The Berkut (47 page)

"I know nothing," Valentine said. "There's no trace of Brumm.

I've just been to Munich. We have all your records-all but Brumm's; they're gone."

There was a silence. "I see your interest," Skorzeny said at last, "but you can't expect me to provide you with details. I will have nothing to say about Brumm or any of my comrades."

Valentine recognized a quid pro quo when one was presented. "I can see your point, Otto, but consider your position here. There are these charges against you, and they're not made lightly. It's my observation that the adjutant general types are eager to successfully prosecute every German they can find, especially famous ones. Success breeds publicity, and publicity breeds success. American law firms pay big salaries-you understand the process, I'm sure."

Skorzeny crossed his arms and set his jaw. "Let them prosecute.

I'm not guilty of any crimes, and they can't prove that I am. They have to prove my guilt, correct?"

"Only in a theoretical sense. These are unusual circumstances, and my hunch is that
you'll
have to prove your innocence. There are prisons filled with Nazi officials, all anxious to save their own skins. Maybe even some of your own men will tell the prosecution what it wants to hear. There's nothing subtle about these court cases; they mean to give the hangman some work."

Valentine paused for effect. He was certain Skorzeny was not as sure of himself as he was trying to appear . "You have your own word, of course. And Radl. Of course you don't know what pressures they'll put on Radl." Again he let the words sink in. "He's probably strong enough to resist, and perhaps you'll be able to depend on some of your other comrades. But they
are
Germans, and that makes them suspect, wouldn't you think?"

"They're honorable men," Skorzeny said quickly.

"I know. But think about this: how much would it help to have some witnesses for the defense from outside your own circle of acquaintances?"

"You, for example?"

Valentine drew back in surprise. "Me? I couldn't help you. What am I? A simple OSS agent."

"I'm beginning to understand what you're leading up to."

"I thought you would. Suppose I told you that there was a certain British agent who had operated in France, and who was eventually captured and interned by the Gestapo in your death camps?"

"I had nothing to do with the Gestapo," Skorzeny said defensively.

"Suppose, through the intervention of Providence, that this certain agent survived; suppose further for the purposes of our discussion that this agent had a special interest in your case-out of professional respect, let's say. Should this man come forward on your behalf, I believe your case would assume a kind of legitimacy that even the prosecutors would find difficult to penetrate."

"I know the man you refer to. I'm glad he's alive. An able soldier, an honorable opponent." Valentine knew that the SS colonel was telling the truth. "But I presume this man needs some ... encouragement to come forward-is that your meaning?"

"I think you get the point, Colonel. Tit for tat." "Scratching the other man's
back, so to speak."

Valentine smiled. "You've got it. Where does that
leave us?" "And the price is Gü
nter Brumm," Skorzeny said.

"No. The price is
information
about Colonel Brumm. That's all. Just information. Who is he? What is he? What did he do in the Friedenthal Division? Information is all I'm asking for. I would never ask you to betray a comrade."

Both laughed. "Unless you needed to in order to get what you wanted," Skorzeny
observed. "What do you need? Gü
nter was an enterprising man. I doubt if anything I can tell you will help you to find him. If he's decided to disappear, there's probably not much you can do about it; he's that kind of man.
In
any event, it's more likely he's dead, on the Oder front. If you want to find him, ask the Russians to look for his body."

They both knew that the Russians had bulldozed German dead into mass graves. "I doubt they'd be helpful."

Skorzeny retreated into a shell and did not speak for a long time. Finally he said incredulously, "You're thinking
that perhaps Gü
nter helped Hitler to escape. That's it, isn't it? You Americans are obsessed with the idea of Hitler's survival."

"Let's say 1 have some narrow professional interests in the colonel. "

"Listen to me, Herr Valentine. Adolf Hitler is dead. He killed himself in Berlin. There's no ghost for you to chase after.
Kaput
.
You understand? "

"1 agree," Valentine said evenly. "But there are no bodies, no remains."

"Ah," Skorzeny said, letting the syllable drag out. "That's easy.

The brotherhood spirits away the remains of their revered leader as a final act of defiance against the invaders. A reasonable supposition, though I'm certain 1 would have heard something about such an event were it true."

"Are you telling me that Brumm might have removed Hitler's remains?"

"Brumm is capable of anything. It was he who planned the Mussolini rescue. He was a sound thinker, bold and innovative, and he could plan and execute all the details necessary for an operation to succeed."

"What was his relationship to Hitler?"

"None. He was with me once when Hitler decorated us. No more than that.
I
was Hitler's adviser on the subject of special missions. Only me." Valentine could see that the idea of a plot being hatched by Hitler without bringing Skorzeny into it bothered the colonel deeply.

"But there could have been some relationship you were unaware of."

"A mathematical possibility only, not a probability. It would have been impossible to hide such a liaison from me. My contacts were, shall we say, inclusive."

"1 would like to know about Brumm." "Where shall 1 begin?"

"Wherever you like."

