Hitler's peace

“Get on the radio right away,” Oster told Schnabel. “See if you can raise von Holten-Pflug, if it’s not already too late. And better keep it short, just in case they’re trying to get a radio fix on us.”

“Who’s your boss?” asked Shkvarzev.

“Colonel Andrei Mikhalovits. At least he was -now there’s a new fellow in charge. A Jew from Kiev. Brigadier General Mikhail Moisseevich Melamed.”

“I know him,” grunted Shkvarzev. “He’s a state security commissar, third class, and the most hated NKVD officer in the Red Army.”

“That’s him,” declared the prisoner. “Of course, who knows who’ll be in charge by the end of the week. Beria’s deputy, General Merkulov, is arriving tomorrow. And then his secretary, Stepan Mamulov. Beria himself will be coming here, too, for all I know.”

“How many NKVD are in Teheran right now?” asked Shkvarzev.

“At least a couple hundred. And we’ve had about three thousand extra Red Army troops since the end of October. Commanded by Krulev.”

“Any other officers you know of?”

“Arkadiev, the Soviet commissar of state security. And General Avramov, from the Near Eastern Area Office. They came here to round up the remaining pro-German suspects. About three hundred Poles. Most of them first arrested in Poland.” To which he added, matter-of-factly, “They were shot. In the Russian barracks to the north of the city, in Meshed.”

“What was the name of the Kashgai tribesman who told you about the German parachute team landing in Iran?” asked Oster, speaking Russian.

“I don’t know.” The prisoner yelped as one of the Ukrainians pressed the hot iron against the sole of his left foot momentarily. “Yes, all right, I do. His name is Mehdizah.”

Schoellhorn swore loudly. “Mehdizah is another wrestler!” he said. “He was supposed to be looking after South Team.”

“What about our wrestler?” asked Oster. “Herr Ebtehaj. Maybe he’s in this, too. Maybe he tipped off our friend from SMERSH here. Maybe he’s going to come back here with the Red Army.”

“No.” Schoellhorn shook his head. “He could have betrayed us many times already. So why didn’t he?”

“If I may say so,” Oster said carefully, “all of this is a very long way from the picture you were painting earlier today. How a blind man can spot an NKVD agent.”

“Are you suggesting I’m a traitor, too?” said Schoellhorn.

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. Christ, what a mess.” He removed his broom-handle Mauser from the holster inside his jacket and began to screw a silencer onto the end of the barrel. “I just wish that bastard Schellenberg was here to see this. It would be the last thing he would see, I can promise you that.”

Oster stood in front of the prisoner, the now silenced pistol still pointed at the floor and parallel with his trouser leg.

“I told you everything I know,” the Pole said, swallowing.

Oster smiled sadly and then shot the man three times in the head and face.

Shkvarzev nodded his approval. He had been wondering what the German captain was made of, how much stomach he had for killing, and now he knew. It was one thing to shoot a man in a fire-fight, with a rifle or a machine gun; but it was quite another to kill him in cold blood, as he looked you in the eye. This German was all right, he could see that now, and as Oster made the Mauser safe and unscrewed the silencer, Shkvarzev lit a cigarette and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” Oster said and, placing the cigarette between his lips, drew on it deeply as he holstered his pistol again. “Did you get through to South Team?” he asked Schnabel.

“No, sir. I don’t seem to be able to raise them at all. But I did receive a message from Berlin. We’re scrubbed.”

“What?” Oster’s face collapsed into fury. “Ask for confirmation.”

“I already did.”

Shkvarzev sighed. “So that’s that, then,” he said. “We’re scrubbed.”

“Like hell we are,” said Oster. “I didn’t come all this way to do fuck-all. If I’m going to die in a Soviet labor camp, it’ll be for a damn good reason.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and then flicked it at the dead man’s head. “How do the rest of you feel about that?”

Shkvarzev hardly had to glance at his men. “The same way as you. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for a chance to kill Stalin. Nothing.”

“But without those Junkers bombers,” said Schoellhorn. “And the South Team. What can you do?”

“Perhaps none of that matters,” murmured Oster.

“How do you mean?” asked Schoellhorn.

“Maybe I like your plan better.”

“My plan?”

“We’re too many and not enough,” said Oster. “That’s the trouble with Schellenberg’s plan. Too many not to be noticed before next Tuesday. And not enough to deal with three thousand fucking Russians. But a couple of men with a water cart could do the job. You can put anything in a water cart. Machine guns. A bomb.” Oster looked at Shkvarzev. “What would we need to make a decent-sized bomb, Shkvarzev?”