The Berkut (76 page)

"Stalin told you," Petrov said. The priest grinned.

"Pogrebenoi," Petrov said, his meaning clear to Father Grigory. "Unrelated. An act of friendship. Even the great Petrov has a friend or two. The major's name came to my attention through an intersection of coincidences. I offered her to you because I thought she was what you needed for your group. I never saw her before we met in Rome." He turned to look at her. "See, she has no idea who I am, Petrov; you must enlighten her. Know this, however: though you don't heap praise on your colleagues, Petrov, you carry the fire of pride in your heart. Talia has done great work here for the Motherland. Great and dangerous."

Petro
v turned to Talia. "This is Father Grigory of Operation Vatican Watch. His organization is in many ways-more than I thought
,
like our own."

"You're a crafty little bastard," the priest said happily. "Did you think that our Georgian bully would put all his potatoes in the same sack?"

"Then you
are
a priest?" Pogrebenoi interrupted, no longer able to restrain her curiosity.

"Not as you would understand it," Grigory said. "You're a tempting morsel," he added, causing her to blush.

Petrov was glad to have his suspicions confirmed. The priest was right; he should have known. Fleas upon fleas. It was Stalin's way to build redundancy, and therein controls, into everything. There were many questions he wanted to ask Grigory, but they would have to wait; this was not the time.

"Talia?" Petrov asked. It startled the woman to hear herself addressed by her leader by anything other than a surname.

Self-consciously Pogrebenoi patted her dress to cover her legs. "A ship arrived today and will depart the twenty-eighth. It will carry three hundred missionaries to Santiago, Chile. The ship flies a Greek flag, but it is owned by the Church."

"Missionaries new to the cloth?" Petrov asked. She nodded.

"You're certain about the ship's registration?"

Father Grigory stepped in. "This information cost her dearly. It's sound, Petrov. I've known for some time that there were Vatican
owned vessels, but until her work I was unable to verify specifics."

Petrov grunted.

Grigory continued. "Germans and Austrians have been filtering into the northern part of Italy since the war ended. For some time now, concentrations of these people have been increasing in monasteries. As arrangements are made, small groups are moved to Genoa and placed on ships for transport to other locations. This group is the largest ever; it has been accumulating for weeks at the Benedictine abbey near Mount Polio Saint Benedict's children are now concentrated there. These are practical men, Petrov; what Rome wills they provide. Benedictine houses have served as the Church's fortresses in the pagan world for centuries. It is fitting that the Nazis are there."

Petrov assessed the situation. Brumm must be moving east from the Rau farm. Obviously he had a clear destination in mind; otherwise the pressure of the team in Germany would have driven him into France or Switzerland. He had to be moving to Italy; there was no other possibility. Further, Genoa was the only port large enough to provide anonymity and some assurance of efficiency. Naples was crawling with Americans and a fleet of Allied warships; besides, it was too far south, adding too much risk. The Vatican-owned ship and the unusually large group of "missionaries" were the keys. Brumm had already demonstrated his propensity for boldness; he had left Berlin openly, hidden only by the crowd, then had holed up close to Berlin rather than running for deeper cover. Now, at the critical moment, it was reasonable to assume that he would repeat the pattern. There would be no secret V-boat; they would simply blend into the crowd of missionaries and leave Europe with new identities, two among many. Petrov's stomach told him that this was the moment, and that they had little time for final preparations.

125 – April 25, 1946, 8:00 A.M.

The dog was lying at his master's feet, his head resting tentatively on his forelegs. Their sheep were grazing in a small pasture above them. The old man was tired, and it felt good to sit down. Fifty yards below them, screened by bushes, was a small saddleback, the highest point of the pass that led into Italy. Bela had sent word to all of his eyes in the mountains to be on the alert for a big man. He might be alone or in the company of others. The question was, how big was big? Since receiving the message five days before, the old man had pondered this, often seeking the dog's counsel. But the animal was used to his rantings and simply wagged its tail in support. The shepherd supposed, finally, that if he saw such a specimen of manhood, he would know. One relied on experience. He'd seen big men before; he'd judge from them, and meanwhile there was little sense in brooding about it. His job was to guard his flock and to watch. After so many fights with the Germans, this was the sort of simple task he welcomed.

As often happened when they were in the mountains, it was the dog who alerted him by tensing and growling menacingly. When the old man looked down, he saw two figures on the trail below. One was larger than the other, but was he the "big man" sought by Bela? Lifting his binoculars, he watched the pair pass directly below him. The large one had the other by the arm, dragging him along at a brisk pace. The scene made him laugh; they were comical. The smaller man was older, and clearly didn't like being dragged along; it was just like old people to resent orders from younger people.

"Well, dog, is that the big man Bela seeks?" the shepherd whispered. The animal growled softly again, then wagged its stumpy tail.

When the two strangers were gone, the shepherd took a pigeon from a small wooden cage that he always carried with him, scribbled a message on a scrap of paper, secured it in a tube attached to the bird's leg, rubbed the back of the pigeon's head and pitched it aloft.

"Soon Bela will know what we've seen," the old man told the dog.

125 – April 27, 1946, 4:20 P.M.

Bela's grandson let himself into Valentine's room with a passkey and found the couple in bed. Valentine was half asleep, wearing undershorts, an arm curled over his face. The woman was under the covers beside him, one of her breasts peeking over the sheet, and the boy's gaze immediately locked onto her anatomy. "My grandfather sends his regards," he stammered. Valentine lifted his arm; Ermine stirred, but did not wake up. When she moved, her other breast fell into view, and the boy stepped closer to the bed. "He says to tell his friend Valentine that there's a ship in port to pick up passengers from beyond the mountains. You understand what he means?"

