The Berkut (73 page)

115 – April 19, 1946, 5:30 P.M.

Bolzano looked the same as it did the last time Valentine passed through, only more crowded. It was a place that always made him nervous. Its people were more German than Italian, and many of them made no bones about their allegiance. The town looked German, spoke German, cooked German, thought German, and now it was packed with refugees who undoubtedly were German. If there was a network for a pipeline of Nazis from the north, there would be information about it in Bolzano, and he knew who would have it or would be able to get it.

At a cafe on the western slope of the city Valentine left Ermine sleeping on the front seat of her blue sedan and entered through the rear entrance directly into the kitchen. It was evening and the cooks were busy; the slightly rancid odor of olive oil mingled with the other aromas of seafood from the Venetian gulf, cheeses, sausages and fruit. Passing through the kitchen, he made his way to a small office hidden in a wall beside a large meat locker.

The proprietor's name was Bela, a stooped old curmudgeon with a few tufts of hair left sticking out of his multicolored scalp, his head covered with flakes of dried skin. The desk was littered with slips of paper, dirty plates stacked one on top of another, a fat green bottle of Chianti and a can filled with cigarette butts. Bela looked up and squinted to focus on the intruder, a growl beginning in his throat. "Valentine?"

When the American sat down, the Italian did not move. "I thought you'd be back in the States by now," he said in English, his Brooklyn accent strong. He smiled crookedly and extended a leathery hand. "So you can't turn loose of Italia, eh? Me, I'd leave tomorrow, but I'm broke." He rubbed his hands together. "Fuckin' Germans are fuckin' tight,
capisce?"

It was a familiar tune. Bela had been born in America, but as a young man had fallen in love with tales of the old country, and had returned to the land of his parents and taken citizenship. He was always threatening to chuck it all and return to the States, but Valentine knew it was only a pose. Bela, who looked like a doddering old man who couldn't remember names and spilled half of what he ate, was deceptive. The German troops, who had eaten at his restaurant and garrisoned in the area until the end of the war, were genuinely fond of the old man, never suspecting that from his small establishment he commanded four regiments of partisans who obeyed him unquestioningly. He was Valentine's last hope.

"You're not here to see Bela for old times."

"I've heard that the Krauts are coming over the mountains in big bunches."

"Like a shad run up the Hudson. But it's slowing down. Them with a reason to git have got, if you get my meaning."

"There's supposed to be an organized route, some kind of system." Bela laughed. "Like the Oregon trail." He took a swig of wine, made a face and offered the bottle to Valentine. "Too warm, but better'n a kick in the ass."

"I need information."

"Sure. You're tailing some Krauts, right?" "I've heard the Church was involved in this."

The old man's eyes turned hard and he touched a finger to his lips as he got up and pushed the door closed. "You gotta be careful with that kind of talk. Rome's got more ears than we had during the war. This ain't like New York, with Mick priests brown-nosing the politicians. Here they run things. The only difference between the Church and Cosa Nostra is their uniforms."

"Word has it that the Nazis are being hidden in monasteries." "For a while they were, but it got too hot. This area's been crawling with Jews packing pieces. They've got the routes busted up now; they're using camps and cabins up in the hills." To Bela all mountains were hills. "Nothing special, same kind of things we did. Back up there you can stash people pretty easy."

"I need to know about a particular party."

"Forget it," the old man said. "If you're looking for a name, you'll never get it. It's too complicated, and they got layers of security set up. Even they don't know who they've got in their pipeline. You're wasting your time."

Valentine's mind raced. "What's the end of the route?"

"Genoa, usually. Maybe a few pickups along the coast from time to time, but that's pretty risky. Most of them are taken to Genoa, then shipped out to the Middle East or South America. Lots of Krauts have moved through the system."

"They go out a few at a time?"

"Usually, and most of them have first-class papers. Once they get on a ship and leave Italian waters, they've got it made. At that point they're who their papers say they are."

"And at the other end?"

Bela shrugged. "No questions asked. Customs officials probably don't even shake them down. I hear some of them have big assets in Swiss and Argentine banks. The South Americans aren't going to turn them away if they bring capital in. Economies are going to be built on some of these Krauts."

"What I really need-"

"Is to have your old friend Bela check on some outbound shipments, right?" Bela interrupted. "I can have someone take a look. Probably there's not much we can find out, but for my
ol
d pal Beau Valentine I can spend a little sweat."

"I don't want to be ungrateful, but how fast?"

"A day, a week-it depends on how lucky we get." He held up a card that he took from the drawer in his desk. "My grandson runs this joint near Genoa. Good chow, no bugs, clean hookers, everything a man could want. You got wheels?"

Valentine nodded.

"What's your specific interest?" Bela made a mark on the left edge of the card with a paring knife.

"An SS colonel named Gü
nter Brumm. And a corpse." Valentine described Brumm.

Bela screwed his face into a wrinkled mask. "A stiff and a big bastard, eh? Not much to go on."

Valentine nodded.

The old man stood, put his arm around his friend and grinned. "An SS colonel and a stiff? You still have weird ways, my friend." He gave the card to Valentine. "Drive to Genoa and give this to my grandson. He'll take care of you. I'll make a few inquiries and let you know, okay?"

At the back door they shook hands. "I can't walk out with you. Lousy ticker." Bela said, pointing to his heart. "Besides, I don't want anybody making a connection. In here I know who's on my side; out in the street, I have no control. It's a lousy world, Valentine." The American rubbed his friend's shoulder affectionately. "Hey," the old man said brightly. "For you? Anything. We got mutual history. In Italy that's all that counts. Long as I'm stuck here, I try to live with it. "

Valentine laughed. Bela would never leave.

