The Berkut (67 page)

The original owner of the estate the Special Operations Group had commandeered had been a German industrialist who had helped arm the Nazis. After the war he had tried to flee the country but had been caught by the English in Flensburg. Now a prisoner in Nuremberg awaiting trial, the businessman, who claimed aristocratic lineage and the title of Graf, stubbornly denied having had anything to do with the Nazi regime. The man had been a collector. His house, a sprawling structure with black marble floors and white marble baths equipped with gold-plated fixtures, was filled with paintings and bronze statues of nubile young women and men engaged "athletically"-as Rivitsky put it-in various sexual pursuits.

Of all the riches, it was the library that interested Petrov most, and so he had established himself among its high, deep shelves, housing hundreds of leather-bound books of all sizes and shapes. Apparently the count fancied himself a mountaineer. An entire shelf was filled with geological texts, explications of rock- and ice-climbing techniques and biographies of famous climbers. Now, looking for something to entertain himself, a small volume entitled
Guides of Germany
caught Petrov's interest. It was an ill-written, turgid account of the lives and exploits of ten German guides of the German and Austrian Alps. The author described them as being "without peers" and was careful to note that he had climbed with all of them. It was his contention that the conquest of various Asian mountains, while popularized by the press and pursued by British climbers, was less a measure of the true climber's expertise than of his financial backing. The Germans whom he extolled had never stood on the oxygen-deprived peaks of Tibet; rather, they had taken a less glorious but more difficult approach, choosing to conquer the mountains in their own backyard with little more than brains, courage, a ·sturdy pair of climbing boots and an occasional rope.

One of the German masters described in the book was a Herr Rau of the village of Bleckheim. The connection did not dawn right away. Petrov returned the book to its place and went downstairs to join Rivitsky for a meal. They began eating, and Petrov's mouth was full when his subconscious fired its message, causing him to cough, then choke. Wasting no time, he called Gnedin in Basel and instructed him to proceed immediately to Bleckheim to glean what he could about the Rau clan.

"Where?" the surgeon asked.

Petrov gave him instructions and told him to get there as quickly as he could, using his diplomatic credentials to cross the border.

"Why?" Gnedin asked.

"Two of our old friends may soon be there. They were hiking and got separated from a larger group. One of the larger group, we have reason to believe, hails from the village. His father was a climber."

"Am I to greet the larger group?"

"No. Seek information and call me immediately."

"I understand."

At eight o'clock Ezdovo reported in and Petrov snatched the tele
phone from Rivitsky's grasp. "Petrov here," he began.
"Listen carefully. East of Miü
hlheim there is a village called Bleckheim; it's the home of one of the travelers. Ask for the doctor there. You'll know him, I believe. Be expeditious."

Ezdovo considered what his leader was saying. Brumm was from Bad Harzburg; Bleckheim must be the sergeant's home. If they'd left the river, it would make sense to head for familiar terrain. It was speculative, the Siberian knew, but it was more than he'd had moments before. "And after that?"

"Confer with the doctor. He may have the prescription," Petrov said, hanging up.

Next Petrov called Stalin, who sounded groggy when he got through to him.

"The enlisted man is from a village called Bleckheim," Petrov explained quickly, not wanting the premier to have a chance to in
terrupt. "It's a short distance from the Rhine to the village; I'm certain that's where they've gone."

"And after that?"

"Italy. We pushed them off their planned route, but given where they are now and what we know about the Church's involvement in moving German refugees, their destination must be Italy."

"A ship?"

"Undoubtedly."

There was a pause at the other end as Stalin considered what he'd heard; then he coughed several times and said in a deep voice, "No more chances, comrade. Let me remind you that you are not a cat."

99 – April 14, 1946, 2:45 P.M.

The doctor had spent nearly two days in Bleckheim, using his easy style to coax information from the wary villagers. Nestled in the low Alps south of the deep lake called Schluchsee, it was a collection of small stone cottages, dirt streets and a wooden Lutheran church with a high, thin steeple. Its inhabitants were mountain people, fair of skin and suspicious. Many of them worked as guides for the "flatlanders" who visited the area to tackle the great peaks south of the lake. Thick
-
coated dogs with blunt noses roamed the village seeking handouts, and children played quietly in small groups beside herds of black and white goats.

For the most part the Bleckheimers were courteous and proper; this behavior, Gnedin guessed, was the norm for their encounters with all strangers. Unlike other parts of Germany where food was in short supply, these people seemed to have plenty.

For a cover, the Muscovite surgeon employed the same story he'd used in Bad Harzburg. He told them he wanted to find a place to resume his medical practice, but not just anyplace; he wanted a place not too large, where his expertise would be needed, a place where he could become an integral part of a community, where every life counted. It was not an unusual story, and the Bleckheimers accepted it at face value. They'd seen so many refugees since the latter stages of the war and heard about so many tragedies that they were no longer moved by such tales, and saw all newcomers as potentially disruptive elements in the long-established social harmony of their village. But a doctor was a different matter. Having its own doctor gave a village a certain status. The nearest hospital was forty kilometers distant, and the vil
lage midwife, Frau Halle, was frail and getting on in years. For no other reason than to assist with difficult births, a doctor would be a godsend. However, they were much too stoic and reserved to invite him to stay; deep down they needed assurance that his ways would not be too different from their own. As a result, they watched him
closely and discussed among themselves what they observed. He was being tested.

