Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 12

* * *

Saturday, November 10, 1945
3:07 p.m.
Pariser Platz
Berlin

"Ah, there you are, Captain," from Lieutenant Colonel Thorne; in a lazy, convivial tone I' d never heard from him, before. "Thank you so much for joining us. Gentlemen," he went on, addressing the Soviets, "May I present Captain Van Doern, of the — Fifteenth, I believe you said — ?" He peered at me.

"Yes, sir."

" — the Fifteenth U.S. Air Force — ?"

A short wait, then, while one of the British non-coms — this one was a sergeant — translated that into German; and then a young Lieutenant on the Soviet side translated that into Russian.

I had already saluted, when I had arrived. Now the two Soviet officers nodded to me, in acknowledgement.

 

My heart was still pounding, grotesquely. I had been a minute or two away from … well. My death, I thought. Now I was going through the motions; acting, with some effort, like a living person.

Temporarily, at least.

 

"And Captain, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Ilyukhin, of the 248th Rifle Division? And his colleague, Lieutenant Colonel Nosenko." I noticed how carefully he avoided stating the obvious; that Nosenko was the Political Officer. Stalin's, and the Party's, eyes, ears, and enforcer, in the unit.

"Very pleased to meet you, sir. Sirs," from me.

More double-translations, English to German, German to Russian.

I took the time to examine the Soviet officers. Ilyukhin was broad in the shoulders, built like a bull, with the kind of angular, Eastern European face that was so unmistakable — 

Whereas Nosenko was …  different. A little shorter and thinner than Ilyukhin, with a slightly-protruding belly pushing out his uniform overcoat; and an intelligent, cherubic face with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, that, I thought, would make people want to like him.

 

I planned on killing him. Just as soon as Rhys was killed.

 

"I was just telling our friends here, Captain, about the intelligence we received on the possible Werewolf snipers, in the Charlottenburger Chasse. Of course, we'd assumed it was just wild rumor …  until two of our people, just now, sighted a man with a rifle in the ruins overlooking the Pariser Platz. And that is why we went on alert."

His bland expression spoke irony in volumes.

"Under the circumstances, Colonel Ilyukhin has radioed for additional instructions." He paused, for a moment. "And now, we are waiting."

"I see, sir."

 

I'd answered, a little distractedly. Still acting the part of a living man. I was busy measuring distances, and angles, with my eyes.

 

From where I was standing, I could see Rhys in the distance, and Nosenko, up close, both at the same time. As soon as Rhys went down, all heads would turn to see what had happened. If I took two long steps to my left, away from the British, to clear myself from them … 

"Captain — ?" from Colonel Thorne.

 … I could get off at least one shot into the back of Nosenko's head, before I was gunned down. Maybe two.

"Sir — ?"

Two shots would be better.

 

I took my eyes off of Rhys, for just a moment; and I looked at Thorne.

 

"Am I correct in remembering, that you and some of your fellow prison-camp mates were guests of our Soviet allies, towards the end of the European war — ?"

I blinked, at that. Both at the reference — I hadn't really talked about my experiences with either Mister Grey, or MacLaughlin — 

And I reacted even more, at the sting of coming back from the brink. Back from contemplating death; my own, Rhys', Nosenko's … 

I wondered how much Thorne had read in my face, and my eyes, just now.

I guessed that those dark and hooded eyes of his could read a lot.

 

Well. It was all too late, now. Sane or insane, I was going to do it.

 

My glance slid away from Thorne for a moment, and found the eyes of my corporal, the one who'd led me here. The urgency was back in his face; he was all but pleading, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Uhhh … yes, sir. Sirs," I went on, a little belatedly; including the Soviet officers.

I glanced up at Rhys, in the distance, for a moment; and then back at the officers, as I went on.

"We were being marched West, under guard, when we were overtaken by a Soviet tank element. Well, the advance units of a Soviet tank battalion," I said, a little awkwardly; and I named the unit of tankers who'd come to our rescue. "We were treated very well … "

The British sergeant was translating into German, as I spoke. My corporal was nodding at me, encouraging me, still with that urgency in his expression.

 

It came to me, in a flash.

 

My corporal was encouraging me to engage with the Soviet officers. To get their attention; and maybe even, to stall for time — ?

Something like that, anyway. And, he obviously thought it was urgent.

And that, in turn, meant …  that Colonel Thorne had some sort of plan.