Skorzeny talked nonstop about Brumm for nearly two hours. When Valentine left the cell, he had a better feel for what the Russians were thinking, and a pretty good idea of where to start. He'd baited Skorzeny with the implication that Radl might not corroborate his story. It was a lie; an MP officer had told Valentine the night before that Radl and Skorzeny would be reunited as roommates tomorrow. It did not bother the American to lie; the important thing was to get to the truth and sometimes lies were what got you there the fastest. Usually he followed leads without reporting up the chain of command, but this time something in the back of his mind warned him that he had better make sure that someone higher up knew what he was considering. It would be just like the Nazis to spirit Hitler's remains away in order to deny them to the invaders. It was an
i
nteresting possibility, and one he had not considered.

59 – August 16, 1945, 9:00 P.M.

Before leaving Rome, Father Nefiore had been required to memorize the personal history of Hauptmann Ernst Pfeiffer, a German army officer from Dortmund. Pfeiffer was dead, but he had not died in combat. He was a deserter who had sought refuge with a priest in northern Italy and had been granted asylum. He died of a coronary only a few days after deserting, and his papers had been preserved for future contingencies.

Nefiore's instructions were to proceed to the village of Wetter as fast as he could get there, but if he was challenged by the Americans along the way, he was to give himself up. His destination was on the Lahn River near Marburg-about eighty kilometers north of Frankfurt. He was assured that if the Americans took him into custody, it would be only for a brief time; Pfeiffer's papers were perfect.

Traveling by bicycle, the priest had made his way into northern Italy, where a guide took him through one of the passes to Switzerland. From there he walked into Germany. At the border the Americans challenged him, but after three days in a massive POW compound near Munich, he was allowed to continue his journey.

His release from captivity was as unceremonious as his surrender. By American reckoning Pfeiffer was squeaky-clean. He was army, not
SS
, a competent, if ordinary, officer. The Americans provided him with a new uniform and a set of identity papers that gave him the right to go home. They also told him that if he wished to enter the Soviet zone of occupation, he'd have to submit to a separate investigation, and they advised him against it. "Pretty hard ass, them Russians," a corporal told him. "I hear they're loading up German officers
and shippin' them off to a jailhouse in Roosha. If you got business over thatta way, that's up to you, but I wouldn't go, pal."

Outside the prison compound Nefiore felt truly free. It was a dismal morning, but he'd never felt better or more alive.

He spent the day trying to find a bicycle but by mid afternoon gave up and began walking north. Near sundown an Army half-track clattered loudly along behind him. When it drew alongside, two GIs waved at him to climb aboard.

The soldiers had rigged a tripod in the cramped space in back and bolted it to the floor. Suspended from it was a small Sterno stove, and a pot of coffee was brewing, its marvelous odor mixing with diesel fumes, cordite and a thin cloud of dust. They gave him a tin cup and poured it a third full. "When you want more, speak up. This is to keep it from slopping all over you. They just let you out?"

Nefiore nodded.

"They give you a hard time?" "No, I was well treated." "Lucky you're not a Nazi." "You
presume
I am not a Nazi."

The men laughed. "Nothing to presume, friend. If they had the slightest notion you were, you'd still be cooling your heels. How far up the road you traveling?"

"Marburg. My home."

"Me, I'm a Chicago boy," one of the soldiers said. "Sometimes it's hard to remember what it looks like. That way for you, too?"

Nefiore smiled. "Yes. I've been away for a long time." "Family?"

Nefiore shrugged. "There was a lot of bombing."

One of them unfolded a large map and patted it flat on the vehicle deck. "Show me your town."

The priest pointed to Marburg.

The two soldiers looked at each other as if seeking agreement.

Then the redhead said, "I think you're okay, partner. There wasn't much bombing in that area. Old Blood and Guts tore the area up with his tanks, but the flyboys left it alone."

"Old Blood and Guts?"

"You know-General Georgie Hardass Patton Junior. Had two pearl-handled forty-fives, wore riding britches, kept the ugliest dog on earth. The man had balls big enough to roll down an alley and hard enough to get him a strike.
That
George Patton."

"I don't believe I know of him," Nefiore said.

The two soldiers were disappointed. "He led our tanks," one of them said. "Better than Rommel," he added.

"Ah," Nefiore said, recognizing the name as that of a well-known German general, but not knowing much about him. In the future, he reminded himself, he'd have to be careful about conversations, no matter how innocent they seemed at the outset. "I'm tired," he said.

"Grab some shut-eye," the redhead told him. "We're going all the way to Frankfurt, so you got lotsa time."

Nefiore slept lightly until they reached Frankfurt. There the soldiers dropped him off after loading him up with C rations and wishing him luck. It was difficult to understand the generosity of Americans. They had sent millions of men to smash Germany, but now that they had succeeded, there seemed to be no animosity. It was very odd, and one more reminder of why the world should be wary of Americans. The Italians detested the Germans. They had given in to them because of Mussolini, but individually they hated and feared them-and with good reason.

The priest sat in the grass by the side of the road and ate a can of peaches in heavy syrup. The Americans were different: innocent, yet tenacious, fast to anger, fast to forget. The Holy See disliked dealing with Americans because they never played by the rules. American bishops were constantly badgering Rome for explanations of various policies, and openly questioned every request for increased funds. Even so, the money always seemed to come through. The Americans lacked sophistication, said the Italian cardinals; they could never lead the Church until they had more experience with human nature. Nefiore recognized envy when he heard it. The Americans were a remarkable people, and this simple fact irritated a lot who weren't. Their attitude toward Germans was only the latest demonstration of their unique ways.