His effect on them was just what Gnedin had hoped for, and he played it for all it was worth, hinting here, teasing there, leading them on. It might be a good place to settle; to be sure, it was satisfactory in summer, but what were the winters like? Before long, villagers were seeking him out to extol Bleckheim's virtues. They thrust food at him in huge portions, gauging his intentions by the magnitude of his ap
petite. When he was not hungry and did not eat with his customary enthusiasm, a black mood descended on them. He was not going to stay, they told one another, and blamed those who had fed him previously for their bad luck. Their mood began to vary almost by the hour. At breakfast-hard buns, white cheese and salami-they were jolly, but by midday and the first bowl of
Leberknodelsuppe
they were morose. By the time they offered him chopped onion and apple sandwiches for the evening meal, their mood would have again turned bright. To Gnedin they were typical countryfolk: aloof, secretive, set in their ways, superstitious. But just as he had expected, the more they pressed him for a favorable decision, the more information they began to give him.

It was the Lutheran parson who told him about the Rau family.

Before the war the Raus apparently had been among the most sought
after mountain guides, and had specialized in leading expeditions of experts on difficult climbs. Alas, they were gone. The elder Rau had died in an avalanche in '43 with several army officers who had hired him. On the day one decided to make a life of climbing, one put one's own name on a death certificate, said the red-faced cleric. The time would be decided by God. Besides, he explained, the mountains did not kill people. Nature was neutral; its laws applied equally in all instances. On the rocks it is the climber who kills himself, or so went a mountaineer's proverb. So it had been for Herr Rau.

The elder Rau's wife had died a few weeks later in her sleep. It was often thus with men and women who committed to marriage early and for life. Eventually they fused into a single entity, so that when one died there was no force to sustain the other. There had been a son, a huge man with flaming red hair. The village had assumed that he would become a mountaineer like his father and continue the family tradition, but he'd surprised them all by joining the SS and going away with the damned Nazis. Gnedin noted that this adjective-noun com
bination had become permanent among the townspeople. The younger
Rau, concluded the preacher, looked like a Teutonic chieftain, and he hoped he'd gotten his gotten his just reward, along with the rest of Hitler's thugs.

"What happened to their residence?" Gnedin asked. The minister shot him a suspicious look. "In the event I decide to settle here, I'll need a place of my own," the doctor explained.

"It would be no good. Too far away. It's four kilometers up a steep grade. You couldn't have sick people walking uphill such a distance. A doctor, like a shepherd of God, belongs near his people."

"Eventually I'll build in the village," Gnedin lied. "But this could do to begin with. Is it still there?"

"It's empty," the minister told him. "Too far away for most people." Seeing an opening, he added, "If you were to make such a commitment, I believe the village might build a place for you. In fact we could begin right away," the hope apparent in his voice.

"Still thinking about it," Gnedin said in order to terminate the conversation.

100 – April 14, 1946, 10:00 A.M.

On April 12 Talia had sent Giacomo on to Milan. If necessary, he was to continue into the mountains. In Rome, he told her-verifying what Petrov had gleaned-it was said openly that the Church was moving refugees across the mountains, giving them refuge in its remote monasteries. "Rumor is fine for the Italians," Pogrebenoi told the priest, "but I need evidence and facts." The purpose of his trip was to get them for her.

As soon as Giacomo departed, Pogrebenoi took a bus into the heart of Genoa and bought herself several new dresses, paying sinfully high prices to the capitalists. Still, the fine silk felt wonderful against her flesh; she salved her guilt by reminding herself that her work was for the party, and that she should not let her personal feelings get in the way.

All major ports are controlled by central offices that provide pilots for incoming and outgoing ships and coordinate the thousands of tasks necessary to keep shipping moving smoothly, Petrov had explained to her. A port was run by its harbor master, and he would have the information she needed. Petrov did not suggest how she might obtain it; he expected her to use her ingenuity and do whatever was necessary.

Pogrebenoi dressed in her new clothes and set out for the Genoan Port Authority in a huge buildin
g on a pier. It had a marble fac
ade pocked by bullet scars and a fountain inside its atrium. The interior was typically Italian: loud, filled with fast-moving men in tight suits trying to look important, and young secretaries in tight skirts and too much makeup attempting to look busy, but not too busy to flirt with the steady stream of passing males. From experience, Talia knew that their apparent efficiency was no more than an illusion; these were people who liked the appearance of work, not the work itself.

The harbor master's office was different. It was quiet, the women in the office were older, dressed conservatively, and there was an immediate sense of order. She asked a lot of questions of an old woman with gray hair, working her way toward the only one that counted. The name of the key official in the Port Authority was Guglielmo Luci. She watched him in his office behind a glass wall. Sixtyish, balding, with gray eyes, frown lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth. No good; he smelled of integrity.

Signor Luci had three assistants, and one, a short, dark-haired man with brown eyes, had the look of corruptibility. She hung around the building for the remainder of the day and watched him. He left his office several times to visit other parts of the building, and during his excursions always managed to flirt with younger females along the way. His name was Paolo Bettini, she discovered after asking questions of the women in the area, married, three young children, of a good family, with no connections to the Fascists. His future was solid.

For three days Pogrebenoi followed Bettini to observe his routine and habits. He came late to the office and took long lunches at a restaurant near the water called Scali. It was quiet and elegantly ap
pointed; male waiters with black bow ties scuttled between tables. From a distance she saw Bettini's roving eye, but he was subtle about it; he preferred to induce his women to come to him. He was just what she was looking for.

Today had clinched it. Having finished a dinner of cheese, hard bread and wine in her room, Talia planned what she would do next.