The Berkut (37 page)

"She hung up on him and Hermann began to weep. It was a terrible thing to see. Even the soldiers were embarrassed."

"Then?"

"He got dressed and they took him away. They made him put on his uniform. He was still arguing with the officer when they left."

"What did you do then? Wait for him to come back?"

The woman gave Bailov one of those looks reserved for the truly demented. "Of course not. I helped myself to some things I thought Hermann wouldn't need and left fast. I figured he was ... " She didn't finish the sentence.

"And you haven't been back?" She shook her head. Bailov let the silence work for him. "Why did you leave so quickly?"

"Because they arrested him." "They used that word?"

"No, but they didn't have to be explicit. Arrests are something we Germans can understand."

"You feared they might come back and arrest you, too?"

She shrugged. "I believe in being cautious. I liked Hermann a lot, but he was dangerous, you know? Eva Braun's sister was his wife; I didn't relish being so close to all the big Nazis, but it was also exciting, you understand?" She rolled onto her side. "Men don't understand the attraction of power to some women. Physically Hermann was little more than a gnome, but he was on the inside and at the top. He had everything--or, rather, access to everything. It was hard for a girl to pass up. Also, he was very generous to me."

"You never saw him again?"

"No. I swear it," she added quickly.

Bailov sat on the edge of the bed and touched her leg with his hand. "That's not worth the price of a new identity," he said. "You've got to give me more than that."

"That's everything I can tell you." She sighed. "But I can give you everything else I've got," she said in a pathetic attempt to sound alluring.

He stood up. "Inadequate."

Springing across the bed, she grabbed him by the arm. "Please don't leave me," she pleaded. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head to his stomach. "I need help."

He pushed her away and walked toward the doorway.

"All right." She got out of bed, pulled the curtain across the entrance and pushed him back into the room. "Hermann was planning to leave Berlin. He told me that he could help me leave. I'd have done anything to get out-anyone would have. They were after him. He said he knew Hitler's secret."

Bailov smiled. "You're making this up to keep me here."

"No," she said angrily. "This is the truth. So help me." "And then he told you his secret?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly. He sort of hinted at it." He waited.

"He said Hitler was going to be twice the trouble the world expected."

"That's all?"

"He said that if Hitler found out that he knew, he'd have him killed. Do
you
know what he was talking about?"

"No," Bailov said, "but they executed your boyfriend that afternoon."

She sagged visibly.

"Where did he get his information? Eva Braun? His wife?"

"I don't know."

Bailov smiled. "You've told me everything he said?" "Everything, just the way he said it. My profession requires me to

learn lines and remember them. I've told you everything-all of it. I swear. Now will you help me?"

Bailov assessed the situation. It was not the kind of solid evidence Petrov wanted, but combined with everything else they had, it supported their conviction. "Get your things together," he told her.

Her eyes widened. "Not now," she warned. "It's dark. It's too dangerous in the streets. At night they shoot first, then investigate when the sun comes up."

He knew she was right.
In
the dark a Red Badge wouldn't be a big enough shield. When he told her he'd stay, she fetched a pail of cold water and they bathed in it. He spent the night in her bed, and she used the opportunity to demonstrate to him how a really good actress earned her parts.

In
the morning Bailov took Lisl with him to the headquarters of the Special Operations Group and installed her in a cell. After making arrangements for further interrogations by the staff, and for a flight to transport her to the holding center in Moscow, he wired Petrov.

He visited her in her cell that evening. She took her fate calmly, but Bailov felt a strange need to comfort her. "It won't be forever," he said, not knowing if it was the truth or not. "You'll still see Argentina."

"Will I?" she asked. Her eyes filled with tears.

43 – June 13, 1945, 9:00 A.M.

Pogrebenoi had been an artist, a painter with some potential, and had been well educated.
In
languages she was fluent in Italian, French, German, Russian and Romany. Her mother was alive and lived in Moscow; her father, an army colonel, had been killed in the invasion of Finland mounted by Stalin. Her brother, a pilot, had been downed and killed on the first day of the German invasion. Her husband, a cavalry officer, perished a few days later. She volunteered for military duty the following month.

Petrov was extremely selective in his recruiting. There were a number of attributes that he required of his subordinates, and the absence of anyone of them was enough to eliminate a candidate from further consideration. Above all, he liked people with the quality he called vibrancy. Of intelligence and education, the former was more important, though he preferred a blend. Russian education was less valued than foreign schooling because of the anarchic nature of the Soviet system, which did little to promote either discipline or perspective in the developing mind. He preferred people around him who were driven by curiosity, as he was, and who possessed a certain spark in the way they tackled their assigned tasks. He tried to instill in the members of his team a certain degree of orderly thought tempered with skepticism. They had to be able to absorb and retain a prodigious quantity of details, and to be able to think well enough to tie loose ends together.

Petrov recognized that each individual was unique, with his own peculiar style and sensibility, and he made no effort to mold his subordinates to a theoretical standard. But he wanted people who had an array of practical skills to complement their intellectual capabilities, for often it was the fusion of the practical and the theoretical that drove a wedge through a problem and opened a window to the previously unknown. Further, they had to be physically fit. Their duty was unpredictable, their base of operation changed frequently and often their living conditions were less than optimal. Only hardy people could withstand the stress and constant hardship.