More of a plan, perhaps, than just keeping his men under cover, until Rhys was properly killed, and we could all tsk-tsk about it, express our regrets to one another, collect his body, and go back to Lancaster House … 

 

Maybe, just maybe, there was a glimmer of hope. A very slight one.

 

My eyes met Colonel Thorne's again, almost involuntarily, without even thinking about it. And now, for the first time, I thought those dark, penetrating eyes were trying to communicate something to me, something more than a mild distaste, for the inconvenient fact of my existence.

I thought I saw a certain …  helplessness, in his expression. And, an urgency.

And then, wonder of wonders, I distinctly saw him nod at me. A very, very slight nod, almost unnoticeable; but a signal, nevertheless.

 

The rest of the realization, hit me at last.

 

Whatever Lieutenant Colonel Thorne might be, as an officer, as a man — and that he was a fine officer, I had no doubt — he had not struck me as overly-endowed with social graces.

In the hours I'd spent with him, I hadn't seen him engage in unnecessary conversation, not even once. Not even with his own closest officers. I could tell, he was regarded by his men with some awe, and respect, and love, even; the best officers, the ones who care deeply about their men, and go to bat for them, and try to keep them alive, can inspire love. But I had never seen him be familiar, with anyone.

Small talk, I thought, would not be one of his primary skills … 

 

Well.

 

I turned back to face the two Soviet officers, and I felt myself putting a bright smile over my face.

"Actually, sir — sirs — we had very good treatment from your tank unit, indeed; and I'm very grateful for it. And, you know, perhaps because of that, we had the most remarkable thing happen to us, the second night after we were rescued."

I paused, for a moment, to let the English-to-German, German-to-Russian translation keep up; then I went on, smiling even more broadly.

"You see, we'd parked for the night in a field, by what we thought used to be a farmhouse; but when … "

*

I have some skill, when it comes with talking my way in and out of things.

 

I'd used it, to talk my way into the British Embassy in Paris. It was how I'd started this whole, weeks-long, probably-disastrous rescue effort, rolling.

I'd used it back home in the U.S., to talk my way out of my Instructor Pilot job in New Mexico and into a combat tour, when I could no longer stand the damning moral and emotional toll of training pilots to go off and fight and die, while I stayed safe … 

It's a skill I've had my whole life, to some degree or other.

But best of all, it was the skill I'd used when Rhys and I first met; and I'd talked my way into his heart.

Oh, Rhys and I have always told each other it was love at first sight, when we met at our prep school welcome gathering, for new students and their families. And that's partly true, I remember it vividly.

But in those days when we were just getting to know each other, and Rhys still was thinking in French — he'd spent more than half his life in Switzerland and France — and the English words weren't coming for him, and on top of all that, there was his shyness … Well.

I'd talked enough, for the both of us. I'd prattled. I'd filled up the silences with words, revealing just about everything of myself, to him. I'd talked my way into his heart, knowing full well what I was doing, desperate to succeed. And it had worked. It's my fondest memory; my greatest fast-talking achievement.

 

And now, maybe, just maybe, I had a chance to talk us both out of getting killed.

Maybe.

*

I had them laughing, after ten minutes or so.

That wasn't easy; the translations slowed everything down, and I had to guess at when to add the shrugs, the wry expressions, and my own laughter, as encouragement. But as we all got used to the process, it became easier, and more natural. And laughter is key.

"And so," I'd said, "the Medical Officer stood up on her tiptoes — and she was about this high — "

I held my hand up, about four and a half feet off the ground — 

"And she shook her finger under the Colonel's nose, and she read him the riot act, and it went on and on and on, and the only thing I could understand her saying was, 'Nyet, nyet, nyet!'. And I swear I never saw anyone so afraid of another living being, as that poor Colonel … "

I waited until the Russian officer got to just the right line, and I pantomimed our Medical Officer waving her finger right under the Colonel's nose, in outrage, and then that officer recoiling; and as I'd hoped, it got the biggest laugh from the Soviets, so far.

Some fast Russian, from Colonel Ilyukhin to their interpreter; and I saw Nosenko nodding in agreement, then the interpreter begin speaking in German to our interpreter — 

 

A movement, in the corner of my eye.

 

I shifted my gaze, a fraction; and there was Rhys, head still down, but looking over at us. Looking directly at me. The shock of it, filled me.

 

Rhys and I have always been able to recognize each other at a distance, even in a crowd, even far away.