As Valentine rubbed his eyes, Ermine shifted to her side and the sheet fell further down, leaving her uncovered to the waist. "Grandfather says to tell you that the big man has been seen in the mountains, but that there's no stiff." The boy stumbled over the word. "The big man has a traveling companion, a live one, but older and smaller. Grandfather says to remind you that swine always travel in pairs."

Valentine sat bolt upright, pushing the sheet off the end of the bed and uncovering Ermine completely, causing the boy to exhale loudly. "Beau," she complained, reaching blindly for the sheet.

Valentine tried to digest the information. "You have the ship's name?" he asked. Brumm had a
live
companion! The boy handed the American a slip of paper with the vessel's name and location written on it.

"How do I get on board?"

"I don't know," the boy said. He was still staring at Ermine, who had rolled onto her back. "Grandfather says you should remember that a guinea is a guinea in Genoa or Hell's Kitchen. He says you'll know what to do." His message delivered, he took a final glance at Ermine, briefly touched the front of his pants and let himself out.

Valentine stared at the piece of paper and concentrated on what the boy had told him. He understood Bela's meaning: he was to employ Ermine as a diversion. She'd get the attention of any man, but especially a Genoan dockworker.

He got up, stepped into his trousers, and thought about what he had to do. Brumm was headed for Genoa. Probably, he cautioned himself. With a live companion. It didn't make sense. Where was the damned body? Then it hit him. What were Skorzeny's exact words? "You think perhaps Gunter helped Hitler to escape?"

"Holy shit!" Valentine yelled.

Ermine sat up. "Beau, honey! You look like you've seen a ghost." He stared at her and smiled. "
My second one," he said, remem
bering his trip to the Eagle's Nest. Could Brumm have gotten Hitler out of Berlin alive?

127 – April 27, 1946, 10:00 P.M.

Though there was no longer any sign of pursuit, Brumm found it difficult to relax. It had been six days since Beard's death, and Herr Wolf sought conversation at every opportunity. The colonel had no stomach for it. His sergeant major had understood that the mission was paramount; their eyes had met only momentarily, but he knew. Still, Brumm did not like thinking about it. First Gretchen, now Hans. It was a high price to pay for principle: his lover and his friend-his only friend, he thought, in recognition of what the relationship had become.

Perhaps Beard had been right from the beginning: it might have been better to be shed of the burden. Yet in his mind he knew that one could not twist fact and fate. What was, was. One could not selectively ignore some facts and conjure up alternatives; that was the work of artists, not soldiers. Waller was dead. She had served her purpose willingly. So had Beard. Tears would not change what was.

Danger loomed ahead. That they were no longer being pursued was not a comfort. The previous chase had shown too much deliberation and intent to assume that it had now been abandoned. Still, for the moment they were alone.

The monastery sat high on the side of the mountain, a gray specter that seemed to hang precariously, cheating gravity. Brumm was nervous. The road up to it-it was more a widened trail-seemed to be an endless serpent of switchbacks, with plenty of blind turns and overhangs that were ideal for ambush. From the very beginning, this had been the part of the plan that made him most uneasy. Until now they had depended primarily on themselves for their own security. But at their secret meetings Hitler had not shared his colonel's concerns. "Next to the Church, the Third Reich is an amateur in matters of security and intrigue. These monks are hermits. They delude themselves into believing that their asceticism in some way sanctifies their lives. They march to their abbot's drum and the abbot to Rome's. It
is their tradition to provide sanctuary to outsiders. It will be perfect; you will see."

They waited until dark to make their ascent to the Benedictine abbey. If there was a trap along the way, darkness would help them. But they made the climb without incident. While they waited, Brumm bandaged the lower half of Herr Wolf's face. It was too late in the game to risk having him recognized now.

A monk in a filthy robe met them at the gate. He was lame, one foot twisted inward a full ninety degrees from his leg, which was shorter than the other. After examining their papers, he admitted them to a large open courtyard. From there they were taken to a damp storeroom, where baths were drawn for them in huge copper tubs. Herr Wolf refused to disrobe while the monks were present, so Brumm ushered them out politely and stood guard while his companion bathed himself. When he'd finished, Brumm crawled into the lukewarm water and cleansed himself as best he could. Afterward he put Herr Wolf's bandage in place again.

After their baths the men were taken to a cell and left alone. Herr Wolf talked nervously, in overlapping sentences. "Brilliant to arrange it through the Benedictines. They opposed us, you know, the only order in Germany that did. Who would believe that they would be the key to my salvation? In Lambach as a boy I attended a monastery school-did you know that, Colonel? I sang in the boys' choir. I believe I could have made a living as a singer. I was impressed with ecclesiastical pomp and circumstance; I adapted many of their costumes and symbols for our own purposes. People are always impressed by ceremony and the trappings of power. The Church has given a great deal of attention to detail. Had I not chosen differently, I might have risen to the throne of the Church. An interesting twist, eh?"

Brumm ignored these ramblings. Later they were brought a meal of fresh bread and thick, savory mutton stew. A bottle of the abbey's own fruity red wine came with the food, but both men left it alone; they would need their heads clear from here on. They ate at a small wood-block table using crude implements, their only light a small candle in a black metal sconce on a nearby wall.

When Herr Wolf finished eating, he crossed his legs, folded his arms ceremoniously and stared at Brumm. "Admit it, Colonel. It has gone exactly as we planned. The priests have given us a bath and a meal. Next they'll clothe us. I always wondered what it would be like to wear the cloth. Now we shall both have the opportunity to know."

Brumm did not answer. Very little had gone as they'd planned and he was still worried about pursuit.