The Berkut (63 page)

"Slid off the road," Valentine said.

The man motioned with his whip for him to climb aboard, but it was a long step up, and Valentine's legs were weak. He slipped, but a hand caught him and hauled him aboard. The man had incredible strength. "Behind," the man said. Then the whip cracked and they were off.

Valentine tried to shove his duffel bag into a space behind the seat, but something was already there and the bag wouldn't fit. Reaching back, he got hold of the object, pulled it out and stared, not understanding.

"One of my legs." The man laughed. Valentine saw then that he was held in his seat by a strap across his lap. He had no legs below the knees, but a small wooden T had been built across the front of the cart and pads had been fitted to both sides of it. The man's stumps were jammed into the pads, which acted as holsters and, combined with the strap, helped give him stability in the seat. "My own invention," he explained.

As the cart shot over a small rise and down a steep incline, Valentine grabbed at the seat and held tightly to avoid being thrown out as they raced downhill. They never reached the cluster of houses he had seen. Instead, the driver turned off the road and aimed the horse along a narrow, bumpy trail that wound around the contour of a mountain. Eventually they reached a clearing and the man reined in the horse, which stood with its sides heaving. He strapped on his wooden legs, then slid over the side and made his way to the back of the cart, where he took down crutches that had been tied to the backboard. Valentine saw a hut built among huge pine trees, but before the man made any move to go inside, he unharnessed the horse, then slapped it on the haunch. It whinneyed and trotted off into the tree line. "You're getting old, horse," he shouted in German at the animal. "At least you have all your legs!"

As soon as they were inside, the man lit a lantern and started to build a fire. When the interior was illuminated and the fire going, he took off his coat and hat, sat down and extended his hand. "My name is Gottfried. I'm a ghost," he said with a broad smile.

89 – April 5, 1946, 10:10 A.M.

Ezdovo had been right. The new trail led south along the calm Lahn River. They found the Germans' overnight stop; buoyant, they followed at a brisk run. Contact finally came at midmorning, when the Russians topped a small ridge near the river and saw the three Germans a kilometer away, moving due south across a grassy plain, strung out in single file.

Bailov laughed and broke into a little dance, kicking his legs out in front of him and slapping the heels of his boots. "We did it, eh?" Ezdovo was quiet and relieved. Bailov would never know how many doubts he'd had along the way, how often he'd been forced to guess. The German colonel was someone to be admired. But though Brumm had made no major errors, Ezdovo had been able to follow him, thanks in part to somebody who had carved the symbol into one of the Germans' boots.

"What now?" Bailov asked.

"We stay up here on the ridge, keeping pace with them. I want them to see us."

Ezdovo got his wish. As he expected, Brumm did not react immediately. The Germans stopped to rest and eat in plain sight at midday, but when they resumed their march they veered suddenly away from the river into a heavy forest. The Siberian watched as the three men ducked into a steep hillside of hardwoods. "We go down," he told his companion.

"They've seen us?"

"The leader knows. I figure they're in the woods right now trying to get their field glasses on us. We'll stay here for a moment to give them a good look, then fade away. Later today we'll let them see us again."

The game was on. Ezdovo felt alive as he stood wide-legged on the ridge. Look at me, Colonel, he thought; I'm up here.

90 – April 5, 1946, 11:00 A.M.

Brumm had a premonition of trouble long before he caught a glimpse of the two men on the ridge behind them. Beard felt it, too; he had begun swiveling his head and stopping every few paces, as if approaching a possible ambush. Only Herr Wolf seemed unaware. Maybe it was nothing, Brumm thought. Probably just a couple of locals, or perhaps more of the dispossessed; there were still plenty afoot in small groups. Most of Germany seemed to be adrift and wandering the hills and back roads. But by the time they halted to eat and rest, Brumm knew the threat was real. Criminals, perhaps, or once-honest men turned desperate by circumstance. Whatever they were, he was determined to be cautious.

They were in an open field that smelled of wild onions. Herr Wolf was curled up by a fallen log, his eyes closed, his hands folded under his head. Beard sat on a nearby stump, pawing at the ground with a boot. "They're still up there, Gunter."

"I know. They're looking us over."

"Troublemakers?"

"Maybe. We'll have to test their interest."

After their break, they began angling away from the river. When they reached the forest, Herr Wolf complained loudly. "I prefer the fields. Better footing. My leg's aching. Explain why we're going in here." The two soldiers ignored him.

Neither Brumm nor Beard looked back. The sergeant major entered the trees first and immediately swung around in a short arc to provide cover for his companions. As Herr Wolf prepared to enter he caught a brief glimpse of the sergeant's movement, stopped in his tracks and shouted, "What's going on, Sergeant?" Brumm caught up with the older man, planted the palm of his hand in his back and drove him forward into the foliage, causing Herr Wolf to catch his feet in the tangled ferns and tumble forward, scraping his face as he hit. Beard moved quickly to cover Herr Wolf's mouth with his hand and indicated by the look in his eyes that he must remain silent. Herr Wolf obeyed without further objection, his eyes darting around to locate the source of danger.

When Brumm scanned the ridge above the river, the two men were still there, standing in the open. They were armed. When he had seen enough, he helped Herr Wolf to his feet. "We m
a
y have ourselves some trouble. We're going to have to push hard for a while. You're going to have to keep up."

"Go!" Herr Wolf said anxiously. He stared at the place where they had entered the forest, as if expecting someone to come crashing in after them at any moment. It wasn't clear what had alarmed them, but his companions were on edge. Herr Wolf felt an ache begin in his belly. His pulse accelerated and his mouth became dry and sticky.

91 – April 6, 1946, 2:00 P.M.

