The Berkut (74 page)

Petrov shed his overcoat and opened his bag while Rivitsky waited for an explanation. But his leader said only, "We'll settle here," then trudged slowly up the stairs to a higher level. Rivitsky followed, to discover a slit window looking out on the port of Genoa. They must be in the same building they'd driven into, but in a part reachable only through the passageway. It would be easy to defend, but difficult to escape from if the need arose.

Petrov stood silently for a lo
ng time, staring out at the darkening harbor. "It won't be long now," he said finally.

118 – April 21, 1946, 3:15 P.M.

They had been on Beard's vertical trail for almost three full days. It would have been rough going even for the two veterans alone, but with Herr Wolf between them, always on the verge of falling or actually hanging like a dead weight, they were nearly exhausted. The cloth was gone from the knees of their trousers, and their shins and hands were covered with abrasions and open cuts. Worst of all, they were dehydrated, urinating brown dribbles as their bodies consumed their final reserves of fluid.

Brumm gave grudging credit to Herr Wolf. Where formerly he had simply gone along like a puppet with broken strings, he now threw himself into the descents and climbs with true zeal. Unfortunately he was neither strong nor robust, so despite his willingness, Brumm and Beard found themselves carrying him. They appreciated his efforts, but he remained a burden.

Because of his greater experience as a climber, Beard led for the first time. This meant that he made the difficult ascents and descents first, and often twice, in order to brief and instruct his comrades on the tactics and tricks to be employed on the next stage. It was slow going, but they kept at it as steadily as their strength would allow, resting only between particularly difficult stretches.

It was during one such interlude near the crest of a high ridge that Brumm turned his field glasses on the walls they had already conquered. Beard was tied to Herr Wolf and they were below the colonel, trying to work down the smooth side of a vertical structure that Beard called the Baton. It required a circular descending route like a ribbon wrapped around a Maypole.

Far off, Brumm spotted movement on one of the rock faces behind them. At first he thought he was seeing wild sheep because they had noticed several of the timid mountain creatures in the last few days, but after focusing on the moving figures, he knew that the specks were human and that they were following the same route Beard had taken. Though they were difficult to see, Brumm could tell that the three men moved efficiently and well on the steep wall.

Brumm knew they were in trouble. These must be the same ones who had pushed them off course to the Rhine, and now they had help, perhaps a mountain guide. There was no other explanation; the appearance of climbers in this hellish place couldn't be sheer chance. They were being pursued again.

Even before he had changed their plans and darted for the river, Brumm had felt that their pursuers were not simple adventurers. They moved too deliberately and with too much discipline to be mere amateurs looking for easy pickings. No, these were professional hunters, the kind who made their living tracking men. He also had no doubt that they were Russians.

Along their route over the last four weeks, they had skirted many military camps, but there had been no evidence of a general alert in the Soviet, French or American zones, no patrols crisscrossing their path, as there would have been if a full-scale manhunt was under way.

Beard called up from below, telling Brumm to descend. The colonel slid his field glasses back into their leather case and secured the remainder of his gear. Taking hold of the rope, he looked out over the edge, saw Beard signal a direction for him to swing toward, and started down.

It followed that the men behind them were independent of the occupying armies. He quickly examined the possibilities. Only two seemed to hold water. They might be agents from Rome. But Rome had no way of knowing who they were or that Herr Wolf was not what he appeared to be. All arrangements with the Church envoys had been made in ways that guaranteed secrecy for individual identities. Many people had come out of Germany under the aegis of the Vatican, and there would be still more, but there was no way for the Papists to know exactly who was in their pipeline. It had been so designed in order to protect both the hunted from being tracked down and their rescuers from embarrassment.

So it came down to a single possibility, one that Brumm preferred not to think about: Russians, probably a special team. He cursed quietly as he swung slowly down toward the ledge where the other two waited. There had been only a single error: the guard in the Chancellery. There had been no way to get rid of him; he had been there where they had expected no one to be, a shaking coward hiding underground from danger, an empty model for the recruiting posters. He'd figured the man had little chance of surviving the final Soviet assault; even if he did, the chances were that the Soviets would be so disorganized that to find one key man among thousands of German prisoners was virtually impossible. Yet it was the only explanation that fit, the only way it could have happened. It had to be a special unit, like the team of assassins once sent by Stalin to execute Skorzeny.

The pursuers' strategy seemed obvious, an old hunting trick. Push the quarry and force him to break his pattern in order to disrupt his escape plan. And it had worked; already Brumm had been forced to break away. From this point forward, he decided, they must head for the monastery as quickly as possible, whatever the cost. Even so, a team such as this could be an immediate threat. No doubt they were part of a larger effort, controlled from a distance. One of them had been at the farm in anticipation of their arrival. The red paint had been meant as a message. That no ambush was waiting for them at the farm meant either that the Russians were not yet ready to fight or that they wanted the Germans to continue their journey. The trap would be ahead; he'd have to think about that.

For the moment they needed to get out of this wasteland and onto terrain where they could make better time. But first they needed to delay their pursuers. Brumm considered backtracking to create an ambush. The Russians would not expect direct confrontation from the pursued. But if these men were of the kind he believed them to be, they would adjust quickly to a firefight and then he and Beard would be outnumbered by one; Herr Wolf would have no value in such a situation. Booby traps were a possibility, but their materials were limited and it would take considerable time to set them properly. Their best hope was to divert their followers, Brumm decided, to deflect them long enough to gain time. It was the only way out. He turned his mind to the problem as he landed on the ledge beside the other two. It would require a bold act, and soon.

