“Haven’t come across anything on record in Europe. The No. 4 (T) had a most helpful ballistic eccentricity. Out to 250 yards, it was quite ordinary. But British and Canadian snipers soon learned that there was something about the .303 Radford Arsenal 176-grain bullet, the No. 4 (T) as bedded and with scope mounted by the geniuses at Holland and Holland, and maybe the superb optics of the No. 32 telescopic sight, which, although it was only 3.5-power, had lenses that offered unusual clarity out to long distances. Somehow if the .303 deviated from trajectory, by a property to this day not understood, the in-flight bullets somehow adjusted, trimmed, I don’t know, ‘fixed’ themselves. So if they came back to the original trajectory and stayed spot-on, the result was unusually proficient long-range accuracy.”
“Is there any way one of those rifles could have showed up in the Carpathian Ukraine in July ’44? It don’t make no sense because we’re five hundred miles or so from the nearest British troops, which would probably be in Italy. Does it make any sense at all?”
“Not a lick,” said Jimmy. “Not a whisper. Which doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I have the Holland and Holland records, I have the British army records, I even have some still-classified stuff from clandestine hugger-mugger done by something called the Special Operations Executive, whose charge was to set Europe ablaze. Possibly they could have set Ukraine ablaze while they were at it.”
“Can you check? Sooner would be better than later.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got the stuff here and I’ll get on it straight away. By the way, I’m doing a chum a favor, I’m hoping he’ll do one in response.”
“You got it. I’ll be at the match, when, October, was that it?”
“Swell! Yes, it would mean a lot to the boys. Okay, I’ll get cracking.”
Moscow
The Aquarium
The Krulov Investigation
Will sat on the floor of the KGB file depository on the ninth floor of the Lubyanka. The ordeal before him at least got his mind off the mysterious adventures his wife was having in Ukraine and his sense of longing for a nice quiet night in the apartment. Wearing a surgical mask and tight rubber gloves, plus a sweater because the room was kept so cold, he paged through the lengthy mass of Krulov papers, reading by flashlight because the light in the vast green room packed with files was so poor. He had to hurry, as Likov could guarantee him only six hours. Anything else and there could be trouble.
He paged through, scanning the well-typed onionskin, reading the Russian swiftly, and thanking his torturers at the Monterey Language School, who had beaten Russian into him and Kathy fifteen years ago. He confirmed much that he already knew about Basil Krulov: four years in Munich, ’29–’33, in Munich with references to NKVD file Archangel 78-B11256 (Arkady Krulov), presumably documentation on his father, who was the supposed trade representative of the Russian Export Ministry but was really coordinating with the German communists and trade unions as they were jockeying for power with the boys in the twisted-cross hats. The boy attended German Realschule, as they call it, vigorous German high school, very fine education. Learned German quickly, which is commensurate with a high IQ. Then he enrolled at University of Munich and was there for two years before Hitler came to power and kicked all the Reds out, even the diplomatic ones. God, NKVD was thorough: they even had his syllabus and grades at that university. Will guessed it was part of German pedantry; they never throw anything out, the syllabuses, the report cards, the notes to Mom about dunking Peggy Sue’s pigtails in the inkwell, the Dueling Society scars. Yes, the boy was brilliant, all 1’s, meaning A’s, and Will’s eyes ran quickly over the ancient information dredged out of a dead world. Then he noticed something that made him blink twice.
Jesus Christ!, he said to himself.
It was the first of what turned into a night of Jesus Christ! moments.
Yaremche
The River Prut
They awoke, took a hearty breakfast—the hotel’s specialty—and then drove to the waterfall site. They parked and moved quickly to the halfway point of the bridge.
He pointed over the faux village to a wooded slope golden in the sun. Its details were murky at the distance, at least a thousand yards, but he stared hard at it, finding it so provocative.
If she had fired from there, he thought, with a decent rifle—
“So what’s the plan?” Kathy asked.
