The Berkut (70 page)

Sergeant Major Rau felt his heart pound with anticipation. It had been a long time since he'd been home. He would caress every board and stone and brew hot coffee for the others.

But when he got to less than a hundred meters from the farmhouse, he stumbled and caught himself. The odor was unmistakable. Little was left, and by the look of it, this was no natural fire; only arson could be responsible for such complete devastation.

Beard moved down to the homestead with his Schmeisser at the ready, circled the ruins once slowly, then walked through the middle of the charred timbers and broken walls. Without looking around, he jogged quickly back to the rocks to rejoin his companions. "We've got to move," he told Brumm. "Right now."

"I'm tired," Herr Wolf complained. "We walked all night again. My leg hurts."

Beard ignored him and looked into his commander's eyes. "It's been burned. Deliberately." The look in his eyes said there was more to it and that the colonel should see for himself.

Brumm darted down the hill and returned immediately.

"I think I'll have a look," Herr Wolf said. The other two had suddenly taken to acting peculiar again, and whenever this happened it usually meant trouble. As he tried to stand, one of Brumm's massive hands pressed down on his shoulder and forced him to sit again.

"It's your territory," Brumm said to his sergeant major. "What are our options?"

"We came in on the north trail. Another runs west. They're the main routes up here."

"Nothing else?"

"There's a southern route to the Swiss border. Very difficult going
,
a lot of climbing."

"Traffic?"

"None. It was a route used only by my family. You have to know it; you can't see it."

"Where is it?"

"Up the west fork and then down over the side. It's a vertical descent. There are some pitons--or there were. We have enough line to do it in short stages."

Brumm lifted Herr Wolf by the coat. "Is this really necessary?" the older man complained.

"Is breathing?" Brumm snapped.

The two soldiers squatted by the cliff's edge and the sergeant major showed his colonel the route they would follow. "It's hard until we get over there," he said, pointing to a distant ridge line. "But it should be secure."

"Will it be hard for him?" Brumm asked, nodding toward Herr Wolf.

"It will be hard for all of us," Rau said. He leaned closer to his colonel and whispered, "What does it mean?"

Brumm remembered the red Stars of David that had been painted on the stone walls of the burned farmhouse. "The funnel is narrowing."

"How did they know?" Beard whispered back, but his colonel did not respond. He was getting rope from his pack and uncoiling it.

109 – April 18, 1946, 9:20 A.M.

Gnedin still sat against the rocks. The three men had disappeared over a cliff nearly three hours before, but it hardly seemed to matter. Petrov had been right: every man
could
have an impact.

Only two of the men had gone down to the ruins, and each had stayed for only a short moment. Afterward they had hunkered down on the trail together for a few minutes and then moved upward, showing none of the caution that had marked their arrival.

Gnedin had watched them closely and realized that their new route was swinging them away from the sun. Soon they would be in perfect position for him to have a safe peek through the binoculars. He waited until they were in place and lifted the glasses, focusing as he found them in the eyepieces.

It was the figure in the middle who took his breath away. He fingered the focus, twisting it with his forefinger, his hand shaking, and stared unbelieving as the man looked almost directly up at him.

Sitting back against the rocks, Gnedin fought for control of his emotions. The hair was shorter and lighter, his mustache was gone and his nose not so straight, but there was no mistaking the identity. The monster was alive!

110 – April 18, 1946, 6:00 P.M.

For two days Bettini had been coming to Talia's room-before work, at lunchtime, after work. After they'd made love this time, she begged him to take her outside. They went down to the bay and walked hand in hand. He was nervous about being so public, but she clung to him like a young lover and kissed him frequently, and his lust pushed away his anxiety. Near a stone wall she grabbed him roughly and shoved
his hand up her skirt. Suddenly a photographer appeared and snapped them when they were deep in an embrace, his arm under the folds of her skirt. Bettini shoved her away and stared at the man, his eyes wide with fear, his teeth clenched tightly.

Pogrebenoi spoke to the photographer. "You got everything?"

"Si, signora,
all of it."

"The bedroom, too?"

He nodded. "Some of my best work."

"Go," she commanded. "If you do not hear from me by the appointed time, you will send them to his wife, to Signor Luci and to the newspapers."

"Capito,"
the man said. He tipped his hat, snapped the lens cover on his camera and trotted away.

As Bettini stared at her with loathing she said teasingly, "Monica gives, but a girl has to make a living, eh, Bettini?"

"Blackmail," he hissed. "Whore!"

"Adulterer," she replied calmly. "Call this a little game of
morra.
You've had your sport; now I'll have mine. I want you to take me to your office. No delays; if you try any tricks, those photographs will be sent and you'll be ruined. It's one thing to take a lover; it's quite another to be so indiscreet as to be caught flagrantly. You're very enthusiastic, and I'm sure the camera will be true to you."

His head dropped and tears filled his eyes as she slipped her arm inside his and led him down the wide walk toward the Port Authority. She had no doubt that she'd get everything she wanted, but it made her sick to her stomach when she thought of Ezdovo.

Bettini was shaken to the core. If the woman let the photographs be published, he was ruined. He cursed his stupidity; no woman came on like that without reason. They used themselves as traps; like their sex organs, they were clams waiting to ingest what they needed. What an idiot he had been! All of her groaning and moaning, the shrieks and the screams-all lies ! He remembered her astride him, riding him, her skin coated with sweat, her upper lip curled back in a leer. All fake. There was no more real fire than with Cella. But at least Cella was an honest wife; when he needed it, she delivered without fail, whereas this one lied and was an evil whore.

