The Berkut (35 page)

"And Father Grigory will see to it that this information comes to light."

"Yes, with great relish. At an opportune moment. It will be interesting to see how the Vatican tries to squirm out from under this dark cloud."

"It always seems to manage."

"That's the secret to institutional survival. It will change when it has to; it can be ruthless and forthright when the situation dictates."

"There must be more."

"For centuries the Vatican existed as a vulnerable citadel, a religious enclave, in the heart of Italy, there at the pleasure of the Italians, but only as tenants. They did not have legal right to the geography. It was by some definitions a political entity, though without the political rights or status afforded to others in the family of nations. But it was apart from the Italians, and allowed to survive only through their good graces. Italian politicians always coveted the enclave. Over those centuries there were countless superficial negotiations with the Italian government to cede Vatican property to the Church, and for it to be granted status as an independent state. This finally occurred under Mussolini. He was trying to consolidate his own power and needed the Vatican question resolved in order to get on with his own agenda.
In
1929, the year Pacelli returned to Rome, Mussolini and the Church signed the Lateran Treaty. Keep in mind, Petrov, that Hitler was not then in power; he was still struggling for political recognition in Germany, trying to build an organization to finance pursuit of his political ambitions.
In
the settlement of its dispute with the Italian government, the Vatican received seven hundred and fifty million lire in cash and another billion lire in Italian gold-based bonds with a return of five percent. It's my belief that a great part of this money-perhaps most of it-was funneled to Hitler's National Socialists in exchange for a number of concessions and promises."

Father Grigory paused to catch his breath, and as he leaned forward his voice dropped by a full octave. "How else can we account for Hitler's sudden and hitherto unexplained overflowing war chest? Contributions from the people? Impossible! They were in the middle of a terrible depression.
The German people had no money, Petrov!
Yet there was Hitler suddenly in possession of an abundance of cash. His people had new uniforms, weapons, everything that money could buy. Money from the Church. If so, we must ask: What did Hitler give in return?"

The Jesuit was in full voice now. "Please understand, my dear comrade, that this is an old man's notion, but there
is
evidence. What if I were to tell you that these promises included repayment of the loan, the elimination of German Freemasonry, pressure against European Jews and, upon taking power, a strong, uncompromising denouncement of Communism-specifically the Russian variety because of our policies on organized religion?"

"What's in your tea?" Petrov asked with a smile. "If all of this is true, the Church will be hard-pressed to defend itself."

"The Church is adept at defending itself. I can't prove all of this
,
not yet. But I'm convinced that something on this order occurred. It's the only scenario that would explain the known results. A concordat was signed by Hitler and Pacelli a little more than six months after Hitler gained power. The world diplomatic community was stunned by this because, at the same time that Hitler was moving to crush individual freedoms, he was suddenly stepping forward to grant freedom of operation to the German Catholic clergy and to guarantee German citizens that they could continue practicing their religion without interference from the government. Unusual, don't you agree?" Father Grigory did not wait for an answer. "It makes no damn sense, Petrov. After that, the German Freemasons were emasculated, and what happened to the Jews is now a matter of record. As for us, Hitler invaded. That concordat, incidentally, also specifically revalidated the
Kirchensteuer.
There's too much in all of this to be coincidence."

"If there was cooperation at the top, what sorts of interaction existed lower down?"

"The Vatican's agents acted as intermediaries in Germany's behalf in a number of instances, but most of the links were high-level. Right now I'm studying reports that the Vatican is already actively involved in assisting Nazis to flee Germany. Apparently there is a route, a connection of monasteries across the Alps; this pipeline, I'm told, is full of big and little Nazi fish swimming out to sea."

"You have evidence of this?"

"The Italians have loose tongues, and the Vatican employs an unusually low level of vermin to do its dirty work. Our contacts in Switzerland and Rome have learned that over a period of years some top Nazis and many German industrialists have been putting large sums of money, gold and other currencies, into accounts in Switzerland and Argentina. There's no doubt that some of the more forward
looking National Socialists and their sympathizers have been preparing to make a run for it."

"Can you identify who's been behind such transactions?" "Generally not. That capital has been shifted is unquestioned; the rest is speculative."

"The escape route itself is evidence," Petrov pointed out. "If the Vatican had an arrangement with Hitler, now it is seeking silence by helping Nazis reach safety."

"That's precisely my interpretation," Father Grigory answered. Standing up to leave, Petrov slowly put on his coat. "I'd like to have more details on the escape network-how it works, the links, as much as you can part with. I'd also like the name of an agent in Italy whom I can trust."

The priest's eyes narrowed; he cocked his head, raised his bushy white eyebrows and peered over his glasses. "So, Petrov, we get to the real purpose of your visit. What are you up to this time?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

Father Grigory nodded solemnly and leaned forward. "Good."

For a moment the Jesuit registered no reaction. Then, without warning, he fell heavily against the back of his chair and burst into raucous laughter, which thundered through the basilica. As Petrov reached the front portal he could hear the priest still bellowing in the cavernous church.

41 – June 12, 1945, 2:00 P.M.

Petrov had always liked to sit in the sun by the Moskva River and watch the pigeons and ducks. Most of the pigeons were gone, victims of wartime starvation, but the ducks were migratory, and though some might have been taken, there were always new waves of them. The warmth of the sun's rays relaxed him. Unlike many people, Petrov did not seek solace in one of the parks on the riverbank; he preferred an unpretentious stone bench not far from Red Square. Though he never fed them, the birds came around to beg handouts, and it pleased him to listen to their sounds.