Petrov read Pogrebenoi's file with interest, assimilating its facts.

She had left two sons, aged two and three, with her mother, completed six weeks of recruit training in the Urals, and then been sent--<>n foot-to the front lines in the Ukraine, where Soviet forces were trying desperately to blunt the German advance. In less than four years she rose in rank and responsibility from enlisted recruit to major, with command of a small battalion specializing in forays behind enemy lines. The record showed her to be an excellent marksman skilled in the use of a wide assortment of weapons-perhaps even the equal of Ezdovo, he thought. She had extensive experience in the handling of explosives, she had been wounded four times, and had suffered severe frostbite in her feet, a widespread problem for Soviet troops during the harsh winter of 1942-43.

A quick check with the Office of Defense Records revealed that Pogrebenoi was politically clean, and was committed to the party. Her efficiency ratings from superior officers were outstanding; had she desired it, a successful career in the military was hers. No reason was given for her request for discharge, and Petrov resolved to pursue the subject during their interview if she showed up. People with success ahead of them seldom changed course, he reminded himself.

When he had finished reading, Petrov smiled to himself. Father Grigory, that meddling Jesuit, had sent him an angel. He'd have to repay the debt. He did not smile about the fact that the priest's choice showed that he might understand what was afoot; Petrov was confident that he'd closed off the inquiry with his offhand remark. Still, the old meddler was crafty; he'd probably thought his way through it, as Petrov would have if the tables had been turned. Or perhaps the priest might have future need of an alliance with Petrov and was simply trying to create a political debt for repayment-when the interest rates were right. He wondered if there was a connection between Stalin and Father Grigory. It was a question that he had asked himself before, and he still did not know the answer. Stalin employed many resources and kept them to himself.

Talia Pogrebenoi arrived promptly at nine, the official starting time for the workday of Soviet bureaucrats.
In
a plain white peasant's shirt with bloused sleeves and a knee-length skirt, she was a handsome specimen. Despite her many war injuries, she walked gracefully and without evidence of a limp. Petrov noted that she wore shoes with heels high enough to satisfy her femininity but low enough to be within the tolerance of the party's views on such matters. Small wire loops dangled from her pierced ears. She wore earth-colored rouge on her lips, muted in such a way to enhance the shape of her mouth, but not marking her as overly concerned with her appearance. All in all, it was a masterly presentation.

"Good morning, Major. Coffee? Tea? Both are fresh."

She smiled and took a seat without being instructed. He liked people who saw the obvious and acted upon it. She sniffed at the fumes wafting from the cup of tea and sighed perceptibly. "It's been a long time since I smelled anything like this." He allowed her to savor her first swallow before beginning his questioning.

"I presume that your presence here this morning indicates your interest."

She did not respond; instead, she fixed a steady gaze on him as she had done the previous afternoon. Once again it was an unsettling
experience
.

"I've studied your dossier," Petrov said. "Very impressive." She flashed her eyes. "This is a special sort of organization," he explained. "If I offer the position and you accept, you do so for life. If at any time you fail in your responsibilities, you forfeit your life. No trial, no hearings, no appeals. How does that strike you?" He watched her eyes for clues, but there were none.

The woman's chin raised slightly just before she spoke. "The terms are absolute, so I assume that the mission is of critical importance to our country." Her voice was relaxed, but her choice of words was careful. She had complete control of herself. Even the unshakable Ezdovo had blinked and swallowed hard several times when he had heard the terms.

"You don't have to accept," Petrov said. "You can sit here and enjoy your tea, then leave and go on with your life. That's perfectly acceptable; there's no prejudice if you don't take the position."

"Has there ever been a refusal?"

Petrov shook his head and grinned. "Never." It was the first time a candidate had ever asked him the question. She was trying to control the situation, and he liked her aggressiveness. She was subtle and effective, rare qualities in one so young. "Before you decide," Petrov said, "there's a question I would like to ask." He opened her file and tapped his finger on the top sheet. "Your military performance was excellent, your fitness reports impeccable. You had a bright future in the army, yet you asked to be discharged. Why?"

"I joined as an answer to our nation's call in order to do a citizen's duty. Effectiveness and promotions in wartime are a matter of luck. In my battalion most of the officers were killed. They had to be replaced; I was there. In our sister battalion they lost very few. It's all a game of chance. The mission was simple: Kill the enemy. If you're a soldier you go where you're told to go, do what you're told to do, die if it's your time to die. As an officer you send soldiers into battle. It's very basic and uncomplicated."

"You understood your job. Why demean it?"

"I don't," Talia answered, "but neither do I glorify it. The truth is, I am not fit for soldiering. I do not like regimentation."

"Or textbook operations?" Petrov asked. "Let me finish for you. You liked leading your unit behind enemy lines. You liked being in the position of control. You can follow orders when the situation necessitates, but you prefer having responsibility for your own decisions and actions."

"Yes, that's about it."

"Every organization has to have a leader and subordinates."

"I don't disagree," she answered. "But in a dedicated organization qualified subordinates do not have their entire lives planned and supervised in detail. You pick your people for their abilities, then give them freedom to fly. I can sense this in you; you help them when they require it and give them what they need to do their job."