The Berkut (68 page)

101 – April 15, 1946, 9:30 A.M.

Gnedin called Petrov. "I've found the child's birthplace," he said. "Empty, of course, but quite suitable for a new tenant. It has a mar
velous view."

Petrov understood. This was the Rau they sought. Gnedin had scouted the family residence, and both the location and the way it was built provided an excellent defensive position. "A wonderful place for a child, you say? Plenty of space for one to play, I trust."

"A great deal," Gnedin answered. "Bolovichovic would find it to his liking."

Pyotr Bolovichovic was a Belorussian who had led Russian par
tisans behind German lines during the early stages of the invasion. His code name was Hermit. Despite his patriotism, he was a loner who hated people, and it had been a standing joke among Russian intelligence officials that when the war was over, they'd have to keep importing Germans for the Hermit to fight; otherwise, the antisocial bastard would turn on them. Bolovichovic hated all men and fought only because he was a sociopath. Eventually the Germans, through an informer, had caught him in the southern Ukraine and used horses to pull him apart while Russian prisoners were forced to watch. Bolovichovic had always chosen campsites that could be easily defended and abandoned.

Petrov made a decision as he talked to the surgeon. "I understand that firewood is difficult to find in that region. Natural fires are rare at high elevations. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Having made such an observation, one might find it useful to confer with a nearby expert in Genoa." Petrov spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. Gnedin understood that this meant that T alia was in Genoa; it was necessary to be vague in case the phones were being monitored.

Gnedin paused. "Yes, I know that professor. He's reputed to have an excellent staff," he added mischievously
.

"Good," Petrov said. "From my limited knowledge, I would guess that a few days would be an adequate period of observation. If the wolf hasn't shown itself by then, you can assume it's taken another route of migration."

"Thank you," Gnedin said, and hung up.

Petrov shouted for Rivitsky, who came running. "We're leaving," he told his lieutenant.

"Italy?"

"Genoa."

102 – April 15, 1946, 10:30 A.M.

Valentine was lost. Damn Faulkner! Where did you look for a corpse? He'd drawn up a hundred scenarios, only to crumple the pages and throw them against the wall. It was a wasted effort. His senses of logic and instinct both seemed useless, and this left him feeling empty and angry. He had followed every lead and hit a wall each time. The whole thing was preposterous. A crazy Nazi colonel lugging Hitler's decaying corpse around the countryside. Who would believe it? He admitted to himself that he was still not sure that
he
believed it.

In desperation, he called the Zurich office from a filthy hotel lobby.

After several rings a female voice answered.

"Ermine?"

"Beau," the voice answered in a frightened whisper. "I've been waiting for you to check in. Everything's gone crazy here."

"Are you secure?"

"No. Listen to me, Beau." Her voice was filled with urgency. "This is an open line; you know that task you asked Creel for? Well, I've got information."

Immediately he was frightened for her; information was power to bureaucrats like Creel and they guarded it carefully.

"Beau, honey, they're running with it on their own now, even flying people in from the States. You wouldn't believe what's hap
pening-here, Berlin, everywhere. If you come back here, they're going to give you an escort home."

Bastards. "Hang up, Ermine."

"Not yet," she said anxiously. "I can help you."

"No."

"Please," she begged. "Meet me at the Flower. Forty-eight hours?" The Flower was their name, a bedroom joke, for a small hotel near the southern shore of Lake Constance.

"They'll miss you."

"No. All the old personnel are being rotated. I'm being sent home. I'll just fade away."

"All right, at the Flower. I'll follow you in."

"I understand." She hung up.

The Ivy Leaguers were swooping in sooner than he'd expected. Now the whole American intelligence community would be on edge, snooping around
his
case. Obviously they didn't know anything yet, but the tempo would soon increase.

Back in the jeep, Valentine checked his maps to find the quickest route to St. Gallen. As he pulled onto the road, his mind turned to Ermine. He could almost smell her, and the thought excited him. Brumm could suck eggs for a few hours, he told himself. He shifted all the way into high gear with a quick double clutch and pointed the jeep into the night.

103 – April 16, 1946, 1:45 P.M.

Before her quarry arrived at the restaurant, Pogrebenoi slipped a large bribe to the maitre d', who immediately seated her at the table next to Bettini's regular one. She sat in a chair that placed her in profile and hiked her skirt high to give him a good view. When Bettini entered he was accompanied by several other men from the Port Authority, but luckily none were from the harbor master's section. She made sure that he spotted her, then spent the rest of the meal making eye contact with him. He was hardly able to contain himself, and when his com
panions left, he lingered. Walking by his table, she feigned a stumble and he leaped to catch her.

"Signor Bettini?"

"Yes," he said arrogantly, not surprised that she knew his name. Bettini considered himself a very important man.

"Monica," she said quietly. "I find you a fascinating man; you have an important position. You must find it difficult to find"-she paused-"diversions." As she let the word roll off her lips she showed him her hotel key. "You know the place?"

He nodded.

"In an hour," she said, dropping the key into his jacket pocket. Bettini arrived precisely on the minute, and after admitting him she handed him a glass of wine. His promptness told her he was eager, but he looked both nervous and cautious. "Do we know each other?" he asked suspiciously.

"No, but we're going to change that in a few moments." She began to undress. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped his wine. "I've watched you, Bettini. I've seen you with those young girls. Do they give you pleasure?" She laughed. "Of course they do," she said, an
swering her own question. "You are a handsome man. Doesn't your wife give you what a man needs?" She was down to her undergarments. "I can see that a man like you needs a woman, not inexperienced young girls, not a mere obedient wife." She removed the remainder of her clothing and sprawled on the bed.

