Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [176]
The living room was dark except for the light from the fireplace. The Marines and their girls sat about on the floor and sang. One, from Wyoming, had a guitar and they sang British songs about the jolly sixpence and “Bless Them All” and they sang about the Heart of Texas.
The pace of the evening slowed and the Wyoming Marine sang a spiritual of the American Negro—that he was a wayfaring stranger alone in a far land. Igor thought it was beautiful.
He took the guitar from the Wyoming Marine and sang to them about Russia and they thought ... what a hell of a nice guy.
The hour became late and they drifted away, two by two.
Only Sean and Miss Rasmussen were left as the fire dimmed to its coals. Igor saw that Miss Rasmussen was looking at Sean with loving eyes and that his farewell should be made.
“I must go back to Copenhagen but first you must tell me what happened to Captain Orlov?”
“One of the boys in the Marine detachment has Russian-born parents. They spoke it at his home all the time. We got him a chauffeur’s uniform, borrowed a car from the embassy motor pool, and stuck a pair of Red flags on the fenders. Captain Orlov was driven to Elsinore to see the Soviet ambassador.”
“But ... but ... the ambassador was at the Wivex tonight.”
“You don’t say.”
“But ... but ...”
“He was driven to Hamlet’s castle and told to knock on the gate. The car drove off. Well, Orlov speaks only Russian and we figured he’d have a hell of a time finding a Russian-speaking Dane. He should get back to Copenhagen tomorrow sometime ... if he’s lucky.”
Igor Karlovy laughed until his stomach ached and tears rolled down his cheeks. “That stupid bastard!” Orlov was probably making out a report on him. Now, he could never turn it in because he would have to admit being tricked by the Americans. When he gained control of himself he thought the time for a farewell had come.
“It was a nice journey, Major O’Sullivan.”
“See you around, Colonel.”
Sean thundered out of a deep sleep, fished around for the night-stand lamp, and switched it on.
Igor Karlovy hovered over him, roaring drunk. Miss Rasmussen screamed and threw the blankets over her head.
“You son of a bitch! It’s four o’clock in the morning!”
“I intend to go,” Igor said, “but first I demand to know why you want to destroy us!”
“Because, you simple bastard, we crave the latest Moscow fashions!”
Chapter Eighteen
THE AMERICAN ARMY BAND marched beneath the reviewing stand striking up “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The honor guard, a crack drill team of Negroes, followed the band in double cadence, executing an intricate close-order drill.
Marshal Alexei Popov waved his hand in appreciation. The Russian was in a jovial mood. Great medals adorned his tunic from armpit to armpit, chest to navel. Elements of the mighty Second American Armored Divisions followed with their tank treads setting up a rumbling din.
Standing next to Popov was Lieutenant General Andrew Jackson Hansen, First Deputy Military Governor. Hansen remembered a year back. The President was in Berlin for the Potsdam Conference and drove between two solid lines of tanks of an entire division. American might was then on display. Soon parts of the division would be pulling out of Berlin, once again reducing the garrison.
A year ago, at the end of the war, there were three million American troops in Europe; now less than a third of the number and shrinking fast. The stampede was on to bring the boys home and to hell with European involvements. Hansen had pleaded in council after council that twenty divisions had to be left in Europe. The Congress led the parade of deaf ears.
That was why Marshal Popov was in a genial mood. All along, Soviet experts had predicted the