Three days had pa
s
sed since his meeting with Father Grigory. Yesterday an envelope had been delivered by courier containing details about the Vatican escape network, including maps showing the locations of the mountain lodges and monasteries being used. There was also a hand-scribbled note from the priest, suggesting that Petrov go to his favorite bench at a certain date and time. No reason was given. Sitting now at the appointed time, Petrov smiled. The priest relished the dramatic.

The bench seemed softened by the sun, Petrov thought, like Russia itself. The long harsh winters gave way grudgingly to the change of season. Deposits of blue-green ice often persisted at the base of trees in the forest until June. When it came, spring did not linger. The rains melted the snow and the matted brown grass turned gray, then bright green. Flowers seemed to grow several inches in a single night. Birds returned all at once by the millions, the skies black with soaring flocks and their cries. The trees passed from barren to full bloom as if touched by a magic hand. Petrov loved the spring and hated knowing that it would pass into summer without lingering. He told himself there was not enough spring for his soul, but then what true Russian thought there was? He decided to enjoy the moment and endeavored to put business out of his mind.

Without thinking, Petrov caught himself tracking the progress of an elegant young woman, tall, with black hair. She wore the light brown uniform of the Soviet army with a major's rank on her collar. Several rows of medals were pinned over the left breast of her tunic and jingled like chimes as she walked. Two young boys, close in age, stayed close to her, wrestling with each other, darting around her legs, laughing. One of them carried a toy sailboat.

As the woman stopped directly in front of him
,
the boys scrambled down the bank to play at the water's edge. She warned them to keep their feet out of the river, or else remove their shoes and roll up their pants legs. She was confident both in her authority over them and in their ability to care for themselves. He watched her take a wrinkled pack of cigarettes from a pocket, extract one and light a match by striking it against the leather grain of her boot. She inhaled and held the smoke deep in her lungs. It came out slowly in a narrow stream and hung over her head in the still air. Then she turned to face Petrov and spoke to him. He had expected such a tall woman to possess a deep, masculine voice, but it was so sweet and melodious that it captivated him.

"Comrade Petrov." He was startled by the sound of his name. "I am Talia Pogrebenoi. My former commanding officer gave me a note asking me to meet you. I was told that there might be a position available. "

Petrov fought a smile. The priest's tentacles were longer than he thought. He'd already decided that the team needed additional help; Hitler's escape route led to Italy and they'd need someone fluent in the language. Bailov could get by in it, but to gather information of a sensitive nature one needed precision, as well as the ability to blend when it was necessary. Grigory had read his mind. An agent in Italy was one thing; a Russian team member who spoke Italian was even better.

"You have handsome sons, Major Pogrebenoi."

"Talia," she said. "I've been discharged from the army. I haven't had a chance to find other clothing."

"You've been gone a long time?"

"Since the Germans invaded. My boys were two and three then. They're tall now, like their father." Her voice trailed off. "I will have to get to know them again." Her eyes kept contact with his as she talked. She was the kind of woman who made a man think he was the only one alive. It had a powerful effect because she seemed to be able to read one's mind.

"How important is it for you to remain with your sons?" Petrov asked.

She shrugged and flicked her cigarette over the bank. "How important is the work?"

"As important as what you've been doing. Wars don't end when the shooting finishes. There are always new dangers. We've repelled this bunch, but there will be others. It's our heritage." Petrov took out his notebook, wrote something on a piece of paper and offered it to her. She took it and read it. "Tomorrow. If you don't come, I'll look elsewhere."

"I have my records with me. The note said you'd want them." She opened a plain brown purse and passed him a thick, faded file, which he placed on the bench beside him.

"Was it bad?" Petrov asked.

"Were you out there?"

He nodded.

"Then you know the answer."

The boys scrambled up to her when she called them and took their position on either side of her. She smiled at Petrov and headed down the walk with her sons, who were obviously proud of their mother's uniform.

She was tall-six feet or more, Petrov estimated. Muscular buttocks and strong legs. A long tapered neck and broad, thick shoulders. Her hands were wide, but the fingers were narrow and well shaped. His instinct told him that she would fit. When she had gone, the ducks and several geese with misshapen orange bills returned to cluster around Petrov. He leaned back against the bench and let the sun play directly on his face.

42 – June 12, 1945, 6:30 P.M.

Though it was not that long since the war had ended, the decadence of Berlin had begun to reassert itself. While the very old and very young could not feed themselves and starved, the city's women crawled out of the rubble and resumed their lives. Many were pressed into duty by the Soviets to clear debris and open streets, but others
especially those who preferred easier work-pulled their best clothes from their hope chests, painted their lips with powder made from pulverized brick and went into the streets to ply a very old trade.

Before the surrender, Berlin, like Amsterdam, Hamburg and Marseilles, had been known for its quantity and range of diversions. There was something for every man's need and at every man's price. Even Hitler, who decried prostitution because of its anti
-
procreational nature, had the good sense not to press the issue. As German soldiers died by the thousands on the Eastern front, Berlin's whores found their business dwindling, until at the end there were no customers at all.

In their interviews with survivors of the Reich Chancellery Group, the Special Operations Group had uncovered testimony dealing with the situation they had come to call the Fegelein Mystery. Petrov himself was not sure it was relevant, but it remained a loose end and therefore something for them to look into while their leader was in Moscow.

Bailov took it upon himself to follow the best lead they had, which wasn't much. What they had learned came from their interrogations of General Rattenhuber, chief of the Reich Security Police. Of all their Chancellery group captives, Rattenhuber had been the most cooperative.

On April 27 Hitler had learned that Himmler had sent emissaries to British agents to explore the possibility of ending the war. When the Fuhrer discovered Himmler's treachery, he went berserk and immediately summoned Fegelein, who since 1944 had been Himmler's personal liaison with Hitler.