The Berkut (52 page)

Brumm stepped toward the man and tried to take hold of his arm. "Let's discuss this in private."

Hitler pulled away, and suddenly there was a pistol in his hand and his arm was shaking. "Don't touch me!" he scr
eamed. "No one may touch the Fü
hrer!"

"Then get control of yourself," Brumm warned.

Hitler laughed a high-pitched squeal. It was the kind of sound one might hear in a mental ward. "Control? You speak to me of control?
You?
You're like all the rest, Brumm. What have you become? I thought I had selected a man with integrity, a man to be relied upon. Instead I find that you are no different. I've let you play at being leader, Colonel, but no longer. You lack vision. I can no longer accept this; from this moment on I command here. I will decide what is to be done by whom, and what is
not
to be done. As always, I must rely only on myself," he added with contempt.

As he talked he used the pistol like a pointer, and each time he aimed it at one of the girls she immediately moved to get out of the line of fire. Brumm and Beard stood their ground, but exchanged a quick glance: something had to be done.

"Crawl back into your hole," Beard said suddenly, and Hitler reacted with a scream. A shot went wide of the sergeant major, struck the stone wall behind him and ricocheted around the room, making them all duck reflexively. "Insubordination," Hitler accused. "I won't have it! You have sworn an oath to me, Sergeant. An
oath!
How dare you question me? Were it not for me, you would still be clawing the ground in poverty. All of Germany is indebted to me; without me there would be no Reich. I alone lifted you out of oblivion, made you something-all of you," he said, waving the gun around the room. "I gave you something; I restored your will and your honor."

"Yes," Rau snapped back. "You gave us the Reich." He swung his long arms in an arc. "This is it. A dark hole dug into the rocks."

Hitler suddenly became calm and his voice dropped. "You do not deserve me. None of you deserve me;
you are all unworthy of your Führer
. You failed me, and in doing so, you failed Germany and yourselves. As a result, now I am consigned to this icy hell with hormone-driven adolescents and two who masquerade as soldiers." He paused, and his voice dropped even lower. Again the pistol was aimed at Rau, and now the arm was steady. He smiled. "You call yourselves men. All these months and not one of these women is pregnant. Men? I spit on your manhood."

Brumm fought for self-control. Part of him was filled with terror; whatever Hitler had become since the escape, Herr Wolf was gone now,
and in his place was the old Fü
hrer, in control of himself and filled with rage. In such a state there was no way to predict what he would do. Brumm knew he had to act, but a voice in his hea
d kept whispering, He is your Fü
hrer.

Beard could take no more. He started toward Hitler, who tensed and took aim. Brumm used Beard's movement as a diversion and stepped quickly forward, driving Hitler's gun hand upward, then locking it in both of his, twisting backward until the pistol dropped. Using a forearm lock, he tightened his grip and increased the pressure, but despite obvious pain the man did not make a sound. Brumm knew that he had almost reached the point where further pressure would snap the bones in the forearm, but if he relented now, all would be lost. "Herr Wolf," he said calmly. "In a situation such as ours, there is no place for animosity. All here have risked their lives to save yours. All have served willingly, asking nothing in return. You will apologize to them immediately and then we will no longer speak of this." Increasing the pressure a notch, he added, "Now."

"Never," Herr Wolf said. "I am Adolf Hitler."

Brumm tightened his grip again and Hitler collapsed, his knees buckling under the pain. "All right," he said in a hushed voice. There were tears in his eyes.

"Say it," Brumm ordered.

Hitler was on his knees, his eyes down. "I apologize," he whispered, the words barely audible.

Brumm released his hold, jerked the man to his feet by his lapels, and sent him flying across the room with a powerful shove. "Here I am in command," he called to the retreating back as Herr Wolf bolted through the door to his quarters, not looking back.

Beard picked up the pistol and stood beside his colonel.
"Our Fü
hrer," he said mockingly.

68 – February 23, 1946, 6:00 A.M.

The weather fronts that slithered down from the North Sea and the Baltic seemed to home in on the Harz automatically and hang there until pushed away by new systems. Good flying days were few, and on those rare occasions when the weather was clear, the Siberian and Pogrebenoi made the most of it.

Ezdovo had selected a cramped Arado 96B, a German trainer modified for artillery-spotting missions. He would have preferred a Soviet aircraft, but none was available and it would have taken too long to have one ferried in. The Arado was easy enough to handle and was fuel-efficient, so light that he could almost glide at stall speed in the air currents above the mountains, thus increasing their time aloft. The only drawback was that the skin of the aircraft was of lacquered canvas, so when they were aloft they had to bury themselves in leather flying suits lined with fleece to keep from freezing.

Pogrebenoi's gender was never a problem. Ezdovo treated her cautiously, as he would have any other new comrade, but his satisfaction with her grew quickly. She'd never flown in a small craft before and she loved it. More important, she was helpful and resourceful; she did anything he asked and had plenty of ideas of her own.

After their initial shakedown flights, they found their charts were inadequate; the scale was far too large for the kind of work ahead of them. Pogrebenoi went to Berlin and returned with a complete set of topographical charts from the Nazi Ministry of the Interior. The new ones were large and bulky, so clumsy to handle in the small cockpit that she reduced them to quadrants, mounted them on fiberboards and enclosed them in clear paper. The result was an easy-to-use segment that fit into the lap and was waterproof. After making two
complete sets, she had even taken Petrov's carefully devised search grid and improved it.

"You're at home with maps," Ezdovo observed to her one evening.

It was as close to a compliment as he was capable of giving.

