Tin Sky Page 5

  Without drawing close, Bora took a long look through his field glasses. Photos of Brigadier General Tibyetsky existed, none taken close-up since the start of the war, but he had seen several from the late ’30s. His heartbeat accelerated; Bora could feel it in his throat. Between January and June 1941 until a week before the invasion, as assistant to the military attaché in Moscow, he’d gathered all available information about the Red Army’s higher ranks, including the tank corps general most likely to give Germany a run for its money once hostilities began. It made Bora’s head spin to think of him less than fifty metres away now, on this side of the Donets. As mysterious as his nickname, earned after his revolutionary activity in the steppes of Central Asia, he went by Tibyetsky but that, too, was an assumed battle name, like “Stalin” or “Molotov”. Bora also knew him as Petrov and Dobronin, and there might be other aliases. If this defection was a trick, it was a luscious one, a trap he longed to jump into headlong.

  The Russian had meanwhile taken his own field glasses in hand, and was surveying the array of troops facing him. Eventually, he turned to the shaded spot where Bora’s vehicle was parked, and there was an exchange of stares through their respective lenses. Cinders slowly swirled in the air between them. The mound of steel and the man on top of it stood motionless behind that lingering, erratic reel of minute specks.

  “It’s about time you got here, Scotsman.”

  Caught up in his observation, Bora was startled by the voice nearby. A flushed and smiling Scherer stood by him. As a former cavalryman and colleague from the heady days of the invasion, like others at that time he’d referred to Bora as Der Schotte, because of his mother’s lineage. “He won’t deal with any of us, Scotsman,” he said, out of breath. “Look at that turret, will you?” He pointed to the T-34. “What a beast. The tank alone is worth instant leave to Germany. If he’s rigged it with explosives, I’m ready to defuse it with my teeth. I’m having an orgasm over that tank.”

  “Well, I’m having an orgasm over him.” Bora put away the field glasses, dry-mouthed with anticipation. “If he isn’t Ghenrikh Tibyetsky, I’m not standing here with you. Has he said anything?” It was the same question he’d asked about Platonov; but who cared about Platonov now?

  “Other than what I told Lattmann? No. Won’t let us get any closer, and threatens to blow his head off with his sidearm if we try. When we mentioned there’d be somebody from Counterintelligence coming, he answered to not try and deceive him as he’s informed about the officers working for Colonel von Bentivegni in this sector.”

  “Really. He may be bluffing.”

  “Whatever. See if you can get him to climb down.”

  Bora took a deep breath. Unhurriedly he walked through the soldiers’ cordon, coming within five metres of the Russian tank and maybe a foot from the mouth of its formidable 85mm cannon. “Komandir Tibyetsky” – he addressed him in Russian – “welcome. You asked to speak to an IC officer?”

  Khan let the field glasses dangle from the strap around his neck. He replied to the salute curtly. “I asked to speak to Bentivegni. Colonel Eccard von Bentivegni has to come here for me.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was a challenge not showing how ready they all were to accommodate him. Bora counted to ten before adding, “It can be arranged. I’ll need a few days.”

  “A few days? No.” Irritably Khan turned away. “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  A fleeting pause followed, less than a drawing of breath. “My comrades’ bodies are inside this tank, and in this weather ‘a few days’ is not acceptable.”

  Khan’s crewmen were dead? It could be true. Where Bora was standing, a burst of machine-gun fire from the gunner’s hatch would literally cut him in half. Somewhere, the instant of absolute panic turned into a kind of nervous bliss. The lazily raining ash flakes, so fragile they dissolved as they touched men and things, were at odds with the thrill of the moment. “Well, Commander, we haven’t fired upon your vehicle. How can it be that they died?”

  “I shot them. You don’t suppose I could cross over with their approval.”

  No; and if this was truly a defection, not with the approval of Soviet units on the other bank, either. In any case, whatever his plan, however Khan had managed to slip away, his exploit could result in a cannonade from across the Donets at any time. Bora wished his heart rate would stabilize. They were much too close to the river here. The idea of losing the prize before having a chance to speak with him was intolerable. “Three days is the best I can do, sir.” Highly strung as he was, he tried to make light of things. “I’m not God.”