“It would be better if I had a range finder, if I had a compass, if I had a pair of binocs, but I don’t. So I’ll just sort of mark some potential firing sites from here, and we’ll see if we can find them up there. Then I can satisfy myself as to what kind of rifle she had to have.”
“Oh, look,” she said. “Another American.”
She pointed. At the far end of the bridge, a young man stood, smiling at them, posing as if in a hip commercial for a soft drink. He was wearing a yellow Baltimore Ravens cap, a polo shirt, a pair of jeans, and some trendy hikers. He looked like any young dad in a mall. He wore wraparound tear-shaped sunglasses and a big smile. He walked over to them.
“Hi,” he said. “Jerry Renn. It’s a pleasure to meet Bob Lee Swagger, Bob the Nailer. You’ve been a hero of mine for a long time. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
CHAPTER 36
The Carpathians
Yaremche
LATE JULY 1944
The fire defied him. It would not burn fast enough, even in the drought of late July. He willed it to consume its tinder, to race down the slope, to despoil the forest and reveal the raw flanks of earth to the world, so that no sniper could hide and have the pleasure of a slow and easy preparation on the shot.
Even with ten of the Flammenwerfer-41s spurting out their Flammoil-19 in arcs of bright flame, igniting all that they touched, the natural world would not consume itself quickly enough for Captain Salid.
Like all his men, he wore a gas mask, for the acrid smoke hung low and dense and no wind came to push it away. He watched the blackness that followed the wall of flame as it spread slowly down the slope, devouring the greenery; he heard the crackle and pop of the spruces and junipers snapping as they were oxidized into a new form of matter; he watched the low black fog scuttle this way and that.
So much to worry about. The big Russian offensive would jump off any day. Katyusha rockets, a blizzard of artillery, then tanks and tank riders with tommy guns in the thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands. How quickly would they slice through Von Bink’s shorthanded Panzer army and get here?
Another worry: when would the parachutists get into position? It meant nothing to run a sweep up through the mountains if there was no blocking force. It also meant nothing if the Russians attacked by air and the parachutists were wiped out and escape to Hungary was cut off. With his three panzerwagens, more valuable than their weight in gold, he could possibly get his men around the mountains to the wider road to the south and out that way. But without the woman, it was a failure; without the woman, he would not win his Iron Cross, he would not return home a hero. Without the fucking woman, he was nothing. Aggghhh. Frustration clotted his vision and assaulted his brow, and the air, though purified by the filters of the mask, tasted foul and rancid. He almost threw it off, and took a cigarette, and dreamed of a cool, shadowy oasis far from all this madness and—
It was his signalman.
Both pulled up their masks.
“Sir, the Kommissarat. The senior group leader himself.”
“Oh, damn,” said the captain.
He turned, signaled for his Kübel to approach, jumped in, and directed the driver to the signals hut. He entered, and a lance corporal leaped up in front of the radio unit.
“Captain, urgent signal from the Kommissariat. I believe the senior group leader himsel—”
“Yes, yes, make contact immediately.”
The man sat down, worked the dials and radio protocols, then turned the telephone receiver over to Salid. “Hello, hello, this is Zeppelin Leader,” he said.
“One second, Captain,�
� came the voice at the other end.
A second later, “Salid, Groedl here.”
“Yes sir.”
“I want your men assembled in full combat uniform for assignment in one hour.”
“Sir, they are on details spread around Yaremche and—”
“One hour. Get them here quickly, Salid. I require your utmost in a very dangerous situation, do you understand?”
“I—But sir, the White Witch may escape without the pressure of the patrolling, and I thought—”
“Priorities. That is why it is hard to command. Show me that you deserve to command, Salid. Trust that I understand all ramifications, have calculated them against the situation of the war, and have made the proper judgment.”
“I will comply, sir,” he said.
“That is all. Salid, I’m counting on you.”
“I won’t let you down, sir. End transmit.”
He turned, as two NCOs had noticed his sudden arrival to the signals hut and come to see what was going on.