"I learned in '42 when we stopped the Germans. Their maps were perfect. I could see that intricate terrain information gave their field commanders an edge on us. We often worked behind the German lines; knowing where we were was critical." She was pleased that he appreciated her work; in turn she liked his quiet and reliable way of doing things. He seemed gentle, a trait she had not seen in a man in a long time.

While Pogrebenoi was efficient and creative with tasks when they were grounded, it was her talents in the air that captured Ezdovo's deepest respect. She had eyes like a bird of prey. Ezdovo would put the Arado into a gentle turn or skid, pull the throttle back to near
idle and ride the wind currents. He had great pride in his own vision, but next to Talia he began to feel like a blind man, and it became a running joke between them. He'd say, "There's an animal down there in that grove of pines." She'd reply, "It's a badger with a torn left forepaw and a tick in his right ear." Then they'd roar with laughter, delighted with each other's company.

It was the middle of February before the fronts cleared away from the mountain range and gave them two solid days in which to work. They flew twice daily, taking off before sunrise in order to arrive over the mountains at daybreak. At midday they'd refuel and have a Spartan lunch, then hop over to their next search grid for the remainder of the day's light. The Harz was hardly the Alps; it was an aged, eroded range of slate and granite, notable primarily for its contrast to the northern German lowlands. But if the mountains weren't majestic from afar, their interior from above, a confusing maze, was impressive to two old soldiers. It didn't take long for them to understand the extent and complexity of the obstacles below. Even from the air, it was difficult to trace the valleys; they were so narrow and deep that shadows prevented a clear view. Often Ezdovo had no choice but to dip the Arado down to treetop level to survey the terrain. After much trial and error they developed some methods for venturing deep into the valleys. They would make passes until Pogrebenoi was comfortable with the lay of the land; using a broad pencil with soft lead, she would sketch in the landmarks and number each of them. Then Ezdovo would
dive down so that they could explore each small area individually and note what they saw on the chart.

Pogrebenoi also used a 35-mm German camera with a telephoto lens to get shots of spots that interested them so that they could study the photos when they were socked in and unable to fly. After each mission she would redo her drawings and sketches in permanent ink, then mount them on a large wall. Their objective was to create a huge, detailed map of the Harz and its environs. When it was complete, they'd have the Red Army cartographic unit in Berlin render it in a smaller, more manageable size.

During their flights they looked hard for smoke plumes, even though they suspected that if Brumm was indeed in the Harz, he would know how to make fire without smoke. Sometimes they did spot smoke, but always on the fringes of the mountains, not in the interior; the only such phenomena within were several pockets of steam plumes from natural hot springs.

On the morning of February 23 the weather closed in again. Ezdovo was awake before Pogrebenoi, and when he looked outside, he knew they were through flying for a while. A fierce wind had created whiteout conditions. When Pogrebenoi came out of her bedroom, she found him sitting by the stove with his boots off and a cup of coffee.

"Grounded," he grumbled. She didn't have to look; she could hear the wind. It was the start of the worst snowstorm of the winter. She spent the day refining her renderings by the light of several lanterns.

That evening Ezdovo was shocked to hear the scratchy music of Tchaikovsky coming from a small hand-cranked victrola. Where Pogrebenoi had gotten it he had no idea, but the music was wonderful. He sat in front of a hissing fire studying charts and watching her out of the corner of his eye. She wore a heavy sweater, trousers and wool socks pulled up to her knees over her pants legs, her dark hair free and glistening in the wavering light. At one point she looked up from her drawing and caught the Siberian staring at her. When he turned his eyes away, embarrassed, she smiled at him and went back to her work.

When she had finished her latest drawings, she called him over for a look. He stood close to her, admiring what she had done without comment, her scent overwhelming him. He imagined feeling her through the sweater, and the occasional brushes against her set him burning inside. Before retiring to their sleeping areas, they took a small brandy each and sat cross-legged in front of the fire, not talking.

Ezdovo could not sleep and he knew why. Talia. He loved the sound of her name. She was beautiful and independent, like a mountain woman. They were at ease together, but she gave no indication of any deeper interest. It was frustrating; she was on his mind constantly. He got up from his cot and walked to the door that separated their sleeping areas. He wanted only to look at her, to reassure himself that she was flesh and blood, not a vision that haunted him. Pulling back the curtain, he looked toward her bed but could not see her. Her soft voice startled him. "For a great hunter, you stalk very slowly," she said from the darkness. He heard her bare feet padding across the floor as she came toward him.

69 – March 24, 1946, Noon

Pogrebenoi had seen the valley twice before, first in late November and then, briefly, during February when the weather had broken for a short time. She was interested in having a closer look at it.

For the most part the aerial reconnaissance team of the Special Operations Group had found itself on the ground during the winter months, and the two Russians had spent their time together double checking the condition of their aircraft and working on a Packard limousine with a straight twelve-cylinder engine. There seemed to be nothing Talia could not do, and as the months passed their feelings for each other intensified. After their first night together they had discussed the situation at length and decided that it would be improper for it to happen again, at least in current circumstances. In another time and place it would be all right, and both of them wondered if such circumstances would ever present themselves. Their self-imposed discipline hurt each of them. From his years in the party, Ezdovo had formed the rather cloudy opinion that Russian women shared more of their society's work than in other cultures, but he'd never thought much about the implications of this. When he did finally focus on it, he realized that while there had always been Russian women around, they were always on the periphery. Never until Talia had he attended an important meeting in which a woman had participated. It occurred to him that while the Communist party paid homage to equality between the sexes, its practice was much different from its theory. That someone in the party bureaucracy had recognized Pogrebenoi's potential was interesting. If Hitler had accomplished nothing else by his invasion, he had inadvertently fused Soviet society in ways that without the Nazi threat might have required generations.