  Khan still looked away from him. Clearly he, too, didn’t want to give others the satisfaction of reading his thoughts. He must suspect the German officer was striving not to betray his enthusiasm, and in turn kept silent about the reason (which must be a colossal one) that brought him here. An innovative T-34 was in itself a passport of immense value; the fact that a commander in his position had eliminated his crewmen to come across indicated a superior motive that might well require Colonel Bentivegni to fly to Rogany, or to the closest landing patch.

  Bora waited for an answer, heart in mouth. The mighty armoured box, a monument to its own firepower, faced him with its tons of steel. The T-34 as Bora knew it (tridsatchetverka, the “Little 34”) came to less than half the weight of a German Tiger, but agility, plate and cannon made it a frightful enemy. A few steps behind him, Scherer bragged to someone about the heavily armoured cupola (“That thing is huge – I bet it can hold three men by itself!”). Yes, and more: beyond plate, firepower, brute size, this was the shape of things to come. Tibyetsky stared down at him with a frown, alone on his perch. But suddenly to Bora the crest of the rise behind the tank, shielding it from a river that coincided with the front, was the threshold of a doomsday vanguard. From here to the Don, to the Volga, to Siberia, behind the general, he could imagine millions of Russians lined up in multiple depths beyond it. A storm of ashes from infinite fires whirled over them. The idea of an apocalyptic herd of such mastodons surging over the top of the rise staggered him. Taking Khan away from the firing line was an absolute priority.

  “Commander Tibyetsky, sir, may we have proof that your crewmen are inactive?”

  “I said they’re dead.”

  “May we have proof of it?”

  Khan twisted his mouth in contempt. “No.” And then, impatiently, “What difference does it make? I could blast you like skittles by myself, if I chose to, tank busters and all. Are you Major Martin-Heinz von Bora?”

  He pronounced it Geinz, not Heinz, but it was impossible not to blink in the face of recognition. “I’m Bora.”

  “May I have proof of it?”

  Bullseye. Bora knew when he was bested. “Commander, you have my word that I will expedite the connection with the office you seek.”

  “I demand to speak to Bentivegni myself.”

  “By all means. But it can’t be done from inside your vehicle.”

  Khan took a last domineering look around, at the armed men and beyond them. From his vantage point he must have been able to see a long way, into the rolling fields and wilderness stretching between here and Kharkov. Grasping the rim of the cupola, he straddled it with his powerful, booted right leg. “Three days: I can see you’re not God.”

  Bora breathlessly made a mental list of steps to take and levels of clearance to obtain. Within the next half-hour, Tibyetsky climbed down from the T-34, turned in his pistol to him, grip first (Bora checked the magazine and gave it back in the same way), and allowed German soldiers to climb in. He supervised them as they extracted one by one the corpses of his four crewmen, all shot at close range, presumably by the bullets missing from his Tokarev.

  Ashes were no longer filling the air. The scent and aftertaste of burning stubble hovered above him as Bora made his plans. Immediate communication with Abwehr in Zossen, some 1,200 kilometres away, could only be established by short-wave radio. Bora was familiar with a powerful TFA station
set up by the 161st not far away, in the Beriozovy Yar woods north of Losukovka. Soon he was ready to accompany the general there, while Scherer, who had driven the T-34 under tree cover, would follow with his men and armoured vehicles.

  The radio shack was a two-room makeshift cabin along the dirt road that parted the woods like a scar, running along the bottom of a shallow ravine that ran from south-east to north-west. A blindfolded, disgruntled Khan dismounted from Bora’s vehicle and reached the place on foot, escorted by the major. Behind them, in the Russian tank, Scherer crushed everything in his path.

  Bora’s destination for army-related intelligence was Field Marshal Manstein’s headquarters at Zaporozhye, and as far as his Abwehr headquarters counterparts; normally he’d send coded messages through the usual channels, a relay system based on the network of intelligence listening and transmitting posts in the occupied East, first among them the Abwehr Nebenstelle, the branch office in Kiev.

