The Berkut (32 page)

37 – June 7, 1945, 9:00 A.M.

When one knows how to go about it, rumors are often easier to confirm than facts. What Petrov had heard was that Heinrich Muller had presented himself boldly to NKVD agents in Poland, claiming that he had in place a vast network of agents that, in return for his life and
more mundane considerations, he might "turn" for the Russians. Mul
ler's history was well known; he was among the most wanted of Nazi vermin. Petrov was not surprised by the rumor; on the contrary, it made perfect sense. Muller was a man of considerable accomplishment and undoubtedly able to deliver what he promised. As head of Gestapo Section IV, he had been responsible for the construction and administration of more than seven hundred concentration camps, including those specializing in extermination. Petrov had seen the gas chambers disguised as showers in Polish camps. It had not bothered him in the way that it did others. Millions of his own countrymen were in camps, too-or at least they had been when Hitler had invaded Russia. The difference was only one of style. In Russia the unwanteds and subhumans were sent north to permanent exile and none returned. The Germans were less patient, perhaps even a bit paranoid. Rather than letting nature and hard labor exact their price in time, the Germans tended to hurry the process with gadgets and methods for mass production. It was a vivid reminder that under fascism the capitalist spark burned on. Petrov admitted to himself that Muller's record would be envied by some Soviets, including some high in the party hierarchyperhaps even at the pinnacle.

Muller's name had been on the list prepared by the Special Op
erations Group. He'd last been seen near Hitler on the twenty-eighth of April. Before his disappearance the SS lieutenant general had put out feelers to Russian agents, and Petrov was well aware of these overtures.

The problem now was to locate Muller. With his contacts, he might easily give them a fast way to locate survivors of Skorzeny's units. It was essential that information about the commandos' planning officer be quickly pursued. With his own agents, Muller would be able to get it faster than his own team, Petrov reasoned. He decided to make a few calls around Berlin to see what the Red Badge might kick loose from his comrades.

At Zhukov's headquarters the previous day he had learned nothing, but at Konev's First Ukrainian Front Headquarters in the southern outskirts he found a small lead. Konev's people were living in mildewed tents in a barren field still pitted by artillery. The troops were lounging and cleaning their weapons more from habit than from need. The sun was out, and even Petrov felt a surge of warmth from it.

The main tent could have housed a small circus. Bricks from the nearby rubble supported doors that served as desks and tables. An emaciated sergeant major without boots was rubbing his feet and examining them when Petrov approached him.

"Who maintains the records of prisoners of war?"

"NKVD," the sergeant said, not bothering to look up. "You'd think that after a two-thousand-mile hike my feet would have hard
ened, but they haven't." He sounded disgusted.

"Central unit or a detachment?" Petrov asked.

The sergeant lifted his eyes to study the visitor. It was not often that someone came around
seeking
the NKVD; usually it worked the other way. "Who knows?" he replied. "The NKVD doesn't make such distinctions. "

"You must have records to document the transfer of control." The sergeant major felt the hair stand on the back of his neck.

This one talked too carefully. To survive he had learned to sense trouble, and this little twist of a man smelled like trouble. "I'll have a look at them," he said. Buy time, he cautioned himself. He stood and walked to a nearby table, where he smacked a lower-ranking noncom on the shoulder and ordered him to fetch the files. All the while he kept his gaze glued on Petrov, whose face retained its usual expressionless mask except for the eyes, two black coals on fire. The man didn't move his head to look, but he knew those eyes flickered from object to object. This one was not someone to resist.

"Here they are, comrade," the sergeant major said as the files were deposited on his table. "Let me see," he said, leafing through them in an effort to appear efficient. Powerful men appreciated efficiency. But it was a short-lived display. "I don't know this organization," he said, handing a file to Petrov, who read silently.

"This is the central headquarters group in the eastern part of the city." Petrov returned the folder. "I require transportation."

"The motor pool has vehicles. There are none
here."

"There are three lorries
outside."

"Reserved for division staff," the sergeant major explained.

"I will also require a driver," Petrov added, as if he had not heard the sergeant's pronouncement.

This was getting difficult. The sergeant major started perspiring. He was not accustomed to such pressure; in his world he made others sweat. "Comrade," he began, trying to think of a way to get himself off the hook, but before he could say more, Petrov produced a small black portfolio, unfolded it and placed it on the table. The sergeant felt himself go faint; his head spun and he felt nauseated. A Red Badge! He had thought it a myth.

"The small lorry will do," Petrov said, adding "comrade" as a friendly afterthought.

The sergeant major made his decision. Long ago he'd learned to trust his instincts. This tiny dark figure was a man of infinite power with, no doubt, little compunction about using it. "I'll drive you myself," he said eagerly, his words out before he realized his commitment.

Petrov nodded and walked outside. The sergeant followed in his stocking feet, carrying his boots and hat under his arms.

It took them two hours to find the NKVD center. The sergeant was instructed to wait, and was relieved when Petrov disappeared inside the three-story building. He thought about driving away, but where would he go? He had no choice but to see this through, whatever it was.

Armed guards moved quickly to block Petrov as he entered, but a quick flash of the Red Badge opened an immediate path through the security men. An inquiry about the identity of the local commander brought the hurried appearance of a short, pudgy man with pale blue eyes and silver hair combed over the top to hide a receding hairline. He stared at the visitor for a moment; then Petrov saw the recognition in the man's eyes and a confirming gulp.

"Petrov," he said, exhaling slowly, trying to force a smile. "Comrade Shikbava," Petrov responded. "It's a long walk from Moscow."