“Get me runners to the patrols and send people to the flame operators. We are recalling all troops, and I want at least two of the panzerwagens on the road within half an hour. The third can remain for stragglers, but we are needed in the city for emergency duties. Hoppe, hoppe, hoppe!”
* * *
It was not an easy trek. Von Drehle did not believe any of Bak’s people had wandered this far south; it was far more likely that, aware the Red Army was about to drive the Germans out of the Carpathians, they would hunker down and prepare to celebrate their survival. Thus, the chances of ambush were slight. But he could not be sure, so he determined that the ascent should be made on full combat alert. The radio, the treasure, was secured in the Kübelwagen that Wili Bober drove; it was also loaded with cans of belted 7.92 for the MG-42s, as well as unbelted 7.92 for the FG-42s, 7.92 Kurz for the STG-44s, a supply of M24s, and two Panzerschrecks with rockets. The buglike little Volkswagen also pulled a small cart loaded with rations and large water cans. The whole graceless, unlikely contrivance, dappled with smeary camouflage paint in the tones of the summer forest, muddled along the edge of the road on the way to Natasha’s Womb, after having been dropped at Yaremche, which was covered with smoke and the smell of burning wood, though there was no sign of the SS group. Maybe they were off on a picnic somewhere.
At the halfway point, Von Drehle called a break, and the boys flopped to the earth but knew enough not to gorge on the water. Instead, they took small, measured sips, enjoying the liquid as it cut through the slime on lips and tongues. He himself looked urgently through binoculars for sign and picked up nothing save more densely packed trees, more treacherous undergrowth.
“Karl, do you think we should make a radio check?” asked Wili Bober.
“No, it would take too long to set the goddamn thing up and then take it down. I do not like being on this open road. The sooner we get up and get a perimeter established, the better. Besides, whatever is happening down there, we can do nothing about, and it can do nothing about us, so what difference does it make?”
“Got it,” Wili said.
“Okay, let’s get moving. Teatime is finished. Green Devils, off your asses and back into the war.”
There was grumbling, but there was always grumbling; only its absence would have been remarkable.
They reached the gap at around seven P.M. He could see the cliffs narrowing in to the road, forming a natural choke point. Natasha’s Womb, in its narrow glory.
“Ginger’s Womb!” somebody cried, and everybody laughed.
Karl blushed. “Enough of that,” he said, but knew it was too late. A nickname, once given and accepted, was never rescinded.
He looked at the narrow walls, chalky in limestone, a soft rock, easily cracked or blasted. Blockading it, then blowing it, wouldn’t be difficult. But not now, after the long, tense trek. Looking around, he could tell they were surrounded on all sides by the Carpathians and, in the fading light, saw an ocean of waves in the earth’s surface, ancient mountains beaten smooth by the passage of eons and now shrouded and softened in pines. He ordered a quick setup of a night defensive position, arranged the guys along the road on either side. Finally he ordered his signalman to set up and make contact with base, for any reports and to make his own.
But in a few minutes, Signals called him over.
“Karl, I can’t get through. Everyone’s on the net, I can’t make contact with Zeppelin, I can’t reach Panzer headquarters or the Kommissariat.”
“Has the offensive gone off?”
“It’s not combat traffic, it’s—well, political.”
“Political?”
“I hear—arrests, worries about loyalty, protestations of innocence, intense allegiance swearing, all a mess. Here, listen.”
He peeled off the earphones and Karl squatted down to dip in to them. He heard a crazed staccato of chatter, no protocols at all, signals coming in and out, basically confusion. It wasn’t like a German army to lose control of procedure so radically. What the hell could be happening?
“Damned strange,” he said. “Is there another channel?”
“I’ve tried them all, sir. Everywhere it’s crazy.”
“Damned strange,” he said again. But the radio buzzed, meaning incoming transmission. Von Drehle took up the telephone mike with the send button. “Hello, hello,” he said. “Oskar Leader here, I repeat, this is Oskar Leader.”
“Yes, dammit, Von Drehle, Zeppelin Leader here, where the hell have you been?”
