing with his captors. He would sing whatever song they called for.

The story they had heard most frequently was that the Reichsleiter had been killed during an exchange between Soviet and German tanks, and they were inclined to accept this, simply because of the number of these accounts. Yet they were not entirely convinced; doubt persisted because they had no eyewitness accounts of the fate of Ludwig Stumpfegger, the six-foot-six physician who had been Bormann's partner and shadow in the breakout group. Stumpfegger's unusual size made him the sort to attract attention, even in death. The Special Operations Group had seen no unusual specimens other than a four
hundred-pound Gestapo agent who had crawled into a sewer pipe and got stuck. Panicking, the man bit into a vial of cyanide and died on the spot. Bloating caused the body to swell enormously, so that the burial unit had been forced to use cleavers to butcher the corpse like a steer in order to extract it and bury it. This story made the rounds of Russian units, but there were no additional reports of live or dead Germans of unusual physical proportions.

The group did have one report from an escapee that was different from all the others. A corporal, a freckled combat veteran of several campaigns, told Gnedin during his interrogation that while his companions had followed one route, he had broken away from them to go it alone. After crossing the Spree he had looped back in a southeasterly direction.

The man's audacity grabbed Gnedin's attention. "Your comrades took a route that was north by northeast. You swung away from them. Did you give consideration to the danger of being alone?"

It turned out that the corporal hadn't been quite alone. He'd followed Reichsleiter Bormann and the tall doctor.

"When did they leave the group?"

"After the crossing. That wasn't as easy as it sounds. When we got to the bridge, some Russian tanks were on the other span, so Bormann got into one of our own tanks and directed an assault to clear the path for us."

"Where was the doctor during this?"

"Right next to me. We were behind the Reichsleiter's tank, using it as a shield."

"We've had a number of reports saying that Bormann was killed in an explosion during the battle."

"They're wrong. Some of the tanks were destroyed, but the Reichsleiter's made it across safely. There was intense firing. One of the Fiihrer's pilots was killed by one of the Russian tanks, and maybe some of the others as well. I didn't pay much attention."

"Did you see Bormann again after you crossed the river?"

"Yes, he was as close to me as I am to you. Of course he was dead."

The words jolted Gnedin. "I thought you said he was all right." "I did. But he died later. Really strange. The doctor, too. I saw both their bodies."

"Where?" Gnedin scribbled his own notes to augment the steno-

grapher's transcription.

"On the Invalidenstrasse, near the rail trestle." "You're certain it was Bormann and Stumpfegger?"

"Of course," the young corporal snapped. "I've seen lots of bodies. I'm not afraid to look at them. It was them, all right."

Gnedin read the transcript again and again. With each reading, the knot in his stomach grew larger. He was sure he had the truth, and he decided to try to confirm it. There must be evidence.

Because Ezdovo was the only one available and because he enjoyed the Siberian's company, Gnedin asked for his help in what he described as "a little outing." They had the German corporal brought from his cell, and took him to the area he'd described in his interrogation. The man walked them through the area, beginning at the place where Bormann had taken command of the tank. On the other side of the bridge they turned east, and he showed them where he'd skirted a Soviet infantry company. For reference Ezdovo had a set of order-ofbattle charts in a leather tube. Using these, they were able to identify the battalion that had been responsible for the area; later they would locate the company.