They walked side by side up the stairs that curled around the central courtyard of the massive Port Authority building. All the while she made small talk, touching him, flashing her eyes at passersby, throwing her head back like a lioness gloating over a fresh kill.

Bettini used his key to open the harbor master's office complex, then quickly locked the doors behind them. Was a photographer watching them this time? He stood in the door to his office, his arms folded in defiance, while she looked around, picking up various objects on the leather desktop.

"Elegant," she observed. "You must be well
paid for such responsibility.
"

Here it comes, Bettini thought: blackmail. "My salary is only that of a public official. Quite modest."

Not by Russian standards, Talia thought to herself. "I see." Whatever it was that she wanted, Bettini wished she'd get on with
it.

"I understand there is a master schedule for traffic through the port."

He stared at her; why didn't she just name her price? "Six weeks forward, updated daily."

"Fetch it," she ordered. It was only the first demand in what turned out to be a long evening. After compiling a list of all of the ships scheduled to arrive in port, she used another set of records to find the port of call before and after Genoa for each vessel. Petrov had ventured no concrete speculations on a final destination, but he had offered likely itineraries. "First, the ship we're seeking will have few stops
no more than three or four, and perhaps as few as two. The ports of call will be unusual, not places where ships normally visit. The ship will travel off regular sea-lanes, so the ports it calls at may suggest unusual routes. One works from one piece of information to another, do you see? The ultimate destination will have an indigenous German population. Rule out Brazil and Argentina; they're too obvious. Consider countries with a strong connection to the Church. Look for an itinerary combining all this and you will find our answer."

It had seemed so simple when Petrov explained it, but now with all the paper spread out and her eyes tiring, it was hard to keep everything straight. Eventually she identified a dozen possibilities that, for one reason or several, fit the profile. The list of routes completed, she had Bettini fetch shipping manifests. What he produced was a cardboard box filled with rumpled sheets of thin paper. Four of the ships were scheduled to take on passengers in Genoa. The first of them would dock April 24 and depart four days later; the other three were slated to layover, one of them for as long as ten days.

"What about passenger lists?" Pogrebenoi asked. It was hot inside the building. She unbuttoned the front of her dress and saw Bettini lean forward. Even now the fool had no control over himself Bettini was angry. Why did she tease? He was in his swivel chair with his feet on a long credenza. "The owners have them. We get only the finals, just before departure or immediately after arrival. Our job is limited to counting heads."

"And if the ship sinks?"

"That's the owner's problem, not Italy's or Genoa's. He sells the berths." He wished she would button herself up again.

Talia considered other angles. "The owners must post security in case of damage in order to use the port facilities?"

"Yes, a small fee gets them a temporary 'time in port' insurance bond. Our profit is small. The Maritime Authority gets a portion, and so does the transportation agency. Then there are the damned unions to contend with as well. The damned Reds are behind the unions. The workers demand this, demand that. Who the hell do they think they are? In ten years, the blood-sucking Communists and their union puppets will cripple the country. Say what you will, II Duce kept the Reds in their place."

"Yes," Pogrebenoi answered sarcastically, "especially the partisans."

"Filth."

"Bettini, you have one more task. I need the papers of these ships." She handed him the list.

He folded his arms, refusing to accept it. "No more. I've done all I can," he said stubbornly. "You've gotten what you want; now leave me alone." His voice was trembling.

Pogrebenoi was certain Bettini had the connections necessary to obtain the information. She had bested him, and now his male ego was beginning to feel its bruises. At first he'd been frightened beyond speech, but over the course of the evening he'd begun to recover his balance. It was time to assert her control once again. She began to undress.

Bettini sat up. "What are you doing?"

She unbuttoned her dress quickly and let it fall to the floor. In seconds she was standing before him in her underwear. She lifted a thin letter opener from his desk, slipped it inside the top of one of her hose and slit it with a flick of her wrist. Hooking her silk briefs with her thumb, she tore them loudly from her hips. Then, with Bettini blinking wildly, she drove her fist into the inside of her thigh. A large welt raised immediately and began to redden before his eyes. He stared up at her as she bruised the other thigh. Then she kicked her leg against the corner of the desk, producing a small cut on the shin; a thin trickle of blood dribbled down her foot spreading into a dark blotch. Turning to face him, she offered her hand, but he cowered like a frightened child. Her arm snaked out and captured his wrist, yanking him to his feet; in the same motion, she drove a thumb into the underside of his wrist, causing him to yelp with pain and open his hand like a claw, which she pulled down the side of her face. His nails burned as they tore open her flesh, and quickly she felt a wetness on her cheek. Shoving him into his chair, she picked up the telephone. "Operator, give me the police. Emergency. Please help me!" With each word her voice was more shrill.

Bettini jumped up and grabbed at the phone, but she kept him at bay with one arm. Tears flowed from her eyes and her voice took on the shrillness of fear. "I'm being raped," she sobbed into the phone.

In desperation Bettini dove to the floor and ripped the telephone cord from the wall. "Are you insane?" he screamed, shaking his fists at her.

Talia's demeanor became calm, almost serene. The tears had left narrow black rivers of mascara on her prominent cheekbones. There was the hint of a smile on her lips. "I want the names of the owners."