We've always been able to read each other's expressions, at a distance. Tell what the other one is thinking.

Right now, his expression was one of horror; horror, on my behalf. Please, please look away. Please don't watch me be shot. Please don't watch it. Please.

He knew, we both knew, what a head-shot with a high-powered rifle would do; what kind of horrible wound it would produce; basically, a head blown apart. He didn't want me to live with the memory of it.

For just an instant, I gave him a look with all the love I had in me; and I followed that with a broad smile.

Don't worry, I tried to say with my look. Don't worry. If it happens, when it happens, I'll be right behind you. I promise. Oh, I promise.

 

" … says, he thinks their Medical Officers are all given special classes, in humiliating their C.O.'s. Sir. Sirs," our interpreter was saying; and Thorne smiled, and chuckled dutifully, and I remembered to follow suit. Acting like that living person.

"Wait,", the interpreter went on; as Colonel Ilyukhin began speaking again, to his own interpreter. "I think there's a little more, sir … "

*

And so the conversation, if you could call it that, went on; in fits and starts, necessitated by the need for translations.

I'd gone through my very limited anecdotes from my experiences with the Soviet tank unit, soon enough. I'd turned to where we were all from, and our families — always a safe topic, with British and Americans; but I wasn't so sure, when it came to our Soviet allies — but I pressed on, regardless, showing interest and enthusiasm, as often as I could. Going off on digressions, and asking yet more questions, whenever I could. Interspersing everything with jokes, and more jokes, always more jokes.

The whole subject produced the longest bursts of speech yet, from Lieutenant Colonel Ilyukhin, and more exchanges of questions, and answers, and, best of all, family photographs.

The exchange grew somber, when he showed us the photos of two of his sons, dark and broad young men with looks like his, both killed in the battle for Stalingrad … 

In turn, I produced my own family photos, from prints sent to me while I was in the hospital in England.

I wondered what they all would think, my mother, father, sisters and brothers, if they could somehow know right then that their smiling faces were being examined by two Soviet colonels and one British one, in the shadow of the ruins of the Brandenburg Gate, in Berlin … 

One of whom, I still planned on killing. Maybe. Probably.

Lieutenant Colonel Nosenko, I noticed, barely participated in the discussion about home, and family. Thorne was much the same, answering in generalities at best … 

 

And in all that time, I kept looking over at Rhys; when I could. Whenever I could. Terrified, that the execution could come at any time … 

Usually, my eyes met his. It must have been agony, standing still as he was in the cold wind, head far down, arms handcuffed behind him, flanked by guards, waiting, expecting, to be shot … I thought I could actually see him shaking, shivering, with cold. But he kept his eyes on mine.

I knew he couldn't resist. He could do no other.

As I could do no other.

 

Finally, the photos were put away, and the talk temporarily dried; and an unusually sharp gust of wind hit us, hard. All of us turned slightly away from it, for just a moment. Then Lieutenant Colonel Thorne glanced up at the gray skies, as if in surprise; and then, rather theatrically, ostentatiously, checked his wristwatch.

"Well … Well. It is getting very late. Corporal, what time is sunset today, do you happen to know — ?"

"Sir," from the boyish young corporal; earnestly. "Sunset will be at or around sixteen-twenty hours today. I happened to check. Sir."

As an acting job, it would have been laughed off the stage at our prep school, Rhys' and mine. I just blinked at them.

"Well. It is getting damned late," the Lieutenant Colonel said, as if to himself; rubbing his chin, thoughtfully, and unconvincingly.

The double-translation team dutifully put that into Russian, for the benefit of the Soviets.

A pause, then. The chill wind continued to blow.

Thorne checked his wristwatch once again; then he straightened himself abruptly, and addressed the Soviets, directly.

"Gentlemen. I think that we may all agree, that the darker it turns this afternoon, the more dangerous the situation becomes, as regards any possible German snipers — ? Dim light will supply cover for them, allowing them to move, and preventing our forces from being able to provide any suppressing fire. All of our forces are at risk."

This, without the Soviets having shown any sign of being on the alert for snipers.

The double-translation dutifully took place. Colonel Ilyukhin answered rather shortly; which proved, when translated, to be a cautious agreement.

Thorne opened up the left breast pocket of his uniform blouse, and extracted a piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully, glanced at it, and then back up.

