The Berkut (39 page)

"This is a joke, right?" But he didn't laugh. Waller was beginning

to feel very nervous.

"I'm quite serious," Brumm said. "Can I get hurt doing this?"

"If you do it wrong, you'll be dead before I can get to you. You must concentrate and do it right. It takes courage."

"Not to mention stupidity," she added disgustedly. "Why don't you just shoot another one and let's be done with it? I'm tired and it's beginning to rain. Why should I do this?"

He grasped her arms, spun her and looked into her eyes. His gaze frightened her. There was a fire in him, yet a coolness that she couldn't describe, something she'd never seen before in any man. It was more like an animal's. "I want you to," he said clumsily. That ended it for her. She could not deny him what he wanted, so she resigned herself to the task and rehearsed what she was supposed to do. Brumm's intensity excited her. She gave no thought to the danger, even though she had yet to see her first live boar. The three he had killed had been shot while he was out of sight, and she'd heard only the reports. But she'd seen pictures of boars, so she was certain she'd make no mistake should one venture up the trail.

The rain began as a mist, but quickly intensified to a barrage of heavy drops that struck hard and stung her flesh even through her flannel shirt, so that soon she was drenched. Even over the rain, she could hear a swarm of flies buzzing around the meat behind her. She wished they were home in the valley. The hot pool beckoned in her mind, but she fought to concentrate
.
She heard the animal before she saw it. It was trotting with an awkward gait, its tiny cloven hooves hitting the rocky ground with resounding smacks. Its hair was gray and matted; a hump protruded from the top of its back and accented its tapered head. She'd never seen anything so ugly. Its eyes were wide apart and sinister; yellow tusks curled back from its snout, and it was drooling heavily as it approached. She could hear Gunter behind the animal, driving it. He was slapping something against tree trunks, and each time he made the sound the animal accelerated a little, only to slow down again. But it kept coming steadily up the hill toward the rocks on the path directly between her legs.

It was so close now that she could smell it, a foul odor like carrion rotting in the sun that obscured the sweet pine scents of the valley. She felt her adrenaline rise. Her heart pounded; her arms were out, the spear extended. She braced her legs for the step and concentrated on sighting with the point. The boar's nose passed under; she inhaled deeply, pulled the spear's shaft into her chest, gripped it fiercely and stepped off into space wanting to scream in laughter or fear, but instead falling silently with her emotions locked inside. She thought she felt the spear penetrate with a cracking sound, but she had no idea what she had hit and no time to think about it. She landed on the animal's back haunches and glanced off, falling so hard on her back that her wind was knocked out. She felt the animal bump her leg; she couldn't breathe and wondered if she had somehow landed on the spear. She felt intense fear.

Brumm came up the trail at a run. Grabbing her hand, he jerked her to her feet and embraced her, showering her with words with such rapidity that she couldn't understand him. She pushed him away and collapsed; only then did he realize that she was having trouble breathing. When she finally recovered, she cursed him. "What if I had broken my leg?" she said angrily, but before she could continue she felt pain in her calf muscle and sat down heavily. "Look," she shrieked. "The damn thing's gored me."

Brumm examined the leg slowly, a broad smile on his face. It was only superficial, by his standards no more than a scratch. "He was dead when he did it. All that was left was his instinct to kill his enemy. Not enough strength to do any real damage. You're lucky," he said happily.

"Lucky?"

"Take off your shirt," he ordered. "It's my leg that's hurt!"

"Get the shirt off." His tone told her he was not joking. She did as she was told, the cold rain chilling her as it hit her breasts. She wondered would happen next, but when she questioned him, he grunted, "Be still. Don't talk."

As she watched he rolled the boar onto its back. He used his knees to wedge open the animal's hind legs and felt along its hairy belly to find the point just below where the ribs joined. Poking his dagger into the soft flesh, he slipped his fingers in on either side of the blade, which he worked back toward the animal's tail; the flesh opened easily without bleeding as he avoided penetration of the sack that held its entrails. With the animal opened, he used the palms of his hands to pound the spot where the ribs were joined by cartilage; it gave way with a resounding crack that sounded like the report of his shotgun earlier in the day.

Waller found herself fascinated by what he was doing. He worked with the confidence and dexterity of a surgeon. Using his knife again, he broke through the bone to open the chest cavity, which he spread wide. Steam rose from the organs into the cool air, and she could smell the animal's musk. As she watched he reached inside with the knife, and almost immediately his hand came out holding the animal's heart, a fat, bluish-red muscle not quite as large as his fist.

When he turned to her with the heart, she scooted backward, recoiling from the sight. His hand was covered with thick blood; black liquid oozed between his fingers and fell in syrupy strands.

"Get away from me," she warned weakly as he crawled toward her with an odd look in his eyes. She tried to stand, but he caught her by the belt and pulled her down. "No, Gunter, please," she pleaded, knowing it was no use. He pushed her onto her back and placed the boar's heart against her chest. Her mind swam; at first she resisted him, but he was too strong and she was feeling weaker by the moment. She felt disgust and excitement and an incredible warmth as he rubbed the bleeding organ all over her, covering her breasts with warm sticky blood. Suddenly the fright left her, and in its place was something new and entirely different, deep inside her, rising, spreading.

Suddenly he thrust up on his knees, hovering over her. He dangled the heart in front of his face, then bit into it, violently, tearing away a large piece of flesh so that his chin was covered with a grisly red goatee. She was paralyzed, wondering what would come next, but wanting it to happen, whatever it was. The fire inside her was spreading. Then the dead heart was pressed against her lips; she turned her head to the side, trying to escape it.