  This time he contacted the headquarters in Zossen directly, only to receive confirmation that Colonel Bentivegni was unavailable. When Bora reported it Khan grumbled about the delay, but he had little choice.

  “It’s a matter of waiting until they physically track him down, Commander Tibyetsky, then they’ll call back with a secure date for the colonel coming here to meet you.”

  “Yes? It had better be within the three days you said, Major.”

  Generals are the same worldwide, Bora thought, having one at home. After sending a message to Manstein’s office in Zaporozhye, there were more delays waiting for a reply from that end, too. Bora sat with Tibyetsky in the dirt-floored room that served as quarters for the communication crew. At one point the Russian asked for bottled water, which the Germans didn’t have. Bora offered his canteen, but – whether he feared being poisoned or drugged, or else didn’t like the offer – Khan demanded that the major himself bring him a sealed drink from inside the tank, along with other amenities of his, including cigars.

  Bora left him under armed guard and complied. In the cramped belly of the T-34, momentarily vacated by an enthusiastic Scherer, he was less affected by the dead crewmen’s blood than by the stacked shells and ammunition boxes. What struck him most, however, were the fresh American-made provisions Russian tankers enjoyed. A memory of Stalingrad’s misery, especially on the German side, pierced him: as if canned goods, calorie-packed D rations and powdered milk were telling him, even more directly than the massive hull they were in, that Germany couldn’t win this war. He scrupulously gathered what the general asked for, recommending his tank corps colleague set the rest aside, away from the soldiers’ understandable greed.

  Soon Khan was sipping a Fanta-type fruit drink from the bottle, one such as Germany had started producing after Coca-Cola had become an enemy brand and was no longer on sale. “Where am I to wait for Bentivegni’s arrival?” he asked.

  “In a safe location, Commander Tibyetsky.”

  “My tank?”

  “Likewise. And if you have no objections, your crew will be interred today in the closest civilian burial ground.”

  “I have no objections. They had a clean death: they were lucky.”

  Bora tended to agree, apart from the minor detail of friendly fire. “As matters stand, and with all respect, regarding your journey to the safe location I’m sure you’ll understand we have to take precautions, including a change of clothing. During some stretches we may have to resort to a blindfold. In all cases I’ll be at your side, regrettably with a loaded gun.”

  “A loaded gun. Indeed! So why did you let me keep my own sidearm, Major?”

  Bora stayed on this side of a smile. “I wouldn’t advise you to try to use it.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Khan said out of the blue, casually and in passable German. He gave Bora his pistol and sat back. “Let’s wait until we hear from your superiors before we decide how to travel.”

  The Tokarev gun, safety catch engaged, slipped into Bora’s briefcase. His watch read 2.15 p.m. Any time now the radio reply from Bentivegni’s office would arrive. The man draining the bottle in front of him, strawberry blond, stocky, was more the Russian general type than Platonov, and yet they said he wasn’t even Russian by birth. In his fifties, Tibyetsky looked the picture of health, without a wrinkle on his face, radiating a sort of glow. His top-quality boots, fine leather jacket over a well-sewn tunic shirt and breeches reinforced at the knee spoke of good discipline and self-care.

  Bora was glad he had kept up his own warring looks, despite the season and the fortunes of war, because it wouldn’t do to look less than spruce before a Frunze Academy graduate (and instructor) such as this. Picking up the empty bottle and tossing it into the wastebasket, he said, “I’ve admired you ever since Cavalry School. Your exploits in Finland, and then in Mongolia against Sternberg’s ‘Wild Division’… Your victory against Baron Sternberg’s Whites at Urga in ’21 was exemplary, although your comrades didn’t make the best use of it. Shchetinkin stole your thunder by executing him, I think.”

  With a freckled forefinger, Khan dabbed the corners of his mouth. He watched Bora for nearly a minute before observing in an amused voice, “You won’t soft-soap me into talking, you know.”

  The words stung. Bora had some difficulty concealing his annoyance. “Flattering a general-rank officer from any army would never cross my mind, Commander. I was making conversation. In my youthful regard for your military skills, silly as I was, I even came up with a little theory about your beginnings, which isn’t worth reporting here.”