"Lieutenant Colonel Ilyukhin; Lieutenant Colonel Nosenko," began Thorne, slowly, and formally. "I may reveal to you now, that I have been instructed by my Regimental Command in Bad Oeynhausen, that in the event of any unforeseen difficulties arising in the execution of this exchange, I have special authority to act as follows."

A wait, then, as this was translated into German, and then Russian. The Soviets said nothing; waiting, alertly, expectantly.

Thorne reached far up over his head, and waved his arm slowly, once, twice, without looking back at his own lines; and then he consulted his piece of paper, again.

"I am to say, that on behalf of His Majesty's Government in London, and of the British Army Of The Rhine in Occupied Germany, that in recognition of the friendship and comity between ourselves and the Group of Soviet Occupation Forces in Germany, … "

A deliberate pause, then, to allow the translation to take place.

As always, it took a little time. The German term for the Soviet occupation forces alone, was Gruppe der Sowjetischen Besatzungstruppen in Deutschland; a mouthful.

I was standing several paces to Thorne's left; and I was partially turned, so that I could keep Nosenko and Rhys in sight, at all times. So I caught of glimpse of something, of movement, in the British lines, before anyone else in our group.

" … and indeed all Soviet forces, everywhere: and furthermore, in recognition of the grievous losses the British Commonwealth and Empire, and the Union of Soviet Soviet Republics have both suffered … "

I gaped at what I saw.

Six very large and tall men were striding out from the British lines, in two lines of three, holding on to one another.

More accurately, they looked as though they were pallbearers, without a coffin; each man had a hand over the shoulder of the man to his side, and each man behind the leading pair had a hand firmly on the shoulder of the man in front of him.

They were walking fast, in step. They were marching.

" … at the hands of the Nazi regime: it seems appropriate that His Majesty's Government in London is prepared … "

Lengthy translation, again; the inevitable wait.

As the six men came closer, I recognized two of them as the guards who had had custody of Pavel the Pimp — 

And then it dawned on me.

Pavel the Pimp must be in the center of the formation, head kept down. The British men — they were all noncoms, sergeants — were shielding him against sniper fire, with their own bodies. But why? Pavel the Pimp wasn't the target. Was he — ?

" … in the spirit of brotherhood and friendship … "

I watched as the formation moved past one of the big trenches; and then, as they passed an orderly pile of paving-stones. Perhaps, halfway across the Pariser Platz, by now.

Lieutenant Colonel Ilyukhin was the first one to notice the procession approaching; he stood there, blinking at it; then he turned to face Nosenko, a question on his face. Both men turned to look at the formation, and their own people, for a moment; before looking back at Thorne.

On the Soviet side, some stirring. Faces, questioning, turning in our direction; mostly junior officers, I thought, wondering what was going on.

Lieutenant Colonel Thorne looked up from his paper for a moment, and cleared his throat; his eyes, gauging the progress of the British escorts himself, now; and then, he looked back down again.

" … to initiate the return of the prisoner, Monsieur Kozlovsky, without precondition, in the safest and swiftest way possible."

Thorne paused, to look meaningfully at Nosenko and Ilyukhin; and waited while the translations kept up.

"Furthermore," he began; and then he paused, to turn the paper over — 

 

I watched, gaping, as the British party reached the Soviet line of men, where Rhys was standing, exposed.

Almost exactly where Rhys was standing.

 

Confusion.

 

More questioning faces, turned towards us.

A voice called over towards us; one of the Soviet junior officers. And then the call came again, more urgently.

I could see the Soviet soldiers react a little tentatively, at first; then a Russian voice boomed out, in greeting, and then the British were surrounded with well-wishers, ordinary soldiers greeting their allies, all happy to have survived the war … 

Somewhere in the two mixed groups of soldiers, Pavel the Pimp was received, and taken to the rear; I never caught more than a glimpse of him, limping away — 

Meanwhile, the British sergeants were milling about — there was no other word for it — shaking hands, greeting, and back-patting with their opposite numbers on the Soviet side; and they were being greeted warmly, in return. I saw packets of cigarets opened, and being passed around — 

And in the process, I saw, clearly, that the British sergeants crowded close to Rhys, as close to him as they could; some of them, between Rhys and his guards, even. Towering over Rhys.

 

Inserting themselves, into possible lines of fire. Spoiling setups. Protecting Rhys, with their bodies.

Oh, dear God. Sweet Jesus. My heart was pounding, as though it would explode.

