“Head count.”
The collision had knocked the mortar away and the mortarman with it. There had been seventeen of them in the commando; there were five now. Sergei reported it bitterly.
The locomotive was losing speed and there was a train pursuing and he still had a responsibility to these four as great as it had been to the sixteen: that and a responsibility to survive because they’d been betrayed and vengeance for that must be exacted.
He looked at them: Sergei and the three Russian soldiers: Tukschev, Blucherov, Voroshnikov with blood on the left side of his face because something had taken off his earlobe and left a raw streak down his cheek.
Ahead of them the rails ran straight down a steady incline two miles or more through the forest. The bend was behind them and pursuit out of sight. “Go on,” he said. “Jump.”
He watched them tumble and then he went off last: thirty miles an hour perhaps; if you could put down in a parachute without breaking a leg you could jump off a train at that speed. They carried their tommy guns into the forest and began to run for it.
9
A heavy brownish sky hung over the horizon. Alex stood up slowly and heavily like a bear breaking water to wade up on shore. He moved his face from left to right.
Beneath the tall snow-heavy trees was a compound of buildings: the dacha and its outbuildings. Alex made a survey with his eyes and ears. Nothing stirred. He made a brief hand signal and sculled forward on his elbows. Right at the last row of trees he halted them.
He didn’t see any sign of Solov or Postsev or any of the others. Then he heard something: the distant measured rumor of an engine growling in low gear.
Sergei thrust his lower jaw forward to bite at his upper lip; he unslung his machine pistol. Alex shook his head mutely. They bellied down in the forest and the sun obscured itself behind festering clouds. He went numb with cold. The grinding racket approached steadily. When he looked at Sergei the old man’s lips were cracked and ready to bleed and so were his eyes.
The machine was in the driveway beyond the farther grove. He waved them all down in the shadows; he merged himself with the bole of a pine.
The truck rolled into sight, crunching snow-a cleated halftrack with a general’s star on the fender, canvas hooped over the bed. Alex heard the quick whistling intake of Sergei’s breath through teeth. He crouched frozen against the tree with the tommygun in both hands but his fists didn’t seem to have much grip in them. He stared bleakly as the half-track drew up by the dascha and soldiers dismounted from the truck-a full-strength line squad of Red Army soldiers armed with 7.62-millimeter rifles and grenade belts and automatic weapons.
A very tall officer emerged from the truck and spoke to the men; they marched into the compound while the tall officer turned a full circle on his heels. Bundled in a heavy coat, muffler wrapped around his face, he was a figure of immense size. Recognition grenaded into Alex’s belly until sour liquid flowed up into his mouth.
The giant tramped forward into the trees-moving idly as if seeking a private spot to urinate. While he walked his head turned incessantly-watching everything. He clasped his hands behind his back and stopped once to turn around and look up at the sun; creases made rings in the back of his neck and then he came on ahead into the trees and stopped not ten feet from where Alex stood with a gun trained on his heart. The giant was looking elsewhere but he spoke distinctly in a low baritone:
“Condottieri-I am Kollin. Don’t show yourself but speak if you can hear me.”
“Right here, General.” And his finger curled around the trigger.
Vlasov came around ponderously and his eyes went bright behind the lenses of his heavy eyeglasses-like an animal at night pinned by the beam of headlights.
“We have lost,” he said, very soft.
“I know.”
“You must get out as best you can. Do not wait for the rest of your men-they will not make this rendezvous. Yours was not the only team that went into a trap.”
“But we’re the only team that got out of it. Are you telling me that?”
“Yes.” Vlasov’s face was all rough crags and shadows. “It was not I who betrayed you, General Danilov.”
“Who then?”
“Beria had a signal. I do not know from whom. We all were betrayed. Someone gave Beria the plan-not four hours ago. They only had time to remove the High Command from the train. Sending the empty train on as a decoy to draw you into the trap-that was Beria’s idea.”
A bitter wave of defeat flooded Alex’s chest. He stared ruefully at the huge general.
Vlasov said, “Your bomber crews were superb, I am told.” He swayed toward a tree as if he required its support, then with a violent tremor he sat down with his back to it, hands pinched between his squeezed-together knees. Behind the glasses his eyes went lifeless and turned inward as if in search of a strength that had disintegrated. “So near-so near. But the steel bear is safe in the Kremlin-there is nothing we can salvage. Nothing.”
Momentarily Vlasov’s easy acceptance of defeat outraged him but he made his voice kind: “You had better come out with us.”
“No. Beria’s informant did not know my identity. They know there is a traitor among the generals but Stalin trusts me more than any of them except Zhukov.”
“Can you stay after this?”
“I must. One must continue the illusion that there is always one more chance.” Vlasov struggled to his feet like an old man. “The traitor may have given Beria your intended escape route. You will have to improvise a different escape.” And then he was walking away as calmly as he had arrived, hands clasped in the small of his back, boots squeaking on the snow.
10
The low sun charged the light with gold. He halted the little column in the woods across the road from the hospital and spoke softly:
“We’ll wait for full darkness.”
The hospital was a massive bleak structure towering over the barracks behind it. In ambulances by the side of the building military drivers dozed at the wheel. Alex studied the lay of it while he still had light; he moved back and forth along the road, staying within the trees, making an end-to-end reconnaissance of the compound. It was the Seventh Red Army Hospital-headquarters for the medical department of the Moscow Military Area-and there was a good deal of activity: ambulances, army trucks, buses, staff cars with medical flags on them to indicate they carried doctors of high rank. Personnel flitted in and out of the compound on bicycles and those on foot queued for the civilian buses which arrived at twelve-minute intervals, turned around, stopped to discharge and collect passengers and went back the way they’d come-on the Moscow road.
It was a monolithic building of Byzantine brick, four stories high and the size of two city blocks in area; it had been built in the days of Peter the Great as a state building for the administration of provincial districts and it had the turreted gingerbread finish of its period. The only thing loftier in sight was the crenellated onion dome of a church a quarter of a mile up the road.
They waited until the sun went down-a bit after four o’clock-but the moon was up by then and it etched the winter branches in serene light and Alex had to decide whether to move anyway or to wait for moonset. The temperature had dropped steadily during the twilight hours and there would be a risk of frostbite in waiting but that would be preferable to capture; he decided they would stay put until they had full darkness.
He walked along close to the wall, fingertips dragging it lightly, trying to focus his flagging concentration. In