"Eat," he growled, and forced it into her mouth. She had no choice; she bit into the thing, at first finding it tough and ungiving before her teeth burst through the membrane into softer flesh.

She felt her last contact with reality departing. She was eating uncooked flesh, the heart of an animal that only seconds before had been alive and had tried to kill her. Brumm knelt beside her, blood dripping from his face onto hers, and she knew it was too late to turn back; they had gone too far and there was no stopping. She shuddered with anticipation. His eyes were glazed and he swayed from side to side, almost in a trance. She wished he would hurry; the fire inside her was unbearable. She grabbed at his trousers and pulled them down roughly, reaching for him with her hands. He fell forward on her, rubbing the heart all over her body, into its creases and folds, covering them with blood and a slippery trail. Then he was on her and she arched anxiously to meet him.

Afterward Waller was shaken by the experience. It had touched something primitive inside her, something powerful; she wondered if it was evil.

"Ritual," Brumm explained. "For the first kill. This is our way up here in the mountains." He sat on a rock next to the narrow stream, watching her wash the blood from her flesh. "My grandfather initiated me. His father did the same. It's been the tradition through generations so far back that no one knows when it began. It's always done here in this exact place by my family, and always in the same way. The boar is undisputed king in the mountains. By killing it in the old way, its powers pass to you and you absorb them. You capture its soul by eating its flesh."

Waller contented herself with listening. She was still shaky from the intensity of their lovemaking and the shock of seeing the heart suspended above her face. "Generations? Here? On this spot?"

He smiled.

She thought about it. Why had he done it? The answer came to her without warning. "Gunter," she said tenderly, her arms outstretched. He stepped off the bank into her embrace and they stood together for a long time. "I understand," she said. "We're joined now. That's it, isn't it? Your way, the old way."

He held her closer. "It's the closest thing to permanence that I can give you."

She wanted to weep but stopped herself. He was strong, so she would be strong. She felt whole and satisfied-and suddenly and inexplicably playful.

"Gunter?" "Yes."

"The ritual is
always
the same?" "Always."

"Even the last part?"

He pushed her away and smiled at her. "No. That was my idea." They fell into the stream together, laughing.

46 – June 16, 1945, 10:30 A.M.

Pescht and his avengers were renegades. The Americans had brought order, and already Germans who'd had no involvement with Hitler or his thugs were being installed in local governments or helping the Americans with an eye toward taking over later. Groups like Pescht's were a threat to the peace, and the Americans were increasing security measures around towns and villages.

Pescht's Angels, as they called themselves, had traveled a zigzag pattern across the countryside. Initially they had enjoyed freedom of movement, but as the days passed they began encountering heavy resistance. Even isolated farms were not easy targets. The group had been in two firefights with American soldiers and another with a large British contingent.

After their most recent engagement, in which their strength was reduced to fewer than twenty, the group made its way south to the Harz Mountains, where Pescht immediately lost his way. They found refuge in a narrow canyon, where they intended to camp and live off the land while they licked their wounds, regained some strength and determined when it was safe to leave the mountains again.

One of Pescht's men found the opening to a cavern.
In
the camps they all had become adept at finding places to hide themselves and their possessions in ways and places that men under ordinary circumstances would never consider. Now that they were outside the prison, their habits remained the same.

With a badger's sense of the underground, Pescht's man, a whippet
-
like Orthodox Jew from Dusseldorf, crawled around in the small cavern, eventually following it through to an opening in another valley, much larger-and much safer, they supposed.

The Angels posted a single sentry in the outer valley and followed Pescht into the new one with optimism and a sense of excitement.

47 – June 16, 1945, 11:25 A.M.

The previous night, Brumm had cooked boar's meat in the coals of a small fire, and he and Waller ate it with their fingers. Afterward, they made love wrapped in a blanket next to the crackling fire and slept together under a lean-to.

At dawn they ate cold meat, drank from the stream and began the return journey to the valley. Each knew that their relationship had changed, but they did not speak of it; the knowledge alone would have to sustain them.

Between them they had more than a hundred pounds of fresh meat, which Brumm had separated into two equal bundles. The rain persisted, a soaking drizzle that came from clouds hanging close to the valley floors.

When they reached the entrance of the valley late in the morning, Brumm saw immediately that there was trouble. The tracks told him the number of invaders; their pattern told him they were undisciplined. "Intruders," he whispered to Waller. "We'll move up by steps, left
, right.
"

She understood his meaning. It was a two-man trap and reconnoitering formation that they had practiced many times with Beard. They advanced twenty yards apart, maintaining visual contact.

Waller was first to see the sitting sentry. She caught Brumm's attention with a flickering hand signal and pointed. He signaled back for her to cover him and moved forward slowly after shedding his pack.

Brumm stalked the man like an animal. When he got close, he studied him. He was half asleep and filthy. He was still meters away, but the odor was terrible. His boots looked relatively new, and his weapon, an American M-l, was across his lap. Brumm took him from
the rear, smashing him behind the ear with the edge of his hand. The guard fell sideways, hit the ground and did not move. Brumm finished him with a quick thrust of his dagger and waited for Waller to join him.

"Cover the cave," he told her as he rifled the guard's clothes. There was no identification. He rolled up the man's sleeve and saw the tattoo. "Jew."

She stared at the body. "What's a Jew doing up here?"