"Not when it's on the backs of Nazi corpses. Better sore feet than a still heart," the NKVD official responded, repeating a saying born among the troops. He led Petrov to his office on the second floor and told his guards that he and his guest were not to be disturbed. Like virtually everything else in the German capital, the office was covered with thick layers of dust, but the furnishings were first-class and obviously not part of the previous owner's decor. "You like it, eh? It belonged to the Gestapo. Not like our boys. Only a commissar would rate something like this."

"If I remember correctly," Petrov said, "you were securing communications for receipt of Allied messages."

"Your memory is still sound," Shikbava muttered. He opened a cabinet and offered Petrov a brandy.

Petrov observed that his host drank too fast. He was nervous.

"Where is Zaya? Wasn't that her name?" Petrov asked
.

Shikbava turned pale and waved his arms. "Quiet," he hushed. "You've not changed, you Gypsy bastard!"

"I was told that she lost her features from the beatings, and quite likely her mind as well. She would be better that way, for your special
how did you describe them?-your special appetites." Petrov paused to let his words linger in the air.

Kliment Shikbava had once wielded power inside the Kremlin. He was a man of immense natural talents and perverted tastes, which had been tolerated until he had gone too far. He was an educated man, an electronics genius, the designer of an extensive eavesdropping sys
tem that stretched its tentacles across the entire Soviet nation, but he had allowed his perversions to rule him. He had a passion for young girls, preferably covered with layers of soft fat and yet to enter their menstrual cycles. He never slept with the same girl twice, and he used his considerable official channels to purchase and procure them wherever his travels took him. For the most part Russian peasants were still backward and clung to their old ways, because even bad ways, which were well known, were better than the unknown. By such values a daughter was a commodity.

Shikbava's trouble had begun with a trip to Georgia, where he had purchased the services of a young girl named Zaya, a twelve-year
old with long black tresses. Apparently he had been bewitched by the girl, because not only did he keep her with him for nearly a month
,
a clear breach of his contract with her father-but took her back to Moscow when his trip ended. The girl's father, a boyhood friend of Stalin's, immediately set out by foot for Moscow, and upon his arrival presented himself at the Kremlin. When he was denied entrance, he remained in the city, determined to secure an audience with the premier. Eventually someone in his network of informants told Stalin about the man and his plight. The premier was outraged, and the Berkut was called in to mete out justice.

Locating the girl was a simple matter; Shikbava had installed her in his dacha near the city. She was in pitiful condition. Having been beaten frequently and used sexually by Shikbava's servants when the master was away, she had ceased to exist in the present. When Petrov saw her she had no life left in her. She wore a fine silk gown, and when he entered the room she slipped it off her shoulders and stepped forward to engage him. He held her away, but finally, because she refused to stop clawing at him, had been forced to have her straitjack
eted by Rivitsky. She could no longer speak. She had been reduced to
the state of an animal with only a single function to perform, and in her twisted subconscious she knew that her performance was the only way to ensure her continued survival.

It was an unnerving experience for Petrov. When he confronted Shikbava, the man had broken down and begged for mercy. He swore that while he was smitten with the girl, he had not stolen her; the abduction had been conceived by one of his subordinates, who had presented her to him as a gift upon their return to the capital. He admitted it was an error in judgment, but he would atone for it.

Shikbava and his domestic and professional staffs were all im
prisoned. Stalin had sought Petrov's counsel. He was in a quandary: he felt compelled to avenge the wrong done to his old friend's daughter, but he also did not wish to lose his electronics genius.

Petrov suggested a compromise. The Georgian had in fact made his young daughter available for a price and was not without his own share of guilt. Likewise, the abductors deserved the worst, and the domestics who had abused the girl for their own purposes must be dealt with severely.

Stalin listened to Petrov's words, then issued his decree. The girl's father was beaten severely and submitted to· electroshock therapy at the psychiatric institute run by the NKVD for failing to protect his seed as any good Communist father should do. Through a series of interrogations in which Petrov had no part, twenty-two other indi
viduals confessed to having been with the girl or having known about her circumstances without taking action. On Stalin's order, all of them were hanged one morning at Lubyanka Prison. Shikbava was beaten so severely over a period of months that he nearly died, but when Stalin needed him again, he was declared "sanitized" and sent to a hospital for recovery, a process that required nearly a year. Upon his release he was reassig
n
ed to an office responsible for establishing and maintaining the complex communications network that would link the Russians with the Americans and the English. This was what he had been doing when Petrov last saw him. It was an important job, but well below Shikbava's full technical capabilities. Petrov knew Stalin intended it to be so; the man would have to work his way back into political favor.

Petrov recalled vividly the girl and her green dress as he sipped his vodka and waited for Shikbava to speak.

"I was reinstated after my"-he groped for a word-"after my rehabilitation. I never saw her again."

Petrov did not respond.

"I've cast off the perversion. I'm celibate now. I'll have to carry that burden forever; now I live only for the party."

"Heinrich Muller," Petrov said, setting down his glass, still half filled. "You have him."

Shikbava tensed. "You haven't changed; you always know every
thing."

"I need him."

"For what?" Shikbava asked nervously, sweating heavily. "He's mine."

Petro
v laid the Red Badge on the other man's desk. The silver
-
haired Russian stared at it, frightened beyond speech. He had been to the abyss with Petrov before and barely escaped with his life. His scars and broken bones immediately began to throb, reminding him of the power standing before him. He tried to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking too badly.