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.