Valentine's host was strange in appearance and abrupt in his behavior. His hair was blond and thinning, almost translucent, his skin that of an albino, but his eyes were normal, a shade of green. He had a flat nose, no chin, thin lips and a head with indentations that made it look like a partly deflated ball. Though he was short, the wooden legs he'd made for himself made him taller than his torso suggested.

Valentine had been with Gottfried for two days. On several occasions he had decided to leave for Berchtesgaden, but each time he'd stopped himself and stayed on. The man, who said he was twentynine years old, looked sixty and sickly, but he was robust, seldom still, climbing around his hut or the nearby forest, talking incessantly to himself and everything around him. It occurred to Valentine that he was dealing with a nut case, one of those inexplicable casualties of life, but he sensed there was more to the man than met the eye. Several times he had asked him to drive him into Berchtesgaden, but Gottfried always replied in the same way: "I deal in probabilities, not possibilities." Valentine had no idea what he meant.

Now it was afternoon. The sun was bright, but a slight breeze put a cool edge on the mountain air. Since morning the man had been splitting wood while Valentine stacked the pieces in neat lines three feet high. Gottfried had not asked for help, but when his guest pitched in, he had not refused it. At last, having finished the exhausting task without a break, he sat down heavily, stripped off his prostheses and began rubbing his stumps.

"Who are you?" Valentine asked. Gottfried had already told him that he was the son of a diplomat, raised in England, and that he was a graduate of Sandhurst.

His host laughed happily. "You mean
what
am I?" He immediately put his legs on again, strapped them into place, stood, tested them, took up his crutches and headed into the pines. "Come," he called out and Valentine followed. The trail was nearly vertical, and while the American had trouble negotiating the grade, the other made steady progress. During one of his many pauses, Valentine noticed that there were holes in the ground, and that the man used them for his legs and crutches; it was a subtle and ingenious ladder, but the holes seemed to have been worn into the ground rather than put there intentionally. At the top of the ridge he caught up with Gottfried; he was waiting outside another hut, this one larger than the one he lived in, but of similar construction. The doors were like a barn's and were padlocked. The man opened the lock and clicked it into place on the crossbar of a crutch. "Always losing things," he said as he flung open the doors.

Inside there was the camouflaged fuselage of a small aircraft, its nose facing out. "I was a captain in the Luftwaffe, a test pilot," Gottfried said. "I was scheduled to be part of the ME-262 project. Do you know of it?"

"Jet propulsion," Valentine said. "They flew late in the war. Not enough to have any effect, but they were said to be excellent craft. Entirely new technology, a new era of aircraft." Some of the scientists being sought by the United States had been part of this project.

Gottfried acknowledged the information with a solemn nod. "One day my commander called me to his office. 'An order has come from the Fuhrer,' he said. 'The Fuhrer requires our best man; the Fuhrer needs you.' I wanted to know what for. My commander says, 'We serve the Fuhrer. Trust him.' They sent me to Berchtesgaden, and while there was no flying, no mission that I could discern, it was wonderful duty. They had comfortable accommodations for me, the best food, endless champagne, the best beer and willing women. It was a pilot's dream. But then they introduced me to the project and the good times ended."

"What sort of project would require the services of a pilot here in the mountains?"

"Hitler was afraid of being captured. His engineers devised a scheme to snatch him from the jaws of trouble. They would place a glider on top of the Eagle's Nest, and if the fortress was in danger of being taken, the Fuhrer would be placed in the craft along with a pilot. A power-driven aircraft would swoop in and snatch the glider from the ground, carrying it to safety. Once aloft, the pilot would cut loose from the tow craft and use the thermals in the mountains to make his way to a secret landing field, where people would be waiting to take the Fuhrer to safety."

Valentine felt chills. "Sounds crazy."

"Of course," Gottfried said happily. "It was Hitler's idea; what would you expect from that one? Nevertheless," he continued, "the engineers were committed to making the project work, and they did so. By the time of my arrival, three test pilots had been killed in the effort. Three tries, three dead. I was the fourth. It was no wonder I was so well treated. I took one look at the contraption and told them to fly it themselves. I was a test pilot, not a circus stuntman.
In
the end, however, I had no choice. It was late afternoon when the test took place."

The man moved to the fuselage and lifted the canopy, propping it open with a stick. When Valentine touched the plane lightly with his hand, the entire fuselage shuddered. "Wood and canvas," Gottfried said. "The wood is special, from some tree in Tanganyika. The craftsmen sliced the wood into slivers, then glued them together with a special compound.
In
this way they made pieces that were exceptionally strong, but light and flexible.
In
the air the plane could withstand powerful forces and hold together, and it could be broken down into components and taken with the Fuhrer wherever he went.

"On the day of the test I was not nervous-don't ask me why.

There were few witnesses. The mother ship connected with me on the first pass and we came off the ground in good order. I tested the steering and it was fine, though I could feel pressure on the nose, a downward trim, but there was nothing I could do about it. Lateral control was excellent and required very little pressure. When we reached altitude, I used a lever to cut myself loose, but when I tried to level off and float, the nose pushed down. I tried everything I could, even dipping the nose down to build speed, but no matter what I did, I was set in a downward path. I knew there was no way to get out of it, so I picked the most open place I could find and aimed for it. Unfortunately the construction that makes the craft so strong in the air makes it like tissue when it strikes something solid. Even if it had been a controlled landing, I believe it would have come apart; in this case it simply disintegrated.

"I never lost consciousness. I lost one of my legs in the crash, and the other was shattered and bleeding badly. I used some cord to make tourniquets and waited for help to come. When it did, it was a hunter from those houses on the road. He carried me back, and it was he who cauterized the stump and removed the other leg, which couldn't be saved. It was a miracle that I survived the crash, and an even bigger one that I didn't die from infection."