 

" … His Majesty's Government in London has instructed that we are to be prepared to offer … " went on Thorne, slowly and deliberately — 

An urgent stream of words in Russian from Nosenko, directed at Colonel Ilyukhin — 

" … to provide our own escort for the prisoner, Mister Williamson, in the event that, as we hope, in the comity between our two peoples, the British Empire and Commonwealth, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the prisoner Mister Williamson, is released to us in the same spirit of generosity that we have shown, in the release of Monsieur Kozlovsky."

And with that, Thorne carefully re-folded his piece of paper, and tucked it back into his uniform breast pocket; and waited.

 

A shouted question in Russian, from Ilyukhin; calling out to his own lines. I saw a runner dispatched, sprinting awkwardly towards us, in his high boots — 

 

I looked over at Thorne; in wonder.

He'd done this.

This was his plan. This was the plan.

First, to stall for time, until the approaching dusk, gave him an excuse to act. Then, to force his half of the exchange … while he was still in the process of explaining it all to Nosenko and Ilyukhin.

Ending, by getting his men next to Rhys, close to Rhys, while the Soviet side was surprised, and confused; and effectively, guarding him. For the moment, anyway.

Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. It happened all the time, in every army, including the Soviet Red Army. Thorne had caused this fuck-up, and taken advantage of it.

And now the ball was in the Soviets' court. Or more accurately, Nosenko's.

 

The runner from the Soviet side arrived, panting. Nosenko asked him something, harshly. The runner — he was a young officer — replied with a clear negative. Nosenko said something to the runner in two quick, low sentences, looking at Ilyukhin as he did — 

And Ilyukhin reacted as though Nosenko had spouted horns on his head. Whatever Nosenko had said, had clearly shocked him; and he shook his head, vigorously. I clearly heard the 'Nyet, nyet. Nyet!'

 

I looked over at Rhys. I could still catch glimpses of him, between the British sergeants looming up over him, and his two Soviet guards — they were still there, closer to Rhys now, but still clearly guarding him … 

I felt a spike of agony.

What would Nosenko do — ? Would he find some other way to have Rhys assassinated — ? Or would he have Rhys bundled off, to disappear forever, somewhere in the Soviet Union, where I'd never have a fraction of a chance in hell of finding him, or his grave — ?

 

I tore my eyes away, and looked back at Lieutenant Colonel Thorne.

The amiable, cordial mask he'd been wearing for the last hour was gone.

In its place, a look of black intensity that made anything I'd seen from him before, mild by comparison. It was the face of a man who had seen far too much death, and killing, and was still capable of saying the words, 'Open Fire', and fully embracing the consequences.

Maybe, especially, the consequences to himself.

 

Nosenko was still talking with Ilyukhin. Or arguing with him; in even more muted tones, we couldn't have overheard them, even if we spoke Russian. Then, as I watched, Ilyukhin drew himself up to his full height and bulk, and looked down at Nosenko, and said something short, and curt. It ended with one last, 'Nyet' … 

 

A long, still pause, then.

 

Nosenko looked over at his own troops, and the British sergeants, and at Rhys; for seconds on end. Then he turned back, and met Thorne's bleak, black gaze, with a steady one of his own … 

 

And I swear, somehow, I knew what he was thinking. I swear, that somehow, I could see the wheels turning in his mind, like the gears of the paper cut-out clock Rhys had bought for us to put together, a few weeks ago, a lifetime ago.

 

The thoughts just came to me in flashes, out of nowhere, but I swear I knew them, and that I was right.

 

First; the realization that the plan to assassinate Rhys, and blame it on a German sniper was blown wide open. Thorne obviously knew, or guessed, all about it. Which meant all of the British knew all about it. Which meant that I — the American officer, the American representative — knew all about it. I actually watched his eyes slide to mine, for a moment, before going back to Thorne's.

 

And so, next; the only way to stop Rhys' exchange, now, was by use of brute force. By killing him, outright; or more likely, by taking Rhys away under guard, and making him disappear. In full view of the officers and men of the 8th Battalion, Coldstream Guards — 

And of me.

Demonstrating, finally and conclusively, that the whole idea of the exchange was a put-on, a farce. An assassination plot that hadn't worked.

Creating, in turn, an International Incident. A major one.

 

I could see the wheels turning.

 

Oh, he wanted Rhys dead; that was perfectly clear. Those were his orders, and so he really, really wanted Rhys dead. That long, long look back at his own lines, and Rhys, and the British sergeants … 

I wondered what he'd tried to get Ilyukhin to do, just now. Arrest the British sergeants? Stage an 'accident', with someone's gun going off — ? Start a 'mistaken' firefight, with the British forces, as a cover for having Rhys shot — ?