“Advancing five kilometers into the mountains, Captain.”
“Are you in place?”
“Yes, we have arrived. We’ll wire the cliff for demo tomorrow and set up defensive lines. I do need to pick up that Flammenwerfer, old man.”
“Haven’t you heard? My God, man, get your head out of your ass!”
“I don’t—”
“Someone tried to assassinate the führer. Early reports were that he is dead. But he survived a bomb attempt.”
Von Drehle thought: It was bound to happen. The man is a maniac, without concern for his troops. But he could only say, “I receive.”
“Police Battalion has been dispatched on security duty. We are making arrests from an SA list of probable suspects. I need you to hold secure in your area, be very alert for partisan movement, make certain—”
“Arrests? Who are you arresting, goddammit? There’s no one to arrest in Fourteenth Panzergrenadier, for Christ’s sake, these men have been fighting for two years out here.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss direct orders from Berlin with some parachutist captain on a mountaintop. You will hold your position, build defensive breastworks, patrol for bandit activity.”
“Zeppelin Leader, I am in receipt of message. End transmit.”
“End transmit,” said Salid from wherever he was.
Von Drehle sat back, confounded. What the hell was going on? Arresting suspects? What did that mean? Who was in charge, how would things change, what was his duty now? You had to watch yourself in these crazy times; anyone could end up in front of a firing squad.
He decided he’d best double-check with 14th Panzergrenadier to make certain his orders remained as the Arab had said. He told Signals to reach division headquarters. Certainly there’d be no way he could get to Von Bink, but one of Von Bink’s able assistants would at least know what the policy was.
It took a while, but he got through, at least to a low-level command.
“Hello, hello, this is Oskar calling for anyone at kingdom headquarters.”
“Oskar, Oskar, we can’t raise headquarters, either. This is Lieutenant Colonel Rungen, Fifth Battalion, Third Regiment, Fourteenth Panzergrenadiers.”
“Sir, Major Von Drehle, Twenty-one Para, Battlegroup Von Drehle.”
“Yes, Major.”
“Colonel, what is going on?”
“It’s a confused situation, and I have to say, it doesn’t look good. But be careful who you talk to. They’re going a
round arresting people and hauling them off. Just before a Red offensive, too. Excellent timing.”
“Sir, I’m up at Natasha’s Womb with orders to hold until relieved. I just wanted to make sure that was still in accordance with General Von Bink’s orders.”
“I would have no way of knowing. SS has sealed off division headquarters. Now SS Panzer Muntz, that moron, is in command of all armored units. I regret to inform you—General Von Bink has been arrested.”
CHAPTER 37
Yaremche
The Bridge
THE PRESENT
And you, Ms. Reilly,” Jerry Renn continued, “I have to say, ma’am, ever since I’ve been in Moscow, I’ve read your Post stuff and I don’t think anyone gets this place better than you. Incredible job.”
Swagger and Reilly looked at each other. Then Swagger said, “Cut the shit, sonny. Who are you, what do you want? Who do you work for?”
“People who like you.”
“You like me so much, you tried to nail me in Lviv.”
“Let’s say we’ve abandoned that policy. It was a mistake.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“We could have taken you standing here on the bridge if we’d wanted to. No, we want to try something else. Cooler heads have prevailed. I’m sure we can get it squared away. Just so you know, I’m unarmed. Except for this.”
He pulled out a pistol. It was the suppressed Makarov that Bob had taken from his would-be assassin in Lviv, which he’d left in his room. Jerry tossed it over the bridge and it disappeared with a splash.
“Make your pitch, junior. What’s this all about? What’s it to anybody what happened in Ukraine seventy years ago? Where’s an American interest?”
“What you’ve discovered just so happens to shine a light where we don’t want light to shine. It could begin a process of unraveling. I know, it’s such a little thing, one event in a war over seventy years ago, who on earth could give a damn? But it leads somewhere.”
“What is he talking about?” said Reilly.
Sniper's Honor: A Bob Lee Swagger Novel Page 22