  “My beginnings? I doubt it.”

  “Well, you must understand that my stepfather and other members of the family fought against the Revolution in the Russian civil war: for us at home it was a frequent matter of discussion.”

  “I want one of my cigars,” was all Khan said.

  Bora had them ready in the briefcase; he took one out and lit it for the general. They were Soyuzie brand, individually wrapped inside a daintily carved wooden box.

  Behind the pungent smoke, Khan rounded his lips around the cigar, half-closing his eyes. Unreadable as he was, the squint might either mean he silently had agreed to listen to what Bora had to say, or else that he felt no interest in the argument. Bora would have to take his own counsel regarding the conversation. What is he here for, he kept wondering, what is he, other than a tank commander? Why is he letting us know he’s acquainted with our names and tasks? It’s not an intelligence officer’s way of acting, but then again… I hope they do locate Colonel Bentivegni and let him know he’s here.

  “So, Major, how did you learn about me?”

  “Other than studying your tactics? I watched all the 8 mm reels about you: speeches at the Frunze Academy, tank manoeuvres, your testimonial at Lenin’s funeral —”

  “You didn’t watch all my reels.”

  “Well, I watched all that I could find.”

  Khan seemed tickled. “Young officers: how similar the world over you are. Luckily youth makes you as dumb as you are ambitious: you’d be dangerous otherwise.”

  If he weren’t who he is, I’d never let myself be talked down to this way. Bora checked his watch to avoid betraying his irritation. By the way Khan smiled, however, it was possible that he had read Bora’s thoughts.

  At 2.35 p.m., confirmation of Manstein’s keen interest in the T-34 arrived from his chief of staff at Zaporozhye. Zossen’s Abwehr reply followed right after. Bora left the room for the time needed to hear and decode the messages, and was soon able to announce Bentivegni’s readiness to meet personally with General Tibyetsky on Friday 7 May at the latest. Thankfully Khan seemed inclined to accept the time frame. In reality, to his surprise, Bora had also been tersely directed not to make use of a blindfold or other restrictive devices. Silently he started jotting down notes to himself, but glanced up when the Russian, mouthing his cigar, said, “Weren’t there instructions for you as well, Major Bora?”

  Bora would not answer. Khan smiled, stretching his booted legs. Without his ca
p, the reddish stubble on his meaty head glittered with beads of perspiration; the wooden building was very warm. “I rather thought so,” he commented when the blindfold did not make its reappearance.

  There was much yet to do, and not much time to do it. Calls were placed to half a dozen command posts and offices across the Kharkov region before Bora was actually ready to go. Outside the cabin, meanwhile, Scherer had used branches and netting to disguise the T-34’s type and marking in preparation for transporting it. He was now dying to start out.

  “It’s twelve kilometres from here to the Smijeff–Gottwald rail station,” Bora walked out to tell him. “Driving this thing across country it’ll take you, what – half an hour or so? Once there, you’re to load the tank onto the Kharkov-bound freight train and travel with it to the Kharkov–Lasevo station.”

  “Isn’t that in the Tractor Factory district?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I thought it’d been razed in the fighting!”

  “Not quite.” Bora handed him a scribbled notebook page. “Get the T-34 inside Building G for the time being. Here are more precise directions. I’ll meet you there as soon as possible, to ensure all is well.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I’ll need a non-commissioned officer’s Tank Corps suit, boots and a head cover that’ll fit Tibyetsky. An identification tag and a credible Soldbuch too, better one without a photograph. Can you help? I’ll have enough trouble as it is motoring with him from here to where I’m going.”

  Soon Scherer came up with the items, minus the footwear. “If he takes off his jacket, he can wear blouse and trousers over what he’s got now. Sorry about the boots; I can’t help you there.”

  “I’m thankful for what there is, Jochen.” Bora draped the reed-green canvas clothing over his arm. “I’ll return the tag and Soldbuch when we meet at the Tractor Works. And don’t let the tank out of your sight: the Field Marshal wants to take a look at it himself.”