I doubted we'd ever know.

But without Ilyukhin's help — and I was glad Ilyukhin had been shocked, and refused; I'd liked him — Nosenko was left with a quandary.

How much of an International Incident was too much — ?

When would the price be too high? Not worth it — ? To the Kremlin, of course.

I watched him consider it; for heartbeat, after heartbeat, after heartbeat. As he looked away from Thorne, once again, and back at Rhys, and the British sergeants. Considering the price. Calculating the price.

 

I held my breath, and resisted the urge to check my sidearm. Rhys' sidearm, that I'd borrowed.

If Rhys were killed now, Nosenko and I would be major parts of the Incident.

I'd already imagined the headline, in the New York Times. 'Two Yanks, One Soviet Dead In Berlin Shooting'. It would be on the front page, somewhere. I was sure of it.

I was ready for it.

 

Nosenko looked away from the Soviet lines at last; and looked back up at Lieutenant Colonel Thorne.

And he smiled.

It transformed his face, actually. It seemed warm, and genuine; the laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, crinkled. The part of me that could still feel, could still care, thought it was one of the most terrifying things I'd ever seen.

He began speaking, in Russian; not even pretending to consult Ilyukhin.

The usual Russian-to-German, and German-to-English, translation delay. As usual, I ignored the English, except when I didn't know the word, and seized on the German.

"Lieutenant Colonel Thorne, and Captain Van Doern", the translation came. "On behalf of the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and of the Group of Soviet Occupation Forces in Germany … "

Another long phrase in Russian.

Another translation delay.

" … we express our most sincere thanks for the generous and safely-conducted return of the prisoner, Kozlovsky, and we appreciate the spirit of friendship and Allied solidarity in which it was made … "

 

It went on for a long time.

 

I thought the bastard was enjoying himself. Letting us wonder, what the answer was going to be. Letting us wonder, if shooting was going to break out at any moment.

The cold wind continued blowing through the Pariser Platz. The idling of the engines of the armored cars was a constant backdrop. I could still see Rhys, in glimpses.

 

Finally.

 

" … are glad to accept your very generous offer. The prisoner, Williamson, will be released to your custody, effective immediately." Nosenko smiled, even more broadly, now.

It didn't come as a complete surprise. I'd watched Ilyukhin's face relax, slightly, as Nosenko spoke the Russian words.

I looked back at Rhys, in the distance. Watching him carefully. Keeping watch on him.

Thorne looked at Nosenko, expectantly.

Another string of Russian, duly translated into German, before translation into English.

"My colleague, Colonel Ilyukhin, will issue the necessary orders at once."

By the time the translation into English was complete, Ilyukhin had already finished scribbling on a pad of paper, mounted on a clipboard provided by one of his officers. He tore off the sheet, folded it, and gave it to the runner, with a brief instruction. The runner saluted, and headed back to the Soviet formation, at a slightly less breakneck clip than he'd had before.

 

I kept watching Rhys.

 

Nosenko, Ilyukhin and Thorne commenced a slow, rather awkward conversation-by-translation. I barely listened to it. I did not contribute.

I watched as the Soviet runner arrived at the Soviet side, and consulted the officer who was obviously in charge. I watched as that officer gave the paper to another officer, who stalked down the Soviet line to where Rhys was being held, and to where the British sergeants waited with him. I watched as the orders were given. I saw the apparent relief in the postures and expressions of Rhys' two guards, who could not get away from him fast enough.

Then; this time, it was British faces looking back at us, for instruction, rather than Russian ones.

I was not the only one who had been keeping watch. Lieutenant Colonel Thorne waved his arm above his head again, once, twice, in that deliberate signal, before turning back to Nosenko and Ilyukhin.

I saw the six British sergeants forming up, resuming their pallbearers' formation; and I watched, as Rhys was slipped into the middle of it all. Before they closed up tight again, I saw a large, British hand gently push down on Rhys' head, urging his head to go low, lower still, lower, until the soldier was satisfied.

 

A minor commotion, among the Soviets. Calls, back and forth, between several of them; including, I thought, one of Rhys' former guards. The words didn't sound angry; more, I thought, like exasperation. Some new fuck-up. The former guard sounded defensive.