"Don't take no wooden nickels," the old man shouted after him as Valentine carefully picked his way through the crowded kitchen for the last time.

116 – April 19, 1946, 5:45 P.M.

Ezdovo poked at the blackened timbers with the toe of his boot while Bailov knelt outside covering him. The light was poor and a cold wind was beginning to blow across the ridge. The pattern was clear; somebody had started the fire. But who?

Bailov's whistle interrupted his thoughts and he went outside. The younger man was standing by a stone wall that had once been part of the barn, his arms crossed, his weapon cradled across his chest. "Take a look," he said, nodding to the wall.

There was a red star painted on the light-colored stone, a job done in a rush because the paint had run, leaving long thin streaks. They circled the structure, and on all four sides found similar stars. Ezdovo looked up the mountainside. "Signal," he told Bailov, who squeezed off two quick shots, paused and fired a final single.

The answer came back immediately: a single, a pause, two fast rounds, another pause, a final single. The two men smiled to each other and moved to the base of the rocks to wait.

Gnedin announced his arrival with a long whistle, followed by a familiar shriek that was supposed to be a rendition of a Siberian greeting yell, but which he had never mastered and came out as a sound his comrades described as "half goat, half cat and all pain." He bounded down the rocks behind them, landing in a cloud of dust. The three men embraced with delight.

To be safe they spent the night at the doctor's lookout above the farm, building a small fire and enjoying warm food for the first time in days. Gnedin told them what he had seen, and in the morning showed them the lip of rock where the Germans had disappeared.

"You have the stomach for climbing, Doctor?" Bailov asked. Gnedin peered over the edge, shaking his head. "Even a fly would fall off that."

"Do you see any German bodies down there?" Ezdovo asked. "No," the doctor said, giving a brief glance to the rocks far below. "Then it can be done. They chose this place. There had to be a reason."

After a short preparation Bailov was lowered over the side and eased his way down the cliff, using his feet like shock absorbers and for balance. Eventually the face dipped in sharply, leaving him dangling in space several hundred meters above a boulder field. With a yell he asked to be lowered more; as he dropped he could see that farther down there was a ledge, and that pitons were hammered in place alongside it. Clearly the route had been chosen by an expert rock climber.

Back on top, he told the others what he had found. "It's a trail ... more or less."

"We follow," Ezdovo said, anxious to get going. "We'll get down behind them, reestablish contact and keep pushing them. They've already acted desperately. When they find we're still following, they'll do it again."

"I'll never make it," Gnedin said weakly as he looked over the side.

"Consider it another chapter in your education," Ezdovo said. Bailov grabbed the doctor by the shoulders. "If you don't make it, can I have your boots?" They all laughed as they began preparations for the precarious descent.

117 – April 19, 1946, 6:00 P.M.

Petrov and Rivitsky were taken by Soviet air courier to Copenhagen, where they used Swiss passports and new identities to purchase tickets on a British commercial flight to Brussels. From there they flew to Geneva, where they passed through customs without inquiry. Taking separate cabs, they went into the city, where Rivitsky picked up an automobile left for them near a yacht club on the shore of the lake. They drove south into France and raced along the hot coast, crossing into Italy via Monaco and Menton. At the Italian border they were waved through and continued on to Genoa. It was early evening when they reached the grimy seaport.

For Rivitsky it was exhilarating to be shed of Berlin and the destruction. Even in summer the German capital remained a gray waste filled with a powdery dust that covered everything and got into the lungs. It was not healthy there, he told Petrov. It was good to see green forests again and people who were well dressed and normal. It made him wonder what the weather was like in Russia; what scars would they find when they returned home?

Genoa was bustling as its inhabitants hurried home. Rivitsky drove carefully, cursing the Italians and their erratic driving habits. Bicycles scraped the car, and police argued with motorists and pedestrians alike at crowded intersections, causing mass confusion. Their destination was a warehouse on the waterfront east of the city center. It was buried in an area with dozens of other storage facilities, all with unpainted walls and tin roofs rusted from salt spray; they found it only because it had no identifying number-all the other buildings were marked.

Rivitsky drove the automobile up to a side door and leaned against the front fender to smoke while Petrov reconnoitered. Gray gulls floated over the buildings, squawking obnoxiously. Like the city, the birds seemed dirty, not like the majestic gulls on the Black Sea, which were white and pure. The sea breeze was strong, a familiar scent of decaying fish and petrol. Ports always smelled the same, Rivitsky thought.

Behind him, Petrov whistled and signaled him to swing the vehicle around the corner. By the time he reached the front a large door was swinging upward to admit him. Inside, the building was nothing more than a thin shell of metal, like an aircraft hangar. Petrov had him move the machine to a walled area housing several small office cubicles, where it was well hidden.

They entered the area of the cubicles with Petrov leading the way. The place was musty and still and gave Rivitsky an uneasy feeling. Their route twisted through offices, eventually taking them to a small cubicle stacked high with topless wooden crates and a long narrow rack containing fifty or more black oars with green blades standing like emaciated sentinels. When a panel in the wall suddenly swung
open, Rivitsky was not surprised to see a long stone stairwell leading down. After a long walk another stairwell led them up to a landing and a steel door, which Petrov struggled to open. Rivitsky did not move to help; if his chief wanted assistance he would ask for it. Once inside, Petro v dropped a thin steel bar in place and led Rivitsky down yet another hallway, this one damp and moist. Stone stairs led them up into a large room. Light poured down on them from above, and for the first time since entering the warehouse, Rivitsky felt more like a man than a mole. Below them there was a slip and a long wooden boat with housing over its large inboard engine.