119 – April 21, 1946, 5:00 P.M.

It was eerie and unsettling. On the one hand, Valentine felt like a kept pet waiting for food; on the other he felt calmer than he ever had before. Ermine, her hunger for sex temporarily sated, was sprawled on the bed, a pillow across her stomach, fast asleep. He considered getting into bed beside her, but decided against it; she might wake up and want to be pleasured again.

Bela's grandson had barely acknowledged them when they showed up two days before, but had appeared later at their door, gushing with friendship and advice. Genoa was drowning in agents and vaga
bonds-scugnizzi-who
would kill for a used pair of shoes, but his American friends needn't worry. He had armed companions in the rooms on their flanks and across the hall; they were safe.

The young man knew nothing about what Valentine sought, but was reassuring: "Grandfather always provides." He suggested they take their meals
in the room until they had their information. As soon as he left, Ermine wrestled Valentine to the bed, but his heart wasn't in it and wouldn't be until he'd gotten what he'd come for. The problem was, he still wasn't sure what that was
.

120 – April 21, 1946, 6:20 P.M.

By nightfall the going was much easier. They were just below the crest of a tree-covered escarpment, resting among small shrubs. Where a small rivulet formed a pool in the rocks, they stopped to drink and fill their water bags.

Brumm had made his decision; command necessitated facing reality objectively. There was no room for emotions.

He took Beard off to the side while Herr Wolf lay with his face in the water, slurping loudly. "We have company again." Reflexively the sergeant glanced back in the direction they had come. "They're not close yet," Brumm explained. "I saw them briefly this afternoon, three of them now. We have a full day, maybe more, depending on how well they can climb."

"The farm," Beard said.

"To frighten us. They had two behind us, a third ahead. He may have seen us when we passed through. We have to assume they know the truth and that there are more ahead of us, but that they're not ready to make a move yet."

"We're almost out," Beard said. "We'll soon be able to cover a lot of ground."

"We have to divert them," Brumm said. "We need time to hide our route." They were walking together along the edge of the precipice. "What's west of us?"

"More of this. Very difficult."

"Is there a place where we could get down? An especially difficult line would be best."

"There's a place near here. You can get down, but not back up. My father called it the Devil's Arrow."

They explored the edge, with Beard explaining in detail what the descent required. It was exactly what Brumm wanted.

"You have pitons?"

"A few," Beard said. "There's nothing permanent on this face. We'll have to do it on our own."

"I have no intention of climbing down," Brumm answered. "I only want them to think we did and to follow. It has to be convincing. We have to leave them something to entice them over the edge, something they'll have to investigate." He did not look at his friend.

Beard considered the problem. He thought he could use four or five pitons to reach a ledge below. He outlined their placement for his commander; they had to be placed exactly right in order to provide an unexpected discovery and temptation for the men behind them:

Brumm agreed. They were losing light fast. With his colonel's help, Beard drove the first piton into place, connected his rope and went over the side, grunting with effort. Lying on his belly to serve as an anchor, Brumm watched his friend work his way carefully down the steep face. It required four pitons a few meters apart for him to reach the ledge below. A wind was rising.

"All set," Beard called up. It was getting cold and his arms were tired.

"Climb up."

Rau began the ascent, glad to be done for the day. His shoulders ached and he was thirsty again. When he reached the next-to-Iast piton, he looped his arm in his rope and rested, to gather strength for the most difficult part of the ascent.

"Hans," Brumm said from above. "From that ledge-are more pitons needed?"

"No," Rau called back. "The descent below is steep, but there are handholds. This is the bad part up here, especially if you're coming up blind or without pitons. You can get down without them, but up? Impossible." He drove his toe against the wall and shifted weight to pull himself up.

"Hans," Brumm said again. Beard leaned his head back to make eye contact and stared into the black hole at the end of his colonel's pistol. "I'm sorry, Hans, but they have to believe us. It must be."

Beard looked down at the rocks hundreds of meters below. He had always been afraid of falling. He looked back at his colonel, his
voice even. "Shoot straight, Gü
nter."

The pistol coughed once, and the sergeant major fell backward, flat on his back, spinning clockwise. He struck two outcroppings, finally landing at the base of the wall in shadow, so that Brumm could see only his feet in the poor light. He holstered his pistol, recovered the rope and, with the handle of his dagger, struck a rock hard, leaving a small white nick. It would be enough.

Herr Wolf was propped near the small pool a hundred yards back of the cliff, his belly full, a contented look on his face. "We camp here tonight?"

"No," Brumm said. "We push on." He gathered Beard's pack and weapon and studied the terrain. Herr Wolf struggled into his pack and rose clumsily. "Where's the sergeant major?" he asked, trying to look past the colonel into the darkness.

"Doing his duty," Brumm said quietly. He moved up the mountainside with Herr Wolf close behind, puffing in the thin atmosphere, looking backward, wondering when the sergeant was going to catch up with them.

121 – April 22, 1946, 6:30 A.M.

Ezdovo moved back and forth along the rim like an anxious cat, always returning to the rock with the white nick. "I don't like it," he told the others. "They stopped here to do something. They took water at the spring, then came down here." He turned around and pointed upward. "Their route should continue that way. Easier ground, better speed. They can't cross the Swiss border. They have to head east for Austria."