 

The British party ignored it all, and set out. Marching, again; at a fast clip.

 

I wondered if Rhys could keep up; after standing motionless in the cold wind, bareheaded, all that time. I waited for a stumble, that would stop the group, force them to break formation, and give the snipers a shot.

The stumble did not come, although I thought I saw one hand come off a shoulder for a moment, to steady Rhys; although I could not see him.

They were past the first large pile of pavers, now; approaching the center of the Pariser Platz, a little ways beyond us.

I'd had time to figure out, over the course of the last hour or so, that this would have been the original killing zone. This would be where the snipers would have set up their shots. Not too close to the Soviet side; not too close to the British.

I waited, for shots to ring out now, multiple shots, bringing down all the men at once.

They did not come.

Past another pile of semi-organized rubble. Past one of the larger excavations, a rectangular one with a shape like an oversized grave, a giant's grave, with the mound of dirt nearby. Coming up almost even, now, with the large ruins on one side of the Brandenburg Gate — 

Then they were there.

The formation of sergeants marched straight into the central passageway of the Gate, not slowing, not breaking step, followed immediately by a squad of yet more British soldiers that had appeared out of nowhere, as guards, as escorts — 

 

They were through.

Rhys was safe.

*

A confusing few minutes, then, which I barely remembered, later.

 

We'd had to sign receipts, for Rhys' safe return. Ilyukhin and Nosenko had to sign receipts, for Pavel the Pimp's return.

When Nosenko, speaking through the two interpreters, asked if we had brought the receipts with us, it was Thorne who'd replied.

"Certainly we have our paperwork," he'd said; motioning to the schoolboy corporal to bring up the metal-cased clipboard. Then; "Have you, by some strange chance, yours — ?"

He'd said it perfectly calmly; and at the same time, with a kind of barely-controlled savagery.

He was clearly furious, now that the exchange was safely over and done with.

Furious, with his own Regimental command, for having forced him to risk the lives of his men. Furious, with Nosenko. Furious, with Mister Grey, and Mister MacLaughlin — and with me. All for the same reason.

He did not look at me, or address me, again.

 

I'd signed the receipt for Rhys, in my pose as the American representative to the deal.

I wondered how it would turn out for me, if and when the signature got back to — well, higher-ups. I wondered if I'd be courtmartialed.

I did not care. Not that I was feeling much of anything, right then, in the welter of warring fears, confusion, sustained tension, and adrenaline; but still, I did not care.

I'd signed my real name, all five of them, with my rank, unit and serial number; all with a flourish; using my Biro, like any pilot would.

 

If Lieutenant Colonel Thorne was not speaking to me, neither was Lieutenant Colonel Ilyukhin speaking to Nosenko. I had the impression that he wanted to get as far away from Nosenko as possible, as quickly as possible.

I wondered again, what Nosenko had wanted him to do.

If Nosenko noticed, he didn't show it.

It occurred to me, later, that even Nosenko might not have known for sure what would happen, to Rhys and the British sergeants, as they made their way back across the Pariser Platz. He'd had no chance to send any message or orders of his own; certainly not to snipers, who would have been in place and hidden, or maybe moving into position to try to assassinate Rhys in the Soviet lines.

I wondered what it would mean to him, in terms of consequences, that Rhys had gotten away safely … 

 

At last.

 

Perfunctory handshakes, in the gathering gloom, and the cold November wind. An exchange of salutes.

Thorne had turned on his heel at once, without a word to me, and started striding back to the Gate. His two non-coms had scrambled to keep up.

I was about to follow, when Nosenko spoke up.

"May I congratulate you on your self-restraint, Captain — ? It is much appreciated, believe me."

He said it in perfect, unaccented German. He peered at me, closely, unsmiling, in the gathering dusk.

I stood still, looking at him, for a moment. A long moment.

So he'd seen it.

"And I admire your courage. Sir." This, also, in my best German.

Another, freighted, moment.

Then I snapped one last salute, to him. It seemed called for. He returned it.

And then I turned back towards the Gate, and began walking, fast; striding, like Thorne.

I wanted to run. Oh, how I wanted to break into a run, to get away from this place, this evil, haunted, dangerous place, and get to Rhys, and see for myself that he was all right, see how he was doing, to touch him, to be with him — 

I settled for striding. I was an officer, after all. And I knew Rhys would not allow himself to be taken anywhere, anywhere in the world, without me.

NEXT CHAPTER