"How much?" he asked boldly. "Bettini does not pay for a woman." She smiled softly. "No, Bettini. You're not listening to me:
I want you.
Monica
gives;
Monica does not sell. Do you understand?" His expression was blank, his mouth partly open. She shifted her hips suggestively and propped herself on the pillow. "It's hot," she whis
pered. "Don't you think it's hot, Bettini?"

"Paolo," he said as he began to undress.

104 – April 16, 1946, 2:00 P.M.

They had not seen their pursuers for eight days, but Brumm assumed they were still behind them. He'd worked his way up the river carefully, hiding out along the shore during daylight and covering only short distances at night. He was trapped between the need to get off the river in order to head for their rendezvous in Italy and ensuring that they lost their pursuers.

Now the boat was sunk in the river. He had weighed many pos
sibilities, considering alternate routes back to their original course, but they were behind schedule and time was important; the ship would leave with or without them. It would be more dangerous now to improvise, but there was no choice; they had to get to Genoa.

Beard had told him that once in Bleckheim he could make them disappear in the mountains. "Nobody will find us among those rocks," the sergeant major said.

After a final look at the river, Brumm and his companions headed east.

105 – April 16, 1946, 5:00 P.M.

Despite Petrov's training, Gnedin still found it difficult to destroy in the absence of a clear threat. His profession had taught him to save at all costs. It was only a farmhouse, he told himself, and a German one at that. They had shown no scruples about the villages and cities of the Soviet Union. Yet the idea of simply burning it to the ground made him uncomfortable. It was a well-built place, a product of care and hard work, and these were qualities to be respected.

He had doused the building with kerosene, and now stood, torch in hand, trying to summon up the will to finish what he had started. It was the house of an enemy, he reminded himself. He recited his sacred duty to the Motherland. But he saw that the timbers had been laid straight with the skill of a master craftsman, and that the stones had been trimmed and carefully sized to fit tightly with no mortar. There was history here-not the kind in books but that of families, shared around the hearth in the snowy months. Here were the ghosts of generations he could never know. He felt bile rising in his throat.

But there was also Petrov. "Fires are rare." His leader's meaning was easily understood. So be it, Gnedin decided; he lit a rag with the small torch and dropped it through the door. The kerosene ignited with a sudden thump, and the heat drove him back from the dwelling Moving to the barn, he repeated his act. For several minutes he was not sure if the fires were adequate; there was a lot of stone inside. But when dark smoke began pouring from the upper floors and the roof shingles began to change color, he knew it was done. He had no desire to watch. The Bleckheimers had told him that two steep trails led down to the Rau house. They were hidden from view on the flat area and could be located only by landmarks. He climbed upward, found the trails and soon located a point between them where he could see portions of both. After building a small shelter between two boul
ders, he settled in to watch and wait as the smoke billowed into the sky.

The fire burned all night. He let it cool during the next day, and at dusk went down to the ruins to investigate. The heat had caused some of the stone walls to buckle, but enough of them still stood to serve another purpose. Back in the village he'd gotten a notion, some
thing completely out of character for him; it had come to him as he brooded over what had to be done. From his pack he extracted a brush and a small can of red paint, which he'd bought in the village. If the fire did not make his point, he would leave something else for the Germans. His first effort at arson; he reasoned, demanded an extra flourish.

106 – April 17, 1946, 6:30 P.M.

As villages went, Romanshorn wasn't much: a tidy little square, always clean; three small white churches, all Protestant. The houses were white, too, of stucco and natural wood with orange-tile roofs, built close to one another on stone stilts because of the heavy snows that swept across from the German side during the long winters. There were flower boxes everywhere, but all the blossoms were the same color. Antiseptic living, courtesy of the Swiss.

Valentine had first discovered the village during his wanderings in Europe before the war. In summer the small bay far below was filled with powerboats that rooster-tailed their way in and out of the harbor with little regard for the yachts wallowing under canvas The hotel was low and flat, with only two floors, and was run by an old couple. In true Swiss fashion they left their guests alone. The building itself had undergone a number of reconstructions, resulting in a dozen comfortable suites and skin-shriveling hot water. No meals were served on the premises, but every morning pots of hot water, tea bags and Italian coffee were left outside the guests' doors. It was a place where people did not mix; those who patronized the Romans
horn Inn came to be with each other.

During the war Valentine had brought Ermine to the place for their first time together. They had left the suite only once, to grab a quick meal in the village cafe. Ermine, who never seemed to get enough to eat, declared at the end of their three-day holiday that her idea of paradise would be to recline on the soft featherbed all day waiting for Beau to "pleasure her." Valentine found it ironic that Ermine, who could not bring herself to discuss sex even in the most abstract terms, had virtually no inhibitions once her clothes and the lights were off and they were on a bed. There was nothing she would not attempt with enthusiasm, and nothing they tried that failed to please her. Sometime during that first visit he had referred to her most private part as her "flower," a description that set her to giggling nervously. From that moment, the hotel became the Flower.

Judging by what Ermine had said on the phone, Valentine reasoned that an official border crossing would provide a fix on his position for the OSS. Swiss border officials were quite receptive to performing as "spotters" for various intelligence agencies-for an appropriate stipend, of course. It did not bother him to make an illegal crossing; he'd been doing it for years and knew all the tricks and various routes. To Valentine, borders were tools designed to keep the simple-minded at bay. If countries wished their borders to be real, they should imitate the Chinese and build a wall. There being no such barrier, he felt free to come and go as he pleased.

To reach Romanshorn and its hotel, two illegal border crossings were required. First he crossed from Germany into Austria by follow
ing an isolated track through a mountain saddle east of Lindau. He left the jeep in the hills near the village of Hohenems and crossed the Swiss frontier on foot southeast of St. Gallen. A farmer gave him a lift into the small Swiss city, where he caught a bus to his final destination. It was an easy trip with no complications.